Cat Who Went Up the Creek Read online

  First, while waiting for Andy, he took the Siamese to the screened gazebo overlooking the garden. Nature’s night noises would steal their attention from activity in the barnyard, where two bikes were being lashed to the interior of a van.

  At 10:00 P.M. Andrew Brodie arrived at the barn—a big burly Scot with the authority of a police chief and the swagger of a bagpiper. He was both. “So where you goin’ this time?” he demanded.

  “Black Creek—staying at the Nutcracker Inn, scrounging material for the column.”

  “What’ll you do with the cats?”

  “Take them along.” Qwilleran was setting out a cheese board with Cheddar, smoked Gouda and Stilton. Andy liked to sit at the snack bar and cut chunks and slices for himself. “Your daughter did a great job of refurbishing that old building, Andy.”

  “Yep, it was pretty much of a dump.”

  “It’ll be in a national magazine next month, and I hear Fran is getting offers from Chicago and elsewhere.”

  “Yep, she’s doin’ all right.” Brodie said it ruefully, and Qwilleran recalled that he was talking to a typical old north-country father who considered a career less desirable than family life. He changed the subject. “Andy, did you know old Gus Limburger?”

  “Sure did! He was a crazy old codger. He went around asking women to marry him and run his mansion like a boarding house. He asked young and old, ugly and pretty, married and single. We had so many complaints, we threatened to charge him with disturbing the peace.” Andy slapped his thigh and hooted. “Lois Inchpot chased him out of her restaurant with a rolling pin! That was after he came back from living in Germany for a while. I was working for the sheriff then, and the Limburger mansion was one of our regular stops on patrol. A real estate office paid the taxes and kept the grass cut, and we reported vandalism to them. People called it a haunted house. That was twenty-thirty years ago. . . . Ever meet old Gus?”

  “I tried to interview him but he was too eccentric. He sat on the porch, throwing stones at stray dogs, and he was chasing a dog when he tripped over a loose brick in the front steps. The fall killed him.”

  “Everybody was surprised to learn he had a daughter in Germany. I bet she was only too glad to sell everything to the K Fund.”

  “Freshen your drink, Andy?” Qwilleran asked.

  “A wee dram. . . . Say, d’you know Doc Abernethy? Lives in Black Creek. Pediatrician. Takes care of my grandkids.”

  Soberly Qwilleran said, “No, I don’t know him. I take my family to the vet.”

  His guest dismissed that remark with a grunt. “Doc has a story to tell that changed his life.”

  “From what to what?”

  “You look him up and ask him. He tells a good story—and all true, he swears.”

  “He writes a good letter to the editor,” Qwilleran admitted.

  “Good citizen. Gets involved.” The chief looked at his watch, and drained his glass. “Gotta pick m’wife up at the church.”

  His departure ushered in the second stage of Qwilleran’s strategy. He brought the cats in from the gazebo, half-drugged with nocturnal lights, and then he gave them a larger-than-usual bedtime snack. They staggered up the ramp to the third balcony, and Qwilleran put a wildlife video (without the sound) on their VCR. Yum Yum was asleep before he closed the door, and Koko was swaying noticeably in front of the screen.

  Congratulating himself, Qwilleran spent the next hour in feverish but silent activity—padding around in house slippers, packing luggage and boxes, quietly opening and closing doors and drawers, being careful not to drop anything.

  Everything was going as planned. The chief had promised to keep an eye on the barn in his absence. Three weeks’ needs for man and cats were successfully stacked inside the kitchen door, ready for a pre-breakfast getaway, when Qwilleran turned off the lights and went to his suite on the first balcony. Before he could open the door, his ears were assaulted by a prolonged, high-decibel howl in two-part harmony from the upper precincts. He cringed. It seemed to say, You can’t fool us, you chump!

  There was nothing more he could do or say; they would have to howl until their batteries ran down. Then it occurred to him to reread a chapter in a book he was writing. A collection of Moose County legends, it was to be titled Short & Tall Tales.

  THE LEGEND OF THE RUBBISH HEAP

  In the mid-nineteenth century, when Moose County was beginning to boom, it was a Gold Rush without the gold. There were veins of coal to be mined, forests to be lumbered, granite to be quarried, land to be developed, fortunes to be made. It would become the richest county in the state.

  In 1859 two penniless youths from Germany arrived by schooner, by way of Canada. On setting foot on the foreign soil, they looked this way and that to get their bearings, and both saw it at the same time! A piece of paper money in a rubbish heap! Without stopping to inquire its value, they tore it in half to signify their partnership. It would be share and share alike from then on.

  Their names were Otto Wilhelm Limburger and Karl Gustav Klingenschoen. They were fifteen years old.

  Labor was needed. They hired on as carpenters, worked long hours, obeyed orders, learned everything they could, used their wits, watched for opportunities, took chances, borrowed wisely, cheated a little, and finally launched a venture of their own.

  By the time they were in their thirties, Otto and Karl dominated the food-and-shelter industry. They owned all the rooming houses, eating places and travelers’ inns along the shoreline. Only then did they marry: Otto, a God-fearing woman named Gretchen; Karl, a fun-loving woman nicknamed Minnie. At the double wedding the friends pledged to name their children after each other. They hoped for boys, but girls could be named Karla and Wilhelmina. Thus the two families became even more entwined . . . until rumors about Karl’s wife started drifting back from the waterfront. When Karl denied the slander, Otto trusted him.

  But there was more! One day Karl approached his partner with an idea for expanding their empire. They would add saloons, dance halls, and female entertainment of various kinds. . . . Otto was outraged! The two men argued. They traded insults. They even traded a few blows and, with noses bleeding, tore up the fragments of currency that had been in their pockets since the miracle of the rubbish heap.

  Karl proceeded on his own and did extremely well, financially. To prove it, he built a fine fieldstone mansion in Pickax City, across from the courthouse. In retaliation Otto imported masons and woodworkers from Europe to build a brick palace in the town of Black Creek. How the community reacted to the two architectural wonders should be mentioned. The elite of the county vied for invitations to sip tea and view Otto’s black walnut woodwork; Karl and Minnie sent out invitations to a party and no one came.

  When it was known that the brick mansion would be the scene of a wedding, the best families could talk of nothing else. The bride was Otto’s only daughter. He had arranged for her to marry a suitable young man from the Goodwinter family; the date was set. Who would be invited? Was it true that Otto had taken his daughter before a magistrate and legally changed her name from Karla to Elsa? It was true. Elsa’s dower chest was filled with fine household linens and intimate wedding finery. Gifts were being delivered in the best carriages in town. Seamstresses were working overtime on costumes for the wedding guests. Gowns for the bridal party were being shipped from Germany. Suppose there were a storm at sea! Suppose they did not arrive in time!

  Then, on the very eve of the nuptials, Otto’s daughter eloped with the youngest son of Karl Klingenschoen!

  Shock, embarrassment, sheer horror and the maddening suspicion that Karl and Minnie had promoted the defection—all these emotions combined to affect Otto’s mind.

  As for the young couple, there were rumors that they had gone to San Francisco. When the news came, a few years later, that the young couple had lost their lives in the earthquake, Elsa’s father had no idea who they were.

  Karl and Minnie lived out their lives in the most splendid house in Pickax, ignored by
everyone of social standing. Karl never knew that his immense fortune was wiped out, following the financial crash of 1929.

  Toward the end of the century, Otto’s sole descendent was an eccentric who sat on the porch of the brick palace and threw stones at dogs.

  Karl’s sole descendant was Fanny Klingenschoen, who recovered her grandfather’s wealth ten times over.

  Eventually the saga of the two families took a curious twist. The Klingenschoen Foundation has purchased two properties from the Limburger estate: the mansion in Black Creek and the hotel in Pickax. The former has become the Nutcracker Inn; the latter is now the Mackintosh Inn. The “legend of the rubbish heap” has come full circle.

  When Qwilleran finished reading, he thought, That old building has earned a dark cloud. . . . We shall see!

  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 fi
rst 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.