Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

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.