Cat Who Went Up the Creek

At the converted apple barn that was the official dwelling of the Siamese and himself, he packed his kilt, shoulder plaid, brogues and all the other paraphernalia for Scottish Night. It occurred to him that the vast building had a peculiar hush when there was no cat flesh in residence.

Then it was back to the Nutcracker Inn to pick up Polly’s postcard. On a sideboard in the foyer stood a large silver ice bucket filled with daffodils—a half-bushel of them, he estimated. Guests were viewing them with awe.

“Magnificent massing! . . . Thrilling yellows! . . . Such happy flower faces!” they gushed. “Who is Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran?”

A small tasteful card dedicated the floral display to her memory. Qwilleran scuttled into the office, hoping not to be recognized.

Both Bambas were in the office—one at the computer and one at the coffee urn.

Lori said, “They’re gorgeous, Qwill! Do you approve of the silver ice bucket?”

Nick said, “You went all-out, brother! What’s the occasion? Have a cuppa?”

Qwilleran accepted a mug of coffee—and a chair—and explained, “This is my mother’s birthday. She’s been gone more than thirty years, but I still remember how she recited her birthday poem every year: ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud / That floats on high o’er vales and hills, / When all at once I saw a crowd, / A host, of golden daffodils’!”

“What a lovely idea!” Lori exclaimed. “I’m going to find a birthday poem! Maybe by Emily Dickinson. Do you have one, Qwill?”

“No, but if I did, it would be Kipling: If I can keep my head while all about me are losing theirs.”

Nick said, “Mine would be: Over the hill to the poorhouse.”

“Isn’t he terrible!” Lori said, gazing fondly at her husband.

Qwilleran took his postcard and left, sneaking a look at the picture. They were still at the Henry Ford Museum & Greenfield Village. “They” instead of “she.”

The message read:

Dear Qwill—Walter and I are having our farewell dinner Friday night. I’ll arrive Saturday on the 5

P

.

M

. shuttle if the repair crew doesn’t run out of scotch tape.

Love, Polly

The humor was somewhat giddy—for the Polly he knew. Had Walter introduced her to Fish House punch? It was an early American favorite. George Washington drank it. He huffed into his moustache.

The Siamese were glad to see him—and why not? They had not been served their noon repast of crunchies.

“We’re checking out tomorrow,” he told them as they crunched.

Within minutes Hannah Hawley phoned, as if she had been watching for his van to pull into the lot. She spoke in a hushed and hurried voice. “Qwill! Strange development! Could I come over for a minute?”

“Of course! Take two!”

She had hung up before his quip reached her, and she came along the footpath at a trot. “I left Danny sleeping, and I don’t want him to wake up and find himself alone.” She declined a glass of fruit juice.

Into Qwilleran’s mind flashed the newscast . . . a splash in the creek . . . the unidentified body . . . a young woman. He said, “Calm down, Hannah. Take a deep breath. Start from the beginning.”

“Well . . . about eight o’clock this morning I was just waking up, and did the first thing I always do—I unlock the front door and step out on the screened porch for a few deep breaths. Imagine my surprise when I saw Danny sitting out there, looking at a picture book! I remarked that he was up bright and early, and asked if his mom knew he was here. He said, ‘She’s gone away. She told me to go and see Auntie Hannah if she ever went away. I haven’t had any breakfast.’ He was wearing the blue T-shirt I’d given him, and he showed me something in the pocket.”

She seemed unable to go on, and Qwilleran said, “You’d better have a glass of fruit juice.” He waited until she had taken a few sips before asking her, “What was in the pocket?”

“Some money—and a note. I brought it to show you.”

She handed over a scribbled message on a square of greasy paper that might have come from a box of cookies.

Take care of Danny.

Tell him his mom is sick—

We have no place to go—

I hate my life—

Joe is a bad bad man—

Danny will be better off without me—

Marge

“That poor woman!” Hannah said, clutching her throat to control her emotions. “Homeless! Addicted to alcohol—maybe drugs. Then I heard the newscast, and I knew it was Marge. ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ . . . Do you know who said that?”

“I’m afraid not.” With a shudder he recalled how close he had come to the same condition . . . once upon a time, eons ago.

Now Hannah had given way to sobs, and he brought her a box of tissues.

“I wanted to help her,” Hannah said, “but she kept to herself always. I think she was afraid of Joe.”

Qwilleran wondered, did Marge know he was a gold-digger and not a deep-sea fisherman? Did she know he’d murdered twice to protect his turf?