Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Sniffing and dabbing her eyes, she said, “I’d love to adopt Danny! My grandson in Florida is his age. The Scottens and Hawleys have a good family life. I was trained as a teacher. But . . . he’s a ‘John Doe.’ We don’t know his name, or where he’s from. If the county gets hold of him, he’ll spend his life with different foster families. I don’t know anything about the law, but I’ve seen it happen to other orphans—”

Qwilleran interrupted her torrent of thoughts. “Hannah, the K Fund can handle this. They have a battery of investigators and advisers who’ll work this out in Danny’s best interests.”

“Is that a fact?” she asked. “The county—”

“Forget the county. They’re always glad to work with the K Fund. Put on a cheerful face and go home to Danny, and I’ll make a phone call and start the wheels turning.”

She hesitated. “Maybe I should tell you what I did. As soon as Danny fell asleep, I went next door to collect his clothes and things. There was hardly anything to collect. He doesn’t even have a toothbrush or sleeping pajamas! . . . And listen to this, Qwill! There wasn’t a single sign that Joe had ever been there!”

Except fingerprints, Qwilleran thought.

After Hannah had gone back to Cabin One, and after the Good Samaritans had been alerted, Qwilleran phoned Nick. He said, “Tell your friends at the sheriff’s office to get out the yellow tape. One of your cabins down here at the creek should be searched. I suggest you come down here for a conference.”

While waiting for the manager, he made a quick scan of Doyle’s photos—the ones in the box that Bushy had marked “miscellaneous.” They were typical vacation mementos. The Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville, commercial fishing wharves, the Hotel Booze in Brrr, flower gardens at the state prison, the historic Nutcracker Inn, Wendy feeding squirrels, the picturesque Old Stone Bridge, and picnickers eating hot dogs. That was the one he had been looking for.

“It’s always at the bottom of the pile,” he told Koko, who was watching the process with a superior air. “So why didn’t you tell me to start at the bottom?”

When Nick arrived, Qwilleran offered him a beer, told him to sit on the porch, and gave him an eight-by-ten photo of a picnic group. “Recognize any of these, Nick?”

“Well, the one with a moustache works for the newspaper . . . and I know Mrs. Hawley . . . and I think the one in a baseball cap is Joe Thompson.”

Qwilleran said, “He may have registered under that name, but I suspect it’s an alias . . . and I suspect he’s gone fugitive after killing Doyle Underhill. The police said that Doyle was shot about four o’clock on Wednesday. Shortly after that Joe’s truck drove in, stayed a short time, and drove off—abandoning the woman and child who shared the cabin. . . . Incidentally, did you hear the newscast about a suicide in Black Creek?”

“I heard something—”

“I think the unidentified body will match the scrawny woman in the picnic photo. She left a suicide note in the pocket of her son’s T-shirt, calling Joe a bad bad man.”

Nick, father of three, said, “Where’s the kid?”

“Mrs. Hawley is looking after him and would like to adopt him.”

Nick stood up to leave. “I think Lori was right, Qwill. The Nutcracker is jinxed!”

Now Qwilleran had to shift gears—from the somber reality of the creekside situation to the festive celebration of Scottish Night. His training in theater had taught him how to “make an adjustment,” and a long ride on his Silverlight helped. The steady rhythm of pedaling, the therapy of deep breathing, and the serenity of secondary roads—all combined to put him in a propitious mood.

The Siamese—who had panicked the first time they saw him in kilt and knee socks—were two cool cats when he confronted them in full regalia. He promised to bring them a taste of haggis.

Traffic was heavy in downtown Black Creek, and MCCC students provided valet parking so that guests in Highland dress could enter the building in style.

They were greeted at the door by Ernie Kemple and his partner, Anne Munroe. The red, blue, gold and green of clan tartans moved among the twenty booths of antiques and collectibles. A bagpiper was piping, and a young woman danced the Highland fling with seeming weightlessness. Guests drank punch and Scotch and nibbled bridies and haggis.

Janelle Van Roop presided over the museum exhibit of Elsa’s black walnut furniture and handed out copies of Qwilleran’s tale of the three cracked mirrors. The painting of her great-grandmother, described in the “Qwill Pen,” could be seen in the locked case.

All the prominent Scots were there: MacWhannell, Abernethy, Ogilvie, Campbell, MacMurchie and more. “Where’s Polly Duncan?” was the question that Qwilleran heard on every side.

He was talking with Ernie Kemple when a clock in one of the booths announced the hour.

“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said, “I’m being paged.”