The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

CHAPTER 8

Qwilleran nursed his glass of soda, sampled the hors d'oeuvres, and listened to the other guests at the Lessmore party as they discussed the problems of mountain living: the inadequacy of fire protection, the high cost of black-topping a circular drive, poor television reception, the threat of mudslides, the possibility of getting street lights and mail delivery on Hawk's Nest Drive.

When he thought it was time to go home, he asked the hostess for a taste of liver pat6 for the Siamese—there was no caviar—and started the uphill walk to Tiptop. Hawk's Nest ascending, he discovered, was steeper than Hawk's Nest descending, and the calves of his legs, accustomed to the flatlands of Moose County, were already sore from Saturday's ramble in the woods. He trudged up the slope slowly and found himself repeatedly smoothing his moustache. It had a peculiar sensitivity to certain stimuli, and he felt a sensation in its roots whenever he encountered prevarication, deception, or any degree of improbity. And now it was sending him signals. Koko, with his twitching whiskers and inquisitive nose, had the same propensity. In a way they were brothers under the skin.

Qwilleran spent the rest of the evening reading The Magic Mountain and wishing he had some kind of muscle-rub. He read aloud to the Siamese, but the day's exercise, coupled with lack of sleep on the previous night, sent him to bed early. In spite of the offending lace on the bed linens, he slept well until seven-thirty, when a noisy engine and broken muffler told him that Dewey Beechum had arrived to start building the gazebo.

He pulled on some clothes hurriedly and went down to the parking lot to greet the carpenter. "Better build it over there," he suggested, pointing to a small clearing.

"T'other side o' them trees is better," said the man. "That's where I'm fixin' to put it."

"Well, I have to admit you were dead right about the rain, Mr. Beechum, so I'll take your word for it."

"Rain ain't over yit," the workman mumbled to himself.

Qwilleran watched him unload tools and materials from his truck and then helped carry them to the building site. To be sociable he remarked, dropping his subjective pronouns like a Tater, "Had a scare Saturday just before the rain. Went for a walk in the woods. Got lost."

"Ain't safe 'thout a shotgun," Beechum said. "See any bears?"

"Just a big black dog. Are there bears in these woods?"

"Not more'n two-hun'erd-pounders. Killed five-hun'erd-pounders when we was young-uns. Hard times then. Hadda kill our meat."

Qwilleran listened politely, then excused himself and returned to the house to feed the cats. Feeding the cats, he reflected, was the one constant in his unstructured life— the twice-daily ritual around which his other activities pivoted. A few years ago he would never have believed this to be possible. "Don't be alarmed if you hear hammering and sawing," he told them. "It's being done for your benefit. I'll be back around one o'clock, in case I get any phone calls."

After having breakfast downtown he bought four hot dogs, laid in a supply of flashlights, and opened a checking account at the First Potato National. He was on Center Street when a train rumbled through town on the ledge directly above the bank. The ground shuddered, and the roar of locomotive and freight cars reverberated through the valley.

"Has there ever been a washout here?" he asked the young bank teller. "Did a locomotive ever come crashing down on the central business district?"

"Not that I know of," she said with the detachment of her profession. "Would you like plain checks or the ones with a mountain design? There's an extra charge for designer checks."

"Plain," he said.

At ten-thirty he reported for his appointment with Vonda Dudley Wix. Of all the Victorian houses in the residential section of Center Street, the Wix residence had the fanciest gingerbread trim on gables and porch, as well as the greatest number of hanging flower baskets. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened, and the buxom Ms. Wix greeted him in a blue satin hostess gown and pearls. Her hair, he was sure, was dyed.

"You're so delightfully punctual, Mr. Qwilleran," she cried. "Please come in and make yourself comfortable in the parlor while I brew the tea."

She swept away in ripples of satin that highlighted her rounded contours, while Qwilleran ventured into a room with red walls, rose-patterned carpet, and swagged windows. Reluctant to sit on any of the delicate carved-back chairs, he wandered about and looked at the framed photos on the marble-top tables and shawl-draped piano.

"Do you like Darjeelin'?" she asked when she returned with a silver tea service on a tea cart.

"When it comes to tea, my education has been sadly neglected," Qwilleran said. It was his courteous way of saying he never drank the stuff if he could avoid it. His hostess arranged her folds of blue satin on the black horsehair settee, and he lowered himself carefully to the seat of a dainty chair with a carved back. Then he opened a barrage of questions: "Are these all family heirlooms? . . .

How long have you lived in Spudsboro? . . . Does the river ever flood your backyard?"

While giving conscientious answers Ms. Wix poured tea into finger-trap cups that were eggshell thin, using a pearl-handled silver tea strainer.

"An excellent brew," he remarked. "What is your secret?"

"Don't overboil the water!" she said in a confidential whisper. "My late husband adored my tea, but I never revealed my secret."

"How long has Mr. Wix been . . . gone?"

"Almost a year, and I miss him dreadfully. It was a late marriage. We had only eight years together, eight blissful years."

"My condolences," Qwilleran murmured, waiting a few respectful moments before resuming his interrogation: "Who painted the portrait of you? ... Do you do your own decorating? . . . When was this house built?" He noticed a small recording device on the tea table, but she had forgotten to turn it on.

"Isn't it a charming house? It was built more than a hundred years ago by a Mr. Lumpton who owned the general store. Spudsboro was a sleepy old-fashioned town for decades until J.J. Hawkinfield took over the newspaper and brought the community to life."

"Was your husband a journalist?"

"Oh, no! Wilson was a highly successful building contractor. He had the contract to build all the houses on Hawk's Nest Drive. He was also on the city council. Wilson was responsible for introducing trash containers and parking meters on Center Street."

"I suppose you studied journalism in college?" he asked slyly.

"Oh, dear, no! I simply had a natural gift for writing, and J.J. elevated me from subscription clerk to columnist overnight! That was twenty-five years ago, and I've been 'peeling potatoes,' so to speak, ever since. I'm afraid I'm telling you my age," she added with coy girlishness.

"Then you knew J.J. very well. How would you describe him?"

"Let me see . . . He had black, black eyes that could bore right through a person . . . and a very important nose . . . and a stern expression that made everyone toe the line—employees, city officials, everyone! I believe that's how he achieved such great things for the city. Better schools, new sewers, a good library . . ."

"Did you feel intimidated?"

"Not really," she said with a small, guilty smile. "He was very nice to me. Before I married Wilson, J.J. used to invite me to swimming parties at Lake Batata and wonderful Christmas parties at Tiptop. It was very exciting."

"What happened to their three sons?" Qwilleran asked.

She set down her teacup and turned to him with a doleful face. "They were killed—all three of them! The two younger boys were buried in an avalanche while skiing, and the older boy was lost on the river. Their mother, poor soul, had a nervous breakdown and is still hospitalized somewhere in Pennsylvania . . . May I pour you some tea?"

Qwilleran allowed his cup to be refilled and then asked, "What was the local reaction to JJ.'s murder?"

"We were all simply ravaged with grief! He was the most important personage in the Potatoes! Of course, we all knew it was one of those awful mountain people, and it's a wonder he wasn't lynched before he came to trial."

Qwilleran glanced at his watch and rose abruptly. "I regret I must tear myself away. This has been a most enjoyable visit, but I have another appointment."

"I understand."

"Thank you for the delicious tea."

Vonda Dudley Wix escorted him to the door and said goodbye with effusive expressions of goodwill, and Qwilleran went on his way with smug satisfaction at his handling of the interview.

Returning to Tiptop, he prepared for the visit of Sa-brina Peel with somewhat more enthusiasm, chilling wine glasses, re-hanging the mountain painting, placing the iron candelabrum alongside the Fitzwallow chest. He also took care to move the secretary desk back across the door to J.J.'s office; someone had a reason for wanting him to keep out, and he thought it wise to preserve appearances.

Promptly at one-thirty the designer arrived with a van-load of accessories and a young man named Jimmie to carry them up the twenty-five steps. There were wall hangings, toss pillows, a pair of eight-foot folding screens, accent rugs, lamps, and boxes of bric-a-brac.

She said, "You don't have to buy these things, you know. They were on the floor in our studio, and I'm renting them to you. The florist is on the way here with some rental plants. Do you intend to do much entertaining?"

"I might have one or two persons in for drinks, that's all," Qwilleran said.

"Then let's close the French doors to the dining room and bank some large plants in the foyer ... I never saw that before!" She pointed to the seven-foot, eight-branch iron tree.

"I bought it from the blacksmith in Potato Cove."

"You have a good eye, Qwill. It shows some imagination, and it's not overdone. Happily it distracts the eye from that hideous Fitzwallow huntboard, which I hasten to say did not come from our studio."

"You call it a huntboard? That's appropriate. My cat is always hunting for something underneath it."

"You didn't tell me you have a cat."

"I have two Siamese, and they're up there on the stairs, watching your every move."

"I hope they're not destructive," the designer said, and she called up to them, "If you scratch it, kids, you've bought it!"

"Yow!" Koko retorted.

"He's a sassy brat, isn't he?" said Sabrina. "Now let's go to work on the living room. We'll create a more intimate setting by stopping the eye with folding screens as room dividers."

Qwilleran watched her work with manifest enjoyment as she whirled around the room, her pleated skirt swirling about her knees and her silky mop of hair swirling around her shoulders. With crisp authority she directed Jimmie in placing screens, grouping chairs, skirting tables, setting up lamps, throwing throw rugs, tossing toss pillows, and hanging wall hangings. She herself arranged brass candlesticks, ceramic bowls, carved boxes, and stacks of design magazines. When she had finished, the room looked inhabited by a person of taste, although not necessarily Qwilleran's taste. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the metamorphosis.

Then the florist arrived with indoor trees and large potted plants.

"Do I have to water these things?" Qwilleran inquired.

"No, sir," said the florist. "For rental plants we send a visiting nurse once a week to test the soil for moisture."

As the room was transformed, Koko's curiosity overcame his misgivings, and he watched from the archway. Yum Yum held back, poised for flight.

Qwilleran said to Sabrina, "Would you stay for a glass of chardonnay?"

"I'd love to," she said without hesitation. "Jimmie can go back downtown with the florist . . . Jimmie, tell Mr. Poole where I am, and if my four o'clock client comes in, tell her I'm running late. Give her an old magazine to read." To Qwilleran she explained, "She's my doctor's wife, and revenge is sweet."

Sabrina with her chardonnay and Qwilleran with his apple juice sat in the portion of the living room that was now pleasantly secluded by screens and plants. It was made comfortable with chatty new furniture groupings and made lively with red and gold accents.

"My compliments to the designer," he said, raising his glass. "I hope the screens are sturdy; the cats are sometimes airborne when they're in a good mood."

"You'll find them quite stable," she assured him. "They were custom-made to do heavy duty in the studio. What are you building in the woods?"

"A screened gazebo, so the cats can take an airing if it ever dries up. No one told me it rains so much in the mountains. Also, no one told me that Hawkinfield had been murdered."

"Didn't you know?" Sabrina asked. "What's more, you have a painting done by the murderer." She waved a hand toward the foyer.

"Forest Beechum? Is that his work?" Qwilleran said in surprise. "That fellow really knows how to paint mountains!"

"He did several mountain studies for my clients. Too bad he got himself in such bad trouble." "Were you satisfied with the verdict?" "Frankly, I didn't follow the trial, but—from what I hear—there's no doubt that he was guilty." Her wine glass was empty.

"Will you have a touch?" Qwilleran asked, tilting the wine bottle. "How did you get along with Hawkinfield as a client?"

"Fortunately we had very little contact with him," the designer said. "We worked with Mrs. Hawkinfield, but after she was hospitalized we ran into trouble with J.J. He refused to pay a rather sizable bill for what his wife had ordered, saying she was incompetent and we had taken advantage of her disturbed condition. That's the kind of person he was." Sabrina tapped her fingers irritably on the arm of the chair. "Were you able to collect?"

"Not until we took him to court, and—believe me!—it took a lot of nerve to sue a man as powerful as Hawkinfield. It infuriated him to lose the case, of course, and he relieved his spite by writing a scathing editorial about the moral turpitude (whatever that means) of artists in general and interior designers in particular. I don't think anyone really liked the man—except the woman who writes the 'Potato Peelings' column. He was not only opinionated but ruthless, and he had a completely wrong-headed attitude toward women. A man of his intelligence, living at this moment in history, should have known better." She tossed her head and flung her hair back gracefully, using both well-manicured hands in an appealing gesture. "We all knew he was psychologically abusive to his wife and daughter. He worshipped his sons, and after they were killed, he sent the girl away to boarding school—away from her mother, away from her friends, away from these mountains—everything she loved."

Qwilleran liked designers. They circulated; they knew everyone; they were in touch. He asked, "Why did she leave the mountain painting and take everything else of value?"

"She thought mountains would be too regional to sell in her shop. It's in Maryland, and she gets a sophisticated clientele from Washington and Virginia."

"What kind of shop does she have?"

"It's called Not New But Nice. Sort of an upscale, good-taste jumble shop."

"Clever name."

"Thank you," Sabrina said, patting her bangs. "It was my idea."

"Do you keep in touch with her?"

"Only to help her appraise things now and then. All J.J. left her was this house and contents, and she's trying to get all she can out of it. I suppose you can't blame her, but she's really turning out to be a greedy little monster." There was more finger-tapping on the chair arm. "She expects me to do appraisals gratis, and she's asking more than a million for this—this white elephant. I imagine she's charging you an arm and a leg for rent."

"I still have one of each left," Qwilleran replied. "What happened to the rest of J.J.'s assets?"

"They went into a trust for the care of his wife. You know, Qwill, you could buy this place for a lot less than she's asking. Why don't you make an offer and open a B-and-B? I could do wonders with it, inside and out." Sabrina construed his scowl. "Then how about a chic nursing home?" she suggested with a mischievous smile. "Or an illegal gambling casino? . . . No? . . . Well, I must get back to the valley. These mountain retreats lull one into a false sense of something or other. Thanks for the wine. I needed it. Where did I leave my shoulder bag?"

"On a chair in the foyer," he said. "May I take you to lunch at the golf club some day?"

"I know a better place. I'll take you to dinner," she countered.

As they left the living room, the designer stopped in the archway to view her handiwork. "We need one more splash of color over there between the windows," she said. "A couple of floor pillows perhaps."

Qwilleran had entered the foyer in time to see two furry bodies leaping from a chair. Sabrina's handbag was slouched on the chair seat, and it was unzipped. He then realized that the Siamese had been too quiet for the last half hour and too suspiciously absent. There was no way of guessing what larceny they might have committed.

"Thank you, Sabrina, for what you've accomplished this afternoon," he said. "And you make it look so easy! You're a real pro."

"You're entirely welcome. My bill will be in the mail," she laughed as she shouldered her handbag and zipped the closure.

He walked with her down the twenty-five steps, and when he returned to the house he said, "Okay, you scoundrels! What have you done? If you've stolen anything, she'll be back here with Sheriff Wilbank."

Koko, sitting on the stairs halfway up, crossed his eyes and scratched his ear. Yum Yum huddled nonchalantly on the flat top of the newel post while Qwilleran searched the foyer. He found nothing that might have come from a woman's handbag. Shrugging, he went out to check Bee-chum's progress with the gazebo. The carpenter had gone for the day, but the structure was taking shape—not the shape Qwilleran had requested, but it looked good. When he returned to the house he encountered a disturbing scene.

Koko was on the living room floor in a paroxysm of writhing, shaking, doubling in half, falling down, contorting his body.

Qwilleran approached him with alarm. Had he been poisoned by the plants? Was this a convulsion? "Koko! Take it easy, boy! What's wrong?"

Hearing his name, Koko rose to a half-sitting position and bit his paw viciously. Only then did Qwilleran realize that something virtually invisible was wrapped around the pad and caught between the spreading toes. Gently he helped release Koko from the entanglement. It was a long hair, decorator blond.