Cat Who Went Up the Creek

“Why don’t you pick the lock? You know how. Koko wants to go up there for a bird’s-eye view.”

“Good idea, Qwill. I’ll go right up,” Nick said.

“I’m going down—for breakfast. The cats will be shut up in the bedroom.”

Qwilleran walked slowly downstairs, admiring the carved staircase of traditional black walnut—deep chocolate brown with purplish veining. In the lobby he was greeted by an effervescent young woman. “Welcome to Nutcracker Inn! You must be Mr. Qwilleran. I’m Cathy, assistant manager on weekends. We’re all glad to have you here. We love the ‘Qwill Pen’ column and wish you wrote it every day. My aunt was a winner in your haiku contest. Are you having breakfast with us? Sit anywhere.”

“Thank you, and I’d like to reserve a table for three for dinner this evening. Six-thirty.”

It had been the drawing room of the mansion, and there was more of the lavishly carved woodwork—in the mantle and around doors and windows. Wall spaces that had once been covered with Victorian wallpaper were now painted pale coral; at the dinner hour there would be tablecloths to match. It was a friendly room, and a friendly server took his order: a ramekin of corned beef hash with poached egg, served with black walnut muffins.

“My name is Bella. May I serve you coffee? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot.”

He had brought Friday’s paper to read, and every time he read a sentence and took a sip of coffee, Bella added another splash to his cup. “You’re going to adore this ramekin,” she gushed when she served it. “I had one just before I came on duty.” Then she hovered about, in case he should want another muffin or more coffee.

Suddenly Nick Bamba appeared at his table. “Good news! We got the turret door open!”

“Sit down,” Qwilleran invited. “Have a cup of coffee. They have an oversupply in the kitchen.”

“Guess what we found! A circular staircase carved out of a single black walnut log!”

“How would it photograph?”

“Great! There’s some old furniture crowded in there, but it could be moved. And the room needs cleaning badly.”

“Then, full speed ahead, Nick. The publisher of the paper is my dinner guest tonight. I want to show it to him.”

Nick jumped to his feet. “Consider it done!” And rushed out of the room. He was famous for doing everything right now!

Qwilleran finished the ramekin and then read his newspaper with yet another cup of coffee. On the editorial page there was a letter to the editor from Black Creek, written by Brodie’s friend, Doc Abernethy. He wrote a good letter.

To the Editor—By what logic does the U.S. Postal Service treat remote rural communities like the suburbs of large cities? In a high-handed move that can be considered only as unthinking, the post offices of small towns and villages are being closed and new ones are being built in the cornfields and sheep pastures.

By tradition, and for reasons of common sense, the village post office is more than a place to buy stamps and mail packages. It is the hub of the community. Clustered around it are the grocery, drugstore, hardware, bank, coffeehouse and barbershop—depending upon and supporting each other. In the post office you bump into your neighbor and compare notes on the weather, crops, flocks, family well-being, and problems of all kinds.

What is happening now? The post offices of Little Hope and Campbelltown were the first to go. A single facility was built in a virtual wasteland in between. Soon the Little Hope Bank and the Campbelltown grocery moved out there. Gradually other businesses were forced to follow suit. Result? The downtown of each village is a ghost town. And where two grocers and barbers were earning a living, there is only one of each.

Meanwhile the price of postage goes up. Families drive farther for everyday goods and services. And what we have is a strip mall in the wilderness. Plans are under way to destroy Fishport and Black Creek. Chipmunk and Squunk Corners will be next. Who is making a profit from this maneuver? I smell a rat!

The letter was signed by Bruce Abernethy, M.D., the friend of Andrew Brodie. The chief was nobody’s fool! If he said the doctor had once had a close encounter with a wood spirit, Qwilleran was ready to believe it—or, at least, investigate it.

After breakfast, Qwilleran went for a walk about the grounds wearing shorts and sandals and a baseball cap. His moustache was recognized everywhere, of course. As goodwill ambassador for the Moose County Something, he responded to women’s admiring looks with a courteous nod and to men’s greetings with a salute. He knew he looked good in a baseball cap.

And yet, as a newcomer to the north country, he had wondered about the great number of visored caps on males in all walks of life. Then an agricultural agent told him, “Things fall off trees and out of the sky (don’t ask what), and a wise head keeps covered.” So he began his collection of baseball caps: hunter orange, red, black, yellow, and a new pale coral with an N logo.