Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Koko was jumping on and off the table where the yellow boxes were stacked. He knew what they contained, and he liked nothing better than to lick the emulsion on the surface of a glossy photograph.

Qwilleran himself had no heart for looking at Doyle’s prints. Eventually he and Bushy would choose the best and proceed with the art book. Koko was sniffing the yellow boxes; he could detect a photograph the way a squirrel could detect a nut buried six inches underground. Qwilleran spent a restless hour or two until it was time to leave for the airport.

The shuttle flight that brought passengers from the large airports to Moose County was called “The Wright Brothers Special” by local wags. Its unofficial slogan was Better Than Nothing.

Qwilleran was there when the plane fell out of the sky and bounced up to the terminal. Men and women carrying briefcases or shopping bags virtually tumbled down the gangway in their eagerness to be on the ground again. Last to appear was a woman wearing a business suit and a tailored hat and carrying a small piece of smart luggage. She looked more like the chairman of the board, composed and very much in charge and not at all like someone’s mom.

“Mrs. Satterlee? I’m Jim Qwilleran,” he said. “I’m to drive you to the hospital.”

“How is Wendy?” she asked quickly.

“In stable condition and having very good care. May I take your luggage? My car is over there.”

There was no small talk about the weather or the eccentricities of the shuttle service, but when he turned the key in the ignition of the van, she said, “Now! What do you know about the circumstances preceding Wendy’s attack? She had been phoning me twice a week but may not have been telling me everything. She said they were having a wonderful time.”

“So it appeared, but at a dinner party one night—after too much wine, perhaps—she and Doyle had a family spat. She didn’t want him to go into the woods to photograph wildlife, saying there were bears, poisonous snakes and rabid foxes. The next day, after he had gone upstream in his canoe, Wendy came to my cabin and apologized for the outburst; she said she was worried sick.”

“She’s a worrier, no doubt about it,” said her mother, “but she’s supposed to avoid stress because of a congenital heart condition. Doyle is aware of the situation and should not upset her unnecessarily. I gathered, however, that they were leaving Black Creek early and going to another resort for a few days.”

“That was the plan,” Qwilleran said, “but yesterday he went canoeing for one last time and didn’t return. We filed a Missing Persons report, and the sheriff launched an all-out search. Wendy was rushed to the hospital.”

“Our cardiologist wants her brought home to Cleveland as soon as she can travel, even if it means chartering a plane.”

“That’s something for you to discuss with her doctor, Diane Lanspeak. You’ll be staying at an inn on the grounds of the hospital.”

Then Mrs. Satterlee asked the question that was painful to answer. “Have they found Doyle?”

He hesitated before saying, “They’ve found the body.”

“How terrible—for Wendy! And in her condition!” There was a long pause. “What happened to him?”

Qwilleran hesitated again. “No further details have been released by the sheriff’s department.”

After that there was not much conversation. He pointed out the hospital—an impressive facility for a small community—and delivered his passenger to the Friendship Inn with its flower garden and benches for meditation. “Here’s my phone number,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything I can do.”

Later that evening—when he sat on the porch contemplating the peaceful scene—he asked himself questions.

At what time did Wendy express alarm about the gunfire? (He had attributed it to the ever-present rabbit hunters.)

At what time did Koko chill the scene with his death-howl? (Shortly before they all went up the creek in search of Doyle’s canoe.)

There had been another minor incident: Koko looking out the south window of the bunk room—and growling at a noisy vehicle. In an effort at humor, that was lost on the growler, Qwilleran had said to him, “That’s only a bad muffler. You should check your own muffler.”

At what time did that incident occur? That was Joe’s truck—coming home early and then going out again.

chapter fifteen

G. Allen Barter phoned Cabin Five early Friday morning—too early.

“Yes?” Qwilleran replied sleepily.

“Qwill! The WPKX newscast says the body of the missing person has been found in the Black Forest.”

“Right.”

“But according to the grapevine, it’s a homicide case.”

“Right. But don’t spread it around. The police have their reasons for doing what they do.”

“Do you realize,” said the attorney, “that two guests of an inn owned by the K Fund have been murdered in a conservancy owned by the K Fund? And in less than two weeks! What’s going on?”

“I have a fairly good idea: Same ‘perp’ . . . two different motives.”

“Any idea who the perpetrator is?”