He went out to meet her. “Hannah, you should have Olsen’s mechanic look at your fan belt, or you could find yourself in trouble! Where’s Wendy?”
“In the hospital. I feel so sorry for that girl! Let’s go in, and I’ll tell you about it.”
They sat on the porch, and he asked, “What happened after I asked you to go and sit with her?”
“Well, I made a pot of chamomile tea—good for calming the nerves—and took it over there. She was lying on the sofa and she said she didn’t feel well. She said her arms felt numb. I phoned the office, and Lori called 911. The ambulance was there in no time! They took her to Pickax General, and I followed in my car.”
Qwilleran said, “We heard the siren when we were chugging upstream. We had no idea it was headed for Cabin Three. How did she feel about going to the hospital?”
“She was composed and organized. Wanted to be sure she had her health insurance cards. Asked me to pack her robe and slippers—and leave a note for Doyle. Told me to phone her mother in Cleveland and charge the call to Cabin Three.”
Qwilleran nodded. That sounded like Wendy—very thoughtful.
“What did they say at the hospital?”
“I hung around in the family waiting room until Dr. Diane came out and said everything was under control. On my way back I stopped at the office to report, and they told me that Doyle’s disappearance is serious. I feel terrible about it! Will it be on the eleven o’clock newscast?”
“Only that the sheriff has authorized an all-out search for a missing person in a wooded area. But if there’s any hard news, Nick Bamba will get it first. He has connections in the sheriff’s department.”
When Qwilleran returned to Cabin Five, Yum Yum was asleep on the blue cushion, but Koko was keeping watch on the sofa, guarding the video of
By eleven o’clock it was dark, and searchlights could be seen bouncing off the clouds.
chapter fourteen
Qwilleran slept uneasily Wednesday night, burdened with knowledge he could not share. While others hoped and prayed for Doyle’s rescue, he knew that the photographer was dead. And he knew—or thought he knew—that it was no accident. Many times he had heard Koko’s blood curdling cry of distress, and it always meant murder. Yet how could the cat know? Qwilleran found himself stroking his moustache repeatedly and telling himself: It’s only a hunch.
The Siamese had apparently slept well. They were up and about early, making subtle reminders that a new day had dawned. They pounced on his middle; Koko yelled fortissimo in his ear; Yum Yum found it amusing to bite his nose, ever so gently.
The seven o’clock newscast offered no further details about the search for a missing person. He walked up to the inn, hoping that Nick’s connections at the courthouse would net some inside information. As for the day’s mail, it had not yet been picked up at the post office. Qwilleran was in no hurry to see his postcard; Polly’s rambles with Walter were suddenly less troubling than the fate of the photographer. He had a quick breakfast and returned to the creek without waiting for the mail. He was in time to meet a motorcycle messenger delivering a package from John Bushland. The accompanying note read:
Qwill—I stayed in the lab until I got all the rest of Doyle’s stuff printed. Here’s everything. Better you should have it. You’ll know what to do with it. God! I hope they find that guy! I was going to take him and Wendy out on my boat this weekend. About these prints—some are very good (I like the one with the two squirrels) and some are not so good, but that’s to be expected. Also some nice portraits of Wendy and some snapshots taken at a picnic, with you eating a hot dog. I called Barter. He’s canceling.
Bushy
The eight-by-ten prints filled three flat yellow boxes. Qwilleran took them out to the porch. Now he would discover if it had really been a good idea to include Doyle in
The first print in the first box was the two squirrels, photographed in profile, sitting on a tree stump face-to-face, like two elder statesmen in conference, their bushy tales arched in perfect symmetry. What were they discussing? The nut situation?
They were in the foreground, with the forest as a backdrop. Doyle had obviously used a telephoto lens.
A rumble in Koko’s throat interrupted these ruminations. It was a feline alarm system that announced anyone approaching the premises, friend or foe. (Qwilleran regarded Koko as a battery-operated electronic detection device disguised as a Siamese—very few on the market—used extensively by the military—might eventually replace dogs.)
In this case, the suspected individual was Hannah Hawley, walking more briskly than usual.