Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“The tree has always flourished in this area and certain midwestern states, but when the Limburger mansion was built, black walnut furniture and woodwork was highly desirable, and the groves were lumbered out. Today there’s a renewed demand for boards and veneer, especially in the Asian market. But it takes good heartwood to make good veneer, and black walnut trees are slow to mature. A good straight tree of the proper age can be worth upwards of fifty thousand. I’ve planted a grove of black walnuts, interspersed with other hardwoods, as a legacy for my grandchildren.”

“Fascinating subject,” Qwilleran murmured. “What is your source of information?”

“A friend of mine, Bob Chenoweth, wrote a painstakingly researched book on the subject. You might like to borrow it. He’s a good writer.”

“The name sounds Welsh.” Qwilleran prided himself on knowing the origin of surnames. “Does he sing? You know what they say: All Welshmen sing. All Scots are thrifty. All Englishmen have stiff upper lips. And all Irishmen write plays.”

“First,” said Qwilleran, when they reached the doctor’s house, “I want to see the wood spirit.”

The carving hung on the chimney breast, high over the fireplace mantel—craggy face, hooded eyes, long flowing moustache. The artist had brought it to life. “Looks a lot like me when I need a trim,” he said.

Then came the black walnut pie! He was familiar with other nut pies and found he disliked their cloying sweetness. Nell’s pie had an earthy nuttiness with a texture of creamy chewiness. Qwilleran, though never at a loss for words, could only murmur an enraptured “Wow!”

“Good, isn’t it?” Bruce said. “She makes it all the time. I crack the nuts.”

“Black walnut is an acquired taste,” she said. “Our whole family is hooked on it.”

“How large a family?”

“Three daughters. The youngest is in Nova Scotia right now, winning prizes for Scottish dancing.”

Bruce said, “The middle one is entering med school. The eldest—” He whipped out his wallet and showed a snapshot of a young woman in tan overalls, bright yellow shorts, slouch hat and field boots. She was standing next to a large tree trunk with bark peeled down like a banana—lightning damage. With obvious pride Bruce said, “She has a degree in forestry. She works as a forest ranger for the state. With the growing public concern about forests, she’ll go far!” Then, to veil his parental pride, he quipped, “She’s the one on the left.”

Qwilleran thought, Inside the dedicated pediatrician, a wood spirit is trying to get out!

A cuckoo clock sounded the hour. There were compliments, thanks, promises and reminders, and Qwilleran left with a copy of Black Walnut under his arm. For a moment he wondered if fate had deprived him of certain blessings: a father, a loving wife, talented offspring, concern for future generations, and black walnut pie “all the time.”

chapter seven

“Good news!” were the first words Qwilleran heard Thursday morning. Nick Bamba called to say that the police had released Cabin Five. “The housecleaning crew is down there now, giving it a thorough once-over.”

“Not too thorough, I hope,” Qwilleran said. “Koko likes a few lingering odors. He might detect a clue that has been overlooked by the detectives. I’m not contending that cats are smarter than people, but some cats are smarter than some people—with all due respect to the constabulary. . . . When can we move down there?”

“Give them another hour. Also, there’s a postcard here for you.”

Hanging up the phone, Qwilleran said to the cats, “Pack your bags!” They seemed to know what was afoot. Koko pranced around on his long elegant legs. Yum Yum cowered.

Polly’s card proved to be from Colonial Williamsburg. Pictured was a company of British redcoats marching down Duke of Gloucester Street.

Dear Qwill—The Governor’s Palace is gorgeous! Heard a wonderful concert at the church. Mona okay. Met interesting antique dealer from Ohio.

Love, Polly

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and wondered what made an antique dealer “interesting.” Especially . . . one from Ohio.

Just as Qwilleran was approaching his French toast and sausage patties with gusto, the server came to the table with a cordless phone. “Call for you, Mr. Qwilleran. Will you take it at the table?”

“No. I disapprove of using a phone while operating a knife and fork. Get the name and phone number, and I’ll call back after my second cup of coffee.”

The number Qwilleran was given to call was Roger MacGillivray’s home phone. It was Thursday. He worked weekends at the newspaper in order to have Wednesdays and Thursdays off for home-schooling his youngsters. And on those two days Sharon did freelance bookkeeping for the motel in Mooseville. It was a neat arrangement.

“Roger! You called!” Qwilleran said when his friend answered. “What’s up?”