Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“Wendy, you can’t go through life worrying,” he remonstrated. “We live in an age when there are sudden fatalities on the freeway and madmen with guns in the supermarket—” He winced as he heard an ominous howl from Cabin Five. It started as a growl and ended in a shriek that chilled the blood. It was Koko’s death howl, and he was never wrong.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Koko’s letting me know something’s amiss.”

He ran to the cabin and phoned the inn, tracking Nick down in the basement.

“Nick, can you drop everything and come down here? Doyle Underhill hasn’t returned from canoeing, and I have reason to believe he’s in trouble. Could you and I take an outboard upstream? . . . Bring your cell phone.”

Then he phoned Cabin One. “Hannah, are you busy? Doyle hasn’t returned from canoeing, and he’s late for an important appointment. It doesn’t look good. Nick Bamba and I are going up the creek to investigate. Could you go over to reassure Wendy? She’s getting nervous. But don’t let her know that we think it’s serious.”

Koko was harnessed and ready to go by the time Nick came running down the back road. Qwilleran, with the cat on his shoulder met him at the boat shed. They set out in an aluminum rowboat with Nick handling the motor in the stern and the other two in the prow, peering ahead in the green tunnel of overhanging branches. Koko was quiet. Even ducks and leaping fish and squawking crows had no interest for him.

“How long has he been gone?” Nick asked.

“Left early this morning. Wendy was asleep. Left a note saying he wouldn’t go ashore and would be back by three.”

“How far up does he usually paddle?”

“Never mentioned it. Far enough to get good wildlife photos. Do you think there’s danger in going ashore, Nick?”

“You wouldn’t get me into that jungle!”

“It had a mesmerizing effect on Doyle.”

“If we find the slightest clue, we call the sheriff,” Nick said. “They’ll need a description of the missing person. What would you say?”

“Six feet, medium build, late twenties, clean-shaven, short dark hair. For canoeing he wears blue jeans, white T-shirt, sometimes a blue denim jacket, always a bright yellow baseball cap.”

“They couldn’t ask better than that, Qwill. We’ve got a great sheriff’s department—with helicopter, search-and-rescue dog, and mounted posse—all volunteers. They can put as many as twenty riders in the field, men and women.”

After a while Koko began to wriggle on Qwilleran’s shoulder.

“Please! No claws!” Qwilleran requested.

“Yow-w-w!”

“That means we’re getting warm.”

Ahead, the waterway narrowed, where uprooted trees had fallen into the stream. Beyond was a flash of yellow, visible through the branches.

“Canoe!” yelled Qwilleran.

It had been dragged up onto the bank, which was two feet above creek level. Stashed underneath it were the paddle, a jacket and a knapsack.

“Call his name,” Nick said.

Using what he called his Carnegie Hall voice, Qwilleran shouted “Doyle!”

“Yow-ow-ow!” echoed Koko.

“Shut up!” Qwilleran shouted again, while muzzling the cat with his hand.

There was no answer from the woods, only a silence that seemed twice as empty as before. . . . “Call the sheriff, Nick.”

On the cell phone the innkeeper called the sheriff. One of his guests was missing. We suspect foul play. Was last seen canoeing upstream on Black Creek. The canoe (yellow) was found beached, along with paddle and knapsack, three miles south of Nutcracker Inn. Site could be identified by uprooted trees overhanging the water—also grove of black walnuts on the bank—also eagle’s nest on top of highest pine tree.

Nick told them he would be back at the inn’s boat shed in ten minutes with the canoeist’s knapsack and jacket to provide a scent for the search dog.

The two men and the cat were quiet as their boat putt-putted back downstream. They had done all they could do.

The difference was that Nick believed there was hope; Qwilleran had heard Koko’s death howl.

At the boat shed he left Nick to work with the deputies, while he hustled Koko back to the cabin.

First he phoned Cabin One; there was no answer. Hannah might still be with Wendy, but he phoned Cabin Three and drew a blank. Hannah’s car was gone from the parking area, but the Underhills’ SUV was in its usual slot. Could the two women be having dinner together?

It was five o’clock—when Bushy and Doyle were to meet—and he phoned the art center.

“Hey, where’s our boy?” Bushy demanded. “I’m all set up here and ready to go!”

Qwilleran described the circumstances, as far as anyone knew.

“They’ll find him,” Bushy said with confidence. “Remember the time Junior Goodwinter was missing. They found him—broken leg—but not till the next day.”

Qwilleran murmured the proper words, but he had heard Koko’s howl, and there was no mistaking it.

“Excuse me, Bushy. Someone’s coming.” He had heard the car motor with the whirring squeal of a faulty fan belt. Hannah was driving into the parking area.