The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

CHAPTER 12

Qwilleran was sure that Sherry Hawkinfield would not return his call until morning. It was her place of business that he had phoned. He sat on a kitchen chair trying to eat soup with a bandaged hand that could hardly hold a spoon, while his left leg was propped on another chair with a cold compress wrapped around the ankle. Watching him from a respectful distance were two Siamese with anxious eyes, and their solicitude did nothing but make him jittery.

"I appreciate your concern," he said, "but there are times when I wish you would go away." They edged closer, looking doubly worried. Then suddenly they became agitated, running to and from the back door, Koko with his ears swept back and Yum Yum with her tail bushed. A moment later there was snuffling on the veranda and the click of claws.

"It's Lucy," Qwilleran said morosely. "Keep quiet and she'll go away." But the cats only increased their frenzy, and Lucy started to whine.

In no mood for domestic drama and muttering under his breath, Qwilleran kicked off the compress and limped to the refrigerator, where he found the four hot dogs he had bought for himself. He threw them to the overfed Doberman, and soon the commotion subsided, indoors and out.

His irritability was a delayed reaction to the unnerving experience at the waterfall. Why did I come to these damned mountains? he asked himself. Polly would blame it on his impulsiveness; she often questioned his precipitate actions, doing so with a polite sideways glance of mild reproach. So did Arch Riker but with blunt disapproval. How could they understand the messages telegraphed to Qwilleran through his sensitive moustache? How could he understand them himself?

He would have paced the floor if he had two good ankles. He would have enjoyed a pipeful of Scottish tobacco if he had not given it up. His books and radio were upstairs; so was his ottoman; so was his bed. Sooner or later he would have to tackle the ascent.

To reach the top he sat down on the second stair and went up backward, dragging his hand-carved walking staff and accompanied by the Siamese, who were always entertained by the eccentric behavior of humans and who had determined not to leave him alone in his travail.

As soon as he had sunk into his lounge chair and cushioned his left foot on the ottoman, the telephone rang.

"Yow!" Koko yowled in his ear.

"I'm not deaf!" he yelled back.

There was a slim chance that it might be the call from Maryland, so he hoisted himself out of the chair and— groaning and muttering—bumped down the stairs on his posterior. He reached the foyer and grabbed the handset after the ninth ring.

Qwilleran was taking a moment to adjust his attitude when a woman said impatiently, "Hello? Hello?"

"Good evening," he said with the silky charm and mellifluous voice that had thrilled women for three decades.

Then, rather pleasantly she said, "Are you the one who called me and left a message? I'm Sherry Hawkinfield." She had a young voice, a cultivated voice. She had gone to a good school.

"Yes, I'm the one," he replied. "My name is Jim Qwilleran."

"You sound . . . nice," she said archly. "Who are you? I don't recognize the name."

"I'm renting Tiptop for the summer. Dolly Lessmore made the arrangements."

"Oh . . . yes ... of course. I just happened to come back to my shop after dinner, and I found your message."

"All work and no play makes . . . money," Qwilleran said.

"You're so right! What did you want to know about the painting?"

"It's a fantastic interpretation of mountains, and I understand it's quite valuable. Is it possibly for sale? If so, what are you asking for it? Also there's an antique English huntboard in the foyer that has a great deal of primitive appeal. Ms. Lessmore tells me you're disposing of some of the furnishings. Is that correct?" In the astonished pause that ensued he could visualize dollar signs dancing in her eyes.

"The whole house is for sale," she said eagerly, "completely furnished. It would make a neat country inn. Dolly says you're a prospect."

"I'm giving it some thought. There are certain details that should be discussed."

"Well, I might fly out there for the weekend to see some friends in the valley. We could talk about it then," she said with growing enthusiasm.

"I'd appreciate that. When would you arrive?"

"If I got a Friday morning flight, I'd rent a car at the airport and drive up to see you in the afternoon."

"Perhaps we could have lunch while you're here," he suggested cordially. "Or dinner."

"I'd love to."

"It would be my pleasure, I assure you, Ms. Hawkinfield."

"Then I'll see you Friday afternoon. What's your name again?"

"Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW."

"I'm glad you called, Mr. Qwilleran."

"Please call me Qwill."

"Oh, that's neat!"

"May I call you Sherry?"

"I wish you would. Where are you from?" She was beginning to sound chummy.

"Another planet, but a friendly one. The Beverly Hills of outer space."

This brought a giddy laugh. "Ill look forward to meeting you. Want me to call you from the airport and set a rime?"

"Why don't you simply drive up to Tiptop? I'll be here . . . waiting," he said meaningfully. (With my ankle in a sling, he told himself.)

"All right. I'll do that."

"I don't need to tell you how to find Tiptop," he said, in what he knew was a weak jest.

"No," she giggled. "I think I remember where it is."

There were pauses, as if neither of them wanted to terminate the conversation.

"Bon voyage," he said.

"Thank you. Au revoir."

"Au revoir." Qwilleran waited for the gentle replacing of the handset before he hung up. Turning to Koko, who was waiting for a report, he said, "I haven't had a phone conversation like that since I was nineteen."

Koko replied with a wink, or so it seemed; there was a cat hair in his eye.

Once more Qwilleran went upstairs the hard way. He shooed the Siamese into their room, and as he pulled down the window shades in his own bedroom, he saw the revolving circle of light on Little Potato. Forest's kinfolk were trudging with their lanterns in grim silence.

His sleep that night was reasonably comfortable except when he shifted position rashly, and in the morning the ankle showed noticeable improvement despite the heavy atmosphere that usually aggravates aches and pains. Rain had started to fall—not torrentially but with steady determination, and according to the meteorologist on the radio it would rain all day. There was a danger of flooding in some areas.

Qwilleran slid downstairs to feed the Siamese and make a breakfast of coffee and sticky buns. Also, in spite of his unwillingness to pay for extra telephone services, he called the company to request an extension. By exaggerating his predicament dramatically he wangled a promise of immediate installation.

Next he had a strong urge to confide in someone, and he called Arch Riker at the office of the Moose County Something even though the full rates were in effect.

"Don't tell Polly," he cautioned Riker when the editor answered, "but I'm sitting here with a sprained ankle, and I had a narrow escape yesterday."

"What fool thing have you been doing?" his old friend asked.

"Taking some pictures of a waterfall that cascades down for about forty feet and disappears into a black hole. I almost disappeared myself. I'm lucky to get out alive. I lost the camera that Polly gave me, and it was full of exposed film."

Riker said, "I knew you were making a mistake by going into those mountains. You should never stray from solid concrete. How bad is the ankle? Did you have it X-rayed?"

"You know I always avoid X rays if possible. I'm using icepacks and some homemade liniment from one of the mountain women."

"How's the weather?"

"Rotten. If it doesn't rain all day, it rains all night. They never told me I was moving to a rain forest."

"Glad to hear it! Now maybe you'll stay indoors and write a piece for us. We need something for Friday. Could you rip something off and get it faxed?"

"The most interesting possibility," Qwilleran said, "is a topic I'm not prepared to cover as yet—the murder that took place here a year ago."

I hope you're not going to get sidetracked into some kind of unauthorized investigation, Qwill."

"That remains to be seen. The case involves power politics and possibly perjury on a grand scale. I have a hunch that the wrong man was convicted."

Riker groaned. He knew all about Qwilleran's hunches and found it futile to discourage him from following them up. Reluctant to take him seriously, however, he asked, "What does the Inspector General think about the case?"

"Koko is busy doing what cats do. Right now he's rolling on the floor in front of the telephone chest; somehow it turns him on. I'm worried about Yum Yum, though. I may have to take her to the doctor."

"I suppose you heard about Dr. Goodwinter. I saw Dr. Melinda yesterday, and she asked about you. She wanted to know how you are, and she batted her eyelashes a lot."

"What did you tell her?"

"Blood pressure normal; appetite good; weight down a few pounds—"

"How does she look?" Qwilleran interrupted. "Has she changed in three years?"

"No, except for that big-city veneer that's inescapable."

"Does she know about Polly?"

"The entire county knows about Polly," Riker said, "but all's fair in love and war, and I could tell by Melinda's expression that her interest isn't entirely clinical."

"Gotta hang up," Qwilleran said abruptly. "Doorbell's ringing. It's the telephone man. Okay, Arch, I'll send you some copy, but I don't know how good it'll be."

He limped to the door, leaning heavily on his cane and assuming an expression of grueling physical pain.

"Hey, this is some place!" said the installer when he was admitted. He was a wide-eyed, beardless young man not yet bored with his job. "I never saw the inside of Tiptop before. The boss said you live here alone and hurt your foot. What happened?"

"I sprained an ankle."

"You'd better get off of it."

Wincing appropriately, Qwilleran shuffled into the living room and sprawled on the sofa.

The installer followed him. "You buy this place?"

"No, I'm renting for the summer."

"This is where a guy was killed last year."

"So I've been told," Qwilleran said.

"Used to be a summer hotel for rich people. My grandmother was a cook here, and my grandfather drove a carriage and brought people up from the railroad station. The road wasn't paved then. He used to talk about drivin' people like Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, and Madame Schumann-Heink, whoever she was."

"Famous Austrian opera singer," Qwilleran said. "What did your grandparents do after the inn closed?"

"Moonshinin'!" the installer said with a grin. "Then they opened a diner in the valley and did all right. They served split-brandy in teacups—that's half brandy and half whiskey. The diner's torn down now, but lots of old people remember Lumpton's famous tea."

"Are you a Lumpton?" Qwilleran asked. He had counted forty-seven Goodwinters in the Moose County phone book but twice that many Lumptons in the Spuds-boro directory.

"On my mother's side. My cousins own Lumpton's Pizza. Sheriff Lumpton is my godfather. You know him? He was sheriff twenty-four years. Everybody called him Uncle Josh. He always played Santa for the kids at Christmas, and he sure had the belly for it! Still does. But now they have some skinny guy playin' Santa . . . Well, I better get to work. Where d'you want the extension?"

"Upstairs on the desk in the back bedroom," Qwilleran said from his bed of pain. "Can you find it all right?"

"Sure. If you hear it ring, it's just me checkin' it out."

The phone rang a couple of times, and eventually the young man came downstairs. "Okay, you're all set. I left a phone book on the desk. Your big cat's sure a nosey one! Watched everythin' I did. The little one is bitin' herself like she has fleas."

"Thanks for the prompt service," Qwilleran said.

"Take it easy now."

As soon as Qwilleran heard the van drive away, he went upstairs to find Yum Yum. He could now climb one step at a rime if he led with his right foot and leaned heavily on his staff. The telephone, he discovered, had been installed on the desk as requested, but in the wrong room. It was in the cats' bedroom, and Koko was being aggressively possessive about it. Yum Yum was on the bed, gnawing at her left flank, and there were small tufts of fur on die bedcover.

Qwilleran brushed Koko unceremoniously aside and called the Wickes Animal Clinic. Dr. John, according to the receptionist, was in surgery, but Dr. Inez had just finished a C-section and could come to the phone in a jiffy.

When Inez answered, he said, "This is Jim Qwilleran, your neighbor at Tiptop. Do you make house calls? Something's very wrong with my cat, and I'm grounded with a sprained ankle."

"What's wrong?" she asked, and when he described Yum Yum's behavior, she said, "I know it looks kinky, but it's not unusual for spayed females. We can give her a shot and dispense some pills. No need to worry. One of us will run up the hill with the little black bag around five o'clock. What happened to your ankle?"

"I slipped on some wet leaves," he explained.

"Will this rain ever stop?" she complained. "The waterfall under our house is running so high, it may wash out our sundeck. See you at five."

Qwilleran babied Yum Yum until she fell asleep and then went to work on copy for the Moose County Something: a thousand words on the feud between the environmentalists and the Spudsboro developers.

"What has happened," he asked his Moose County readers, "to give a negative connotation to a constructive word like 'develop'? It means, according to the dictionary, to perfect, to expand, to change from a lesser to a higher state, to mature, to ripen. Yet, a large segment of the population now uses it as a pejorative." He concluded the column by saying, "The civic leaders of Moose County who are campaigning for 'development' should take a hard look at the semantics of a word that sounds so commendable and can be so destructive."

"And now, old boy," he said to Koko, who had been sitting on the desk enjoying the vibrations of the typewriter, "I've got to figure out how to get this stuff faxed. May I use your phone?" He tottered into the cats' room and called the manager of the Five Points Market, saying, "This is Jim Qwilleran at Tiptop. Do you remember me?"

"Sure do!" said the energetic Bill Treacle. "Did you run out of lobster tails?"

"No, but I have a food-related problem. I sprained my ankle yesterday. Do you make deliveries?"

"Not as a rule. What do you need?"

"Some frozen dinners and half a pound of sliced turkey breast from the deli counter and four hot dogs."

"I'm off at six o'clock. I'll deliver them myself if you can wait that long," said Treacle. "I've never seen the inside of Tiptop."

"I can survive until then. If you wish, I'll show you around the premises and even offer you a drink."

"I'll take that! Make it a cold beer."

At that point some twinges in the left ankle reminded Qwilleran that he had been sitting at a desk too long. He sank into his lounge chair, propping both feet on the ottoman, and thought about Moose County . . . about the sunny June days up there . . . about the old doctor's suicide . . . and about Melinda Goodwinter's wicked green eyes and long lashes. Her return to Pickax after three years in Boston had crossed his mind oftener than he cared to admit. Her presence would definitely disturb his comfortable relationship with Polly, who was a loving woman of his own age. Melinda, for her part, had a youthful appeal that he had once found irresistible, and she had a way of asking for what she wanted. To be friends with both of them, to some degree or other, would be ideal, he reflected wistfully, but Pickax was a small town, and Polly was overpossessive. The whole problem would be tidily solved if he decided not to return to Moose County, and that was a distinct possibility, although he had not given it a moment's thought since arriving in the Potatoes.

Reaching for a pad of paper he jotted down some options, commenting on each to faithful Koko, who was loitering sociably. Yum Yum was on the bed, wretchedly nipping at her flanks and tearing out tufts of fur.

Move back to a large city. "Which one? And why? Pm beginning to prefer small towns. Must be getting old."

Buy a newspaper. "Now that I can afford one, I no longer want one. Too bad."

Travel. "Sounds good, but what would I do about you and Yum Yum?" he asked Koko, who blinked and scratched his ear.

Teach journalism. "That's what everyone says I should do, but I'd rather do it than teach it."

Try to get into acting. "I was pretty good when I was in college, and television has increased the opportunities since then."

Build a hotel in Pickax. "God knows it needs a new one! We could go six stories high and call it the Pickax Towers."

He had been so intent on planning the rest of his life that he failed to hear a car pulling into the parking lot, but Koko heard it and raced downstairs. Qwilleran followed, descending the stairs lamely. Through the glass of the French doors he could see the top of an umbrella, ploddingly ascending the twenty-five steps. It reached the veranda, and Qwilleran—sloppily attired, unshaven, and leaning on a cane—recognized the last person in the world he wanted to see.