Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“But they flipped over Elsa’s furniture,” Janelle said, “and some of the women want to start an Elsa club—not just another gossip circle, but a discussion group about women’s problems, the decisions they have to make, today’s attitudes and so forth.”

Qwilleran said it might make copy for the “Qwill Pen” after it got started.

When he returned to Cabin Five, he found that the Siamese had devised their own farewell: All the built-in drawers on nylon rollers were open—all twenty-three of them! Who could say that animals have no sense of humor?

alt="[image]"/>All three residents of the converted apple barn were glad to be home. The Siamese raced up and down the ramp that connected the three balconies.

Qwilleran, after unpacking, went to Toodle’s Market to buy frozen macaroni and cheese for himself and boned turkey for the cats.

After that he moved them to the screened gazebo while he sorted Doyle’s photos into the original categories. There were only two prints damaged by Koko’s saliva and raspy tongue, but they were important shots. How did the cat know? What was he trying to say? Or was it coincidental?

alt="[image]"/>Qwilleran kept an eye on his watch; he was scheduled to meet Polly at five o’clock. The shuttle was never on time, but waiting for it was half the fun; groundlings bantered in Moose County style:

“I hear the skeeter-meter is up ten points.”

“The stores have run out of insect repellent.”

“The tourists are getting it on the black market.”

“Here she comes!” A small speck had appeared in the sky to the south.

“Can you see if she’s still got both wings?”

A shout went up when the wheels touched down, and the meeters-and-greeters walked out on the tarmac. Polly was the last to come down the gangway, using a cane and descending carefully, her bad ankle hidden by a trouser-leg.

While other travelers were embraced as fortunate survivors, Qwilleran and Polly reserved fond greetings until later; the busybodies were always watching.

“Need a wheelchair?” he asked.

“No thanks, dear. The cane is just to command special attention.”

“You’re a sly one! Did you have your ankle X-rayed?”

“Yes. It’s not serious.”

“Where’s my friend Walter?”

“I sent him back to Ohio,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, leading Qwilleran to wonder, Could she have invented him? . . . No, she’s not devious enough or creative enough to play such a trick. . . . but it would have been a clever one!

When her luggage was stowed in the van and they were on the road to her Indian Village condo, she said, “I’ve missed Brutus and Catta so much! I wonder if they’ve missed me?”

“I know they have,” Qwilleran said. “I could tell by their look of disappointment when I unlocked your door and went in to cheer them up.”

“I can hardly wait to see them! . . . How was your stay at the Nutcracker?”

“Interesting. There were two murders, a suicide and a heart attack—all guests from Down Below, staying in the rustic cabins along the creek.”

Warily, as if suspecting a hoax, she said, “Tell me about it.”

“Well, first there was a male guest purporting to be a sales representative who was actually a gold prospector operating illegally in the Black Forest Conservancy. He was murdered presumably for his forty-thousand-dollar car and a trunkful of gold nuggets. . . . Next, there was an accomplished photographer shooting pictures of wildlife in the creek and in the woods. He was murdered presumably because another gold prospector thought his illegal activity was being photographed. . . . The photographer’s young wife had a heart attack and is hospitalized. . . . Do you follow me?”

“I follow you,” Polly said, “but I can’t believe it!”

“Now, another guest, posing as a sport fisherman but thought to be another gold prospector, is suspected of both murders and has taken off with his truck and all personal belongings, abandoning the woman and child who have been traveling with him for reasons open to speculation. She was a sad case, apparently homeless and addicted, and she jumped off the Old Stone Bridge this morning, leaving a suicide note in the pocket of her son’s T-shirt.”

“Oh, Qwill!” she protested, “this sounds more like fiction than real life!”

“The next chapter is in the typewriter,” he replied.

He avoided mentioning Koko’s uncanny role in the drama. Polly had a practical turn of mind that squelched the idea of a cat with supranormal gifts. The fact that Koko had sixty whiskers and her beloved Brutus had only the usual forty-eight must have rankled in her maternal subconscious. Qwilleran had learned not to brag about his pets.

On arrival at her home Polly rushed indoors, and when Qwilleran carried in her luggage, he found her kneeling on the hearth rug and slavering over her two excited pets.

“I’ll phone you after you’ve settled in,” he said, “and we’ll make plans for tomorrow.”