Cat Who Went Up the Creek

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.

The two men enjoyed playing tricks on each other, much as they had done when they were eight years old. Riker wrote absurd fan letters, anonymously, to the “Qwill Pen” columnist who, in turn, sent unsuitable gifts, anonymously, to the editor and publisher.

As for the famous black walnut staircase, it had already been photographed by Roger MacGillivray, former history teacher now working for the Something. Qwilleran knew him to be an ailurophobe and had locked the Siamese in the bedroom before Roger’s arrival.

“Where are they?” the pale young man asked.

“In the bedroom, handcuffed to the bedpost, and—in case they get loose and break down the bedroom door—they’re muzzled!”

The photographer exposed plenty of film, showing the staircase from all angles. In one of them a bushy-tailed squirrel could be seen peering through the window. “That’s it! That’s the one they’ll use!”

“Can you join me for breakfast, Rog?”

“I’d like to, but I’m the only leg man on duty, and I’ve gotta shoot a couple of paintings at the art center—best-of-show and popular favorite. I don’t know what to expect. They’re self-portraits by kids.”

“I was one of the judges,” said Qwilleran, “and I can tell you right now that the winner won’t reproduce in black-and-white. It’s a girl with pale yellow hair and pale blue eyes, wearing a pale pink dress against a pale lavender background.”

“All I can do is print it up as contrasty as possible—and explain to the picture desk. Maybe they can cover it in the cutline.”

The Siamese were beginning to howl, and Roger made a quick exit.

In the dining room Qwilleran was seated at a table next to a couple involved in animated discussion. They were dressed as if they had just come from church. They were fortyish and spirited enough to make Qwilleran wonder who they were. He opened the Wilson Quarterly he had brought along and pretended to read while listening. The man was husky and had a firm jaw, twinkling eyes, and a tuft of hair falling boyishly over his forehead; the woman had a pleasant voice and expressive hands.

The man asked, “So it’s definite that he’s going to come and speak?”

“Oh, yes! We’re covering all his expenses. The date will be firmed up tomorrow. We’re quite flexible on that score.”

“Who will attend?”

“Only MCCC people.”

“Do you know the gist of his speech?”

“The future of MCCC: opportunities, problems, warnings. It should be the most important event we’ve ever had.”

“It certainly seems so.”