Cat Who Went Up the Creek

At six o’clock he arrived at the party with beer, iced tea and fruit drinks in a bucket of crushed ice. A rustic picnic table was set with paper plates. Doyle presided over the smoking charcoal stove, and Wendy played a Tchiakovsky recording at full volume.

When they sat down, Doyle proposed a toast to the terrible-tempered Mrs. T. “May she stay in Milwaukee until her house is finished. One night I dreamed I pushed her off the Old Stone Bridge, and when I woke I was profoundly disappointed.”

Hannah questioned the causes of the woman’s crankiness, and the group suggested rotten childhood, lack of love life, hormone imbalance, genes and so forth.

Then they considered the asocial family in Cabin Two. They had apparently gone out to dinner. Hannah said she knew them only as Marge and Joe. Wendy thought they had gotten Danny from a rent-a-kid agency. Doyle said she had a runaway imagination. A photographer by trade, he hopped around taking snapshots of the group.

Then Qwilleran said he would rent Cabin Five as soon as the police released it.

“You’ll have no squirrel trouble,” Doyle said. “They’re wary of cats.”

Finally they discussed the opera being performed by the Mooseland chorus. The Underhills were attending Friday night, also, and Qwilleran invited the three of them to be his guests at dinner on Sunday after the last matinee.

Doyle said, “I find Mooseville and Moose County on the map but no Mooseland.”

“It was the name given to a new confederated high school,” Qwilleran explained. “Now it’s a label for anything on the fringes of the county, surrounding the urban core.”

“Urban core!” Wendy laughed. “You must be kidding.”

“That’s where everything happens! Pickax City, population three thousand, is the county seat. Sawdust City is our industrial capital, also known as Mudville. The center of aggie business is Kennebeck.”

Aggie. It amused him to talk like a man of the soil.

“Are there any teaching jobs here?” she asked.

“Always. Teachers die, get kidnapped, skip the country.”

“Any movies?” Doyle asked.

“There’s a film society, but the original Pickax Movie Palace is now a warehouse for household appliances.”

Wendy said, “That what’s so enchanting about Moose County. A few miles from your ‘urban sprawl’ you have a dark, scary forest straight out of Grimm’s fairy tales.”

“That’s the Black Forest Conservancy, established by the K Fund for ecological reasons.”

The Underhills approved.

“I hear a truck,” Harriet said. “I think it’s the folks in Cabin Two. We ought to invite them for a beer, just to be neighborly.”

The family of three joined the group. Joe worked hard to be friendly, but Marge was shy, and Danny was tongue-tied.

After the party broke up, Wendy revised her opinion. Danny was Marge’s kid, but Marge and Joe weren’t married.

To cap the evening, Qwilleran distributed copies of Tuesday’s paper. “Read all about it!” he shouted. “Miniaturist discovered at Nutcracker Inn! Inside story of an amazing hobby. Don’t miss it in today’s Something!”

Hannah was on the verge of tears. “I wish Jeb were here. He’d be so proud of me.”

After the hot dogs and cole slaw and iced tea, Qwilleran had a strong desire for a cup of coffee and piece of pie. It was after nine o’clock, and a velvet rope was stretched across the entrance to the dining room. But there were diners lingering over their dessert, and the host said he could accommodate Mr. Q. “Sit anywhere,” he said.

A server passed, carrying a birthday cake with a single candle burning. It was en route to a table occupied by three members of the Brodie family. He followed it.

“You’re just in time, Qwill!” cried Fran. “Pull up a chair! It’s Mother’s birthday.”

Police chief Andrew Brodie was looking self-conscious in the suit, shirt, and tie he always wore to church. His wife, a modest north-country woman, looked uncomfortable in a dress obviously chosen by her sophisticated daughter.

“Happy birthday!” Qwilleran said. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” He clasped her extended hand in both of his.

“Oh, it’s such an honor to have you at my birthday party!” she said.

“The honor is all mine. I’ve heard so much about you!”

“I read your column every Tuesday and Friday, Mr. Qwilleran.”

“Please call me Qwill. I don’t know your first name.”

“Martha, but everyone calls me Mattie.”

“Do you mind if I call you Martha? It has a lovely sound, and there are so many famous Marthas in history.”

“Mother! Will you make a wish and blow out the candle before it sets fire to the cake?” Fran gave Qwilleran a look of feigned exasperation.

He chuckled. Anyone as glamorous and successful as Fran deserved to be exasperated once in a while. When Mrs. Brodie made her silent wish, he could guess what it was—that Fran would marry the president of MCCC and settle down, like the other daughters in the family.

“This is the most wonderful birthday I’ve ever had!” she confided to Qwilleran. “Dr. Prelligate sent me a dozen long-stemmed red roses—first time in my life! He would have been here tonight but he had to go out of town.”