The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “That’s Bob Lessmore and Hugh Lumpton, top guns in the club,” the editor explained. “Champion golfers have a certain look, don’t they? Their build, their walk, even their facial set. It comes from concentration, I guess. Do you play golf?”

  “No,” Qwilleran said. “I never thought that anything smaller than a baseball was worth hitting. Baseball was my game until I injured a knee. I was too short for basketball, too cowardly to play football, too poor to play polo, and too sane to play soccer.”

  Carmichael recommended the poached flounder, saying that the new chef was introducing a lighter menu to a membership hooked on corned beef sandwiches and sixteen-ounce steaks. Qwilleran ordered the poached flounder, although he noticed that his host ordered a corned beef sandwich and cheddar cheese soup. It proved to be a small piece of fish, lightly sauced and served on an oversized plate along with three perfect green beans, a sliver of parboiled carrot, and two halves of a cherry tomato broiled and sprinkled with parsley. It was accompanied by the starch of the day, mashed turnip flavored with grated orange rind.

  Gingerly Qwilleran forked into this repast, and as he did so, he was aware that a woman at a nearby table was staring at his moustache. She had the embalmed look that comes from too many facelifts, and she was wearing a voluptuous brimmed hat that zoomed up on one side and swooped down on the other.

  “Who’s the woman in the hat who’s giving me the eye?” he asked under his breath.

  “That’s Vonda Dudley Wix,” the editor said without moving his lips. “She writes the ‘Potato Peelings’ column. She’s spotted your moustache, I’m afraid, and she’ll be nailing you for an interview.”

  “She’ll have to catch me first. I’ve read her column. What do you think of her style?”

  “Overripe, to say the least. I tried to kill the column when I bought the paper, but the readers rose up in protest. They actually like it! Newspaper subscribers are unpredictable.”

  Helping himself to a third mini-muffin, Qwilleran was glad he had eaten a substantial breakfast at the Five Points Café. He maintained an amiable composure, however. “How long does it take to learn your way around the mountains, Colin? All I’ve got is three months.” He related his experience of the previous day: how he wound up on the wrong mountain and how he was rescued by one of the Taters. He said, “Her manner was definitely hostile, and yet she went miles out of her way to help me find Hawk’s Nest Drive. I don’t understand it.”

  “They’re not easy to understand,” said Carmichael. “In fact, there are some weird characters in them thar hills.”

  “The MacDiarmids told me the artists have a community where they sell their handcrafts. Where’s that?”

  “Potato Cove. It’s on the outside of Little Potato. It was a ghost town that they resurrected.”

  “Is it difficult to find?”

  “It’s on a dirt road, but the route is well marked because it’s a tourist attraction. Go to Five Points and then follow the signs.”

  Qwilleran said, “I saw something strange last night. It was around midnight. I went out for a lungful of fresh air before turning in and walked around the veranda. On a mountain toward the south there was a circle of light, and it was revolving.”

  “Oh sure, we see that once in a while.”

  “Is it some kind of natural phenomenon? I have friends in Moose County who’d insist it was an alien aircraft from outer space.”

  The editor chuckled. “Are you ready for this, Qwill? . . . They say there’s a witches’ coven up on Little Potato. Apparently they celebrate certain phases of the moon—or whatever.”

  “Have you ever done a story on them?”

  “Are you kidding? Even if we could find them in that godforsaken wilderness, no outsider could get close enough to take a picture or spy on them. But if you want to take a whack at it, we’ll buy the story,” Carmichael added in a jocular vein.

  “No, thanks,” said Qwilleran, “but I think it was one of the witches who came to my rescue last night.”

  They ordered coffee, and Qwilleran had a slice of double chocolate fudge cake that restored his interest in the golf club. On the way out, at the editor’s urging, he signed up for a social membership that would permit him to use the dining room. They gave him a card with the club logo: SGC in embossed gold, on a brown oval representing a potato.

  “And now where do you want to be dropped?” Carmichael asked.

  “At a furniture store, if there’s one downtown. I left my car on Center Street.”

  “Didn’t you rent the place furnished?”

  “Supposedly, but I need an ottoman. I like to put my feet up when I read. I also need a small radio for weather reports.”

  “The hardware store at Five Points is the best for that. Get one that can operate on batteries in case of a blackout.”

  “Do you lose power often?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Only when a tree blows down across a power line.”

  As they drove back downtown, the editor pointed out some local attractions: the Lumpton furniture factory, offering guided tours every afternoon; the historical museum in an old house on Center Street; the scenic drive about to be named after J.J. Hawkinfield.

  “How old was he when he died?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Not old. In his fifties.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Carmichael hesitated. “You haven’t heard? He was murdered.”

  Qwilleran put his hand to his moustache. “Ms. Lessmore didn’t tell me that.” He had sensed something sinister, though.

  “Well, you know, Qwill . . . small towns are sensitive about serious crimes . . . and with the emphasis on tourism here, murder is never mentioned to vacationers.”

  “I had a hunch that something irregular had happened to the owner of Tiptop. What were the circumstances?”

  “He was pushed off his own mountain. You can read about it in our files if you’re interested. The murderer is in prison, although there’s an element here that thinks they convicted the wrong man, but that’s par for the course, isn’t it? . . . Well, here’s your furniture store, Qwill. It’s great to have you here. Don’t be too solitary. Keep in touch.”

  FIVE

  ACCORDING TO SIGNS plastered on the windows, the furniture store was having a sale of recliners, a fact corroborated by the lineup of chairs on the sidewalk. Qwilleran walked in and asked to see some ottomans.

  “Did you see our recliners on sale?” asked a pleasant elderly woman, eager to be of service.

  “Yes, but I’m interested in an ottoman.”

  “All the recliners in the store are twenty-five percent off,” she said encouragingly.

  “Do you have any ottomans?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.

  “Harry!” she shouted toward the rear of the store. “Do we have any ottomans?”

  “No!” Harry yelled. “Show the customer the recliners!”

  “Never mind,” Qwilleran said. “Show me a telephone book.”

  Consulting the classified section, he found a likely source of ottomans just two blocks away: Peel & Poole Design Studio. It was a juxtaposition of names that appealed to his fancy for words.

  At the Peel & Poole studio he was greeted by a smartly suited young woman who reminded him of Fran Brodie, a designer in Pickax. They had the same suave buoyancy and the same reddish blond hair.

  “May I help you?” she asked cordially. Her hair flowed silkily to her shoulders, and long, straight bangs drew attention to the blueness of her eyes.

  “I need an ottoman,” he said. “I’m renting a furnished place for the summer, and I like to put my feet up when I read. I do not—want—a recliner!” he said with measured emphasis.

  “You’re quite right,” she agreed. “I’m a firm believer in ottomans, and we have a nice one that we can order for you in any cover.”

  “How long does it take for a special order?”

  “Six to eight weeks.”

  “That won’t do. I’ll be here only thre
e months. I’m renting Tiptop for the summer.”

  “Really?” she asked in surprise. “I didn’t know they were willing to rent. What condition is it in?”

  “The building’s in good repair and has all the essentials, but it’s rather bleak and full of echoes. Someone has cleaned out all the bric-a-brac.”

  “The Hawkinfield daughter,” the designer said, nodding. “When J.J. died, she took everything in the way of decorative accessories to sell in her shop in Maryland. I helped her appraise the stuff. But now, if you’d like any help in making the interior comfortable for the summer, I’m at your service. I’m Sabrina Peel.”

  “Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW,” he said. “Are you familiar with Tiptop?”

  “Definitely! Our studio helped Mrs. Hawkinfield with the interior a few years ago—just before she went into the hospital. The poor woman never returned to enjoy it.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was committed to a mental hospital, and she’s still there—doesn’t even know that her husband is dead. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I never say no to coffee,” he said.

  “Or a glass of chardonnay?”

  “Coffee, if you please.”

  While she prepared the beverage he wandered about the studio, admiring the Peel & Poole taste. He also found the ottoman she had mentioned: large, cushiony, inviting, and labeled “floor sample.” After the first sip of coffee, he regarded her with the beseeching eyes that women could rarely resist and asked, “Would you consider selling me your floor sample?”

  She took a moment to react, pushing her hair back from her face with an attractive two-handed gesture. “On one condition—if you’ll let me spruce up your summer residence. I can use small rugs and pillows and folding screens to make it more livable and without a large investment on your part. You owe it to yourself to have a pleasant environment when you’re vacationing.”

  “Sounds good to me!” he said. “Would you like to drive up and look it over?”

  “How about Monday afternoon at one-thirty? I’ll take along some accessories for your approval.”

  “Tell me something about the Hawkinfields,” Qwilleran said. “Why did they want such a large house?”

  “They had several children and did a lot of entertaining—originally. Then all of a sudden their life went into a tailspin. Three of the boys were killed within a year.”

  “How?” Qwilleran was always quick to suspect foul play, and since their father had enemies and was a murder victim himself, the possibilities were rife.

  “There were two accidents a few months apart, both related to outdoor sports. It was a crushing blow for the parents. After the second incident Mrs. Hawkinfield couldn’t cope and had a nervous breakdown. We all felt terrible about it. She was a nice woman, although she let her husband keep her under his thumb. Everyone wished she’d stand up for herself . . . I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except that it’s Tiptop history, and it goes with the house, along with the carpet and draperies.”

  “I appreciate knowing,” he said. “I’ve been getting negative vibrations.”

  “Is that true? How interesting!” the designer said, leaning forward. “I’m very sensitive to the aura of a house. When I visit a client for the first time, I get a definite feeling about the family’s past and present.”

  “Mrs. Hawkinfield seemed to be hooked on gray, if that signifies anything.”

  “Hooked is the right word! We tried to warm it up with antique gold and Venetian red, but she loved gray and always wore it. Actually it was becoming. She had lovely gray eyes—and prematurely gray hair, which we all blamed on her husband.”

  Qwilleran was about to inquire about the murder, but a chime at the front door announced another customer, and he drained his coffee cup. “I’ll look forward to seeing you Monday afternoon, Ms. Peel.”

  “Sabrina,” she corrected him.

  “Don’t bring anything gray, Sabrina. And please call me Qwill.”

  Driving away from the design studio with the ottoman in the trunk, he felt a bond of camaraderie with Sabrina Peel. He liked designers, especially those with that particular roseate hair tint, which he thought of as “decorator blond.” When he stopped at the Five Points Market to stock his bar for possible guests, he included chardonnay with the usual hard and soft drinks.

  The friendly Bill Treacle, who was bustling about the store with managerial urgency, saw Qwilleran loading a shopping cart with scotch, bourbon, vodka, rum, sherry, beer, fruit juices, and mixes. “Having a party?” he asked cheerily. “Looks like you found Tiptop okay.”

  “No problem,” Qwilleran replied. After meeting Sabrina he was feeling too good to quibble about the Snaggy Creek cutoff and the thawed seafood and the melted ice cream.

  At the same intersection he went into Lumpton’s Hardware and asked for a turkey roaster.

  “What size?” asked a man with a nasal twang.

  “I thought one size fits all.”

  “We’ve got three sizes, top of the line. From Germany. How big a turkey are you talking about?”

  “Just a small one,” Qwilleran said. He was staggered by the price, but he could afford it, and the cats deserved a second facility. He himself had eight bathrooms at Tiptop; why should they be limited to one commode? He also bought a radio with more features than he really wanted, the control panel having several switches, six knobs, and seventeen buttons. Even so, it cost less than the cats’ commode.

  Upon leaving the hardware store Qwilleran saw a barnwood sign advertising mountain crafts and handmade gifts at Potato Cove. He followed the arrow, thinking he might find a gift for Polly and a ceramic mug for himself. The coffee cups at Tiptop had finger-trap handles and limited capacity; he could empty one in two gulps.

  The road to Potato Cove was the kind that map makers call “unimproved,” meaning that it was gravel with teeth-rattling bumps and ruts. It was marked at every turn and every fork, however, and it wound through a dense forest where the pines stood tall and straight, as close together as pickets in a fence.

  On the way to the cove Qwilleran saw a few dwellings, poor excuses for housing, and yet there were more signs of life than he had found around Tiptop Estates. He saw children chasing each other and climbing trees, two women laughing as they hung diapers on a clothesline, cats and dogs sunning, a man chopping wood, a white-haired woman sitting on the porch of a log cabin, peeling apples. There was something poetic about this humble scene: her placid demeanor as she sat in a rocking chair with a bowl cradled in her lap, leisurely wielding the paring knife as if she had all afternoon. Qwilleran’s camera was on the seat beside him, and he would have snapped a picture if it had not been for the shotgun leaning against a porch post.

  Farther along the road there was an enterprise that called itself “Just Rust.” A long, low shed was jammed with rusty artifacts that spilled over into the front yard: bed frames, parts of sewing machines, plows, broken tools, folding metal chairs, wash boilers, scythes, bathtubs, bird cages, bed pans, frying pans, wheelbarrows . . .

  Next came a streetscene that might have been the set for a low-budget Hollywood western: crude buildings of weathered wood, spaced haphazardly along the road and connected with wooden sidewalks. Yet, even in this ramshackle environment the hand of an artist was evident in the signs painted on barnwood. The first was a parody of small-town hospitality: WELCOME TO POTATO COVE . . . POPULATION O. Similar signs nailed to the buildings identified the shops of Otto the Potter, Vance the Village Smith, and specialists in woodcraft, leather goods, hand-dipped candles, baskets, and the like. There was wit in some of the signs. The chair caner called his shop The Bottom Line.

  Among the visitors who walked up and down the wooden sidewalks there were townspeople wearing Saturday casuals and doing a little shopping, as well as tourists in shorts and sandals, gawking and snapping pictures. Qwilleran followed a few who were walking briskly toward a shed behind Otto’s pottery.

  �
�What’s going on?” he asked one of them.

  “Kiln opening,” was the hurried answer.

  In the shed, lighted by sunshine streaming through holes in the rusted metal roof, twenty or more bystanders were watching eagerly as a soft-spoken man in a canvas apron removed pots from a large oven, holding them up one by one. “This is my new decorated platter,” he said modestly. “And this is a weed holder with the new glaze I’ve been working on.”

  Responses shot out from the onlookers: “I’ll take it . . . Let me see that one up close . . . Do you have three more like that plate? . . . Oh! That’s a pretty one! . . . I’ll take that, Otto.”

  The potter continued his commentary in a quiet monotone. “The ones closer to the fire may have some variation in color . . . This bowl’s imperfect. It got a little too hot and started bloating. Like we say, the kiln giveth and the kiln taketh away. Here’s one of my new pitchers with pine tree decoration.”

  “I’ll take that!” said a man in the back row, and the pitcher was passed over the heads of the others. In a low voice he said to his companion, “I can sell it in my shop for three times the price.”

  Qwilleran noticed that men in designer shirts and gold jewelry and women in pastel pants suits and expensive cologne were grabbing four-dollar mugs and seven-dollar candleholders, handmade and signed by the potter. He himself found a mug with a handle that accommodated his fingers comfortably, and when he learned it was one-tenth the price of the cats’ commode, he bought four. At last the kiln was emptied, and a groan of disappointment went up from the audience.

  “Sorry I don’t have more,” the potter apologized. “I really tried to pack the kiln this time, using miniatures to fill up the corners.”

  As the purchasers stood in line to pay, voices filled the small shed with social hubbub—exulting over their finds, greeting friends, sharing local gossip. Qwilleran overheard two women saying:

  “Did you hear about Tiptop? Some crazy fella with a big moustache and a lot of cats is renting it for $2,000 a week!”

  “Is he a Canadian or Japanese or what?”