Cat Who Went Up the Creek

So, matching the walls and tablecloths of the inn, Qwilleran set out to explore the grounds. The renovated mansion stood three stories high, with the third floor behind a mansard roof, and the turret rose from the southwest corner, adding a fourth-floor vantage point. Bricks were laid horizontally, vertically, diagonally and in herringbone borders—some protruding slightly to add texture to the façade. This feature was not lost on the squirrel population; with their bold claws they could run up the side of the mansion as easily as they ran up a tree. The management discouraged this activity, although guests found it endearing and reached for their cameras. Windows were tall and narrow, with inserts of stained glass. There was also a brick rampart across the front of the building—the launching pad from which Gustav Limburger had fired missiles at stray dogs. Guests preferred to sit on a paved patio at the rear and feed the squirrels. There were no expanses of neatly clipped lawn. This was a country inn, and the K Fund had specified natural landscaping: ground cover, shrubs, hedges, mammoth boulders, specimen trees, wildflowers, and herbs.

The land sloped gently down to the creek, meandering through wild gardens and the black walnut grove that had given the inn its name. Squirrels performed their acrobatics, and guests sat on park benches and fed them peanuts.

Upstream the creek cut through a dense forest that had been placed in legal conservancy by the Klingenschoen Foundation, forever to remain a wilderness performing natural services for the environment.

Downstream were five rustic cabins facing the water, which the inn offered for rent by the week, month or season. They were widely spaced and each had a screened porch overlooking the creek.

Qwilleran stood on the bank and marveled at the serenity of this waterway that had been a raging torrent in lumbering days, when logs were floated downstream during the spring thaw. Now it was about fifty feet wide—and placid as a pond. If Polly were there, he reflected, she would recite Wordsworth: The river glideth at his own sweet will, but she would change the gender of the pronoun to her.

As he watched, the only ripples were in concentric circles when another trout leaped to catch another skeeter . . . and a V-shaped wake as a duck moved effortlessly through the water, followed by half a dozen ducklings leaving their own little wakes.

The five rustic cabins on the bank of the creek were about a hundred feet apart, each with a screened porch overlooking the water, each with parking space at the rear. Walking along the footpath at water’s edge, Qwilleran checked them out in the systematic way he had.

Cabin One—Small white car with Florida plates. Cabin windows open. Woman singing a number from a Gilbert & Sullivan opera—live, not a recording.

Cabin Two—No vehicle. TV going full blast. In the front yard, young boy throwing rocks at ducks. Qwilleran chided him, and he ran indoors, where a shrill voice scolded him for talking to strangers. Qwilleran thought, City types!

Cabin Three—New SUV in parking lot. Stereo playing Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet. Did he also compose a “Duck” Sonata, “Squirrel” Concerto and “Skeeter” Rhapsody?

Cabin Four—No car. Large woman sitting on porch. He said, “Beautiful day!” She only glared at him. He decided she was deaf.

Cabin Five—No sign of life.

Farther downstream was a boat shed offering canoes and outboards for hire . . . and, in the distance, the picturesque Old Stone Bridge now used only by fishermen.

Back at the inn he found extension ladders leaning against the turret and window-washers hard at work.

In the lobby Nick signaled him. “The turret room in your suite is spic and span, but your cats are raising the roof. They don’t like being shut up in the bedroom.”

Koko’s declamatory yowl and Yum Yum’s shriek could be heard in the lobby. Qwilleran ran upstairs and released them from their prison. “Please!” he pleaded. “Do you want to get us evicted?”

The turret door stood open; the staircase rose like a piece of sculpture; the windows sparkled. Some old furniture was jammed into the room—odd bedroom pieces with cracked mirrors. Apparently no one knew it was there when the Limburger furnishings were liquidated.

Two inquisitive cats entered the turret room cautiously, but instead of running up the spiral staircase and peering out the windows, they preferred to sniff the furniture.

“Cats!” Qwilleran said aloud. “Who can outguess them?”

Koko was trying to open a dresser drawer. Yum Yum was investigating another cat in a cracked mirror.