“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 wineglass 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 Beechum’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, doub
ling 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.
NINE
QWILLERAN GAVE THE Siamese an early dinner. “Will you excuse me tonight?” he asked them. “I’m taking a guest to the golf club.” He had some crackers and cheese himself, having gone hungry at the club on his last visit.
While he was dressing, the telephone rang, and he ran downstairs with lather on his face; there was no extension upstairs.
Sabrina Peel was on the line. She said, “Qwill, I lost a letter while I was at Tiptop. If you find it, just drop it in the mail; it’s all stamped and addressed. It may have slipped out of my handbag when I was fishing out my car keys.”
He said he had not seen the letter but promised to look on the veranda and in the parking lot. Hanging up, he gave an accusing scowl at Koko, who was sitting near the phone. Koko stretched his mouth in a yawn like an alligator.
At the appointed time a chugging motor alerted him to the arrival of Chrysalis Beechum in one of the family wrecks. The Beechums were the only two-wreck family he had ever known. He went down the steps to greet her as she climbed out of the army vehicle, looking almost attractive. Her long hair was drawn back and twisted in one long braid hanging down her back, and she wore a stiff-brimmed black hat like a toreador’s. The sculptured planes of hollow cheeks and prominent cheekbones gave her face a severe but strikingly handsome aspect. Her clothes were much the same: jogging shoes, long skirt, and a top that was obviously handwoven.
“Good evening,” he said. “I like your hat. You wear it well.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Have you ever seen the interior of Tiptop?”
“No.”
“Would you like to come in for a quick tour? The proportions are quite impressive, and there’s some historic furniture.”
“No, thanks,” she said, her eyes flashing.
“Then let’s take off. Your car or mine?” he quipped without getting any amused response. He opened the car door for her. “I’ve reserved a table at the golf club. I think you’ll approve of the food. It’s quite wholesome—almost too wholesome for my depraved taste.” Still, his small talk with a light touch fell flat.
“Do you play golf?” she asked.
“No, but I have a membership at the club that permits me to use the dining room and bring guests.”
As they started down Hawk’s Nest Drive he pointed out the homes of the sheriff, the realty couple, and the veterinarians. His passenger looked at them without interest or comment.
“How was business in Potato Cove today?” he asked in an effort to involve her.
“We’re closed Mondays,” she said moodily.
“That’s right. You told me so . . . Your father came this morning to start building my gazebo. He said it’s going to rain some more.”
“How do you like his hat?” she said.
“It looks as if it might have historic significance.” That was Qwilleran’s tactful way of saying that it was moldy with age and mildew.
With a revival of interest Chrysalis said, “It’s a family heirloom. My grandfather chased some revenuers with a shotgun once, and they ran so fast that one of them lost his hat. Grampa kept it as a trophy. He was a hero in the mountains.”
“Was your grandfather a moonshiner?”
“Everyone was running corn liquor in those days, if they wanted to support their families. It was the only way they could make any money to buy shoes, and flour for making bread, and seed for planting. Grampa went to jail once for operating a still, and he was proud of it.”
“How long has your family lived in the mountains?”
“Since way back, when they could buy a piece of land in a hollow for a nickel an acre. They chopped down trees to build cabins and lived without roads—just blazed trails.”
“One has to admire the pioneers, but how did they survive?”
“By hunting and fishing and raising turnips. They carried water from a mountain spring and made everything with their own hands: soap, medicines, tools, furniture, everything. My grandmother told me all this. The affluent ones, she said, had a mule and a cow and a few chickens and an apple tree.”
“When did it change?”
“Actually, not until the 1930s, when road building started and electricity came up the mountain. Some of the Taters didn’t want electricity or indoor plumbing. They thought it was unsanitary to have the outhouse indoors. We still resist the idea of paved roads on Little Potato. We don’t want joyriders polluting our air and littering our roadsides. There are some older Taters who’ve never been off the mountain.”
Qwilleran said, “I have a lot to learn about mountain culture. I hope you’ll tell me more about it.”
They arrived at the golf club and presented themselves at the door of the dining room—Qwilleran in his blue linen blazer with a tie, Chrysalis in her jogging shoes and toreador hat. The tables were dressed for dinner with white cloths, wineglasses, and small vases of fresh flowers. “Reservation for Qwilleran, table for two, nonsmoking,” he told the hostess.
“Oh . . . yes . . .” she said in bewilderment as she glanced at her chart and then the roomful of empty tables.
“We’re a little early,” he said.
“Follow me.” The hostess conducted them to a table for two at the rear of the dining room, adjoining the entrance to the Off-Links Lounge, where golfers were celebrating low scores or describing missed putts with raucous exuberance.
Chrysalis said, “It sounds like a Tater horse auction.”
“May we have a table away from the noise?” Qwilleran asked the hostess.
She appeared uncertain and consulted her chart again before ushering them to a table between the kitchen door and the coffee station.
“We’d prefer one with a view,” he said politely but firmly.
“Those tables are reserved for regular members,” she said.
Chrysalis spoke up. “The other one is all right. I don’t mind the noise.”
They were conducted back to the entrance of the lounge. Dropping two menu cards on the table the hostess said, “Want something from the bar?”
“We’ll make that decision after we’re seated,” Qwilleran replied as he held a chair for his guest. “Would you like a cocktail or a glass of wine, Ms. Beechum?”
“I wish you’d call me Chrysalis,” she said. “Do you think I could have a beer?”
“Anything you wish . . . and please call me Qwill.”
“I learned to like beer in college. Before that I’d just had a little taste of corn liquor, and I didn’t care for it.”
A waiter in his late teens was hovering over the table. “Something from the bar?”
“A beer for the lady—your best brand,” Qwilleran ordered, “and I’ll have a club soda with a twist.” The drinks arrived promptly, and he said to his guest, “The service is always excellent when you’re the only customers in the place.”
“Want to order?” the young man asked. His nametag identified him as Vee Jay.
“After we study the menu,” Qwilleran replied. “No hurry.” To Chrysalis he said, “I see you’re wearing something handwoven. There’s a lot of artistry in your weaving.”
“Thank you,” she said with pleasure. “Not everyone really notices it. The women in my family have always been weavers. Originally they raised sheep and spun the wool and made clothes for their whole family. I was weaving placemats to sell when I was seven years old. Then, in college I learned that weaving can be a creative art.”
“Do you ever do wall hangings? I like tapestries.”
“
I’ve done a few, but they don’t sell—too expensive for the tourist trade.”
Consulting the menu she decided she would like the breast of chicken in wine sauce with pecans and apple slices, explaining, “At home we only have chicken stewed with dumplings.”
Qwilleran ordered the same and suggested corn chowder as the first course. He asked the waiter to hold the food back for a while and to serve the salad following the main course.
The chowder arrived immediately.
“Return it to the kitchen,” Qwilleran said to Vee Jay. “We’re not ready. We requested that you hold it back.” Vee Jay shuffled away with the two bowls.
Chrysalis said, “You know, just because the Taters cling to some of the old ideas like stewed chicken and dirt roads and no telephones, it doesn’t mean that they’re backward. They maintain old values and old customs because they know something that the lowlanders don’t know. Living close to the mountains for generations and struggling to be self-sufficient, they develop their minds in different ways.”
“You’re probably right. I’m beginning to believe there’s something mystical about mountains,” Qwilleran said.
When they were finally ready for the soup course, the waiter returned with the two bowls. By this time the chowder was cold.
Qwilleran addressed him stiffly. “Vee Jay—if that is really your name—we would have ordered vichyssoise or gazpacho if we had wanted cold soup. Take this away and see that it’s properly heated.” To his guest he said, “I apologize for this.”
In due time the chowder returned, accompanied by two salads. “We asked to have the salad served after the entree,” Qwilleran complained, losing patience.
The sullen waiter whisked the salads away and, before the diners could raise their soup spoons, served two orders of chicken in wine sauce, maneuvering the table setting to find room for the large dinner plates.
Now angry, Qwilleran called the hostess to the table. “Please look at this vulgar presentation of food,” he said. “Is it your quaint custom to serve the entree with the soup?”
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 11