Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE CAT WHO MOVED A MOUNTAIN
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1992 by Lilian Jackson Braun
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1411-4
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
Jove and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: May, 2002
Jove titles by Lilian Jackson Braun
THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK
THE CAT WHO COULD READ BACKWARDS
THE CAT WHO ATE DANISH MODERN
THE CAT WHO TURNED ON AND OFF
THE CAT WHO SAW RED
THE CAT WHO PLAYED BRAHMS
THE CAT WHO PLAYED POST OFFICE
THE CAT WHO KNEW SHAKESPEARE
THE CAT WHO SNIFFED GLUE
THE CAT WHO WENT UNDERGROUND
THE CAT WHO TALKED TO GHOSTS
THE CAT WHO LIVED HIGH
THE CAT WHO KNEW A CARDINAL
THE CAT WHO MOVED A MOUNTAIN
THE CAT WHO WASN’T THERE
THE CAT WHO WENT INTO THE CLOSET
THE CAT WHO CAME TO BREAKFAST
THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLE
THE CAT WHO SAID CHEESE
THE CAT WHO TAILED A THIEF
THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS
THE CAT WHO SAW STARS
THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES
(short story collection)
Dedicated to Earl Bettinger,
the husband who . . .
ONE
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 nonstop 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 ice cubes 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.
Befor
e 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 summer-long 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 Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 1