Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“My pleasure,” he murmured. The invitation was more welcome than he revealed.

The MCCC faculty had not crossed paths with the “Qwill Pen” columnist—nor had he pursued them. His fellow journalists considered them cliquish. Actually the college had a limited curriculum, and many members of the faculty commuted from Down Below to teach two or three days a week. Qwilleran had met the college president briefly when the man was escorting Fran Brodie to a reception. Otherwise, his sole contact was Burgess Campbell, who gave a lecture course in American history. A localite, Campbell frequented the men’s coffee shops that were a part of the Moose County culture.

So the invitation to the luncheon was welcome. Contacts made there might open up a new source of “Qwill Pen” material.

Nell was saying, “You’re going to love Bruce’s story. He’s told it only twice, I think, outside the family, so it will be more or less an exclusive for your book. When do you expect to have it published?”

“As soon as I have enough tall tales to make a decent showing—not just ‘a slender volume,’ as the reviewers say.” He was trying not to stare above Nell’s head; there was a cuckoo clock on the foyer wall.

“Will it be illustrated?” she asked.

“That possibility hasn’t been discussed as yet, but it would help flesh out the volume and add to its desirability.”

“I’ve done illustrating for magazines and would like to submit samples.”

“By all means, do it!” Qwilleran said with sincerity.

The doctor came hurrying from his study. “Sorry about the delay. Full speed ahead—to the Black Bear Café! It’s my treat.”

“I’ll drive,” Qwilleran said. As they pulled away, he added, “Pleasant neighborhood here. Any problem with squirrels?”

“Not since we frustrated them by putting power lines and cables underground. And notice that the trees are away from the house. There’s a brook back there and some fine black walnuts. They like proximity to water . . . so we have the problem licked. Until next week! Then their engineering minds will figure out a solution. There’s nothing like a squirrel for keeping you humble!”

Qwilleran said, “Andy Brodie tells me you’re a fourth-generation doctor.”

“And proud of it! My great-grandfather arrived on a sailing vessel from Canada in the early days of lumbering here. It was dangerous work. Axes, saw blades, falling trees and murderous fistfights took their toll. Every community had a sawmill, a rooming house and an undertaker who built pine coffins. And there were a lot of amputations in those days. The term ‘Dr. Sawbones’ was no joke. As families moved in, there were children’s diseases and the perils of childbirth. Visit an old cemetery, and you’ll be amazed at the number of women who died in their twenties. My grandfather—second generation—made house calls on horseback and did surgery by lamplight in homes that weren’t very clean. My father had an office in his front parlor, and patients came to him. He not only treated their ailments but tried to educate them about health and hygiene.”

The Black Bear Café was in the town of Brrr, so named because of a sign writer’s slip-of-the-brush.

Since it was the coldest spot in the county, the townfolk relished the humor of the mistake and enjoyed the distinction of a place-name without a vowel. The town was on a bluff overlooking a fine natural harbor, and on the crest was an old hotel dating from the lumbering era. Architecturally it was in the shoebox style—plain, with many small windows. Its notable feature was a sign that ran the length of the roof, announcing ROOMS . . . FOOD . . . BOOZE. The letters were large enough to be seen for miles, and it was a favorite hangout for boaters, who nicknamed it the Hotel Booze.

Gary Pratt was the present owner, a young man with a lumbering gait and shaggy black beard. It was no wonder the café bore the name it did. When he acquired a mounted black bear as official greeter at the entrance, the picture was complete. Added to the restaurant’s attractions was its famous “bear burger,” considered the best ground-beef sandwich in the county. Certainly it was the largest.

“What’s the Abernethy clan connection?” Qwilleran asked when they had taken seats in a booth.

“Leslie of Aberdeenshire, dating back to the thirteenth century. Nell likes me to wear the kilt. Why don’t we promote a Scottish Night at the Nutcracker Inn?”

“Andy could play the bagpipe,” Qwilleran suggested.

“My daughter could dance the Highland Fling.”

Bruce ordered a glass of red wine, and Qwilleran ordered coffee. Both said they would have burgers—but not right away. They had business to discuss.

Qwilleran produced his tape recorder, and the doctor recounted a story that was later transcribed as “The Little Old Man in the Woods.”