The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Riker said, “I knew you were making a mistake by going into those mountains. You should never stray from solid concrete. How bad is the ankle? Did you have it X-rayed?”

  “You know I always avoid X rays if possible. I’m using ice packs and some homemade liniment from one of the mountain women.”

  “How’s the weather?”

  “Rotten. If it doesn’t rain all day, it rains all night. They never told me I was moving to a rain forest.”

  “Glad to hear it! Now maybe you’ll stay indoors and write a piece for us. We need something for Friday. Could you rip something off and get it faxed?”

  “The most interesting possibility,” Qwilleran said, “is a topic I’m not prepared to cover as yet—the murder that took place here a year ago.”

  “I hope you’re not going to get sidetracked into some kind of unauthorized investigation, Qwill.”

  “That remains to be seen. The case involves power politics and possibly perjury on a grand scale. I have a hunch that the wrong man was convicted.”

  Riker groaned. He knew all about Qwilleran’s hunches and found it futile to discourage him from following them up. Reluctant to take him seriously, however, he asked, “What does the Inspector General think about the case?”

  “Koko is busy doing what cats do. Right now he’s rolling on the floor in front of the telephone chest; somehow it turns him on. I’m worried about Yum Yum, though. I may have to take her to the doctor.”

  “I suppose you heard about Dr. Goodwinter. I saw Dr. Melinda yesterday, and she asked about you. She wanted to know how you are, and she batted her eyelashes a lot.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Blood pressure normal; appetite good; weight down a few pounds—”

  “How does she look?” Qwilleran interrupted. “Has she changed in three years?”

  “No, except for that big-city veneer that’s inescapable.”

  “Does she know about Polly?”

  “The entire county knows about Polly,” Riker said, “but all’s fair in love and war, and I could tell by Melinda’s expression that her interest isn’t entirely clinical.”

  “Gotta hang up,” Qwilleran said abruptly. “Doorbell’s ringing. It’s the telephone man. Okay, Arch, I’ll send you some copy, but I don’t know how good it’ll be.”

  He limped to the door, leaning heavily on his cane and assuming an expression of grueling physical pain.

  “Hey, this is some place!” said the installer when he was admitted. He was a wide-eyed, beardless young man not yet bored with his job. “I never saw the inside of Tiptop before. The boss said you live here alone and hurt your foot. What happened?”

  “I sprained an ankle.”

  “You’d better get off of it.”

  Wincing appropriately, Qwilleran shuffled into the living room and sprawled on the sofa.

  The installer followed him. “You buy this place?”

  “No, I’m renting for the summer.”

  “This is where a guy was killed last year.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Qwilleran said.

  “Used to be a summer hotel for rich people. My grandmother was a cook here, and my grandfather drove a carriage and brought people up from the railroad station. The road wasn’t paved then. He used to talk about drivin’ people like Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, and Madame Schumann-Heink, whoever she was.”

  “Famous Austrian opera singer,” Qwilleran said. “What did your grandparents do after the inn closed?”

  “Moonshinin’!” the installer said with a grin. “Then they opened a diner in the valley and did all right. They served split-brandy in teacups—that’s half brandy and half whiskey. The diner’s torn down now, but lots of old people remember Lumpton’s famous tea.”

  “Are you a Lumpton?” Qwilleran asked. He had counted forty-seven Goodwinters in the Moose County phone book but twice that many Lumptons in the Spudsboro directory.

  “On my mother’s side. My cousins own Lumpton’s Pizza. Sheriff Lumpton is my godfather. You know him? He was sheriff twenty-four years. Everybody called him Uncle Josh. He always played Santa for the kids at Christmas, and he sure had the belly for it! Still does. But now they have some skinny guy playin’ Santa . . . Well, I better get to work. Where d’you want the extension?”

  “Upstairs on the desk in the back bedroom,” Qwilleran said from his bed of pain. “Can you find it all right?”

  “Sure. If you hear it ring, it’s just me checkin’ it out.”

  The phone rang a couple of times, and eventually the young man came downstairs. “Okay, you’re all set. I left a phone book on the desk. Your big cat’s sure a nosey one! Watched everythin’ I did. The little one is bitin’ herself like she has fleas.”

  “Thanks for the prompt service,” Qwilleran said.

  “Take it easy now.”

  As soon as Qwilleran heard the van drive away, he went upstairs to find Yum Yum. He could now climb one step at a time if he led with his right foot and leaned heavily on his staff. The telephone, he discovered, had been installed on the desk as requested, but in the wrong room. It was in the cats’ bedroom, and Koko was being aggressively possessive about it. Yum Yum was on the bed, gnawing at her left flank, and there were small tufts of fur on the bedcover.

  Qwilleran brushed Koko unceremoniously aside and called the Wickes Animal Clinic. Dr. John, according to the receptionist, was in surgery, but Dr. Inez had just finished a C-section and could come to the phone in a jiffy.

  When Inez answered, he said, “This is Jim Qwilleran, your neighbor at Tiptop. Do you make house calls? Something’s very wrong with my cat, and I’m grounded with a sprained ankle.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, and when he described Yum Yum’s behavior, she said, “I know it looks kinky, but it’s not unusual for spayed females. We can give her a shot and dispense some pills. No need to worry. One of us will run up the hill with the little black bag around five o’clock. What happened to your ankle?”

  “I slipped on some wet leaves,” he explained.

  “Will this rain ever stop?” she complained. “The waterfall under our house is running so high, it may wash out our sundeck. See you at five.”

  Qwilleran babied Yum Yum until she fell asleep and then went to work on copy for the Moose County Something: a thousand words on the feud between the environmentalists and the Spudsboro developers.

  “What has happened,” he asked his Moose County readers, “to give a negative connotation to a constructive word like ‘develop’? It means, according to the dictionary, to perfect, to expand, to change from a lesser to a higher state, to mature, to ripen. Yet, a large segment of the population now uses it as a pejorative.” He concluded the column by saying, “The civic leaders of Moose County who are campaigning for ‘development’ should take a hard look at the semantics of a word that sounds so commendable and can be so destructive.”

  “And now, old boy,” he said to Koko, who had been sitting on the desk enjoying the vibrations of the typewriter, “I’ve got to figure out how to get this stuff faxed. May I use your phone?” He tottered into the cats’ room and called the manager of the Five Points Market, saying, “This is Jim Qwilleran at Tiptop. Do you remember me?”

  “Sure do!” said the energetic Bill Treacle. “Did you run out of lobster tails?”

  “No, but I have a food-related problem. I sprained my ankle yesterday. Do you make deliveries?”

  “Not as a rule. What do you need?”

  “Some frozen dinners and half a pound of sliced turkey breast from the deli counter and four hot dogs.”

  “I’m off at six o’clock. I’ll deliver them myself if you can wait that long,” said Treacle. “I’ve never seen the inside of Tiptop.”

  “I can survive until then. If you wish, I’ll show you around the premises and even offer you a drink.”

  “I’ll take that! Make it a cold beer.”

  At that point some twinges in the left ankle reminded Qwilleran that he ha
d been sitting at a desk too long. He sank into his lounge chair, propping both feet on the ottoman, and thought about Moose County . . . about the sunny June days up there . . . about the old doctor’s suicide . . . and about Melinda Goodwinter’s wicked green eyes and long lashes. Her return to Pickax after three years in Boston had crossed his mind oftener than he cared to admit. Her presence would definitely disturb his comfortable relationship with Polly, who was a loving woman of his own age. Melinda, for her part, had a youthful appeal that he had once found irresistible, and she had a way of asking for what she wanted. To be friends with both of them, to some degree or other, would be ideal, he reflected wistfully, but Pickax was a small town, and Polly was overpossessive. The whole problem would be tidily solved if he decided not to return to Moose County, and that was a distinct possibility, although he had not given it a moment’s thought since arriving in the Potatoes.

  Reaching for a pad of paper he jotted down some options, commenting on each to faithful Koko, who was loitering sociably. Yum Yum was on the bed, wretchedly nipping at her flanks and tearing out tufts of fur.

  Move back to a large city. “Which one? And why? I’m beginning to prefer small towns. Must be getting old.”

  Buy a newspaper. “Now that I can afford one, I no longer want one. Too bad.”

  Travel. “Sounds good, but what would I do about you and Yum Yum?” he asked Koko, who blinked and scratched his ear.

  Teach journalism. “That’s what everyone says I should do, but I’d rather do it than teach it.”

  Try to get into acting. “I was pretty good when I was in college, and television has increased the opportunities since then.”

  Build a hotel in Pickax. “God knows it needs a new one! We could go six stories high and call it the Pickax Towers.”

  He had been so intent on planning the rest of his life that he failed to hear a car pulling into the parking lot, but Koko heard it and raced downstairs. Qwilleran followed, descending the stairs lamely. Through the glass of the French doors he could see the top of an umbrella, ploddingly ascending the twenty-five steps. It reached the veranda, and Qwilleran—sloppily attired, unshaven, and leaning on a cane—recognized the last person in the world he wanted to see.

  THIRTEEN

  QWILLERAN RECOGNIZED THE hat waiting outside the front door—a large one with a brim like a banking plane—and wished he could slink back upstairs, but it was too late. She had caught sight of him through the glass panes.

  “A thousand pardons!” she cried when he opened the door in his grubby condition. “I’m Vonda Dudley Wix. I’m calling at an inopportune time. I should have telephoned first. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course.” He remembered not only the hat but also the young-old face beneath it and the scarf tied in a perky bow under her chin. “Come in,” he said, exaggerating his limp and his facial expressions of agony.

  “I won’t stay,” she said. “Colin told me about your misfortune, and I brought you some of my Chocolate Whoppers to boost your morale.” She was holding a paper plate covered with foil.

  “Thank you. I need a boost,” he said, brightening at the mention of something chocolate. “Will you come in for a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” she said as she parked her umbrella on the veranda. “It goes to my head and makes me quite tipsy.”

  “I don’t have tea. How about a glass of apple juice?”

  “Oh, feathers! I’ll throw discretion to the winds and have coffee,” she said airily, “if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “No trouble—that is, if you don’t mind drinking it in the kitchen. My computerized coffeemaker does all the work.”

  Leaning on his carved walking staff he conducted her slowly to the rear of the house, while she chattered about her last visit to Tiptop, and how it had changed, and what delightful parties the Hawkinfields used to give in the old days.

  Qwilleran pressed the button on the coffeemaker (the dial was set permanently at Extra Strong) and unwrapped the cookies: three inches in diameter, an inch thick, and loaded with morsels of chocolate and chunks of walnuts.

  “They’re a trifle excessive,” said his guest, “but that’s how my boss liked them. I used to bake them for J.J. once a week.” Qwilleran thought, That’s why he let her keep on writing that drivel. “This is the first time I’ve made them since he died,” she added.

  “I feel flattered.” He poured mugs of the black brew.

  “Are the rumors true, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “What rumors?”

  “That you’re going to buy Tiptop and open a bed-and-breakfast?”

  “I’m a writer, Ms. Wix. Not an innkeeper. By the way, the cookies are delicious.”

  “Thank you . . . Oooooh!” Taking her first sip of coffee, she reacted as if it were turpentine. Then, composing herself, she said, “This is the kind of coffee I used to prepare for my late husband. Wilson never drank alcohol or smoked tobacco, but he adored strong coffee. The doctor warned him about drinking so much of it, but he wouldn’t listen.” She sighed deeply. “It was almost a year ago that he had his massive heart attack.”

  Qwilleran set down his mug and touched his moustache with misgivings. “Was your husband overweight?” he asked hopefully.

  “Not at all! I have his picture right here.” She rummaged in her handbag and produced a snapshot of a broad-shouldered, muscular man with close-cropped gray hair. “He worked out at the gym faithfully and was never sick a day in his life!” Mrs. Wix found a tissue in her handbag and touched her eyes carefully. “He died not long after J.J. They were business associates, you know.”

  Qwilleran thought, It would be interesting to know what kind of stress triggered the attack. Shock at the murder of his colleague? Fear for his own life? Anxiety about his financial future? Guilt of some kind? . . . Stalling for time while he formulated a pertinent question, Qwilleran changed the subject. “You spell your name W-i-x, but there’s a street downtown spelled W-i-c-k-s and an animal clinic spelled W-i-c-k-e-s. Any connection there?”

  “Are you interested in genealogy?” she asked with sudden animation. “All three names go back to my husband’s great-great-grandfather, Hannibal W-i-x-o-m, who settled here in 1812 and operated a grist mill. He had several daughters but only one son, George, who married Abigail Lumpton and earned his living by making furniture. He shortened the name to W-i-x, and some of his descendents became W-i-c-k-s or W-i-c-k-e-s, because they weren’t careful about the spelling on county records in those days.”

  Qwilleran nodded, although his mind was elsewhere.

  “Interestingly,” she went on, “I’ve been able to trace families by the name of W-i-x in Vermont, Indiana, and recently Utah. Actually the name originated in England, the family being founded by Gregory W-i-c-k-s-h-a-m, who fought in the War of the Roses. Subsequent branches of the family altered it to W-i-c-k-s-u-m or W-i-x-x-o-m, one of the latter being quite high up in the English court. Don’t you find this intriguing?” she asked.

  Qwilleran blinked and said, “Yes, indeed. May I fill your cup?”

  “Only halfway. It’s very strong. But so good!” She adjusted her hat primly.

  “That’s a handsome hat, Ms. Wix, and you wear it very well. Not every woman could carry it off.”

  “Thank you. It’s supposed to enhance my best profile.” She tilted her head coquettishly.

  “How long was your husband associated with Hawkinfield?”

  “Ever since the beginning of Tiptop Estates. J.J. thought highly of Wilson as a builder and was instrumental in getting him elected to the city council. Of course, my husband knew how to handle him,” she said with a sly, conspiratorial smile. “Wilson simply let him have his own way!”

  An ideal pair, Qwilleran thought. The quintessential yes man and the quintessential apple polisher.

  “May I remove my scarf?” she was asking. “It’s a trifle warm.”

  “By all means. Make yourself comfortable. Are you sure you won’t have a cookie?”
>
  She whipped off her scarf with evident relief. “No, I made them expressly for you.”

  Qwilleran asked casually, “I imagine you and your husband were shocked by Hawkinfield’s murder. Where were you when you heard the news?”

  “Let me see . . . It was Father’s Day. I gave Wilson a present and took him to dinner at the golf club. As soon as we walked into the dining room, the hostess broke the news, and we were so distressed we turned around and went home. J.J. had been my employer and friend for twenty-five years, and he was so good to Wilson after we were married!” Ms. Wix removed her hat and mopped her brow with a tissue. “Wilson was one of the pallbearers, and he was supposed to be a state’s witness at the trial, but before he could testify, he collapsed—right there in the courtroom—and died on the way to the hospital.”

  “Were you there?”

  “No. It was all over by the time they notified me. A terrible shock! I was under a doctor’s care for three days.” She was now fanning herself with a brochure from her handbag.

  “You say Wilson was supposed to testify for the prosecution. Do you know the nature of his testimony?”

  “I think it was about death threats,” she said, gasping a little. “I’m not sure. He didn’t want to talk about it. It was all very upsetting to both of us.”

  “You mean threats that Forest Beechum had made?”

  “I think so . . . yes . . . I didn’t want to know about it.”

  “You don’t know if they were verbal or written?”

  “May I have a glass of water . . . cold?”

  While Qwilleran was adding ice cubes to the glass, the Siamese, who had finished napping upstairs, sauntered into the kitchen in search of crumbs. Moving in a ballet of undulating bodies and inter-twining tails, they performed their complex choreography around chair legs and table legs.

  “You have . . . three of them?” she asked between sips of water.