Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Nell was saying, “We are privileged to have as our speaker the leading authority on the collectibles so near and dear to our hearts.” (Applause.) “And our distinguished guest-of-honor is the newspaper columnist whose wit and wisdom brighten our lives every Tuesday and Friday.” (More applause—a trifle louder and more enthusiastic, Qwilleran noted with misgiving.) “How much time did he have to compose a moustache cup limerick? Moustache, dash, panache.

Nell was saying, “But first, let us relax and enjoy the delicious lunch that the chef has prepared especially for us!” (Applause again. Did they know it would be only chicken potpie?)

Hoping to pick up inspiration for his limerick, Qwilleran did what journalists do: He asked questions and listened to answers.

Moustaches, he learned, always increased in popularity following a war. The first moustache cup was introduced in England in the 1800s. Men waxed their moustaches and, when drinking hot tea, found the wax melting and running down the chin, or dripping into the beverage. The moustache cup—with a hole through which to sip—should not be confused with the shaving mug, which has three holes.

The man to Qwilleran’s left claimed to have about fifty moustache cups; he had lost count. The woman to his right had just acquired a lustreware cup with hand-painted yellow roses. Nell said she specialized in cups with inscriptions, such as “Dear Papa, I love you best.”

They talked about potter’s marks, fakes, and such rare items as a three-legged kettle-shaped cup, and a left-handed sterling silver spoon for sipping soup.

After the chicken potpie and broccoli salad and before the dessert, the closed doors to the room opened slowly, and Nick Bamba slipped into the room. He found Qwilleran and whispered in his ear before making a quick exit.

“No!” Qwilleran responded more loudly than he intended.

He went to where Nell was sitting, whispered in her ear, then hurried from the room.

Nick was waiting in the hallway. “It was on the air: Body of missing person found in Black Forest—name withheld—cause of death not yet known—”

“That means they know but they’re not telling. How did you find out he was shot?”

“Called my contact in the sheriff’s office. He didn’t know if wolves reached the body before the search party did.”

“I don’t want to know. . . . Was his camera gone?”

“That wasn’t mentioned. Was it an expensive one?”

“More likely the exposed film would be more important to the shooter. Sounds to me like another gold prospector, afraid of having his illegal operation photographed. This is a tragic situation for Wendy. What can be done?”

“We thought her doctor should be given the facts, so she can act in the best interests of her patient. Lori called Dr. Diane.”

“You did right, Nick. I’m picking up Wendy’s mother at the airport, and I’ll tell her only what the police have released to the media.”

“Sorry I interrupted your party, Qwill.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you did.”

Qwilleran took the short cut to Cabin Five, via the back road, and made a strong cup of coffee. The cats sensed his preoccupation and were quiet—but not for long. Koko started jumping on and off the furniture, all the while talking to himself. Someone was coming!

It was Trent, the porter from the inn, delivering a large silver-wrapped cube topped with a huge silver bow. He said, “They were going to give you this at the luncheon, but you left early.”

“Is someone giving me a bowling ball?”

“Or a mummified head,” said Trent with a grin.

It was, as he had feared, a moustache cup and saucer—but not the lustreware with hand-painted yellow roses. The set was earthenware, with a decent-sized mug and a good handle for gripping. What made it rare, he later learned, was the advertising on both mug and saucer, promoting men’s coats, trousers and vests made to order with perfect fit guaranteed. A sketch showing a frock-coated tailor and a top-hatted customer suggested that the set was early twentieth century.

A note from Nell said, “We were horrified to hear about your friend. We can understand your sudden departure. But I said some nice things about you, and all the members send their condolences. Here is a token of our esteem.”

He was scribbling a thank-you note when he was distracted by the sound of a car with a faulty fan belt. He recognized it as Hannah’s vehicle, and he was not surprised when she phoned him, saying breathlessly, “Have you heard the news, Qwill?”

“What news?” he asked.

She repeated the WPKX bulletin, adding, “It pains me to think how Wendy will react. Thank God her mom is on the way here.” Then, in a confidential tone, she said, “You know, Wendy’s parents didn’t want her to marry Doyle. They thought he was too self-centered.”

“What can one say? It happens in the best of families.”

“I called the hospital, and the nurse said Wendy is in stable condition. . . . Well, I guess that’s all I have to say.”

“That’s not all I have to say, Hannah. You’d better have your fan belt checked. Your motor doesn’t sound good.”