She darted a puzzled glance at her client. “How did you know? Last March a charming young doctor at the hospital gave a class in not-smoking.”
“Spudsboro seems to be a lively town,” he said approvingly, “and right up to the minute.”
“You’ll love it! And you’ll love your mountain retreat! I’m sure you’re anxious to see it and move in, so as soon as I make one more phone call, I’ll take you up there.”
“No need. You’re busy. Just tell me where it is.”
“Are you sure?”
“No problem whatsoever. Just steer me in the direction of Big Potato Mountain.”
She pointed across the street. “There it is—straight up. Little Potato is farther downriver. I have a little map here that you can have.” She unrolled a sheet of paper. “Here’s Center Street, and over here is Hawk’s Nest Drive. That’s where you’re going, although you can’t get there from here—at least, not directly. When you reach Hawk’s Nest Drive, just keep going uphill. It’s paved all the way. And when you can’t go any farther, you’re there! The house is known as Tiptop, which is the name of the original inn.”
The map was a labyrinth of black lines like worm tracks, peppered with numbers in fine type. “Don’t any of these mountain roads have names?” Qwilleran asked.
“They don’t need names. We always know where we are, where we’re going, and how to get there. It may be mystifying at first, but you’ll get used to it in no time. Hawk’s Nest Drive is the exception to the rule; it was named by J. J. Hawkinfield when he developed Tiptop Estates.”
“Is there anything I should know about the house?”
“All the utilities are connected. Bed linens and towels are in a closet upstairs. The kitchen is completely equipped, including candles in case of a power outage. There are fire extinguishers in every room, but all the fabrics and carpets are flame retardant.” Ms. Lessmore handed over three keys on a ring. “These are for front and back doors and garage. We had to make some minor repairs in preparation for your arrival, and a Mr. Beechum will be around to do the finishing touches. He’s one of the mountain people, but he’s an excellent worker. If you need anyone to clean, there are mountain women who are glad to earn a little money. We had one of them fluff up the place yesterday. I hope she did a satisfactory job.” While speaking she was swiveling and rocking her desk chair with a surplus of nervous energy.
“What’s my mailing address going to be?” Qwilleran asked.
“There’s no mail delivery up the mountain. You can have a rural mailbox at the foot of Hawk’s Nest Drive if you wish, but for your short stay, why don’t you rent a post office box?”
“And where do I buy groceries?”
“Do you cook?”
“No, but I’ll need food for the cats. Mostly I prefer to eat in restaurants. Perhaps you could recommend some good ones.”
At that moment a roughly handsome man in a business suit rushed into the investment office, threw a briefcase onto a desk, and started out again. “Gonna play some golf,” he called out to Ms. Lessmore.
“Wait a minute, honey, I want you to meet the gentleman who’s renting Tiptop. Mr. Qwilleran, this is my husband, Robert . . . Honey, he was asking about restaurants.”
“Give him the blue book,” he said. “That has everything. Don’t plan dinner, Doll. I’ll eat at the club. Nice to meet you, Mr . . . .”
He was out on the sidewalk before Qwilleran could say “Qwilleran.”
“Robert’s a golf nut,” his wife explained, “and we’ve had so much rain lately that he’s been frustrated.” She handed over a blue brochure. “This lists restaurants, stores, and services in Spudsboro. If you like Italian food, try Pasta Perfect. And there’s a moderate-priced steakhouse called The Great Big Baked Potato.”
“And how about a grocery?”
“You’ll find a small but upscale market at Five Points on your way to Hawk’s Nest Drive. From here you go down Center Street until it curves to the right, then take a left at the Valley Boys’ Club and wind around past the old depot, which is now an antique shop, and go uphill to Lumpton’s Pizza, where you jog left—”
“Hold on,” Qwilleran said. “It sounds as if you have me going west in order to go east. Run through that once more, and let me take notes.”
She laughed. “If you think about east and west in the mountains, you’ll go crazy. Just concentrate on left and right, and up and down.” She repeated the instructions. “Then ask anyone at Five Points Market how to reach Hawk’s Nest Drive. It’s very well known.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” he said. “If I get lost I’ll send up a rocket.”
She escorted him hospitably to the door. “Enjoy your stay. Be sure to walk through the woods to your private lake. It’s enchanting! In fact, you’ll love everything about Tiptop and want to buy it before the season’s over.”
“If I do,” Qwilleran said, “my first move will be to change its name.”
Unlocking the car, he said to his passengers, “Sorry for the holdup, but we’re on our way now. It won’t be long before you can have a good dinner and a new house to explore.”
For answer there was some stoic shuffling and squirming in the carrier.
As he started to drive, Big Potato was on his left; soon it was ahead of him; next it was on his right. Yet, he was not aware of having made any turns. It was quite different from downtown Pickax, where streets were laid out north and south and every turn was ninety degrees. He found the market at Five Points, however, and loaded a shopping cart with food for the Siamese, plus ice cream, doughnuts, and a can of pork and beans for himself.
At the checkout counter the cashier surveyed with undisguised curiosity the ten cans of red salmon, six cans of crabmeat, five frozen lobster tails, eight cans of boned chicken, and two packages of frozen jumbo shrimp. “Find everything you want?” he asked helpfully, glancing at the oversized moustache.
“Yes, you have a fine store,” Qwilleran said. “Do you take traveler’s checks?”
“You bet!” The young man’s badge indicated that he was the manager, filling in at the cash register, and he was briskly managerial—a smiling, rosy-cheeked, well-scrubbed, wholesome type. Qwilleran thought, He runs in marathons, pumps iron, coaches basketball at the boys’ club, and eats muesli. There’s such a thing as looking too healthy.
“We have a good produce department,” the manager said. “Just got some fresh pineapple.”
“This is all I need at the moment, but I’ll be back. I’m staying in the mountains for three months.”
“Where are you staying?” The young man seemed genuinely friendly and not merely interested in selling pineapples.
“At a place called Tiptop. Can I get these things home before they thaw? I’m a stranger here.”
“You’ll be up there in ten minutes if you take the Snaggy Creek cutoff. Did you buy Tiptop?”
“No. Just renting.”
As the manager totaled the array of salmon, crab, lobster, chicken, and shrimp he asked politely, “Are you with a group?”
“No, we’re only a small family of three, but we like seafood and poultry.”
The man nodded with understanding. “Everybody’s worried about cholesterol these days. How about some oat bran cookies?”
“Next time. Tell me about this cutoff.”
The manager closed the checkout counter and accompanied Qwilleran to the exit. Pointing up the hill he said, “Okay. This street winds around for half a mile and dead-ends at a pond. That’s really Snaggy Creek, swollen by the heavy rain. Turn left there and go to the fork. Okay? Take the right spur. It goes downhill, which may look wrong, but don’t try to figure it out. Just remember: the right spur. Okay? After you cross a culvert—the water’s pretty high there—watch for some wet rocks on the left and immediately turn right across a small bridge. Okay? About two-tenths of a mile farther on, there’s another fork . . .”
Qwilleran was scribbling frantically.
“That’s t
he simplest and fastest way to go,” the manager assured him. “You won’t have any trouble. By the way, my name’s Bill Treacle. I’m the manager.”
“I’m Jim Qwilleran. Thanks for the directions.”
“Hope we have some good weather for you.”
“It’s more humid than I expected,” Qwilleran said.
“That’s very unusual, but the weatherman has promised us a nice weekend.” Treacle helped load the groceries into the trunk, exclaimed over the Siamese, and said a cheery “Hurry back!”
Two hours later Qwilleran was cursing the friendly Bill Treacle and his Snaggy Creek cutoff. Either the man had misdirected him, or someone had moved the spurs, forks, culverts, bridges, and wet rocks. There was nothing remotely resembling a paved road that might be Hawk’s Nest Drive. There were no road signs of any kind, and for the last hour there had been no signs of life, on foot or on wheel. He could no longer see Spudsboro down in the valley.
“Don’t tell me I’m on the outside of the mountain!” he shouted in exasperation. “How did I land on the other side without going over the top or through a tunnel? Does anybody know?”
“Yow-ow!” said Koko with the infuriating authority of one who has all the answers.
The dirt road Qwilleran was now following was merely a narrow ledge between a towering cliff and a steep drop-off, with no guardrails even at hazardous hairpin turns. Gouged by tires during the recent wet spell, it had been blow-dried by mountain winds into treacherous ruts, bumps, and potholes. The ice cream was melting in the trunk; the frozen shrimp were thawing, but Qwilleran cared little about that. He simply wanted to arrive somewhere—anywhere—before dark and before the gas tank registered empty. Suddenly visibility was zero as he drove into a low-flying cloud. And all the time the Siamese were howling and shrieking in the backseat.
“Shut up, dammit!” he bellowed at them.
At that moment the bouncing, shuddering sedan emerged from the cloud and headed into someone’s front yard. Qwilleran jammed on the brakes.
It was only a rough clearing. An old army vehicle and a rusty red pickup with one blue fender were parked in front of a weatherbeaten dwelling that was somewhat more than a shack but considerably less than a house. Two nondescript dogs came out from under the porch with a menacing swagger like a pair of goons. If they had barked, someone might have come forth to answer Qwilleran’s question, but they watched in threatening silence from a distance of ten feet. There were no other signs of life. Even in the backseat there was a palpable silence. After a reasonable wait he opened the car door cautiously and stepped out in slow motion. The watchdogs continued to watch.
“Good dogs! Good dogs!” he said in a friendly tone as he proceeded toward the house with his hands in his pockets. Through the open windows and half-opened door he could hear a sound of muffled beating. With a certain amount of suspicion he mounted three sagging wood steps to a rickety porch and rapped on the door. The beating stopped, and a shrill voice shouted some kind of question.
“Hello there!” he replied in the same amiable tone he had used to address the watchdogs.
A moment later the door was flung wide and he was confronted by a hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed young woman with long, straight hair cascading over her shoulders. She said nothing but gave him a hostile glare.
“Excuse me,” he said in a manner intended to be disarming. “I’ve lost my way. I’m looking for Hawk’s Nest Drive.”
She regarded him with indecision, as if wondering whether to reach for a shotgun.
“You’re on the wrong mountain!” she snapped.
THREE
THE MOUNTAIN WOMAN with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes stood with her hands on her hips and glared at Qwilleran. Assuming—from his astonished expression—that he had not heard the first time, she screamed, “You’re on the wrong mountain!” Then, half turning, she shouted something over her shoulder, after which she pushed past him, grumbling, “Follow me.” She was wearing grubby jogging shoes and a long, full skirt, and with skirt and long hair flying she leaped off the porch, ignoring the steps. Before Qwilleran had sense enough to return to his own car, she had started the spluttering motor of the pickup.
The ordeal of the last two hours had been stupefying, but now he gathered his wits and followed the other vehicle gratefully as it led the way back down the narrow road to a fork, where it turned onto an upbound trail. The lead vehicle was a modified pickup with the chassis elevated high above the wheels to cope with rough terrain like this, but Qwilleran’s sedan bounced in and out of ruts, causing non-stop complaints from the backseat.
“Quiet!” he scolded.
“Yow!” Koko scolded in eloquent rebuttal.
The route meandered left and right and dipped in and out of gullies. There was one hopeful sign, however; Spudsboro was again visible in the valley, meaning they were back on the inside of the mountain. When they finally reached a paved road, the woman stopped her truck and leaned from the driver’s seat, shouting something.
Jumping out of his car, Qwilleran hurried in her direction, saying, “How can I thank you, ma’am? May I—”
“Just get out of my way,” she growled, revving the motor and making a reckless U-turn.
“Which way is up?” he called to her as she drove away. At least he was now on solid blacktop, and if “up” proved to be “down,” he had only to turn around and drive in the opposite direction, assuming there was gas enough in the tank. This was the route he should have discovered two hours ago. There were hairpin turns, but the road’s edge was marked by white lines and protected by guardrails, and double yellow lines separated the upbound and downbound lanes. The speed limit was posted, as well as warnings about dense fog, fallen rocks, and icy bridges. A creek, rushing alongside the road, occasionally disappeared and emerged somewhere else. At one point Qwilleran met a sheriff’s car coming downhill, and he returned the stare of the officer behind the wheel.
Around the next bend he came upon a handsome house in a carefully landscaped clearing, its many levels ingeniously designed for a hillside. Large glass areas overlooked the valley. The russet stain on the board-and-batten exterior looked appropriately woodsy but failed to conceal that this was an architect-designed residence with a three-car garage and a swimming pool. In slowing down to observe the details, Qwilleran was able to read a rustic signboard: SEVEN LEVELS . . . THE LESSMORES.
Farther up the mountain another impressive house was designed with cedar boards applied diagonally to form a herringbone pattern. A satellite dish faced a wide swath cut in the forest. The rustic signboard read: THE RIGHT SLANT . . . DEL AND ARDIS WILBANK.
Hawk’s Nest Drive climbed higher and higher, hugging roadside cliffs crowned with trees that were losing their footing and leaning precariously over the pavement. With every turn Koko yowled vociferously and Yum Yum made threatening intestinal noises as their bodies swerved left, right, left, right . . .
Suddenly Tiptop burst into view, brooding above them on a rocky knoll. The clamor in the backseat stopped abruptly, and Qwilleran stared through the windshield in disbelief. He had expected it to be more cheerful, more hospitable. Instead, Tiptop was a dark, glowering, uninviting building in a gray-green stain, the upper floor sided in gray-green fishscale clapboard. The main floor windows were shaded by a gray-green wrap-around veranda, while second floor windows and attic dormers were darkened by deeply overhanging roofs.
“Great!” Qwilleran muttered as he parked in a blacktopped area large enough for ten cars. “Don’t go away,” he said to his caged passengers. “I’ll be right back.” It was his custom to check for hazards and feline escape routes before introducing the Siamese to a new environment. Slowly, noting every dismal detail, he walked toward a gray stone arch inset with a mosaic of darker pebbles spelling out TIPTOP INN—1903. From there a broad flight of stone steps—he counted eighteen—led up to the inn, and seven wooden steps painted battleship gray led up to the veranda.
Unlocking one of the French doors that marked t
he main entrance, Qwilleran walked into a dark foyer—a wide central hall running the length of the building and ending in more French doors at the rear. Their glass panes did little to lighten the foyer, and he switched on lights—three chandeliers and six wall sconces. He flipped switches in the surrounding rooms also—a cavernous living room, a dining room that seated twelve, a hotel-sized kitchen—thankful that electricity was included in the rent.
Next he opened a window to freshen the deadness of the atmosphere and discovered there were no screens to keep the Siamese from jumping out. This was another mark against the place. They liked to sit on a windowsill sniffing the breeze, yet not a single window was screened. In each room he lowered the sash a few inches at the top for ventilation. This done, he brought the cats and their baggage into the kitchen, fed them a can of salmon hurriedly, and pointed out the location of their waterdish and commode in the pantry.
For himself he brought in the computerized coffeemaker without which he never left home. Although he had been obliged to swear off alcohol and had been convinced by an attractive woman M.D. in Pickax to give up smoking, he still insisted upon his coffee; he liked it strong and he liked it often. Carrying a cupful of the brew and with apologies to the Siamese for leaving them in the kitchen, he now wandered through the house with a critical eye. During his days as a roving news correspondent, checking in and out of hotels, his environment had meant little, but his changing circumstances in recent years had given him an awareness of pleasant living quarters.
The interior of Tiptop, though obviously redecorated not too long ago, was depressingly gray: gray plush carpet, gray damask draperies, wallcoverings predominantly gray. Certain items of massive furniture, circa 1903, were appropriate in sixty-foot rooms with ten-foot ceilings, but they were grotesque in design. More attractive were the sofas, chairs, and tables added by recent owners, and yet the rooms looked bleak, as if deliberately stripped of all small objects. There were sculpture pedestals without sculpture, plant stands without plants, bookcases without books, vitrines without curios, china cabinets without china, and lamp tables without lamps. Pictures had been removed, leaving hooks and discolored rectangles on the walls.
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 3