This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE CAT WHO WENT UP THE CREEK
A G. P. Putnam’s Sons Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by Lilian Jackson Braun
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1462-6
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Electronic edition: March, 2003
Dedicated to Earl Bettinger, The Husband Who . . .
chapter one
It was Skeeter Week in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. Armies of young enthusiastic mosquitoes rose from woodland bogs and deployed about the county, harassing tourists. Permanent residents were never bothered. And, after a while, even newcomers developed an immunity, attributed to minerals in the drinking water and in the soil that grew such flavorful potatoes. As for the summer people, they bought quantities of insect repellent and went on praising the perfect weather, the wonderful fishing, and the ravishing natural beauty of Moose County.
One morning in mid-June a columnist for the Moose County Something was working against deadline, writing his annual thousand-word salute to Skeeter Week. With tongue in cheek he reported readers’ exaggerated claims: A farmer in Wildcat had trained a corps of skeeters to buzz him awake every morning in time for milking. A music teacher in Pickax City had a pet skeeter that buzzed Mendelssohn’s “Spinning Song.”
He was no backwoods journalist. He was James Mackintosh Qwilleran, former crime writer for major newspapers Down Below, as the locals called all states except Alaska. A freak inheritance had brought him north to Pickax, the county seat (population 3,000). It also made him the richest man in the northeast central United States. (It was a long story.)
He cut a striking figure as he went about, interviewing and making friends for the paper. He was fiftyish, tall, well built, with an enviable head of graying hair and a pepper-and-salt moustache of magnificent proportions. But there was more to the man than an instantly recognizable moustache; he had brooding eyes and a sympathetic mien and a willingness to listen that encouraged confidences. Yet, his friends, readers, and fellow citizens had come to realize that the sober aspect masked a genial personality and sense of humor. And everyone knew that he lived alone in a converted apple barn, with two Siamese cats.
Qwilleran wrote his column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen,” on an old electric typewriter at the barn, closely supervised by his male cat. As he ripped the last page out of the machine, Kao K’o Kung, with an internal growl, let him know the phone was going to ring.
It rang, and a familiar woman’s voice said anxiously, “Sorry to bother you, Qwill.”
“No bother. I’ve just finished—”
“I need to talk to you privately,” she interrupted, “while my husband is out of town.”
Qwilleran had a healthy curiosity and a journalist’s taste for intrigue. “Where’s he gone?”
“To Bixby, for plumbing fixtures. It may be foolish of me, but—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there in a half hour.”
“Come to the cottage in the rear.”
Lori and Nick Bamba were the young couple who had come to his rescue when he was a greenhorn from Down Below getting bitten by mosquitoes. She was a small-town postmaster then; he was chief engineer at the state prison. They had two ambitions: to raise a family and to be innkeepers.
When Qwilleran had an opportunity to recommend them for the new Nutcracker Inn located in Black Creek, he was happy to do so. In a way, he felt like the godfather of the Nutcracker. If he had not been the sole heir of Aunt Fanny Klingenschoen (who was not even related to him) . . . And if he had not been totally overwhelmed by the size of the bequest (billions) and the responsibility it entailed . . . And if he had not established the Klingenschoen Foundation to use the money for the good of the community . . . And if the K Fund had not purchased the old Limburger mansion to refurbish as a country inn . . .
Such were his ruminations as he drove the miles to Black Creek, a virtual ghost town until the Nutcracker Inn brought it back to life. The renovation had won national publicity; some well-known names had appeared on the guest register; new shops were opening in the quaint little downtown.
Qwilleran had seen the Victorian house when the last eccentric Limburger was alive. A section of the ornamental iron fence had been sold to a passing stranger; a broken window was a Halloween trick when the old man refused to treat; bricks from the crumbling steps were used to throw at stray dogs. In Qwilleran’s opinion, the only upbeat feature was a cuckoo clock in the front hall, its crazy bird popping out and announcing the time with monotonous cheer.
Now, approaching Black Creek, he planned his strategy. In Moose County, where everyone knew the make and model of everyone’s vehicle, his own five-year-old brown van was especially conspicuous. It would hardly do to be seen calling on the innkeeper’s wife while the innkeeper was in Bixby buying plumbing supplies. So the brown van was parked in the main lot of the inn with the luncheon guests, after which the driver ambled about the grounds feeding the squirrels. Not having any peanuts, he had brought cocktail nuts, and the squirrels showed no objection to pecans and cashews, slightly salted.
The Lori Bamba who admitted him to the cottage was not the sunny personality he had known. The golden braids coiled around her head seemed drab, and her eyes were not as blue. She offered him coffee and a black walnut cookie, and he accepted.
“How are the Bambas’ brilliant brats?” he asked to add a light touch.
“The boys are in summer camp, and Lovey is with her grandma in Mooseville. We get together Sundays.”
“That’s good. So what is the serious matter on your mind?”
“Well . . . I always thought innkeeping would be my kind of work: meeting people, making them happy, providing a holiday atmosphere. Instead I feel gloomy.”
“Is your health okay?’
“At my last physical my doctor said I’d live to be a hundred and ten.” She said it without a smile. “The funny thing is—when I go to Mooseville on Sundays or into Pickax on errands, I feel normal. I think there’s something depressing about the building itself! I’ve always been sensitive to my environment, and I believe the theory that old houses absorb the personality of those who’ve lived there.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard that!” He avoided saying whether he believed it.
“Nick says I’m being silly. He says it’s all in my head. It’s a grand old building, and the redecorating is fabulous, but I feel a dark cloud hanging over the premises.”