Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

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.

chapter three

Before going in to breakfast Sunday morning, Qwilleran visited the small boutique in the office. It sold postcards of the inn, small bags of peanuts for the squirrels, insect repellent, and the official Moose County T-shirt in sizes small to extra-extra large. Across the front of the shirt was splashed a moose head fifteen inches wide. Nature had given the animal a dour expression that was comic or ugly, depending on one’s sense of humor, and Qwilleran wanted to buy one for Arch Riker.