“I’ve brought you a present,” he told the Siamese. “You’ll be the only cats in the Potato Mountains with a state-of-the-art commode imported from Germany!”
Koko, who had to inspect everything that came into the house, was chiefly interested in the liquor supply as it was lined up on the bar. The sherry particularly attracted his nose. This was Polly’s favorite drink, and it would be astounding, Qwilleran thought, if the cat could make the connection. More likely it was the label. Koko had a passion for glue, and the Spanish wine industry might use a special kind of seductive adhesive in labeling bottles.
After opening a can of crabmeat for the Siamese and a can of spaghetti for himself, he checked the house for catly mischief; they could be remarkably creative in their naughtiness when they felt neglected. Surprisingly everything was in order except for the painting of mountains in the foyer, which had been tilted again.
As he straightened it, Koko came up behind him, yowling indignantly.
“Objection overruled,” Qwilleran said. “Why don’t you go and massage your teeth on that half-ton buffet in the dining room?”
The painting, which had an indecipherable signature in the lower righthand corner, hung above a primitive cabinet built low to the floor on flat bun feet. It was crudely decorated with hunting symbols and a cartouche on which was inscribed “Lord Archibald Fitzwallow.” There were two drawers (empty) and cabinet space beneath (also empty). It was no beauty, but it was a handy place to keep the telephone and throw car keys. As Qwilleran was examining the cabinet, Koko impudently jumped to its surface and moved the mountain for the third time.
“Are you trying to be funny?” Qwilleran shouted at him. “We’ll put an end to that little game, you rascal!” With this pronouncement he lifted the picture from its hook and placed it on the floor, leaning it against the wall. Koko stayed where he was, but now he was standing on his hind legs and pawing the wall.
“What’s that?” Qwilleran exclaimed. Hanging from the picture hook was an old-fashioned black iron key about three inches long. Koko had sensed its presence! He always knew when anything was unusual or out of place.
“Sorry I yelled, old boy. I should have realized you knew what you were doing,” Qwilleran apologized, but now he combed his moustache in perplexity. What was the key intended to unlock? And why had it been hung behind the painting?
It was clear, he told himself, that the Tiptop Inn had catered to a wealthy clientele who traveled with their jewels, making security an important consideration. All the bedroom doors were fitted with old-fashioned, surface-mounted brass locks, the kind requiring a long key. Other doors throughout the house—with the exception of cylinder locks at front and back doors—retained the old style as part of the quaint authenticity of the historic building.
Carrying the key and marveling at its inconvenient size and weight, Qwilleran began a systematic check of the house from the fruit cellar on the lower level to the walk-in linen closet upstairs. He found no lock that would take the key, not even the door to the attic stairway. The attic stairs were steep and dusty, and the atmosphere was stifling, but he went up to explore. It was a lumber room for old steamer trunks and cast-off furniture. There was also a ladder to the rooftop, which he climbed. Upon pushing open a hatch, he emerged on a small railed observation deck.
This was the highest point in the entire mountain range, close to the dragon-like clouds that rampaged across the sky as if in battle, the sun highlighting their golden scales. Below were the same views seen from the veranda, but they were glorified by the extra elevation, and there were unexpected sights. To the north, the top of Big Potato had been sliced off, and an extensive construction project was under way. To the south, there was a glimpse of a silvery blue mountaintop lake, and the beginning of a footpath pointed in that direction.
Forgetting his mission, Qwilleran hurried downstairs, threw the key in the drawer of the Fitzwallow eyesore, and grabbed a sturdy walking stick from the umbrella stand in the foyer.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going to find Lake Batata. If I don’t return in half an hour, send out the bloodhounds.” The Siamese followed him to the door in ominous silence and then scampered into the living room and watched from a window when he headed for the woods, as if they might never see their meal ticket again.
A wooden shingle daubed with the word “trail” was nailed to a tree, and from there a sun-dappled path carpeted with pine needles and last year’s oak leaves made soft footing. It wound through a dense growth of trees and underbrush, and the silence was absolute. This was what Qwilleran had hoped to find—a secret place for ambling and thinking. The trail meandered this way and that, sometimes circumventing a particularly large tree trunk or rocky outcrop, sometimes requiring him to climb over a fallen tree. It was descending gradually, and he reminded himself that the return walk would be uphill, but he was not concerned; in Moose County he walked daily and rode a bike, and he was in good condition.
Every few hundred yards there was another chip of wood nailed to a tree to reassure him that this was the trail, but Lake Batata had not appeared. Could it have been a mirage? The decline was becoming steeper, the woods more dense, the footing less secure. There were slippery leaves that had not dried in this deep shade, and there were half-exposed roots that made the trail treacherous. Once he tripped and went down on his bad knee, but he pressed on. The inn was no longer visible on its summit, nor was the valley. This was real wilderness, and he liked it. Now and then a small animal scurried through the underbrush, but the only birds were crows, circling overhead and cawing their raucous complaints. Where, he asked himself, are the cardinals, chickadees, and goldfinches we have in Moose County?
Walking downhill put more of a strain on his knee than walking uphill, and he was glad to stumble upon a small clearing with a rustic pavilion, a circular shelter just large enough for a round picnic table and benches. Qwilleran sat down gratefully and leaned his elbows on the table. The wood was well weathered, and the pavilion itself was rotting. It was a long time since the Hawkinfields had picnicked there. He sat quietly and marveled at the silence of the woods, unaware that this was the silence before a storm. Even the crows had taken cover.
After a while his watch told him it was time to start back up the trail . . . if he could find it. From which direction had he come? All the trees and shrubs looked alike, and there were several trampled areas that might be the beginning of a path. While sitting in the circular pavilion he had become disoriented. The sun would be sinking in the west, and the inn would lie to the north, but where was the sun? It had disappeared behind clouds, and the woods were heavily shaded. Beechum’s prediction might be accurate.
Without further delay Qwilleran had to make a decision. One path ascended slightly, and the others descended. Common sense told him to take the former, so he started out, but soon it rose over a knob and sloped abruptly downhill. Returning to the clearing he tried another trail, which soon became no trail at all; it led into a thicket. Still, it was ascending, and Tiptop was up there—somewhere. In the long run how could he go wrong? He struck out through low underbrush, catching his pantlegs on thorns, picking his way among shrubs that snapped back in his face and threatened to jab him in the eye. The walking stick was more of a hindrance than a help, and he tossed it aside. All the while, it was getting darker. He could go back, but which way was back? He had a fear that he was traveling in circles.
He stood still, closed his eyes, and tried to apply reason. That was when he heard something plunging through the underbrush. It sounded like a large animal—not one of those small scurrying things. He listened and strained his eyes in the direction of the rustling leaves and snapping twigs. Soon he saw it through the gathering darkness—a large black beast lumbering in his direction. A bear! he thought, and a chill ran down his spine. What was the advice he had heard from hunters? Don’t make a sudden move. Keep perfectly still.
Qwilleran kept perfectly still, and
the black animal came closer. It was advancing with grim purpose. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and then he realized it was a dog—a large black dog. Was it wild? Was it vicious? It was not starving; in fact, it was grossly rotund, and it seemed to be wearing a collar. Whose dog would be up here on this desolate mountaintop? The trimmed ears and tail suggested that it was a Doberman, out of shape from overeating. With relief he observed that it was wagging its tail.
“Good dog! Good dog!” he said, keeping his hands in his pockets and making no sudden move.
In friendly fashion the Doberman came closer and leaned against his legs. The collar was studded with nailheads, spelling a name: L-U-C-Y.
“Good dog, Lucy,” he said. “Are you Lucy?” He patted the black head, and the overfed dog leaned harder, applying considerable pressure. She was pushing him to one side. Qwilleran stepped away, and Lucy pushed again.
My God! Qwilleran thought. She’s a rescue dog! Where’s her brandy keg?
When he started to move in the direction she indicated, she bounded ahead, looking back to be sure he was following. Lucy could penetrate the thicket better than he could, and when he made too little progress, she returned to investigate the delay.
Eventually they emerged onto a carpet of pine needles. “This is the trail!” Qwilleran exulted. “Good dog! Good Lucy!” She bounded ahead. Now he recognized a certain fallen tree and a certain giant oak circumvented by the path. When finally the great gray-green hulk loomed above the treetops, he let out an involuntary yelp, and Lucy raced for the inn. She arrived first and waited for him on the veranda, close by the kitchen door.
Incredible! Qwilleran thought; she wants food, and she knows exactly where to go. Two yowling voices could be heard indoors. “Too bad, Lucy,” he said. “I can’t invite you in, but I’ll find you some chow. Stay here.” On the porch she appeared much smaller than she had when first lumbering out of the dark woods. Gratefully he gave her four hot dogs he had bought for himself. The Siamese disdained hot dogs with withering contempt, but Lucy gobbled them and took off—on another errand of mercy or in search of another handout.
Indoors the Siamese sniffed Qwilleran’s pantlegs and made unflattering grimaces.
“Don’t curl your whiskers,” he reproached them. “Lucy brought me home just in time.” Rain was obviously on the way. The wind was rising, creating a menacing roar around the summit of Big Potato, and the dragon sky was raging.
For no reason at all, except relief at being rescued, Qwilleran felt a need to talk with someone in Moose County. This time he phoned Arch Riker, hoping he would be at home. It was Saturday night, and the middle-aged editor of the Moose County Something might be dining out with his cranky, middle-aged friend, Amanda—that is, if they were on speaking terms this week.
When Riker answered, Qwilleran said, “Just checking to see if Moose County is still on the map.”
“I thought you were going to boycott us,” Riker chided him. “What’s the matter? Are you homesick?”
“Why aren’t you out romancing the lovely Amanda? I thought this was national date night by act of Congress.”
“None of your business.”
The two men had been friends since boyhood, and their dialogue never needed to be polite or even sequential.
“How’s your little cabin in the Potatoes?” the editor asked. “Does it meet your modest needs?”
“It’s adequate. I have six bedrooms, and I can park ten cars and seat twelve for dinner. Right now the wind’s roaring as if a locomotive is headed for the side of the building. But it was beautiful earlier in the day. I had lunch with the editor of the Spudsboro Gazette, and I’m sending you a copy of the paper. Note the column called ‘Potato Peelings.’ You might want to apply for syndication rights.”
“Are you going to write anything for us?”
“I’m sending you my travel notes, and you can edit them if you think they’re worth running. Also, I may write about the local conflict between the environmentalists and the proponents of economic growth. Moose County may get into the same kind of pitched battle before long.”
“Good! There’s nothing like a bloody controversy to bolster circulation. How do the cats like the mountains? Has Koko found any dead bodies yet?”
“No, but there was a murder here a year ago . . . OUCH!”
“What was that?” Riker asked in alarm.
“I thought I’d been shot! It was a clap of thunder right overhead. We’re very close to the action up here on the mountaintop. Better hang up. There’s a lot of lightning . . . Wow! There it goes again! Talk to you some other time.”
Qwilleran felt better after chatting with his old friend, and he went upstairs to read. It had started to rain with ferocity, and between claps of thunder there was prolonged rumbling, echoing among the mountain peaks. With his feet on the new ottoman and with Yum Yum curled up on his lap, he was well into the second chapter before he realized that Koko was absent.
Any variance in the cats’ usual behavior concerned him, and he rushed downstairs to investigate. As he reached the bottom stair he heard murmuring and mumbling in the living room; Koko was talking to himself as he always did when puzzled or frustrated.
Through the archway Qwilleran spotted the cat at the far end of the room, studying the secretary desk. It was a tall, narrow piece of furniture fully nine feet in height, with a serpentine base and a glass-doored bookcase above. Only a room with a ten-foot ceiling could accommodate such a lofty design. There were no books on the shelves to command the attention of the bibliocat. Instead, he was intent on examining the wall behind the desk, thrusting a paw in the narrow space and mumbling frustrated gutturals.
There was another crack of thunder and bolt of lightning directly overhead. “Come on upstairs, Koko,” said Qwilleran. “We’re having a read. Book! Book!”
The cat ignored the invitation and went on sniffing, pawing, and muttering.
That’s when Qwilleran clapped a hand over his moustache. He was beginning to feel a disturbance on his upper lip. Koko never pursued a mission with such single-minded purpose unless there was good reason. The serpentine base of the desk was built down to the floor, so there could be nothing underneath it. That meant that Koko had found something behind it!
Confident that the furniture was in two sections, Qwilleran threw his arms around the bookcase deck and lifted it off, setting it down carefully on the floor. Immediately he realized the object of Koko’s quest. The bookcase had concealed the upper half of a door in the wall.
“Of course!” he said aloud, slapping his forehead with the flat of his palm. “What a blockhead!” On his walks around the veranda he had been vaguely aware of a discrepancy in the fenestration on the south side of the building. There were eight windows. Yet, when one was in the living room, there were only six. With other matters on his mind he had failed to make a connection, but Koko knew there was another room back there!
A cat can’t stand a closed door, Qwilleran thought; he always wants to be on the other side of it. There was no need to try the large key; he was sure it would fit the lock. But first he had to slide the desk away from the wall. Even after removing the drawers he found it remarkably heavy. It was solid walnut, built the way they built them a hundred years ago.
Koko was prancing back and forth in excitement, and Yum Yum was a bemused spectator.
“Okay, here goes!” Qwilleran told them as he turned the key and opened the door. Koko rushed into the secret room, and Yum Yum followed at her own queenly pace. It was dark, but the wall switch activated three lights: a desk lamp, a table lamp, and a floor lamp. This was J.J. Hawkinfield’s office at home, furnished with a desk, book-shelves, filing cabinets, and other office equipment.
The Siamese had little interest in office equipment. They were both under the long library table, sniffing a mattress that had been stenciled with the letters L-U-C-Y.
“You devil!” Qwilleran said to Koko. “Is that what your performance was all about? Is that why I s
trained my back moving five hundred pounds of solid walnut?”
Nevertheless, he was standing in the private office of a murdered man. The open shelves were empty except for a single set of law books. An empty safe stood with its door open. There was a computer station with space for a keyboard, monitor, and printer, but its surfaces were bare. On the walls were framed diplomas, awards, and certificates of merit issued to J.J. Hawkinfield throughout the years, as well as family photos.
Having checked the scent on the mattress, Koko was now on the library table, industriously exercising his paws on a large scrapbook. Qwilleran pushed him aside and opened its cover. At that moment there was a thunderous crash overhead, followed by a flash of lightning, and the lights went out. Qwilleran stood in total blackness, darker than anything he had ever experienced.
SEVEN
“NOW WHAT DO we do?” Qwilleran asked his companions. He stood in the middle of a dead man’s office in total darkness, listening to the rain driving against the house. The darkness made no difference to the Siamese, but Qwilleran was completely blind. Never had he experienced a blackout so absolute.
“We can’t stay here and wait for the power lines to be repaired, that’s obvious,” he said as he started to feel his way out of the room. He stumbled over a leather lounge chair and bumped the computer station, and when he stepped on a tail, the resulting screech unnerved him. Sliding his feet across the floor cautiously and groping with hands outstretched, he kicked a piece of furniture that proved to be an ottoman. “Dammit, Koko! Why didn’t you find this room before I bought one!” he scolded.
Eventually he located the door into the living room, but that large area was even more difficult to navigate. He had not yet learned the floor plan, although he knew it was booby-trapped with clusters of chairs and tables in mid-room. A flash of violet-blue lightning illuminated the scene for half a second, hardly enough time to focus one’s eyes, and then it was darker than before. If one could find the wall, Qwilleran thought, it should be possible to follow it around to the archway leading to the foyer. It was a method that Lori Bamba’s elderly cat had used after losing his sight. It may have worked well for old Tinkertom, who was only ten inches high and equipped with extrasensory whiskers, but Qwilleran cracked his knee or bruised his thigh against every chair, chest, and table placed against the wall.
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 8