The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  When the silent woman arrived, she went to work with downcast eyes, making an icepack for the ankle and tearing up an old sheet for bandages. Then she poured antiseptic from a jelly jar onto the wounds and larded them with ointment.

  Yates said, “With that stuff you’ll never get an infection, that’s for sure. When you feel up to it, we’ll fix you up with pants and a coat and drive you home. You can say goodbye to those shoes, too. What size do you take? . . . Hey, Vance, get some sandals from the leather shop, size twelve.” He appraised the bandaging. “Man, you look like a mummy!”

  The wrappings on Qwilleran’s hands, elbows, and knees restricted his movement considerably, but the ankle torture was somewhat relieved after the ice pack and tight bandaging. He wanted to thank Mrs. Beechum, but she had slipped away from the bakery without so much as a nod in his direction, leaving him a jar of liniment.

  Kate said, “You should use ice again tonight and keep your foot up, Mr . . . .”

  “Qwilleran.”

  Yates buckled on the sandals, and Wesley brought him a carved walking stick, which looked more like a cudgel. “I don’t know how to thank you people,” he said.

  “We aim to be good neighbors,” said Kate.

  The three men drove away, Yates driving Qwilleran in his newly repaired car, and Vance following in his pickup. Qwilleran was abnormally quiet, still dazed by his experience. He felt that his precipitous slide into the black hole had never happened. Yet, if it were true and if he had not survived, would anyone ever know his fate? What would have happened to Koko and Yum Yum, penned up in a house that no one had reason to visit?

  The baker respected his silence for a while but threw curious glances at him repeatedly. Finally he said, “What really happened at Purgatory, man?”

  Qwilleran was jolted out of his reverie. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t wind up in that condition just by twisting your ankle.”

  “I told you I was trying to drag myself back to the cove. The path was muddy and full of sharp rocks.”

  “You were soaking wet from head to foot.”

  “There’s a lot of mist at the falls. You should know that.”

  Yates grunted, and no more was said for a few minutes. When they reached Hawk’s Nest Drive, he tried again. “See anybody in the woods?”

  “No. It was just as your wife said: no one around on Tuesday. This is Tuesday, isn’t it? I feel as if I’ve been on that trail a week!”

  “Did you hear anything unusual?”

  “Not with the water roaring! I couldn’t hear myself think!”

  “See anything strange?”

  “What are you getting at?” Qwilleran said with slight annoyance. “I saw the creek, boulders, fallen trees, mud, large and small waterfalls, flowers, more mud . . .”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. You had a rough time.”

  “Sorry if I barked at you. I’m feeling edgy.”

  “You should be! You’ve been through hell!”

  At Tiptop his rescuers helped him up the twenty-five steps, and the sight of Qwilleran dressed in baker’s whites and supported by two strangers sent the Siamese flying upstairs, where they watched from a safe elevation. He offered the men a beer and was glad when they declined; he needed a period of rest in which to find himself again. There were moments when he was still in the abyss, clinging to a slippery wall of rock.

  “I’ll bring up your baked goods,” Yates said. “Anything more we can do? Be glad to do it.”

  “There’s a burl bowl in the trunk of my car that you could bring up. And again, I don’t know how to thank you fellas.”

  When they had gone and Qwilleran had dropped on the gray velvet sofa with his ankle elevated on one of Sabrina’s pillows, the Siamese walked questioningly into the room.

  “You’ll have to bear with me awhile,” he told them. “You almost lost your chief cook.”

  They huddled close to his body, playing the nursing role instinctive with cats, and made no demands, although it was past their normal dinnertime. At intervals Koko ran his nose over the white uniform and grimaced as if he smelled something rotten.

  When the telephone rang, Qwilleran was undecided whether to answer, but it persisted until he grabbed his walking staff and moved to the foyer with halting steps.

  “I thought you were going to drop in this afternoon,” said Colin Carmichael.

  “I dropped into a waterfall instead,” Qwilleran said, recovering some of his spirit.

  “Where?”

  “At Potato Cove. I’m lucky I got out alive.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Except for a sprained ankle. Do you happen to have an elastic bandage?”

  “I could pick one up at the drug store easily enough and run it up the mountain in no time. Anything else you need?”

  “Perhaps one of those cold compresses that can be chilled in the freezer.”

  “No problem. Be right there.”

  “The front door’s unlocked, Colin. Just walk in.”

  Having maneuvered successfully to the foyer, Qwilleran hobbled to the kitchen to feed the cats. They were used to dodging his long strides and found his new slow-motion toddle with a stick perplexing. He was back on the sofa when the editor arrived.

  Carmichael frowned at the ankle. “That’s quite a balloon you’ve got there. Is it painful?”

  “Not as bad as it was. Excuse my attire; the baker at the cove had to lend me some clean clothes. Go out to the kitchen, Colin. There’s a bar in the pantry. Help yourself, and you can bring me a ginger ale from the fridge. You might also throw the compress in the freezer.”

  The editor lingered. “I hated to call you about the Tater thing, Qwill. Don’t hold it against me.”

  “Forget it. I’m not here to get involved in local politics or prejudices.”

  “What happened to your hands?”

  “I tried to save myself and grabbed some unfriendly rocks. The bandages make them look worse than they are.”

  When they settled down with their drinks, Carmichael glanced around the living room. “This is a lot of house for one guy.”

  “It was the only place that would rent to cats. I have two Siamese,” Qwilleran said.

  “Where are they?”

  “In hiding. They avoid veterinarians and editors.”

  “Our star columnist is going around with a red face since her interview with you. It seems you asked all the questions, and she did all the talking. She’s too embarrassed to call you again.”

  “Let’s leave it that way, Colin. Tell her I’m on a secret mission and don’t want her to blow my cover. Tell her anything. Tell her I’m opening a health spa for men only, with retired burlesque strippers as masseuses.”

  “There’s some speculation anyway—as to your identity, and your reason for being here, and why you’re willing to pay such high rent.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder about the rent myself.”

  “Well, tell me how you sprained your ankle, Qwill.”

  Qwilleran related the episode in cool, journalistic style without histrionics, underplaying his descent into the pit and his heroic struggle to climb to safety. In concluding he said, “Let me tell you one thing: I wouldn’t be sitting here tonight if it weren’t for some of those Taters . . . Your glass is empty, Colin. Go and help yourself.”

  “Not this time, thanks. My family’s expecting me home for dinner. We’re having a backyard barbecue for my little girl’s birthday . . . But tell me what you wanted to discuss in my office.”

  “It’s only a wild notion. How would you react to a biography of Hawkinfield? I’ve thought of writing one, but it would require a lot of research.”

  “That’s a great idea!” said the editor. “You can count on our complete cooperation. We can line up interviews for you. Everyone will be glad to talk.”

  “It’s only in the thinking stage,” Qwilleran said. “I might open with the murder trial, then flashback to J.J.’s regime at the Gazette, hi
s civic leadership, the loss of his family, and his violent end.”

  Carmichael was pounding the arm of his chair. “That would make a damn good movie, too, Qwill! You’ve got me all fired up! After this news a backyard barbecue is going to seem like small potatoes.”

  “I’ll need to get a transcript of the trial, of course, and there are considerations I’ll want to discuss with an attorney. Would you recommend Hugh Lumpton?”

  “Well,” said the editor, “he’s a great golfer. Drives a $40,000 car. Always has a lot of women around him. But—”

  “That doesn’t tell me what I need to know, does it?”

  “Just between you and me, Qwill, I wouldn’t even hire him to write my will—not that I have any firsthand experience, you understand. It’s just what I pick up at the club and at the chamber. You’d be better off going to one of the lawyers next door to the post office . . . Well, see here, is there anything I can do for you before I leave? Anything I can send you from the valley?”

  “Not a thing, thanks. I appreciate the items from the drugstore. And tell your daughter that Koko and Yum Yum said happy birthday.”

  “Great! She’ll flip! She loves cats, especially ones that talk.”

  After Carmichael had left, Qwilleran undertook a slow trek to the kitchen in search of food for himself, but he was intercepted by Koko, who was rolling and squirming on the floor in front of the Fitzwallow huntboard. Whatever his motive, the performance was a subtle reminder to Qwilleran that he had forgotten to mail Sabrina’s letter to Sherry Hawkinfield. It was still in the drawer of the cabinet, fang marks and all. He looked at the address and then called directory assistance for a telephone number in Maryland: a shop called Not New But Nice. He had to repeat it twice to make himself understood.

  When he punched the number, a recording device answered, but he was prepared; it was early evening, and he presumed the shop would be closed. In his most ingratiating voice he left a message that was purposely ambiguous:

  “Ms. Hawkinfield, please call this number in Spudsboro regarding a valuable painting by Forest Beechum that belongs to you . . .”

  Qwilleran turned to Koko. “Do you think that will get results? The key word is valuable.”

  “Yow!” said Koko, hopping on and off the huntboard in excitement.

  TWELVE

  QWILLERAN WAS SURE that Sherry Hawkinfield would not return his call until morning. It was her place of business that he had phoned. He sat on a kitchen chair trying to eat soup with a bandaged hand that could hardly hold a spoon, while his left leg was propped on another chair with a cold compress wrapped around the ankle. Watching him from a respectful distance were two Siamese with anxious eyes, and their solicitude did nothing but make him jittery.

  “I appreciate your concern,” he said, “but there are times when I wish you would go away.” They edged closer, looking doubly worried. Then suddenly they became agitated, running to and from the back door, Koko with his ears swept back and Yum Yum with her tail bushed. A moment later there was snuffling on the veranda and the click of claws.

  “It’s Lucy,” Qwilleran said morosely. “Keep quiet and she’ll go away.” But the cats only increased their frenzy, and Lucy started to whine.

  In no mood for domestic drama and muttering under his breath, Qwilleran kicked off the compress and limped to the refrigerator, where he found the four hot dogs he had bought for himself. He threw them to the overfed Doberman, and soon the commotion subsided, indoors and out.

  His irritability was a delayed reaction to the unnerving experience at the waterfall. Why did I come to these damned mountains? he asked himself. Polly would blame it on his impulsiveness; she often questioned his precipitate actions, doing so with a polite sideways glance of mild reproach. So did Arch Riker but with blunt disapproval. How could they understand the messages telegraphed to Qwilleran through his sensitive moustache? How could he understand them himself?

  He would have paced the floor if he had two good ankles. He would have enjoyed a pipeful of Scottish tobacco if he had not given it up. His books and radio were upstairs; so was his ottoman; so was his bed. Sooner or later he would have to tackle the ascent.

  To reach the top he sat down on the second stair and went up backward, dragging his hand-carved walking staff and accompanied by the Siamese, who were always entertained by the eccentric behavior of humans and who had determined not to leave him alone in his travail.

  As soon as he had sunk into his lounge chair and cushioned his left foot on the ottoman, the telephone rang.

  “Yow!” Koko yowled in his ear.

  “I’m not deaf!” he yelled back.

  There was a slim chance that it might be the call from Maryland, so he hoisted himself out of the chair and—groaning and muttering—bumped down the stairs on his posterior. He reached the foyer and grabbed the handset after the ninth ring.

  Qwilleran was taking a moment to adjust his attitude when a woman said impatiently, “Hello? Hello?”

  “Good evening,” he said with the silky charm and mellifluous voice that had thrilled women for three decades.

  Then, rather pleasantly she said, “Are you the one who called me and left a message? I’m Sherry Hawkinfield.” She had a young voice, a cultivated voice. She had gone to a good school.

  “Yes, I’m the one,” he replied. “My name is Jim Qwilleran.”

  “You sound . . . nice,” she said archly. “Who are you? I don’t recognize the name.”

  “I’m renting Tiptop for the summer. Dolly Lessmore made the arrangements.”

  “Oh . . . yes . . . of course. I just happened to come back to my shop after dinner, and I found your message.”

  “All work and no play makes . . . money,” Qwilleran said.

  “You’re so right! What did you want to know about the painting?”

  “It’s a fantastic interpretation of mountains, and I understand it’s quite valuable. Is it possibly for sale? If so, what are you asking for it? Also there’s an antique English huntboard in the foyer that has a great deal of primitive appeal. Ms. Lessmore tells me you’re disposing of some of the furnishings. Is that correct?” In the astonished pause that ensued he could visualize dollar signs dancing in her eyes.

  “The whole house is for sale,” she said eagerly, “completely furnished. It would make a neat country inn. Dolly says you’re a prospect.”

  “I’m giving it some thought. There are certain details that should be discussed.”

  “Well, I might fly out there for the weekend to see some friends in the valley. We could talk about it then,” she said with growing enthusiasm.

  “I’d appreciate that. When would you arrive?”

  “If I got a Friday morning flight, I’d rent a car at the airport and drive up to see you in the afternoon.”

  “Perhaps we could have lunch while you’re here,” he suggested cordially. “Or dinner.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “It would be my pleasure, I assure you, Ms. Hawkinfield.”

  “Then I’ll see you Friday afternoon. What’s your name again?”

  “Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW.”

  “I’m glad you called, Mr. Qwilleran.”

  “Please call me Qwill.”

  “Oh, that’s neat!”

  “May I call you Sherry?”

  “I wish you would. Where are you from?” She was beginning to sound chummy.

  “Another planet, but a friendly one. The Beverly Hills of outer space.”

  This brought a giddy laugh. “I’ll look forward to meeting you. Want me to call you from the airport and set a time?”

  “Why don’t you simply drive up to Tiptop? I’ll be here . . . waiting,” he said meaningfully. (With my ankle in a sling, he told himself.)

  “All right. I’ll do that.”

  “I don’t need to tell you how to find Tiptop,” he said, in what he knew was a weak jest.

  “No,” she giggled. “I think I remember where it is.”

  There we
re pauses, as if neither of them wanted to terminate the conversation.

  “Bon voyage,” he said.

  “Thank you. Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir.” Qwilleran waited for the gentle replacing of the handset before he hung up. Turning to Koko, who was waiting for a report, he said, “I haven’t had a phone conversation like that since I was nineteen.”

  Koko replied with a wink, or so it seemed; there was a cat hair in his eye.

  Once more Qwilleran went upstairs the hard way. He shooed the Siamese into their room, and as he pulled down the window shades in his own bedroom, he saw the revolving circle of light on Little Potato. Forest’s kinfolk were trudging with their lanterns in grim silence.

  His sleep that night was reasonably comfortable except when he shifted position rashly, and in the morning the ankle showed noticeable improvement despite the heavy atmosphere that usually aggravates aches and pains. Rain had started to fall—not torrentially but with steady determination, and according to the meteorologist on the radio it would rain all day. There was a danger of flooding in some areas.

  Qwilleran slid downstairs to feed the Siamese and make a breakfast of coffee and sticky buns. Also, in spite of his unwillingness to pay for extra telephone services, he called the company to request an extension. By exaggerating his predicament dramatically he wangled a promise of immediate installation.

  Next he had a strong urge to confide in someone, and he called Arch Riker at the office of the Moose County Something even though the full rates were in effect.

  “Don’t tell Polly,” he cautioned Riker when the editor answered, “but I’m sitting here with a sprained ankle, and I had a narrow escape yesterday.”

  “What fool thing have you been doing?” his old friend asked.

  “Taking some pictures of a waterfall that cascades down for about forty feet and disappears into a black hole. I almost disappeared myself. I’m lucky to get out alive. I lost the camera that Polly gave me, and it was full of exposed film.”