The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

CHAPTER 1

A man of middle age, with a large, drooping moustache and brooding eyes, hunched over the steering wheel and gripped the rim anxiously as he maneuvered his car up a mountain road that was narrow, unpaved, and tortuous. Unaccustomed to mountain driving, he found it a bloodcurdling ordeal. On one side of the road the mountain rose in a solid wall of craggy rock; on the other side it dropped off sharply without benefit of guardrail, and it was narrowed further by fallen rocks at the base of the cliff. The driver kept to the middle of the road and clenched his teeth at each hairpin turn, pondering his options if another vehicle were to come hurtling downhill around a blind curve. A head-on collision? A crash into the cliff? A plunge into the gorge? To aggravate the tension there were two passengers in the backseat who protested as only Siamese cats can do.

It was late in the day, and the gas gauge registered less than a quarter full. For almost two hours Jim Qwilleran had been driving on mountain passes, snaking around triple S-curves, blowing the horn at every hairpin turn, making the wrong decision at every fork in the road. There were no directional signs, no habitations where he might inquire, no motorists to flag down for help, no turn-outs where he could pull over in an effort to get his bearings and collect his wits. The situation had all the elements of a nightmare, although Qwilleran was totally awake. So were the two in the backseat, bumping about in their carrier as the car swerved and jolted, all the while airing their protests in ear-splitting howls and nerve-wracking shrieks.

"Shut up," he bellowed at them, a reprimand that only increased the volume of the clamor. "We're lost! Where are we? Why did we ever come to this damned mountain?"

It was a good question, and one day soon he would know the answer. Meanwhile he was frantically pursuing a non-stop journey to nowhere.

Two weeks before, Qwilleran had experienced a sudden urge to go to the mountains. He was living in Moose County, a comfortably flat fragment of terrain in the northernmost reaches of the lower Forty-eight, more than a thousand miles away from anything higher than a hill. The inspiration came to him while celebrating a significant event in his life. After five years of legal formalities that had required him to live in Moose County, he had officially inherited the Klingenschoen fortune, and he was now a certified billionaire with holdings reaching from New Jersey to Nevada.

During his five years in Pickax City, the county seat, he had won over the natives with his genial disposition and his streak of generosity that constantly benefited the community. Strangers passing him on the street went home and told their families that Mr. Q had said good morning and raised his hand in a friendly salute. Men enjoyed his company in the coffee houses. Women went into raptures over his flamboyant moustache and shivered at the doleful expression in his hooded eyes, wondering what past experience had saddened them.

To celebrate his inheritance, more than two hundred friends and admirers gathered in the ballroom of the seedy old hostelry that called itself the "New" Pickax Hotel. Qwilleran circulated among them amiably, jingling icecubes in a glass of ginger ale, accepting congratulations, and making frequent trips to a buffet laden with the hotel's idea of party food. He was an outstanding figure, standing out from the crowd: six-feet-two and well-built, with a good head of hair graying at the temples, and a luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache that seemed to have a life of its own.

Chief among his well-wishers were Polly Duncan, administrator of the Pickax library; Arch Riker, publisher of the Moose County Something; and Osmond Hasselrich of Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter, attorneys for the Klingenschoen empire. The mayor, city council members, chief of police, and superintendent of schools were there, as well as others who had played a role in Qwilleran's recent life: Larry and Carol Lanspeak, Dr. Halifax Goodwinter, Mildred Hanstable, Eddington Smith, Fran Brodie—a list longer than the guest of honor had imagined. None of them dared to hope that this newly minted billionaire, city-born and city-bred, would continue to live in what urban politicians called a rural wasteland. None could guess what he would do next, or where he would choose to live. He had been a prize-winning journalist in several major cities before fate steered him to Moose County. How could anyone expect him to remain in Pickax City?

Kip MacDiarmid, editor of the newspaper in the adjoining county, was the first to ask the question that was on everyone's mind. "Now that you have all the money in the world, Qwill, and twenty-five good years ahead of you, what are your plans?"

When Qwilleran hesitated, Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, hazarded a guess. "He's going to buy a string of newspapers and a TV network and start a media revolution."

"Or buy a castle in Scotland and go in for bird watching," Larry Lanspeak contributed with tongue in cheek.

"Not likely," said Polly Duncan, who had given Qwilleran a bird book and binoculars in vain. "He'll buy an island in the Caribbean and write that book he's always talking about." She spoke blithely to conceal her feelings; as the chief woman in his life for the last few years Polly would feel the keenest regret if he should leave the north country.

Qwilleran chuckled at their suggestions. "Seriously," he said as he loaded his plate for the third time with canned cocktail sausages and processed cheese slices, "the last few years have been the richest in my entire life, and I mean it! Until coming here I'd always lived in cities with a population of two million or more. Now I'm content to live in a town of three thousand, four hundred miles north of everywhere. And yet . . ."

"You're not living up to your potential," Polly said bravely.

"I don't know about that, but I'll tell you one thing: Taking it easy is not my idea of the good life. I don't play golf. I'd rather go to jail than go fishing. Expensive cars and custom-made suits are not for me. What I do need is a goal—a worthwhile direction."

"Have you thought of getting married?" asked Moira MacDiarmid.

"No!" Qwilleran stated vehemently.

"It wouldn't be too late to start producing heirs."

Patiently he explained, as he had done many times before, "Several years ago I discovered I'm a washout as a husband, and I might as well face the truth. As for heirs, I've established the Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute my money—both while I'm alive and after I've gone. But . . ." He stroked his moustache thoughtfully, "I'd like to get away from it all for a while and rethink my purpose in life—on top of a mountain somewhere—or on a desert island, if there are any left without tourists."

"What about your cats?" asked Carol Lanspeak. "Larry and I would be glad to board them in the luxury to which they're accustomed."

"I'd take them along. The presence of a cat is conducive to meditation."

"Do you like mountains?" Kip MacDiarmid asked.

"To tell the truth, I haven't had much experience with mountains. The Alps impressed me when my paper sent me to Switzerland on assignment, and my honeymoon was spent in the Scottish Highlands . . . Yes, I like the idea of altitude. Mountains have a sense of mystery, whether you're up there looking down or down here looking up."

Moira said, "Last summer we had a great vacation in the Potato Mountains—didn't we, Kip? We took the kids and the camper. Beautiful scenery! Wonderful mountain air! And so peaceful! Even with four kids and two dogs it was peaceful."

"I've never heard of the Potato Mountains," Qwilleran said.

"They're just being developed. You should get there before the influx of tourists," Kip advised. "If you'd like to borrow our camper for a couple of weeks, you're welcome to it."

Arch Riker said, "I don't picture Qwill in a camper unless it has twenty-four-hour room service. We used to be in scouting together, and he was the only kid who hated campouts and cookouts."

Qwilleran was quaking inwardly at the thought of condensed living in an RV with a pair of restless indoor cats. "I appreciate the offer," he said, "but it would be better for me to rent a cabin for a couple of months—something Thoreau-esque but with indoor plumbing, you know. I don't need any frills, just the basic comforts."

"They have cabins for rent in the Potato Mountains," Moira said. "We saw lots of vacancy signs—didn't we, Kip? And there's a nice little town in the valley with restaurants and stores. The kids went down there for movies and the video arcade."

"Do they have a public library? Do you suppose there's a veterinarian?"

"Sure to be," said Kip. "There's a courthouse, so it's obviously the county seat. Neat little burg! A river runs right along the main street."

"What's the name of the town?"

"Spudsboro!" the MacDiarmids said in unison with wide grins as they waited for Qwilleran's incredulous reaction.

"We're not kidding," said Moira. "That's what it's called on the map. It's right between two ranges of mountains. We camped in a national forest in the West Potatoes. On the east side there's Big Potato Mountain and Little Potato Mountain."

"And I suppose the Gravy River runs through the valley," Qwilleran quipped.

"The river is the Yellyhoo, I'm sorry to say," said Kip. "It's great for white-water rafting—not the Colorado by a long shot, but the kids got a thrill out of it. There are caves if you're interested in spelunking, but the locals discourage it, and Moira is chicken, anyway."

"Where do the Potato Mountains get their name?"

The MacDiarmids looked at each other questioningly. "Well," Moira ventured, "they're sort of round and knobby. Friendly mountains, you know—not overwhelming like the Rockies."

"Big Potato is in the throes of development," said her husband. "Little Potato is inhabited but still primitive. In the 1920s it was a haven for moonshiners, they say, because the revenuers couldn't find them in the dense woods."

Moira said, "There are lots of artists on Little Potato, selling all kinds of crafts. We brought home some exciting pottery and baskets."

"Yes," Kip said, "and there's a girl who does those tapestries you like, Qwill." When his wife nudged him he repeated, "There's a young woman who does those tapestries you like . . . How do you bachelors manage, Qwill, without a wife to set you straight all the time?"

"It's a deprivation I'm willing to suffer," Qwilleran replied with a humble bow.

"If you're really interested in mountains, I'll call the editor of the Spudsboro Gazette. We were roommates in J school, and he bought the newspaper last summer. That's how we found out about the Potatoes. Colin Carmichael, his name is. If you decide to go down there, you should look him up. Swell guy. I'll tell him to have a rental agent contact you. Spudsboro has a chamber of commerce that's right on the ball."

"Don't make me sound like a Rockefeller, Kip. They'll hike the rent. I want something simple, and I want to keep a low profile."

"Sure. I understand."

"How's the weather in the Potatoes?"

"Terrific! Didn't rain once while we were there."

For the rest of the evening Qwilleran appeared distracted, and he kept fingering his moustache, a nervous habit triggered by a desire for action. He made quick decisions, and now his instincts were telling him to flee to the Potato Mountains and resolve his quandary. Why that particular range of mountains attracted him was something he could not explain, except that they sounded appetizing, and he enjoyed what he called the pleasures of the table.

Arriving home after the reception, he was greeted at the door by two Siamese cats with expectancy in their perky ears and waving tails. He gave each of them a cocktail sausage spirited away from the hotel buffet, and after they had gobbled their treat rapturously and washed up meticulously, he made his announcement. "You guys won't like this, but we're going to spend the summer in the mountains." He always conversed with them as if they were humans with a passable IQ. In fact, he often wondered how he had lived alone for so many years without two intelligent beings to listen attentively and respond with encouraging yowls and sympathetic blinks.

Their names were Koko and Yum Yum—seal-point Siamese with hypnotically blue eyes in dark brown masks and with brown extremities shading into fawn-colored bodies. The female was an endearing lap sitter who was fascinated by Qwilleran's moustache and who used catly wiles to get the better of him in an argument. The male was nothing short of extraordinary—a genetically superior animal gifted with senses of detection and even prognostication in certain circumstances. His official cognomen was Kao K'o Kung, and he had a dignity worthy of his namesake. Koko's exploits were by no means a figment of Qwilleran's imagination; the hard-headed, cynical journalist had documented them over a period of years and intended eventually to write a book.

Before he broke the news to his two housemates he anticipated a negative reaction. They could read his mind if not his lips, and he knew they disliked a change of address. As he expected, Yum Yum sat in a compact bundle with legs tucked out of sight, a reproachful expression in her violet-tinged blue eyes. Surprisingly, Koko seemed excited about the prospect, prancing back and forth on long, elegant legs.

"Have I made the right decision?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yow!" said Koko spiritedly.

In the next few days Qwilleran proceeded with plans, arranging for a summerlong absence, plotting an itinerary, choosing motels, and making a packing list. For good weather and the quiet life he would need only lightweight summer casuals. It never occurred to him to take rain gear.

Soon the mail began to arrive from Spudsboro. The first prospectus invited him to buy into time-share condominiums, now under construction. A realty agent listed residential lots and acreage for sale. A contractor offered to build the house of Qwilleran's dreams. Several rental agents sent lists of cabins and cottages available, no pets allowed. The Siamese watched anxiously as each letter was opened and tossed into the wastebasket. Yet, the more disappointing the opportunities, the more Qwilleran was determined to go to the Potatoes.

The situation improved with a telephone call from Spudsboro. The person on the line was friendly and enthusiastic. "Mr. Qwilleran, this is Dolly Lessmore of Lessmore Realty. Colin Carmichael tells us you want to rent a mountain retreat for the entire summer."

It was a husky, deep-pitched voice that he identified as that of a woman who smoked too much. He visualized her as rather short and stocky, with a towering hair-do, a taste for bright colors, a three-pack-a-day habit, and a pocketful of breath mints. He prided himself on his ability to personify a voice accurately. Yes, he told her, he was considering the possibility of a mountain vacation.

"I thought I'd call and find out exactly what kind of accommodations you have in mind," she said. "We have a lot of rentals available. First off, do you want the inside of the mountain or the outside?"

The choice stumped him for only a second. "The outside. I'll leave the inside to the trolls."

"Let me explain," Ms. Lessmore said with a laugh. "The inside slope faces the valley, overlooking Spudsboro, and you have spectacular sunsets. The outside faces the eastern foothills, and you can see forever. Also, it gets the morning sun."

"Do you have anything at the summit?" he queried.

"Nice thinking! You want the best of both worlds! Now, if you'll tell me your birthday, it will help me match you up with the right place."

"May twenty-fourth. My blood type is O, and I wear a size twelve shoe."

"Hmmm, you're a Gemini, close to Taurus. You want something individual but practical."

"That's right. Something rustic and secluded, but with electricity and indoor plumbing."

"I think we can do that," she said cheerfully.

"I like a firm bed, preferably extra long."

"I'll make a note of that."

"And at least two bedrooms."

"For how many persons, may I ask?"

"I have two roommates, a male and a female, both Siamese cats."

"Oh-oh! That poses a problem," she said.

"They're well-behaved and not in the least destructive. I can vouch for that," he said. Then, recalling that Koko had once broken a $10,000 vase, while Yum Yum would steal anything that was not nailed down, he added, "I'll be willing to post a bond."

"Well . . . that might work. Let me think . . . There's one possibility, but I'll have to check it out. The place I have in mind is rather large—"

"I was hoping for something small," Qwilleran interrupted, "but under the circumstances I'd compromise on large." He was currently living in a converted apple barn, four stories high, with balconies on three levels. "What do you mean by large?"

"I mean large! It was originally a small country inn. It was converted into a home for the Hawkinfield family quite some time ago. There are six bedrooms. The last of the Hawkinfields really wants to sell—not rent—and it has great potential as a bed-and-breakfast operation. If you expressed an interest in eventually operating it as a B-and-B, Ms. Hawkinfield might consent to rent it for the summer. How about that?"

"Are you asking me to perjure myself? I have no interest in a B-and-B . . . now or at any time in the future."

"This is all off the top of my head, of course. I have no authority. Ms. Hawkinfield lives out of state. I'll have to consult with her and get back to you."

"Do that," Qwilleran said encouragingly. "As soon as possible."

"By the way, we haven't talked about the rent. How high are you prepared to go?"

"Tell me how much she wants, and we'll take it from there. I'm not hard to get along with."

Within a week the deal was sealed. The owner, who was asking $1.2 million for the property, graciously consented to rent the premises for the summer, fully furnished, to a gentleman with references and two cats, for $1,000 a week. Utilities would be provided, but he would have to pay his own telephone bills.

"It wasn't easy to convince her, but I did it!" Ms. Less-more said proudly.

Still unaccustomed to limitless wealth, Qwilleran considered the rent exorbitant, but he was determined to go to the Potatoes, and he agreed to take the inn for three months, half the rent payable in advance. Later he would wonder why he had not asked to see a picture of the place. Instead he had allowed himself to be captivated by the agent's bubbling enthusiasm: "It's right on top of Big Potato! There's a fabulous view from every window, and gorgeous sunsets! Wide verandas, eight bathrooms, large kitchen, your own private lake! The Hawkinfields had it stocked with fish. Do you like to fish? And there are lovely walking trails in the woods . . ."

Koko was sitting near the phone, listening, and when the conversation ended Qwilleran said to him, "You'll have a choice of six bedrooms and eight bathrooms, all with a fabulous view. How does that strike you?"

"Yow," said Koko, and he groomed his paws in anticipation. Yum Yum was nowhere about. She had been sulking for days—pretending not to be hungry, sitting with her back turned, slithering out of reach when Qwilleran tried to stroke her.

"Females!" he said to Koko. "They're a conundrum!"

With the agreement signed and the deposit made, he paid a formal visit to the walnut-paneled, velvet-draped office of Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter for a conference with the venerable senior partner. A meeting with Osmond Hasselrich always began with the obligatory cup of coffee served with the formality of a Japanese tea ceremony. The attorney himself poured from an heirloom silver coffee pot into heirloom Wedgwood cups, his aged hands shaking and the cups rattling in their saucers. Their dainty handles were finger-traps, and Qwilleran was always glad when the ritual ended. When the silver tray had been removed and the attorney at last faced him across the desk with hands folded, Qwilleran began:

"After much cogitation, Mr. Hasselrich, I have decided to go away for the summer." Even after five years of business and social acquaintance, the two men still addressed each other formally. "It's my intention to distance myself totally from Moose County in order to plan my future. This agreeable community exerts a magnetic hold on me, and I need to escape its spell for a while in order to think objectively."

The attorney nodded wisely.

"I'm going to the Potato Mountains." Qwilleran paused until the legal eyelids stopped fluttering. Fluttering eyelids were the old gentleman's standard reaction to questionable information. "No one but you will have my address. I'm cutting all ties for three months. Mr. O'Dell will look after my residence as usual. Lori Bamba handles my mail and will refer urgent matters to you. All my financial affairs are in your hands, so I anticipate no problems."

"How do you intend to handle current expenses while there, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"Apart from food there will be very few expenses. I'll open a temporary checking account, and you can transfer funds to the bank down there as needed. The bank is the First Potato National of Spudsboro." Qwilleran waited for the eyelids to stop fluttering and the jowls to stop quivering. "As soon as I know my mailing address and telephone number, I'll convey that information to your office. My plan is to leave Tuesday and arrive in the Potatoes by Friday."

Although often disturbed by Qwilleran's seeming eccentricities, Hasselrich admired his concise, well-organized manner of conducting business, little realizing that his client was merely in a hurry to escape from the suffocating environment.

On Monday there was a bon voyage handshake from Arch Riker after Qwilleran promised to write a thousand words for the Moose County Something whenever a good subject presented itself. On Monday evening there was a farewell dinner with Polly Duncan at the Old Stone Mill, followed by a sentimental parting at her apartment.

Then, early on Tuesday morning Qwilleran packed his secondhand, three-year-old, four-cylinder, two-tone green sedan for the journey. Despite his new wealth he still spent money reluctantly on transportation. Included in the baggage were his typewriter and computerized coffeemaker, as well as a box of books and the cats' personal belongings. The Siamese observed the packing process closely, and as soon as their waterdish and pan of kitty gravel disappeared out the back door, they made themselves instantly invisible.