Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“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.”

What could he say? He thought of the Dunfield house at the beach, where a man had been murdered. Realty agents could neither rent nor sell it, although its unsavory past had been suppressed. He said, “I wish there were something I could do. I’d be willing to spend a few days here—to see if I pick up any adverse vibrations.”

“Would you, Qwill?” she cried. “You could have a suite on the top floor and bring the cats. You’d be our guest!”

“No, no! The story would be that I’m researching material for my column. All charges would go on my expense account. What meals are available?”

“Breakfast and dinner. We have an excellent chef—from Palm Springs. Also, the suites have a small refrigerator and a coffee maker. Would you like to see one of them?”

“Won’t be necessary. I had the grand tour when the inn opened last fall. Is the black cat still here?”

“Nicodemus? Oh, yes! The guests love him; he’s so sweet in spite of his wicked eyes!” He was sleek and black with the most unusual eyes; they were triangular and had a stare like a laser beam. “He’s our rodent control officer,” Lori said with some of her old enthusiasm. “He doesn’t catch mice; he just terrifies them. Do you like canoeing, Qwill? We have a few canoes available down at the creek.”