Cat Who Went Up the Creek

The two assistants reported to the office, and Qwilleran read the story of the millionaire pioneer, his daughter Elsa, the marriage he arranged for her, Elsa’s elopement with the son of her father’s worst enemy—and the disastrous conclusion. Janelle dabbed her eyes; Mrs. Munroe gulped a few times; Ernie shook his head sadly no doubt thinking of his own daughter . . . Then he took the copy and left for Pickax.

Qwilleran used the phone to make arrangements for delivering the historic furniture, then said he would like to browse around for awhile. One booth had a cross-cut saw six feet long, with a handle on each end and murderous two-inch teeth. A similar one had hung on the wall in the log cabin he inherited, but it looked too threatening; he had disposed of it.

The dealer said, “This saw represents the early history of Moose County. With a Paul Bunyan on each end of it, who knows how many million trees it cut down? I can close my eyes and hear the rhythmic grinding of those sharp teeth through the trunk of a great oak! It was a sign of man’s determination to make a life for himself and his family! . . . Today I hear the whine of a chain saw, and it chills my blood. Another nail in the coffin of Planet Earth!”

“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” That bird was always butting into every conversation, but it reminded Qwilleran it was time to go home for lunch. He asked the dealer for his card.

alt="[image]"/>By the time he showered and dressed and walked up the hill to the inn, it was two o’clock. Nick handed him a postcard and said, “We’re moving the furniture tonight. I’m going along to make sure they baby it.”

The picture on the card was that of Independence Hall, and Qwilleran wondered, What’s she doing in Philadelphia? But after he was seated at a table, where he could read the fine print, he realized that it was the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan.

Dear Qwill—What a museum! Everything from Georgian silver to locomotives! Miles of aisles! I’m doing it in a wheelchair. Walter sends regards.

Love, Polly

“Same to you, Walter old boy,” he said to the postcard.

In the foyer a signboard announcing coming events reminded him that the MCCC luncheon was scheduled for the next day. He had considered a limerick, as suggested by Mildred, with rhymes like academic, polemic, endemic, systemic—but found them too stuffy.

He took a window table in the dining room and watched the squirrels flicking their tails in a secret language; no wonder they were called flickertails in some parts of the country. As he waited for his ham and eggs, he formulated his plans:

He would ask the management to put a bag of peanuts at each place—with his business card, which read “Straight from the Qwill Pen” and, in smaller print, “Every Tuesday and Friday in the Moose County Something.” When introduced at the luncheon, he would explain, soberly, that the goobers ushered in the annual “nutty season” in the “Qwill Pen” column. The kickoff would be a limerick contest, the nuttier the better. He would recite an example: “Our squirrels are as smart as can be / Alumni of MCCC / They went to college / in search of knowledge / and to learn how to run up a tree.” Then he would sit down, amid laughter and thunderous applause—or grim silence, as the case might be.

He enjoyed the ham and eggs and had three cups of coffee and walked down the hill with satisfaction, unaware of the complications that awaited him.

When he reached the creek there was singing and childish laughter coming from Cabin One.

Cabin Two was dark and silent except for a flickering blue light and the senseless noise of a television set that no one is watching.

There was no music coming from Cabin Three, but Wendy came off the porch to greet him, though not with any enthusiasm. “How’s everything going?” he asked. “Did you get your reservations at the Grand Hotel?”

She nodded absently and looked at her watch. “My mother arranged it.”

“Did Doyle finish his printing for the Chicago junket?”

“Not quite. He’s supposed to meet Bushy at the photo lab at five o’clock to coordinate their samples. Meanwhile, as you can guess, he’s gone canoeing. I slept late, and he left me a note.”

“Did he take his camera?”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Of course! Just in case something special swims by or flies over. But he promised he wouldn’t go into the woods.”

“Good!” Qwilleran murmured without conviction. “Don’t leave without giving me your home address; I’ll send you tearsheets of the dump-truck story.”

Two gunshots shattered the quiet. “What’s that?” Wendy asked sharply.

“Rabbit hunters. Some local families live on rabbit meat; it’s all they can afford.”

She kept looking at her watch. “What time do you have?” She asked finally.

“Three-forty-five.”

“Doyle’s meeting Bushy at five o’clock, and when he comes in from canoeing, he always likes to shower and change clothing. He said on his note that he’d be home at three o’clock. . . . Now I’m going to start worrying again.”