The Whiskered Spy (14 page)

W
hen Kate gazed
out of the plane window and for the first time set eyes upon Belgium, that small country in the heart of Europe, her heart rejoiced. It was clear she’d picked a wonderful day for her trip. The transatlantic flight had just arrived in Brussels and was now taxiing up to the terminal, a glorious sun setting the azure sky ablaze with a brightness that had her squinting.

According to the captain’s announcement just now, temperature was a balmy eighty degrees with not a hint of rain on the horizon, a rarity for the notoriously wet country.

“Hey, dry land!” said Lauren, taking a peek out the plane window. “So I guess your mother was wrong about Belgium being located well below sea level.”

“Mom is wrong about a lot of things,” muttered Kate.

Contrary to her friend, Kate was on the petite side, with hair the color of copper, highlighted with streaks of gold, falling in a jumble of curls around an almond-shaped face, dozens of freckles liberally sprinkled across a small, tilt-tipped nose.

Warning her about the lousy weather was but one of many tactics Kate’s mom had resorted to when trying to prevent her daughter from traveling to Europe. The main reason was that she hated the idea of Kate being reunited with her biological father, a man she’d divorced shortly after Kate was born. Oddly enough, it was the only reason she hadn’t mentioned.

The marriage to the political science major Kate’s mom had met while backpacking through Europe had only lasted one year, just long enough to bring Kate into this world, only to be instantly yanked away from her dad and back to the States. Among other things, Kate’s mom hated her husband’s essential Belgiumness, though if pressed about the matter, she found it hard to put her finger on what it was exactly that irked her about him. Too placid, perhaps. Not enough fire. Not enough passion. Not enough
oomph
for the drama queen that was Kate’s mother.

So when Kate had announced her wedding plans and more specifically her desire to invite her biological father as one of the guests, her mother had suffered heart palpitations. Her little girl getting married was one thing, but to travel all the way to that infernal Belgium so she could invite that infernal man was quite another.

“Really, darling,” her mother had exclaimed. “Do you realize that this man is a perfect stranger? He probably doesn’t even know you exist!”

“He does, mom,” Kate had said. “I wrote him and he was so gracious to invite me over for a visit so that we can get to know each other a little better after all these years.”

“This is sheer madness!” mom had said, with her customary flair for the melodramatic. “You do whatever you want, Kate, darling, but I really don’t want to see that man again. Ever!”

“That’s going to be kinda hard,” said Kate. “He’s promised to come to the wedding. So unless you want to miss out on the happy feast…”

“Nothing in the world would induce me to skip your wedding!” exclaimed mom. “Just tell him to… stay away from me!”

And so it was arranged. Kate’s dad—Piet Peeters was his name—would travel to the States for the wedding, but first Kate would spend some quality time with him in Bruges. For even though mom had remarried, and remarried, and then remarried again, none of these men could lay claim to the moniker ‘dad’ as much as Piet did, and she couldn’t wait to meet him.

Ten minutes later, they were off the plane, and another ten minutes later, a taxi whisked them away from the airport terminal, and they were on their way to the small town of Bruges.

“I really hope this wasn’t a bad idea,” said Kate, for the first time feeling jittery about the meet.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” said Lauren, the eternal optimist of the pair. She easily stood a full head taller than her friend and was on the curvy side, something she celebrated rather than regretted. Along with her long, auburn hair, she exuded an air of buxom wholesomeness that had weakened the knees of strong men and brought more than one boyfriend to his knees when she’d walked out on them.

“I just hope he likes me,” said Kate quietly.

“Who cares what he thinks. Let’s hope
you
like
him
,” said Lauren.

Kate flashed a quick smile. “I’m bound to like him, aren’t I? After all, I’ve been dreaming of this moment my entire life.”

“Show me the pictures again?”

Kate brought out her phone and flipped through pictures of a tall, distinguished-looking man, complete with patrician nose, earnest expression and hair graying at the temples. She’d downloaded them from a Belgian news site. Piet Peeters wasn’t just any Joe Blow. He was the mayor of Bruges and as such an important man in his community. The college student her mom had married thirty years ago, had turned into a handsome politician.

“Though personally I’m not into older men, I can’t deny he’s quite a catch,” said Lauren. “I bet he’s a real ladies’ man, too.”

“Until she tragically died last year, he was married to the same woman for twenty-eight years,” said Kate, also studying the picture. “So cool it with the ladies’ man stuff, all right?”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t,” argued Lauren. “A man can be married
and
have a gaggle of girlfriends on the side.”

“Not
my
dad,” said Kate adamantly. Gazing into the eyes of the man in the picture, she sighed. “He’s perfect.”

“Oh, look!” said Lauren, rolling down the taxi window. “We’re in Bruges!”

And indeed they were. While they were examining pictures of Piet, the highway had turned into a state road, which had led them to the Kruispoort
,
a genuine medieval gate consisting of two heavy towers and a narrow passage into town. The taxi zoomed underneath, and suddenly they were in a different world, transported back in time about 500 years.

Narrow cobblestone streets were lined with small houses displaying the typical step-gable style facade that Bruges, the most perfectly preserved medieval city in Europe, was rightly famous for.

“Dang. I didn’t know we were visiting Disneyland,” said Lauren, feasting her eyes on a small fountain.

“I can’t believe people actually live in these houses,” said Kate, watching in fascination as the taxi hobbled along at a snail’s pace, giving both its fare and its meter ample opportunity to enjoy the ride.

They entered a short cul-de-sac that gave way to a picturesque courtyard, at the heart of which stood an Inn that looked as much like a medieval Inn as any Inn Kate had ever seen. Its ivied red-brick walls and small stained-glass windows with wood shutters, lent it an age-old flavor, as did the sturdy oak door crowned with a stonework archway. An intricately ornate cast iron sign indicated that this was, indeed, their destination: the ‘
Bouquets & Nosegays
’.

The taxi driver, one of those strong, silent types, for he hadn’t uttered a single word throughout the entire drive, got out, popped the trunk, and started unloading his customers’ suitcases, enveloped in a moody silence. After collecting his pay, he mumbled a curt, “
Merci
,” eased into his car and drove off without deigning them another look.

Entering the Inn, Kate and Lauren found themselves in a small but cozily furnished lobby, replete with a cheerful abundance of chrysanthemums, red and yellow roses, daylilies and coneflowers, lending it an ambiance of welcome and the scent of a spring morning.

“Such beautiful flowers!” exclaimed Lauren, plunking down her suitcases on the stone floor.

“Hello there,” a voice sounded, and when they turned to face the desk, they were greeted by a smallish woman of middle age, her hair white and her face adorned with so many wrinkles, she could have either been sixty or a hundred years old. She had a kind face, and two twinkling eyes that shone with intelligence. She was smiling up at them, and Kate, instantly feeling at home, automatically smiled back.

“You must be Kate and Lauren,” said the little woman.

“That’s right,” said Kate, pleasantly surprised.

“I’m Queenie,” said their hostess. “Queenie Pitt. Welcome to the
Bouquets & Nosegays
, my dears. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”

A
s Queenie took
care of the registration—passport and credit card—she kept up a lively conversation.

“Is this your first time in Bruges?” she said.

“Yes,” said Kate, then reconsidered. “Well, actually, no.” Then reconsidered again. “Although, in fact, yes.”

Queenie appeared unperturbed. “Life does have a tendency to get complicated sometimes, doesn’t it?” she said with a sweet and knowing smile.

“It does,” said Kate, feeling silly. “The thing is, my mother lived in Bruges when she became pregnant with me. But then just after I was born, she and my dad divorced, and she returned to America. So you see, technically I have been here, but of course I don’t remember a thing.” She really had no idea why she was telling all this to a perfect stranger, but somehow Queenie made her feel perfectly at ease.

“And now you’re visiting your father?” said Queenie.

“Yes, he’s the mayor of Bruges,” said Kate, still incapable of stopping her babble. “Perhaps you know him?”

“Of course I know Mayor Peeters,” said Queenie. “A very nice man. He’s lucky to have such a lovely daughter.”

“Thanks,” said Kate, charmed.

“Now, since this is your first time in Bruges,” said Queenie, her eyes sparkling, “I just know you both are in for a real treat. For one reason or another, I practically only have Americans staying at the Inn, and they’re always raving about our little town.”

“Yes, we heard it’s quite remarkable,” said Lauren. “Is it true that everything still looks the same as in the middle ages?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” said Queenie. “I may look old to you, honey, but I’m not
that
old.” Her face wrinkled up into a radiant smile. “I’m sorry. I do have my little jokes.”

Carefully writing down Kate’s address in a neat and practiced hand, she continued, “But you’re quite right, of course. The city council takes every effort to keep the place looking as nice as it always has. For one thing, did you know it’s not allowed to change the facade of your house, even if you own the place?”

“I didn’t know that,” said Lauren.

“It’s true. And because cars and their exhaust fumes cause so much damage to the brickwork, they’ve made certain streets car free, with plans to ban cars from the entire historic center. Isn’t that something?”

“It is,” Kate said. “If anyone tried that back home, they’d have a riot on their hands.”

“And where is home, honey?” said Queenie. Then she realized she’d just written down the address and laughed. “Oh, my. I
am
getting old!” Squinting at the card, she read, “Pitsburg, Ohio.” Her face cleared up. “I know about Pitsburg! Andrew Carnegie, right? The gospel of wealth?”

“That’s Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,” said Kate. “Double T, ends with an H? I’m from Pitsburg, Ohio.”

“Oh, there’s more than one?” said Queenie with a confused frown.

“About two dozen I think,” said Kate.

“Oh my. America really is a big country, isn’t it?”

“Compared to Belgium, it sure is.”

“But we don’t have a Bruges,” said Lauren, leaning in. “So there’s that.”

Queenie smiled, and a thousand wrinkles creased her kind face. “That’s true, dear. Now, keys. I’m sorry to say we’re still old-fashioned around here. No computers and no key cards.”

And with a deft flourish, she proceeded to hand the two friends matching sets of brass key rings depicting flowers. Tapping hers, Queenie told Kate, “You’re in the Rose Room, sweetie.”

Kate checked, and indeed, her key ring depicted the bloom of a rose.

“And you, my dear, are in the Tulip Room,” continued Queenie to Lauren. Then, clasping her hands together, she said, “May these rooms bring you lots of luck and… love.”

“Love?” Kate said skeptically.

“Oh, I don’t mind a little love,” said Lauren with a grin.

“Well, I don’t need love, Mrs. Pitt,” Kate said. “I’m getting married next month so I’m good.”

“Just call me Queenie, honey,” their hostess said. She wagged a finger in Kate’s face and instead of congratulating her on the upcoming nuptials as is customary, said, “Love is what I’m wishing you, Kate Harper, and love is what you’ll get. Mark my words.”

“Thanks, um, Queenie,” Kate said dubiously, and thought that this probably was the nosiest innkeeper she’d ever met.

Arriving upstairs, Lauren and Kate quickly found their rooms, which were not only adjacent, but shared a connecting door.

The moment Kate stepped inside her room, the door next to the bathroom swung open and Lauren came rushing in.

“Connecting rooms!” said Lauren. “How great is that? I see a slumber party coming up!”

“I see a good night’s rest in my immediate future,” said Kate, who was exhausted from both the trip and the nervous expectation she felt about meeting her real father.

Flinging herself onto Kate’s bed, Lauren spread her arms wide.

“So what did you think about Miss Q. Pitt?” she said, comically waggling her eyebrows. “Quite a character, huh?” Mimicking the old lady’s purring voice, she said, “May these rooms bring you luck and… love!” She cackled. “I sure hope they do!”

“Well, I for one thought she was pretty forward,” said Kate. “I mean, my love life is nobody’s business but my own.”

Lauren sighed. “I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind about marrying the wimp.”

Kate, quickly and efficiently unpacking her trunk and depositing her clothes and underwear in neat piles in the closet, frowned at her friend’s remark. Why was it that all her friends seemed to think she was marrying the wrong guy? True, Franklin was no Mr. Universe, or even Mr. Pitsburg, but he was loyal, dependable and kind. All qualities highly estimable in a life partner.

“Well, I won’t change my mind,” she said stiffly. “So it’s no use harping on the subject. This time next month I’ll be Mrs. Franklin Drub and that’s the end of it.”

“But he’s so boring!” cried Lauren.

“He’s dependable,” countered Kate. “There’s a difference.”