The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter ten

Although Qwilleran missed his nightly telephone chats with Polly, he missed her most on weekends. Only two Sundays ago they had breakfasted on black walnut pancakes, driven to the lakeshore for a long walk on the strand, dined memorably at the Boulder House Inn—all the while enjoying long discussions about nothing much.

He remembered her telling how she memorized sonnets to recite aloud while doing boring tasks around the house. She knew twenty by heart: Shakespeare (“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought”) and Wordsworth (“Earth has not anything to show more fair”). She favored sonnets because they were only fourteen lines, and the rhyme scheme made them easy to memorize. Also, she found the rhythm of iambic pentameter comforting. “If Wordsworth were alive today,” she said, “I’d invite him to lunch.”

And he remembered her surprise to learn that only four American presidents have found the moustache appropriate: Theodore Roosevelt, Grover Cleveland, Chester K. Arthur, and William Howard Taft. (Arthur had sideburns that all but overshadowed his moustache.) Four presidents had full beards, including lip whiskers: Ulysses S. Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes, James A. Garfield, and Benjamin Harrison. Since 1913 presidents have been clean-shaven.

Now Polly was . . . where? . . . drinking navy grog with a strange man—although not too strange; they were on first-name terms.

Sunday without Polly was bad enough; Sunday without The New York Times was unthinkable. He phoned the drugstore in Pickax with instructions to save a copy. Meanwhile he put the Siamese through their paces with the battered necktie, groomed them until their fur glistened, and read aloud from a book he found on the shelf above the sofa: Uncle Wiggly’s Story Book. It was copyrighted in 1921 and had the original pen-and-ink sketches and luscious color plates.

He read them the story about a rich cat who rode around in a chauffeured convertible. They listened raptly to the well-bred mewing and purring of the cat, the squeaking of her mousey servants, the yipping of the dogs who chased her up a tree when her car lost a wheel, and the gentlemanly tones of the elderly rabbit in top hat and gloves who came to her rescue.

Then Qwilleran drove to Pickax for his newspaper. On the way back he recognized the pickup ahead of him. He flashed his headlights, passed it and turned off on the shoulder. The truck pulled up behind, and the two drivers jumped out and shook hands. It was Ernie Kemple, retired insurance agent and active volunteer.

“Ernie! I hear you’re riding high!”

“Qwill, you don’t know what I’ve been through!” His booming voice had regained its verve. “D’you have time for a cuppa at the Dismal Diner?”

The Dimsdale Diner deserved its nickname. It was a converted boxcar at a country crossroads, dilapidated inside and out. The coffee was awful. But the weedy parking lot was always full of pickups and vans as farmers and businessmen dropped in for smokes, snacks, laughs, and shared information. There was a large table at one end where they hung out.

Qwilleran and Kemple sat at the counter and had coffee served in a styrofoam cup and a doughnut served on a paper napkin.

The voices at the big table were lusty:

“Skeeters don’t bother me none. It’s those blasted ticks!”

“You can say that again! I spend hours pickin’ ’em out of my dogs’ hair!”

“Who picks ’em outta your hair?”

“I take a turpentine shampoo. Only way to go.”

“The trick is to get the danged bloodsuckers outa your flesh afore they dig in.”

“Yeah, and don’t leave the head in, or you’re in bad trouble!”

Kemple said to Qwilleran, “Mind if we take our coffee out to the car? I’ve got a weak stomach.”

In the privacy of the parking lot he told his story. “You remember Vivian took our daughter out west after she was jilted and cracked up. My in-laws have a ranch out there, and we thought she might meet a decent guy. Vivian made several trips out there to check her progress and kept staying longer and longer. I should’ve smelled a rat! My wife had met another man! . . . Well . . . why fight it? I gave her a divorce and also the million-dollar collection of rare dolls. I’d spent five years researching them in England, Germany, and France.”

“But you plunged into the idea of an antique mall,” Qwilleran recalled, “and that was good.”

“Yep. I found the perfect building in Pickax, made an offer to buy, and signed up dealers for the mall. Then the owner decided to keep the building and steal my idea.”

“I remember. It was a shock to all of us.”

“I was really down, Qwill. It’s a wonder I didn’t hit the bottle.”

Qwilleran nodded sympathetically. “I’ve been there myself. What pulled you through?”

“You won’t believe this—and I usually don’t tell it—but my father spoke to me! He departed this life twenty years ago, but I remembered something he used to say. If somebody stole my baseball mitt or if I wasn’t picked for the first team, he’d say, ‘Rise above it, boy. Rise above it.’ He was only a potato farmer, but he knew a lot about life, and I’d take his advice. I’d imagine myself in a hot-air balloon, high in the sky, looking down on the scene of my disappointment, which looked pretty insignificant from that altitude. Now I realize that distancing yourself from a problem aids your perspective.”

“I’d heard that you were in Florida last winter.”

“Yes, the Gulf Coast is very popular with folks around here, and I had the good luck to meet a nice Scottish woman from Black Creek, who owned the flea market. We talked about the new look in Black Creek—and how a first-class antique mall would be more suitable than a flea market. Result: We’re in partnership. She works with the dealers; I handle the business end. Grand opening is Saturday. First ad runs Friday. And the Scottish community is giving a preview. . . . Would you like to see how it’s shaping up? Dealers are still moving in. You can meet our floor manager, who’ll have charge of the daily operation. She says she knows you. Janelle Van Roop.”

“Our paths crossed briefly last summer,” Qwilleran said, “pleasant young woman.” Actually, he was wondering how this sweet, shy, soft-spoken personality, hidden under a mop of very long hair, could manage anything more dynamic than an old ladies’ home. He had met her at a residence for the widows of commercial fishermen.

“I’d like to see the facility,” he said to Kemple.

He followed the pickup truck to a side street in Black Creek, where a large barnlike building gleamed under a coat of white paint. Painted across the front were the words ANTIQUE VILLAGE. The large double doors were open, and rocking chairs, tables and hutch cabinets were being carried in.

“It’s been cleaned up a lot,” Kemple said. “We just painted everything white. If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to make them.”

The two long walls were lined with three-sided booths having wall space for wall furniture and hanging objects. Down the center of the hall were larger spaces divided by latticework, designed for freestanding furniture. Kemple said in a low rumble that passed for a whisper, “They pay less per square foot, and it encourages furniture displays. We want to get that kind of reputation—not just a barnful of knickknacks. Some of the large pieces coming in include an Art Deco dining table, an old square piano made into a desk, an eight-foot hutch cupboard, and a carved church pew.”

“Mr. Qwilleran!” came a woman’s voice, forceful but cordial. “Do you remember me? Janelle—from the Safe Harbor Residence.”

“Of course I remember you,” he said, concealing his surprise. Two years of college, contact with the workaday world, and a businesslike haircut had given her a managerial briskness that disguised her petite stature.

The boss said, “Janelle, show him around. I have to make a few phone calls.”

“Have you seen the recycled furniture?” she asked. “A young man in Sawdust City makes shutters, doors, small windows, railings and mantels into tables, desks, cabinets, chests, and so forth. They’re wonderful in beach houses and fun accents anywhere.”

The mismatched components of each piece were given a coat of paint to tie everything together. White, terra-cotta and moss green were among the colors the creator had chosen.

“What do you think?” Janelle asked.

“Certainly original. Some are quite witty. They’ll appeal to people who don’t take themselves too seriously.”

From somewhere came an impudent cry, “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

“Who said that?” Qwilleran demanded with facetious indignation.

Giggling slightly, she said it was one of Arnold’s clocks. “He has shops in Lockmaster and Mooseville, but he likes the idea of having a booth in a mall.”

On display in Arnold’s booth were brass andirons, cranberry glass candlesticks, Oriental scatter rugs with the mellowness of age, a birdcage made of twigs, framed engravings of Niagara Falls and the Hudson River, several pressed-wood kitchen clocks ticking loudly, and a cuckoo clock like the one Gus Limburger had promised to his handyman.

Across the hall a dealer called for Janelle, and she excused herself to go and help. Qwilleran looked around and was attracted to a locked glass case in which several curiosities were displayed: a pair of bronze monkeys holding stubby candles, a tall brass oil lamp from India, a small pillow covered with a scrap of needlepoint worked with the date, 1847. The item that riveted his attention was a framed oil painting, about twelve by fifteen. It was a beach scene, obviously painted in the twenties, judging from the modest bathing attire.

“What is this display?” he asked Janelle when she returned.

“It’s a not-for-sale loan-exhibit. We’re having a sign made. The dealers are invited to show their personal treasures. Each one will have a label identifying the item and the owner. The oil painting is mine.”

“It has a haunting quality. How do you happen to own it?”

“It’s a long story! With kind of a spooky ending.”

“I’d like to hear it if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I’d love to tell you!” she glanced at the growing activity in the hall.

“When you’re not busy,” he said quickly, “and when I have my tape recorder.”

“I could come in early tomorrow—nine thirty . . .”

“Done deal!” he said, as another dealer cried “Miss Van Roop!”

Kemple came out of the office. “How do you like what you see?”

“So far, so good. What’s the platform at the end of the hall?”

“It was used for auctions when the flea market was here, but they’ve been discontinued. We haven’t decided, yet, what to do with it.”

“How would you like a loan-exhibit of museum-quality black walnut furniture dated 1900—with a romantic history to boot?”

“Are you kidding me? Or what?”

“It belongs to the K Fund and needs a temporary home until the new museum is built. It’s heavily insured, of course.”

“I know. Anything the K Fund does is done right. What’ll they want from us?”

“Some kind of barrier around the edge of the platform, so the public has no access to the exhibit items.”

Kemple said, “Janelle’s boyfriend could build one out of old porch railings. He’s the guy who builds recycled furniture from bits and pieces of old houses. When would you be moving the stuff in? Maybe we should have an armed guard,” he added with a chuckle.

Qwilleran said, “Would you like to hand out leaflets telling the story behind the furniture. There’s an element of mystery about the three mirrors, all of which are cracked in the same unusual way.”

“This is getting better all the time. Where do we get those?”

“I have all the information,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll write the copy, and you can have it run off at the quick-print shop in Pickax.”

“Wait till my partner hears this!” Kemple said.

alt="[image]"/>Qwilleran returned home in high spirits. He had pulled strings, thrown his weight around, killed two birds with one stone, and told a couple of harmless fibs. By way of celebration he announced “Crabmeat tonight!” as the Siamese met him at the door.

First he called the attorney at home. “Bart, I won’t apologize for calling you at home on Sunday, because I know you’re eager for this information. The Antique Village that’s opening this weekend is a class-act under Ernie Kemple’s eagle eye, and they are interested in having our black walnut furniture as a loan-exhibit. We’d better insure it.”

“What’s its value?”

“Seventy-five thousand at least. It’s a hundred years old, of rare quality, and rich in legend.”

“Who can verify that?”

“Susan Exbridge.”

Next Qwilleran called the antique dealer at home. “Susan, if Allen Barter calls you about some hundred-year-old black walnut furniture with a red-hot provenance, it’s okay to say it’s worth seventy-five thousand. I’ll explain to you later.”

“Anything you say, darling,” she purred.

“Have you heard they’re going to build a historical museum? I’m sure they’ll want you to be on the board of directors.”

Finally he called Nick Bamba. “I’ve found a new home for the black walnut furniture that we moved to Sandpit Road. It will be a loan-exhibit at the Antique Village. They’ll be ready for it this week. Can you accommodate them when they call? Eventually it will move to the museum being built—but don’t repeat this. It won’t be officially announced until the right location is found.”

Qwilleran hung up with satisfaction. Starting an unfounded rumor was one of the chief pleasures 400 miles north of everywhere.

At six o’clock he ambled along the creek to Cabin One, where the Underhills were waiting outside Hannah’s porch.

“She’s putting her face on,” Wendy said. “She bought a new pantsuit to wear tonight, and she looks splendiferous!”

Doyle said, “Have you seen our new neighbors in Cabin Four? They claim to be fly-fishermen, and one was fly-casting in the creek this morning, but I think they’re cops, working on the Hackett case.”

“Here she comes!”

Hannah did indeed look handsome, a far cry from the dumpy, dowdy character in the opera. Her fans applauded and shouted “Bravo! . . . Congratulations! . . . Will you give me an autograph?”

She responded with smiles and admirable poise.

They walked up to the inn with an escort of squirrels, expecting peanuts.

“They multiply like rabbits,” Doyle said. “What happens when the inn has ten thousand on the premises?”

“They transport them to Canada,” Qwilleran said, “under cover of darkness.”

At the inn Cathy Hooper was enjoying her responsibility as interim manager. “Mr. and Mrs. Bamba are in Mooseville,” she said, “taking Lovey and Grandma to church and out to Sunday dinner.”

Qwilleran’s party was seated at his favorite table in the window, and he ordered a bottle of champagne for his guests and a split of “poor man’s champagne” for himself (an extra-dry ginger ale). He had also arranged for a floral centerpiece with Hannah’s name on the tag. Glasses were raised to Hannah, and compliments flowed like the wine.

Then Qwilleran said, “I have something to report about the video of ‘Pirates’ that you lent me, Hannah. It has an unusual appeal for my male cat, although he’s never attracted to the TV screen unless the programming is about tropical birds. I’ve played it twice, and both times he’s become quite excited.”

“Keep it for a while,” she said. “Although I enjoyed rehearsing and performing, I’m glad it’s over and I can do other things. You don’t need to return it until you leave.”

Wendy asked, “What other things are you going to do?”

The reply was hesitant. “Well . . . right now I’m concerned about the boy next door. He’s awfully neglected and I can’t help thinking about my grandson who’s his age. I keep some books and games and puzzles for his visits, and I’m going to ask Marge if he can come over for milk and cookies and Chinese checkers.”

They placed their orders (roast loin of lamb for the women, lamb shank for the men). Then Qwilleran brought up the subject of the old books in the cabins. “I assume you all have a shelf of popular classics. I suggest an exchange program. I have an Alice in Wonderland. Any takers?”

Hannah said, “I could read it to my grandkids when they come visiting.”

Doyle said, “If anyone has a Fanny Hill, I’ll trade two to one.”

“Would you settle for Lolita in French?” Qwilleran asked.

Wendy asked, “Would anyone like The Picture of Dorian Gray? I think it’s by Ogden Nash.”

“Oscar Wilde,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll take it. My favorite is Trollope.”

Jules Verne and Henry James went on the block.

The books were forgotten when the entrees were served, but after a while Qwilleran inquired about the Bushland photo show in Pickax.

Doyle said, “That guy has great talent, and he’s real down-to-earth. He invited us for a cruise on his boat.”

Hannah said, “I know Bushy. He photographed my miniatures. His ancestors were commercial fishermen.”

Qwilleran asked Doyle, “Are you satisfied with the wildlife shots you’re getting?”

“Well, I’m limited, shooting from the creek. Most species are inland, but Wendy doesn’t want me to go into the woods.”

“There are bears and wolves in the woods,” she said. “And swamps. I don’t want him going ashore alone. Anything could happen. He could break a leg, and who would know—”

“I could take a cell phone.”

“That would do a lot of good if a black bear came up behind you while you were shooting her cubs. Female bears can be very protective, very savage. You’ve seen that huge mounted bear at the Black Bear Café! . . . What do you think, Qwill?”

What could he say? “It would seem prudent to have a partner.”

Hannah said, “Qwill, do you remember the bears that used to come to the dump in Mooseville? They were a big tourist attraction. But they were feeding the bears, and the wildlife people objected. Then the dump was replaced by a modern disposal system. And the bears disappeared.”

Doyle guessed, “Probably sent to zoos around the country.”

“I know what happened to them!” Wendy said with her brown eyes flashing. “A friend of mine is a forest ranger. She told me the bears were transported to the Black Forest Conservancy, where they can have a natural diet—and proliferate!!”

“Wendy always overreacts,” her husband said.

“He never listens to me! And he knows it stresses me when he takes chances!”

There was a moment of awkward silence until Qwilleran signaled for the plates to be removed and said, “Shall we look at the dessert menu. I recommend the black walnut pie.”

Doyle was cool, but Wendy’s face was flushed.

“Speaking of pie,” Hannah said hastily, “I’ve been reading nursery rhymes to Danny, and he wanted to know how the blackbirds could sing if they’d been baked in a pie.”

That reminded Qwilleran that Danny had come to see if the cats had found their mittens.

There was more uncomfortable small talk while they waited for three orders of pie; Wendy had decided against having dessert. And the festive spirit of the occasion never revived.

They walked back down the hill—Hannah chattering to Doyle, Qwilleran trying to cheer up Wendy—and they forgot to exchange books.