Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“You can say that again! I spend hours pickin’ ’em out of my dogs’ hair!”

“Who picks ’em outta your hair?”

“I take a turpentine shampoo. Only way to go.”

“The trick is to get the danged bloodsuckers outa your flesh afore they dig in.”

“Yeah, and don’t leave the head in, or you’re in bad trouble!”

Kemple said to Qwilleran, “Mind if we take our coffee out to the car? I’ve got a weak stomach.”

In the privacy of the parking lot he told his story. “You remember Vivian took our daughter out west after she was jilted and cracked up. My in-laws have a ranch out there, and we thought she might meet a decent guy. Vivian made several trips out there to check her progress and kept staying longer and longer. I should’ve smelled a rat! My wife had met another man! . . . Well . . . why fight it? I gave her a divorce and also the million-dollar collection of rare dolls. I’d spent five years researching them in England, Germany, and France.”

“But you plunged into the idea of an antique mall,” Qwilleran recalled, “and that was good.”

“Yep. I found the perfect building in Pickax, made an offer to buy, and signed up dealers for the mall. Then the owner decided to keep the building and steal my idea.”

“I remember. It was a shock to all of us.”

“I was really down, Qwill. It’s a wonder I didn’t hit the bottle.”

Qwilleran nodded sympathetically. “I’ve been there myself. What pulled you through?”

“You won’t believe this—and I usually don’t tell it—but my father spoke to me! He departed this life twenty years ago, but I remembered something he used to say. If somebody stole my baseball mitt or if I wasn’t picked for the first team, he’d say, ‘Rise above it, boy. Rise above it.’ He was only a potato farmer, but he knew a lot about life, and I’d take his advice. I’d imagine myself in a hot-air balloon, high in the sky, looking down on the scene of my disappointment, which looked pretty insignificant from that altitude. Now I realize that distancing yourself from a problem aids your perspective.”

“I’d heard that you were in Florida last winter.”

“Yes, the Gulf Coast is very popular with folks around here, and I had the good luck to meet a nice Scottish woman from Black Creek, who owned the flea market. We talked about the new look in Black Creek—and how a first-class antique mall would be more suitable than a flea market. Result: We’re in partnership. She works with the dealers; I handle the business end. Grand opening is Saturday. First ad runs Friday. And the Scottish community is giving a preview. . . . Would you like to see how it’s shaping up? Dealers are still moving in. You can meet our floor manager, who’ll have charge of the daily operation. She says she knows you. Janelle Van Roop.”

“Our paths crossed briefly last summer,” Qwilleran said, “pleasant young woman.” Actually, he was wondering how this sweet, shy, soft-spoken personality, hidden under a mop of very long hair, could manage anything more dynamic than an old ladies’ home. He had met her at a residence for the widows of commercial fishermen.

“I’d like to see the facility,” he said to Kemple.

He followed the pickup truck to a side street in Black Creek, where a large barnlike building gleamed under a coat of white paint. Painted across the front were the words ANTIQUE VILLAGE. The large double doors were open, and rocking chairs, tables and hutch cabinets were being carried in.

“It’s been cleaned up a lot,” Kemple said. “We just painted everything white. If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to make them.”

The two long walls were lined with three-sided booths having wall space for wall furniture and hanging objects. Down the center of the hall were larger spaces divided by latticework, designed for freestanding furniture. Kemple said in a low rumble that passed for a whisper, “They pay less per square foot, and it encourages furniture displays. We want to get that kind of reputation—not just a barnful of knickknacks. Some of the large pieces coming in include an Art Deco dining table, an old square piano made into a desk, an eight-foot hutch cupboard, and a carved church pew.”

“Mr. Qwilleran!” came a woman’s voice, forceful but cordial. “Do you remember me? Janelle—from the Safe Harbor Residence.”

“Of course I remember you,” he said, concealing his surprise. Two years of college, contact with the workaday world, and a businesslike haircut had given her a managerial briskness that disguised her petite stature.

The boss said, “Janelle, show him around. I have to make a few phone calls.”

“Have you seen the recycled furniture?” she asked. “A young man in Sawdust City makes shutters, doors, small windows, railings and mantels into tables, desks, cabinets, chests, and so forth. They’re wonderful in beach houses and fun accents anywhere.”

The mismatched components of each piece were given a coat of paint to tie everything together. White, terra-cotta and moss green were among the colors the creator had chosen.

“What do you think?” Janelle asked.