The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

chapter two

Qwilleran’s strategy for the morning departure was to take his traveling companions by surprise: Up early—no breakfast—bundle them into the carrier before their eyes are open—talk fast—take off! He talked about everything to his silent passengers—sullen or stunned, it was not clear.

“This is no worse than going to the vet for your annual physical. And the good news is, You don’t get the needle or thermometer. You’ll be pampered guests, living on the third floor in a room with a view. There are plenty of crows and squirrels for entertainment. And there’s a resident cat with an interesting personality. You won’t meet socially, but you can sniff each other through the door. And Koko can go for walks down to the creek to watch the trout jumping out of the water.”

The male cat was always ready to buckle up and go for a ride on Qwilleran’s shoulder. The female missed the point entirely; when buckled up she flopped down on her side and expected to be dragged like a toy wagon.

Qwilleran assumed the role of tour director, telling them more than they wanted to know, but it was the timbre and resonance of his voice that pacified them. Still he told them how Black Creek had gone from a thriving pioneer town to a bed of ashes in the Great Fire of 1869 and how it was restored to even greater importance, with an opera house and the Limburger mansion. Then the mines closed and the forests were lumbered out, and Black Creek became a ghost town.

When Qwilleran stopped for breath, a well-timed “Yow!” indicated that Koko was listening. Yum Yum had been lulled to sleep.

The van arrived at the side door of the inn, and a young man rushed out, saying, “Welcome to Nutcracker Inn! You must be Mr. Qwilleran. I’m Trent. I’ll take you up to the third floor front, our best suite!”

He was one of the Moose County Community College students enrolled in the school’s restaurant and hotel management program. They worked part time as porters, servers, dishwashers and housekeepers—happy to get experience in their chosen fields and brimming with energy and enthusiasm.

Trent loaded everything into the new elevator. As it rose slowly and smoothly, he said, “You got kitties?”

“Yow!” came a howl so loud and piercing that the elevator jolted.

“Yikes! What kind of animal is that?”

“A male Siamese,” Qwilleran said. “It offends him to be called a kitty. He’s a cat.”

“Sorry, cat! . . . Does he bite?”

“Only MCCC students. Watch your vocabulary!”

“What’s his name?”

“Kao K’o Kung . . . Koko to you.”

As soon as they had moved in, Qwilleran opened the door of the carrier, and two cautious cats emerged shoulder to shoulder, looking left and right.

He said, “Welcome to the Nutcracker Suite!”

Yum Yum sniffed the foreign carpet thoroughly, as usual. Koko walked directly to a closed door in the front corner of the sitting room. Did he know it led to the turret? He liked being high up, looking down. Obligingly Qwilleran turned the old cast-brass doorknob. It was locked. “Treat!” he announced and served two plates of food before phoning the office about the locked door.

“Nick Bamba speaking,” said a cheery voice.

“Nick, this is Qwill. We’ve just arrived and—”

“Welcome to Nutcracker Inn! Glad to have you here! By the way—” He lowered his voice. “Lori told me she spoke to you about the ‘dark cloud.’ I don’t go for that psychic stuff myself. How about you, Qwill?”

“I try to keep an open mind.”

“Just the same, I wish you’d talk to her and straighten her out. She’ll listen to you. . . . How do you like your suite? Everything okay?”

“Except for a door that’s locked. It seems to lead to the turret.”

“Oh, yeah . . . that one. I’ve searched all over for a key. No luck.”

“Why don’t you pick the lock? You know how. Koko wants to go up there for a bird’s-eye view.”

“Good idea, Qwill. I’ll go right up,” Nick said.

“I’m going down—for breakfast. The cats will be shut up in the bedroom.”

Qwilleran walked slowly downstairs, admiring the carved staircase of traditional black walnut—deep chocolate brown with purplish veining. In the lobby he was greeted by an effervescent young woman. “Welcome to Nutcracker Inn! You must be Mr. Qwilleran. I’m Cathy, assistant manager on weekends. We’re all glad to have you here. We love the ‘Qwill Pen’ column and wish you wrote it every day. My aunt was a winner in your haiku contest. Are you having breakfast with us? Sit anywhere.”

“Thank you, and I’d like to reserve a table for three for dinner this evening. Six-thirty.”

It had been the drawing room of the mansion, and there was more of the lavishly carved woodwork—in the mantle and around doors and windows. Wall spaces that had once been covered with Victorian wallpaper were now painted pale coral; at the dinner hour there would be tablecloths to match. It was a friendly room, and a friendly server took his order: a ramekin of corned beef hash with poached egg, served with black walnut muffins.

“My name is Bella. May I serve you coffee? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot.”

He had brought Friday’s paper to read, and every time he read a sentence and took a sip of coffee, Bella added another splash to his cup. “You’re going to adore this ramekin,” she gushed when she served it. “I had one just before I came on duty.” Then she hovered about, in case he should want another muffin or more coffee.

Suddenly Nick Bamba appeared at his table. “Good news! We got the turret door open!”

“Sit down,” Qwilleran invited. “Have a cup of coffee. They have an oversupply in the kitchen.”

“Guess what we found! A circular staircase carved out of a single black walnut log!”

“How would it photograph?”

“Great! There’s some old furniture crowded in there, but it could be moved. And the room needs cleaning badly.”

“Then, full speed ahead, Nick. The publisher of the paper is my dinner guest tonight. I want to show it to him.”

Nick jumped to his feet. “Consider it done!” And rushed out of the room. He was famous for doing everything right now!

Qwilleran finished the ramekin and then read his newspaper with yet another cup of coffee. On the editorial page there was a letter to the editor from Black Creek, written by Brodie’s friend, Doc Abernethy. He wrote a good letter.

To the Editor—By what logic does the U.S. Postal Service treat remote rural communities like the suburbs of large cities? In a high-handed move that can be considered only as unthinking, the post offices of small towns and villages are being closed and new ones are being built in the cornfields and sheep pastures.

By tradition, and for reasons of common sense, the village post office is more than a place to buy stamps and mail packages. It is the hub of the community. Clustered around it are the grocery, drugstore, hardware, bank, coffeehouse and barbershop—depending upon and supporting each other. In the post office you bump into your neighbor and compare notes on the weather, crops, flocks, family well-being, and problems of all kinds.

What is happening now? The post offices of Little Hope and Campbelltown were the first to go. A single facility was built in a virtual wasteland in between. Soon the Little Hope Bank and the Campbelltown grocery moved out there. Gradually other businesses were forced to follow suit. Result? The downtown of each village is a ghost town. And where two grocers and barbers were earning a living, there is only one of each.

Meanwhile the price of postage goes up. Families drive farther for everyday goods and services. And what we have is a strip mall in the wilderness. Plans are under way to destroy Fishport and Black Creek. Chipmunk and Squunk Corners will be next. Who is making a profit from this maneuver? I smell a rat!

The letter was signed by Bruce Abernethy, M.D., the friend of Andrew Brodie. The chief was nobody’s fool! If he said the doctor had once had a close encounter with a wood spirit, Qwilleran was ready to believe it—or, at least, investigate it.

After breakfast, Qwilleran went for a walk about the grounds wearing shorts and sandals and a baseball cap. His moustache was recognized everywhere, of course. As goodwill ambassador for the Moose County Something, he responded to women’s admiring looks with a courteous nod and to men’s greetings with a salute. He knew he looked good in a baseball cap.

And yet, as a newcomer to the north country, he had wondered about the great number of visored caps on males in all walks of life. Then an agricultural agent told him, “Things fall off trees and out of the sky (don’t ask what), and a wise head keeps covered.” So he began his collection of baseball caps: hunter orange, red, black, yellow, and a new pale coral with an N logo.

So, matching the walls and tablecloths of the inn, Qwilleran set out to explore the grounds. The renovated mansion stood three stories high, with the third floor behind a mansard roof, and the turret rose from the southwest corner, adding a fourth-floor vantage point. Bricks were laid horizontally, vertically, diagonally and in herringbone borders—some protruding slightly to add texture to the façade. This feature was not lost on the squirrel population; with their bold claws they could run up the side of the mansion as easily as they ran up a tree. The management discouraged this activity, although guests found it endearing and reached for their cameras. Windows were tall and narrow, with inserts of stained glass. There was also a brick rampart across the front of the building—the launching pad from which Gustav Limburger had fired missiles at stray dogs. Guests preferred to sit on a paved patio at the rear and feed the squirrels. There were no expanses of neatly clipped lawn. This was a country inn, and the K Fund had specified natural landscaping: ground cover, shrubs, hedges, mammoth boulders, specimen trees, wildflowers, and herbs.

The land sloped gently down to the creek, meandering through wild gardens and the black walnut grove that had given the inn its name. Squirrels performed their acrobatics, and guests sat on park benches and fed them peanuts.

Upstream the creek cut through a dense forest that had been placed in legal conservancy by the Klingenschoen Foundation, forever to remain a wilderness performing natural services for the environment.

Downstream were five rustic cabins facing the water, which the inn offered for rent by the week, month or season. They were widely spaced and each had a screened porch overlooking the creek.

Qwilleran stood on the bank and marveled at the serenity of this waterway that had been a raging torrent in lumbering days, when logs were floated downstream during the spring thaw. Now it was about fifty feet wide—and placid as a pond. If Polly were there, he reflected, she would recite Wordsworth: The river glideth at his own sweet will, but she would change the gender of the pronoun to her.

As he watched, the only ripples were in concentric circles when another trout leaped to catch another skeeter . . . and a V-shaped wake as a duck moved effortlessly through the water, followed by half a dozen ducklings leaving their own little wakes.

The five rustic cabins on the bank of the creek were about a hundred feet apart, each with a screened porch overlooking the water, each with parking space at the rear. Walking along the footpath at water’s edge, Qwilleran checked them out in the systematic way he had.

Cabin One—Small white car with Florida plates. Cabin windows open. Woman singing a number from a Gilbert & Sullivan opera—live, not a recording.

Cabin Two—No vehicle. TV going full blast. In the front yard, young boy throwing rocks at ducks. Qwilleran chided him, and he ran indoors, where a shrill voice scolded him for talking to strangers. Qwilleran thought, City types!

Cabin Three—New SUV in parking lot. Stereo playing Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet. Did he also compose a “Duck” Sonata, “Squirrel” Concerto and “Skeeter” Rhapsody?

Cabin Four—No car. Large woman sitting on porch. He said, “Beautiful day!” She only glared at him. He decided she was deaf.

Cabin Five—No sign of life.

Farther downstream was a boat shed offering canoes and outboards for hire . . . and, in the distance, the picturesque Old Stone Bridge now used only by fishermen.

Back at the inn he found extension ladders leaning against the turret and window-washers hard at work.

In the lobby Nick signaled him. “The turret room in your suite is spic and span, but your cats are raising the roof. They don’t like being shut up in the bedroom.”

Koko’s declamatory yowl and Yum Yum’s shriek could be heard in the lobby. Qwilleran ran upstairs and released them from their prison. “Please!” he pleaded. “Do you want to get us evicted?”

The turret door stood open; the staircase rose like a piece of sculpture; the windows sparkled. Some old furniture was jammed into the room—odd bedroom pieces with cracked mirrors. Apparently no one knew it was there when the Limburger furnishings were liquidated.

Two inquisitive cats entered the turret room cautiously, but instead of running up the spiral staircase and peering out the windows, they preferred to sniff the furniture.

“Cats!” Qwilleran said aloud. “Who can outguess them?”

Koko was trying to open a dresser drawer. Yum Yum was investigating another cat in a cracked mirror.

Only old friends can be invited to dinner at the last minute, and the Rikers were friends of long standing, and no minute was ever too late for a dinner invitation. Arch Riker, now the publisher of the Moose County Something, had grown up with Qwilleran in Chicago. Mildred Riker, a native of Moose County and now food editor for the paper, had the kind of comfortable, outgoing personality that made new friends feel like old friends.

On this occasion Qwilleran had hinted at a fantastic discovery that would make big news; the Rikers reported to the inn at six o’clock sharp. “Welcome to the Nutcracker Inn,” he greeted them.

“They should have called it the Squirrel House,” Arch said.

Nevertheless he was mightily impressed by the black walnut woodwork. Mildred raved about the coral tint of walls and tablecloths that made everyone look good. Both were surprised to hear that the rich texture of the painted walls was accomplished by grinding up black walnut shells and adding them to the paint.

They were seated at a table in the front window where they could enjoy the June evening and the comic cavorting of squirrels. Mildred said, “It doesn’t seem right to be here without Polly. Have you heard from her, Qwill?”

“She left only yesterday. Her sister is flying from Cincinnati and meeting her in Virginia.”

“Have you ever met her sister?” Arch asked.

Playfully Qwilleran replied, “No, and sometimes I wonder if Polly really has a sister in Cincinnati.”

“She might have another man in Cincinnati,” Arch suggested.

“Shame on you both,” Mildred rebuked them. “You were naughty schoolboys, and now you’re naughty men!”

The two men exchanged mischievous glances and Arch said with glee, “In fourth grade Qwill composed disrespectful couplets about our teachers. I remember: ‘Old Miss Perkins, flat as a pie, never had a boyfriend, and we know why.’”

“Not one of my better couplets,” Qwilleran admitted. “Arch peddled them around the school yard for a penny apiece and that’s where we made our mistake—going commercial.”

Arch ordered a martini and suggested consulting the menu. “There’s a documentary on TV that I want to see tonight.”

Qwilleran asked, “Any hot news from the big city, Arch? I’ve been gone since eight o’clock this morning.”

“Well!” Mildred announced with authority. “Fran Brodie was seen having dinner with Dr. Prelligate at the Palomino Paddock. They were drinking champagne! Everyone’s wondering if they’re serious.”

“Serious about what?” her husband asked. “I’m serious about having my dinner.”

The salads were served, and Mildred began her editorial of the evening. “Historically, salads were intended to refresh the palate before the rich dessert. Restaurants started serving them first to keep customers busy and happy while waiting for the steak. Mothers started serving them first because kids and husbands hated salads but would eat them at the beginning of the meal when they were ravenously hungry.”

“I’m with the husbands,” Qwilleran said. “I hate salads.”

“The sour taste of most dressings is too sophisticated for many palates. When my daughter was a teen, she used to put sugar on the French dressing.”

“Yuk!” said her husband.

“Please pass the sugar,” Qwilleran said.

All three diners ordered the same thing and agreed that the leg of lamb was superb but the strawberry pie wasn’t as good as Mildred’s. There was no lingering over coffee; the Rikers wanted to see the unique staircase.

Koko and Yum Yum met them at the door of 3-FF and followed them to the turret room.

“Fantastic! A work of art,” Mildred cried. “And over a hundred years old!”

Arch said, “We could use a three-column shot of this on the front page Monday. . . . Okay if we send a photographer tomorrow? He’ll call first. . . . It’ll be picked up by papers around the state and even TV. . . . But this furniture will have to be moved out of the way.”

“It’s all black walnut!” Mildred cried. “And that low chest is a dower chest! It has the bride’s name on it!”

Lettered on the front of it, in fancy script, was “Elsa Limburger.” “Oh, let’s look inside!”

It was indeed filled with wedding finery, lace-trimmed and embroidered, but dreary with age.

“How sad! The poor girl died before her wedding,” Mildred went on. “Her parents were so distraught, they couldn’t bear to look at the furniture she would have taken into her new home.”

Qwilleran knew otherwise, but he allowed his friend to have her romantic fantasy. As for the cracked mirrors, he had a theory. On the dressing table, bureau and cheval glass there were spidery cracks radiating from a central hole. He could imagine Elsa’s enraged father going from mirror to mirror and smashing it with the signet ring on his fist. It would be a large, ostentatious chunk of gold.

Then the Rikers had to leave, and on the way to the elevator Arch asked Qwilleran if he would like to review the play opening Friday night at the high school auditorium. He said, “The Mooseland Choral Society is doing it, and they’re supposed to be very good. And since you’re living here . . .”

“No thanks,” said Qwilleran.

“You wouldn’t have to file your copy until Monday morning.”

“No thanks.”

“It’s Pirates of Penzance and you like Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“No thanks.”

After his guests had gone home to their TV documentary, Qwilleran had a thought about the “dark cloud” that Lori sensed in the building. He was not superstitious, but if one wanted to make a case, three broken mirrors in the basement should be as unlucky as three on the third floor. The furniture should be removed from the premises! He phoned the office. “Nick, can you stand some good news?”

“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Koko won the lottery.”

“Better than that! The Something wants to run the turret staircase on page one. It’s the kind of curiosity the media will pick up around the state. But we have to move the furniture out in a hurry.”

“We can stack it in the basement.”

Qwilleran thought fast: If Lori’s “dark cloud” theory were true, having the three broken mirrors in the basement wouldn’t help much. He said, “Well, here’s the situation, Nick. The stuff is very valuable, and it’s the property of the K Fund, actually. We should move it to a storage unit on Sandpit Road. The K Fund will cover the rental.”

Nick was always agreeable. “Sure thing! Keith is on duty tonight. He and I can do it. I think the facility is open all night.”

“I’ll go along,” Qwilleran said. “Maybe I can help.”

The Siamese had to be sequestered in the bedroom again as the black walnut treasures were being moved to the elevator, and Qwilleran wondered, Why were they more interested in the furniture than the staircase? There was a reason, but one would have to be a cat to know the answer.