Chapter One
It was Skeeter Week in Moose County, 400 miles north of
everywhere. Armies of young enthusiastic mosquitoes rose
from woodland bogs and deployed about the county,
harassing tourists. Permanent residents were never
bothered. And, after a while, even newcomers developed an
immunity, attributed to minerals in the drinking water and
in the soil that grew such flavorful potatoes. As for the
summer people, they bought quantities of insect repellent
and went on praising the perfect weather, the wonderful
fishing, and the ravishing natural beauty of Moose County.
One morning in mid-June a columnist for the Moose County
Something was working against deadline, writing his annual
thousand-word salute to Skeeter Week. With tongue in cheek
he reported readers' exaggerated claims: A farmer in
Wildcat had trained a corps of skeeters to buzz him awake
every morning in time for milking. A music teacher in
Pickax City had a pet skeeter that buzzed
Mendelssohn's "Spinning Song."
He was no backwoods journalist. He was James Mackintosh
Qwilleran, former crime writer for major newspapers Down
Below, as the locals called all states except Alaska. A
freak inheritance had brought him north to Pickax, the
county seat (population 3,000). It also made him the
richest man in the northeast central United States. (It
was a long story.)
He cut a striking figure as he went about, interviewing
and making friends for the paper. He was fiftyish, tall,
well built, with an enviable head of graying hair and a
pepper-and-salt moustache of magnificent proportions. But
there was more to the man than an instantly recognizable
moustache; he had brooding eyes and a sympathetic mien and
a willingness to listen that encouraged confidences. Yet,
his friends, readers, and fellow citizens had come to
realize that the sober aspect masked a genial personality
and sense of humor. And everyone knew that he lived alone
in a converted apple barn, with two Siamese cats.
Qwilleran wrote his column, "Straight from the Qwill Pen,"
on an old electric typewriter at the barn, closely
supervised by his male cat. As he ripped the last page out
of the machine, Kao K'o Kung, with an internal growl, let
him know the phone was going to ring.
It rang, and a familiar woman's voice said
anxiously, "Sorry to bother you, Qwill."
"No bother. I've just finished-"
"I need to talk to you privately," she interrupted, "while
my husband is out of town."
Qwilleran had a healthy curiosity and a journalist's taste
for intrigue. "Where's he gone?"
"To Bixby, for plumbing fixtures. It may be foolish of me,
but-"
"Don't worry. I'll be there in a half hour."
"Come to the cottage in the rear."
Lori and Nick Bamba were the young couple who had come to
his rescue when he was a greenhorn from Down Below getting
bitten by mosquitoes. She was a small-town postmaster
then; he was chief engineer at the state prison. They had
two ambitions: to raise a family and to be innkeepers.
When Qwilleran had an opportunity to recommend them for
the new Nutcracker Inn located in Black Creek, he was
happy to do so. In a way, he felt like the godfather of
the Nutcracker. If he had not been the sole heir of Aunt
Fanny Klingenschoen (who was not even related to
him)...And if he had not been totally overwhelmed by the
size of the bequest (billions) and the responsibility it
entailed...And if he had not established the Klingenschoen
Foundation to use the money for the good of the
community...And if the K Fund had not purchased the old
Limburger mansion to refurbish as a country inn...
Such were his ruminations as he drove the miles to Black
Creek, a virtual ghost town until the Nutcracker Inn
brought it back to life. The renovation had won national
publicity; some well-known names had appeared on the guest
register; new shops were opening in the quaint little
downtown.
Qwilleran had seen the Victorian house when the last
eccentric Limburger was alive. A section of the ornamental
iron fence had been sold to a passing stranger; a broken
window was a Halloween trick when the old man refused to
treat; bricks from the crumbling steps were used to throw
at stray dogs. In Qwilleran's opinion, the only upbeat
feature was a cuckoo clock in the front hall, its crazy
bird popping out and announcing the time with monotonous
cheer.
Now, approaching Black Creek, he planned his strategy. In
Moose County, where everyone knew the make and model of
everyone's vehicle, his own five-year-old brown van was
especially conspicuous. It would hardly do to be seen
calling on the innkeeper's wife while the innkeeper was in
Bixby buying plumbing supplies. So the brown van was
parked in the main lot of the inn with the luncheon
guests, after which the driver ambled about the grounds
feeding the squirrels. Not having any peanuts, he had
brought cocktail nuts, and the squirrels showed no
objection to pecans and cashews, slightly salted.
The Lori Bamba who admitted him to the cottage was not the
sunny personality he had known. The golden braids coiled
around her head seemed drab, and her eyes were not as
blue. She offered him coffee and a black walnut cookie,
and he accepted.
"How are the Bambas' brilliant brats?" he asked to add a
light touch.
"The boys are in summer camp, and Lovey is with her
grandma in Mooseville. We get together Sundays."
"That's good. So what is the serious matter on your mind?"
"Well...I always thought innkeeping would be my kind of
work: meeting people, making them happy, providing a
holiday atmosphere. Instead I feel gloomy."
"Is your health okay?'
"At my last physical my doctor said I'd live to be a
hundred and ten." She said it without a smile. "The funny
thing is-when I go to Mooseville on Sundays or into Pickax
on errands, I feel normal. I think there's something
depressing about the building itself! I've always been
sensitive to my environment, and I believe the theory that
old houses absorb the personality of those who've lived
there."
He nodded. "I've heard that!" He avoided saying whether he
believed it.
"Nick says I'm being silly. He says it's all in my head.
It's a grand old building, and the redecorating is
fabulous, but I feel a dark cloud hanging over the
premises."
What could he say? He thought of the Dunfield house at the
beach, where a man had been murdered. Realty agents could
neither rent nor sell it, although its unsavory past had
been suppressed. He said, "I wish there were something I
could do. I'd be willing to spend a few days here-to see
if I pick up any adverse vibrations."
"Would you, Qwill?" she cried. "You could have a suite on
the top floor and bring the cats. You'd be our guest!"
"No, no! The story would be that I'm researching material
for my column. All charges would go on my expense account.
What meals are available?"
"Breakfast and dinner. We have an excellent chef-from Palm
Springs. Also, the suites have a small refrigerator and a
coffee maker. Would you like to see one of them?"
"Won't be necessary. I had the grand tour when the inn
opened last fall. Is the black cat still here?"
"Nicodemus? Oh, yes! The guests love him; he's so sweet in
spite of his wicked eyes!" He was sleek and black with the
most unusual eyes; they were triangular and had a stare
like a laser beam. "He's our rodent control officer," Lori
said with some of her old enthusiasm. "He doesn't catch
mice; he just terrifies them. Do you like canoeing, Qwill?
We have a few canoes available down at the creek."
In his younger days Qwilleran had often thought, If I
can't play second base for the Chicago Cubs, or write for
The New York Times, or act on the Broadway stage...I'd
like to be an investigator. And now even so nebulous a
mystery as Lori's "dark cloud" piqued his curiosity.
Furthermore...
Qwilleran relished a frequent change of address. His early
experience as a globetrotting correspondent had given him
a chronic case of wanderlust. The Black Creek venture
would be timely; the chief woman in his life was leaving
on vacation. Polly Duncan, director of the Pickax public
library, planned to tour museum villages on the East Coast
in the company of her sister, who lived in Cincinnati.
Qwilleran wondered about these sisterly flings. In Canada
the previous year they had met a highly personable Quebec
professor, and he had been corresponding with Polly ever
since...in French! She said it helped her brush up on her
idioms.
Qwilleran would drive her to the airport in the morning,
but tonight there would be a farewell dinner in the
Mackintosh Room at the hotel.
As soon as they were seated, he asked the usual fatuous
questions. "Are you all packed? Are you excited?"
"I hate to leave Brutus and Catta, but there's a cat-
sitter in the neighborhood who'll come in twice a day to
give them food and attention. This morning I wrote a
limerick about Catta while I was showering: A female
feline named Catta/is getting fatta and fatta/but she's
pretty and purry/and funny and furry/so what does an ounce
or two matta?"
"I couldn't have done 'betta' myself," he said, with
apologies. "If we announce another limerick contest this
summer, will you be one of the judges?"
"I'd love to! Meanwhile, what are you going to do while
I'm away?"
"Read trashy novels and give wild parties, if I can find
anyone who likes wild parties....But seriously, I plan to
spend a couple of weeks at the Nutcracker Inn in search of
new material for my column."
"I wish you were coming with me, Qwill."
"Maybe next year, but no museums! I get all the education
I want on the 'Qwill Pen' beat."
"We could go to the Italian hill country and read poetry,
far from the madding crowd."
"The madding crowd is everywhere these days, Polly-taking
snapshots and buying postcards. And by the way, when you
send me postcards, bear in mind that the picture on the
front is less important than the message on the back! More
news! More news!"
His own words would ring in his ears for the next two
weeks; Polly always cooperated with zeal.
But first Qwilleran had to get her to the airport for the
8:00 A.M. shuttle flight to Minneapolis. After tearful
good-byes to Brutus and Catta and a race to the airport,
the flight was delayed because the pilot of the shuttle
had not arrived. According to the airport manager, the
pilot's baby-sitter was ill, and she was having difficulty
finding a substitute. Eventually she arrived and
passengers were reassured that they would make their
connections.
When the plane finally taxied to the runway, lifted off
and disappeared into the sky, the groundlings watched it
go, as if witnesses to a miracle.
On the way home Qwilleran pulled off the highway to make
some phone calls. Moose County was the first in the state
to prohibit use of a cell phone while operating a vehicle.
The county commissioners expected enough revenue from
traffic tickets to build a soccer stadium.
First he called Andrew Brodie, the Pickax chief of
police. "Andy, I'll be out of town for a few weeks, and I
have a bottle of twelve-year-old single-malt Scotch that's
too good to leave around for burglars. How about coming
over for a nightcap?"
The chief, always interested in crime prevention, said he
would be there at 10:00 P.M.
Next Qwilleran phoned Junior Goodwinter, the young
managing editor of the Moose County Something. "Junior,
I'll be faxing the copy for my next few columns. I'll be
crossing the Egyptian desert by dromedary."
"So soon? You just got back from doing Paris by
skateboard!"
"I have to keep my column fresh, you know."
"Don't let it get too fresh," Junior warned. "We have a
conservative readership."
On the way home, Qwilleran made a mental list of things to
do and items to pack for the trek to Black Creek, half an
hour from home:
Notify post office.
Notify attorney.
Notify janitorial service.
Empty refrigerator.
Pack clothes, writing materials, books, magazines.
Pack cats' commode and two large bags of cat litter, two
plates and two water bowls, vitamin drops, grooming
essentials, Koko's harness and leash, old paisley necktie.
Take trail bike and Silverlight.
The Siamese were waiting for him apprehensively; they
knew! They sensed a change in their comfortable lives.
"You're going on vacation!" Qwilleran assured
them. "You're to be guests at a glamorous inn that has
room service and a chef from Palm Springs-or Palm Beach.
There's a resident cat named Nicodemus who's very
friendly. And you can even go up the creek in a canoe."
The Siamese, who subscribed to the home-sweet-home ethic,
were always vastly inconvenienced by his restlessness,
however. Silent and motionless and disapproving, they sat
in a shaft of sunlight slanting through a high barn
window. It made the pale fur bodies glisten, and their
dark brown masks and ears stand out in sharp and defiant
contrast. (Brown legs and tails were tucked out of sight.)
"Well, for your information, you're going anyway,"
Qwilleran told them.
Yum Yum, the gentle little female, squeezed her eyes
noncommittally. Koko, the lordly male, who knew his name
was really Kao K'o Kung, slapped the floor with his tail.
When their midday snack was placed in the feeding station,
they ignored it until Qwilleran was out of the room.
In the afternoon he reported to the art center, where he
was to help judge best of show in a new exhibit opening
Sunday. They would be self-portraits by local artists. He
would be first to admit he knew nothing about art, but he
knew it was his name they wanted on the judges' panel-not
his expertise. The manager of the art center had swiveled
her eyes at him; Barb Ogilvie had a talent for using her
eyeballs to get what she wanted. She had neglected to tell
him that the portraitists were all third-graders.
"The purpose of this event," she explained to the
assembled judges, "is to introduce the art center to
families who might not otherwise come here. They will be
voting for their favorite and having punch and cookies. We
hope to make friends."
The judges' choice as best-of-show was a portrait of a
blond girl in a pink dress, done in pastels.
Barb said to Qwilleran, "Will you attend the opening?"
"Sorry. I'll be in Black Creek on assignment, but I think
it would be nice if you'd have dinner with me sometime
afterward-at the Nutcracker Inn." One of his chief
pleasures was taking someone-anyone-to dinner at a good
restaurant.
"I'd love it!" she cried, swiveling her eyes. No one ever
said no to Qwilleran's dinner invitations.
So far, so good, Qwilleran thought. Now came the hard
part: relocating two opinionated cats who disliked a
change of address. His strategy would be one of stealth,
carried out in three separate operations.
First, while waiting for Andy, he took the Siamese to the
screened gazebo overlooking the garden. Nature's night
noises would steal their attention from activity in the
barnyard, where two bikes were being lashed to the
interior of a van.
At 10:00 P.M. Andrew Brodie arrived at the barn-a big
burly Scot with the authority of a police chief and the
swagger of a bagpiper. He was both. "So where you goin'
this time?" he demanded.
"Black Creek-staying at the Nutcracker Inn, scrounging
material for the column."
"What'll you do with the cats?"
"Take them along." Qwilleran was setting out a cheese
board with Cheddar, smoked Gouda and Stilton. Andy liked
to sit at the snack bar and cut chunks and slices for
himself. "Your daughter did a great job of refurbishing
that old building, Andy."
"Yep, it was pretty much of a dump."
"It'll be in a national magazine next month, and I hear
Fran is getting offers from Chicago and elsewhere."
"Yep, she's doin' all right." Brodie said it ruefully, and
Qwilleran recalled that he was talking to a typical old
north-country father who considered a career less
desirable than family life. He changed the subject. "Andy,
did you know old Gus Limburger?"
"Sure did! He was a crazy old codger. He went around
asking women to marry him and run his mansion like a
boarding house. He asked young and old, ugly and pretty,
married and single. We had so many complaints, we
threatened to charge him with disturbing the peace." Andy
slapped his thigh and hooted. "Lois Inchpot chased him out
of her restaurant with a rolling pin! That was after he
came back from living in Germany for a while. I was
working for the sheriff then, and the Limburger mansion
was one of our regular stops on patrol. A real estate
office paid the taxes and kept the grass cut, and we
reported vandalism to them. People called it a haunted
house. That was twenty-thirty years ago....Ever meet old
Gus?"
"I tried to interview him but he was too eccentric. He sat
on the porch, throwing stones at stray dogs, and he was
chasing a dog when he tripped over a loose brick in the
front steps. The fall killed him."
"Everybody was surprised to learn he had a daughter in
Germany. I bet she was only too glad to sell everything to
the K Fund."
"Freshen your drink, Andy?" Qwilleran asked.
"A wee dram....Say, d'you know Doc Abernethy? Lives in
Black Creek. Pediatrician. Takes care of my grandkids."
Soberly Qwilleran said, "No, I don't know him. I take my
family to the vet."
His guest dismissed that remark with a grunt. "Doc has a
story to tell that changed his life."
"From what to what?"
"You look him up and ask him. He tells a good story-and
all true, he swears."
"He writes a good letter to the editor," Qwilleran
admitted.
"Good citizen. Gets involved." The chief looked at his
watch, and drained his glass. "Gotta pick m'wife up at the
church."
His departure ushered in the second stage of Qwilleran's
strategy. He brought the cats in from the gazebo, half-
drugged with nocturnal lights, and then he gave them a
larger-than-usual bedtime snack. They staggered up the
ramp to the third balcony, and Qwilleran put a wildlife
video (without the sound) on their VCR. Yum Yum was asleep
before he closed the door, and Koko was swaying noticeably
in front of the screen.
Congratulating himself, Qwilleran spent the next hour in
feverish but silent activity-padding around in house
slippers, packing luggage and boxes, quietly opening and
closing doors and drawers, being careful not to drop
anything.
Everything was going as planned. The chief had promised to
keep an eye on the barn in his absence. Three weeks' needs
for man and cats were successfully stacked inside the
kitchen door, ready for a pre-breakfast getaway, when
Qwilleran turned off the lights and went to his suite on
the first balcony. Before he could open the door, his ears
were assaulted by a prolonged, high-decibel howl in two-
part harmony from the upper precincts. He cringed. It
seemed to say, You can't fool us, you chump!
There was nothing more he could do or say; they would have
to howl until their batteries ran down. Then it occurred
to him to reread a chapter in a book he was writing. A
collection of Moose County legends, it was to be titled
Short & Tall Tales.
THE LEGEND OF THE RUBBISH HEAP
In the mid-nineteenth century, when Moose County was
beginning to boom, it was a Gold Rush without the gold.
There were veins of coal to be mined, forests to be
lumbered, granite to be quarried, land to be developed,
fortunes to be made. It would become the richest county in
the state.
In 1859 two penniless youths from Germany arrived by
schooner, by way of Canada. On setting foot on the foreign
soil, they looked this way and that to get their bearings,
and both saw it at the same time! A piece of paper money
in a rubbish heap! Without stopping to inquire its value,
they tore it in half to signify their partnership. It
would be share and share alike from then on.
Their names were Otto Wilhelm Limburger and Karl Gustav
Klingenschoen. They were fifteen years old.
Labor was needed. They hired on as carpenters, worked long
hours, obeyed orders, learned everything they could, used
their wits, watched for opportunities, took chances,
borrowed wisely, cheated a little, and finally launched a
venture of their own.
By the time they were in their thirties, Otto and Karl
dominated the food-and-shelter industry. They owned all
the rooming houses, eating places and travelers' inns
along the shoreline. Only then did they marry: Otto, a God-
fearing woman named Gretchen; Karl, a fun-loving woman
nicknamed Minnie. At the double wedding the friends
pledged to name their children after each other. They
hoped for boys, but girls could be named Karla and
Wilhelmina. Thus the two families became even more
entwined...until rumors about Karl's wife started drifting
back from the waterfront. When Karl denied the slander,
Otto trusted him.
But there was more! One day Karl approached his partner
with an idea for expanding their empire. They would add
saloons, dance halls, and female entertainment of various
kinds....Otto was outraged! The two men argued. They
traded insults. They even traded a few blows and, with
noses bleeding, tore up the fragments of currency that had
been in their pockets since the miracle of the rubbish
heap.
Karl proceeded on his own and did extremely well,
financially. To prove it, he built a fine fieldstone
mansion in Pickax City, across from the courthouse. In
retaliation Otto imported masons and woodworkers from
Europe to build a brick palace in the town of Black Creek.
How the community reacted to the two architectural wonders
should be mentioned. The elite of the county vied for
invitations to sip tea and view Otto's black walnut
woodwork; Karl and Minnie sent out invitations to a party
and no one came.
When it was known that the brick mansion would be the
scene of a wedding, the best families could talk of
nothing else. The bride was Otto's only daughter. He had
arranged for her to marry a suitable young man from the
Goodwinter family; the date was set. Who would be invited?
Was it true that Otto had taken his daughter before a
magistrate and legally changed her name from Karla to
Elsa? It was true. Elsa's dower chest was filled with fine
household linens and intimate wedding finery. Gifts were
being delivered in the best carriages in town.
Seamstresses were working overtime on costumes for the
wedding guests. Gowns for the bridal party were being
shipped from Germany. Suppose there were a storm at sea!
Suppose they did not arrive in time!
Then, on the very eve of the nuptials, Otto's daughter
eloped with the youngest son of Karl Klingenschoen!
Shock, embarrassment, sheer horror and the maddening
suspicion that Karl and Minnie had promoted the defection-
all these emotions combined to affect Otto's mind.
As for the young couple, there were rumors that they had
gone to San Francisco. When the news came, a few years
later, that the young couple had lost their lives in the
earthquake, Elsa's father had no idea who they were.
Karl and Minnie lived out their lives in the most splendid
house in Pickax, ignored by everyone of social standing.
Karl never knew that his immense fortune was wiped out,
following the financial crash of 1929.
Toward the end of the century, Otto's sole descendent was
an eccentric who sat on the porch of the brick palace and
threw stones at dogs.
Karl's sole descendant was Fanny Klingenschoen, who
recovered her grandfather's wealth ten times over.
Eventually the saga of the two families took a curious
twist. The Klingenschoen Foundation has purchased two
properties from the Limburger estate: the mansion in Black
Creek and the hotel in Pickax. The former has become the
Nutcracker Inn; the latter is now the Mackintosh Inn.
The "legend of the rubbish heap" has come full circle.
When Qwilleran finished reading, he thought, That old
building has earned a dark cloud....We shall see!