And for this, Qwilleran thought, I’m paying $1,000 a week!
Only one picture remained, a painting of mountains, hung in the foyer over a chest on which were a telephone and a phone directory. He looked up the numbers of the Lessmore office and residence and left the identical message in both places: “Tiptop has been burglarized!” Hurried visits to the six bedrooms upstairs and the recreation room on the lower level confirmed the fact. Even the three fireplaces were stripped.
Meanwhile, impatient cries were coming from the kitchen. “Sorry! Sorry!” he apologized to the rampant Siamese. “Now it’s your turn to explore. I hope you like it better than I do.”
They entered the dining room warily, slinking under the table in search of crumbs, although the house had been empty for a year. Then Yum Yum sniffed an invisible spot on the carpet in front of the massive buffet while Koko rose effortlessly and silently to the serving surface. Once upon a time, Qwilleran imagined, it had groaned under platters of roast pheasant, chafing dishes bubbling with lobster thermidor, and eight-gallon bowls of brandy punch. That was almost a century ago, but it was no secret to Koko.
In the foyer Yum Yum discovered the balustered staircase and ran up and down like a pianist practicing scales. Koko was attracted to the painting of mountains and jumped to the top of the chest in order to rub his jaw against a corner of the frame.
“Please! Let’s not move any mountains,” Qwilleran pleaded as he straightened the picture. He had never decided whether Koko had an appreciation of art or a perpetually itchy jaw.
The staircase was wide and well-proportioned for the spacious foyer, which had a group of inviting chairs around a stone fireplace. On either side of the entrance were two old-fashioned hat-and-umbrella stands with clouded mirrors, a couple of tired umbrellas, and some stout walking sticks for tramping about the woods. The most conspicuous item in the foyer, however, was the bulky and unattractive chest holding the telephone. Alongside it were a pair of Queen Anne side chairs matching the ten in the dining room, and above it hung the painting of a mountain range. A very good painting, Qwilleran thought; it expressed the mystery that he sensed about mountains.
Yum Yum had now ventured into the living room and was stretched on an upholstered chair in what Qwilleran called her Cleopatra pose. Koko followed her but went directly to a tall secretary desk that had empty book-shelves in the upper half. He craned his neck and mumbled to himself as if questioning the absence of books; he was an avid bibliophile.
“Okay, let’s go!” said Qwilleran, clapping his hands for attention. “Let’s go upstairs and see where you guys are going to bunk.”
Neither of them paid the slightest heed. He had to carry them from the room, one under each arm. When they reached the staircase, however, Koko squirmed out of his grasp and headed toward the rear of the foyer. First he examined a Queen Anne chair, passing his nose up and down the legs, and then the frame of a French door, which looked newly painted.
“That’s enough. Let’s go,” Qwilleran insisted. “You’ve got three months to sniff paint.”
On the second floor there were two bedrooms at the rear that would get the morning sun, and the view was a breathtaking panorama of distant hills, a panorama unbroken by billboards, power lines, transmitter towers, or other signs of civilization. One of the rooms had a giant four-poster bed, a good-sized desk, and a pair of lounge chairs that appealed to Qwilleran. The back bedroom across the hall would be good for the Siamese. He put their blue cushion on the bed and left them there to explore their new surroundings while he made up his bed and hung towels in the bathroom.
Then he turned his attention to the upstairs hall, a kind of lounge where guests of the inn, once upon a time, may have been served their morning coffee. Here the gray walls were covered with memorabilia in the form of framed documents and photographs, items of no value to the thieves who had stripped the house. In old, faded photos (circa 1903) there were stiffly formal men in three-piece suits and derby hats sitting in rocking chairs on the porch, while women in ankle-length dresses and enormous hats played croquet on the lawn. Also exhibited in narrow black frames were photographs of present-day celebrities with inscriptions to “J.J.”
Of chief interest to Qwilleran was a clipping from the Spudsboro Gazette dating back only a few years. It was a column called “Potato Peelings” written by one Vonda Dudley Wix in a cloyingly outdated style. Yet it contained information of historic importance. The copy read:
The fashionable past of our lush and lovely mountain is about to be revived, gentle reader, in a way unheard of in 1903. In that memorable year the Tiptop Inn opened its snazzy French doors to a galaxy of well-heeled guests. Those were days of pomp and circumstance (ta-da! ta-da!), and the gilt-edged elite arrived by train from New York, Washington, and Chicago, some of them in their poshly private railway cars. (Sorry. No names.) They were transported up the mountain to the exclusive resort in sumptuous carriages driven by Dickensian coachmen in red velvet coats and top hats.
There they spent a gloriously sybaritic week in salubrious surroundings (look that up in your Webster, dears). The emphasis was on dining well (no one had heard of calories), but they also strolled along mountain paths or played battledore and shuttlecock (fun!) after which they relaxed on the endless veranda or repaired to the game room for some naughty gambling. Throughout the week they were pampered by an attentive staff, including an English majordomo, a French chef, and a bevy of Irish maids. (Oh, those Irish maids!) During the ten-course dinners a violinist played “Barcarolle” and Schubert’s “Serenade” (what else?), after which the evening musicale featured art songs by an oh-so-lyric soprano.
So, you are asking, what happened? . . . Well, the stock market went boom, and the richly rich stopped coming to Tiptop. A prolonged Depression and World War II delivered the coup de grâce to the poor old inn. After that it was owned by a Philadelphia bank for many cruel, cruel years, during which it was boarded up and sadly forgotten.
Then, in the 1950s, the inn was purchased, along with most of Big Potato Mountain, by Otis Hawkinfield, the highly respected owner of the Spudsboro Gazette, as a summer retreat. After his death his son (whom we all know and love as J.J.) refurbished the inn as a permanent home for his lovely wife and their four beautiful children. Fortune did not smile on them, alas, but let us skip swiftly to today’s happy news.
J.J. Hawkinfield has announced his intention to share Big Potato Mountain with the world! (Bless you, J.J.!)
“For two generations,” he announced in an interview today, “the Hawkinfields have been privileged to enjoy this sublime mountain environment. I can no longer be selfish, however, about the spectacular views, the summer breezes, the good mountain water, the wooded trails, and the breathtaking waterfalls. The time has come to share it with my fellow citizens.” (Cheers! Cheers!)
Yes! J.J. and a syndicate of investors plan to develop the inside of Big Potato for family living. The approach road has already been paved, and architects are working on plans for year-round homes to be built on lots of no less than three acres, in designs integrated with the mountain terrain.
Boasted J.J. with excusable pride, “I believe that Frank Lloyd Wright would approve of what we are about to do.” (Hear! Hear!)
Future plans call for a campground for prestige-type recreation vehicles, offering such facilities as a swimming pool, hot tubs, and tennis courts. (That’s class, my friends!) Condominiums and a mountaintop high-rise hotel with helicopter pad are also envisioned by J.J.
“Eventually,” he revealed, “the outer slopes of Big Potato will have a ski lodge and several ski runs. What I have in mind is the economic growth and health of the entire valley, as well as an opportunity for all to share in sports, recreation, and the joys of nature.”
“Oh, sure,” Qwilleran said aloud, huffing cynically into his moustache. “Frank Lloyd Wright was probably throwing up in his grave!” He had another look at the framed photographs of celebrities. Many of them were posed with a man
having a prominent nose and a high forehead. That, he guessed, was J.J. Hawkinfield “whom we all know and love” and who probably died of an overdose of compassion for his fellow citizens.
At that moment he was summoned to the telephone.
“How’s everything at Tiptop?” asked Dolly Lessmore’s cheery voice.
“Didn’t you get my message? The place has been ransacked,” Qwilleran said.
“Sorry, I neglected to tell you, but Ms. Hawkinfield was very close to her mother and wanted some family mementos—things that her mother loved so much.”
“Like the television? That’s gone, too.”
“I didn’t realize that. Well . . . we have an extra TV you can borrow for the summer.”
“Never mind. I don’t watch TV. The cats enjoy it, but they can live without the summer reruns.”
“But you do understand about the accessories, don’t you? Ms. Hawkinfield couldn’t bear the thought of her mother’s favorite things going to strangers who might purchase the house.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that. I just wanted you to know that they weren’t here when I moved in. Not even any fireplace equipment.”
“Is everything else all right?”
“One question,” Qwilleran said. “When we discussed this place on the phone, did you say it was roomy or gloomy? Either you’re going to run up an enormous electric bill, or the cats and I are going to turn into moles.”
“Today wasn’t terribly sunny,” the realty agent explained, “and you have to remember that twilight comes earlier in the mountains. Ordinarily the light is so bright on the mountaintop that you’ll be glad the windows are shaded by a veranda. Did you find the bed linens and towels all right?”
“I went through the entire linen closet,” Qwilleran said irritably, “and there was not a single plain sheet. They’re all loaded with lace!”
Ms. Lessmore’s voice registered shock. “You don’t like it? That’s all handmade lace! Those bed linens were Mrs. Hawkinfield’s pride and joy!”
“Then why didn’t her daughter take them?” he snapped. “Sorry. Forget I said that. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m tired tonight. I’ve been traveling for four days with two temperamental backseat drivers.”
“You’ll get a good night’s rest and feel better tomorrow,” she said encouragingly. “Mountain air is great for sleeping.”
After hanging up the phone Qwilleran had an overwhelming urge to call someone in Moose County. Whether he knew it or not, the loneliness of a mountaintop and the emptiness of the house were making him homesick. Polly Duncan’s number was the one that came promptly to mind. The chief librarian was the major link in the chain that bound him to Moose County, although the link had been weakened since her acquisition of a Siamese kitten named Bootsie. Her obsessive concern and maudlin affection for that cat made Qwilleran feel that he was sharing her with a rival. Furthermore, he considered “Bootsie” a frivolous name for a pedigreed Siamese with the appetite of a Great Dane, and he had told Polly so.
Now, consulting his watch, he was inclined to wait until the maximum discount rates went into effect. Despite his net worth and his extravagance in feeding the Siamese, he was thrifty about long-distance calls, and phone service was not included in the rent. He invited the Siamese into his bedroom for a read.
“Book!” he announced loudly, and they came running. They always listened raptly as if they comprehended the meaning of his words, although more likely they were mesmerized by his melodious reading voice. Being unable to find an ottoman anywhere in the house (that woman, he was sure, had taken the ottomans, too), he pulled up a second lounge chair and propped his feet on it. Then, with Yum Yum on his lap and Koko on the arm of his chair, he read about a fellow who went to the mountains for a few weeks and stayed seven years.
He read until eleven o’clock, at which time he telephoned Polly Duncan at her apartment in Pickax City. It was a carriage house apartment, and he had spent many contented hours there—contented, that is, until the unfortunate advent of Bootsie.
“Qwill, I’m so glad to hear your voice,” she said in the pleasing, well-modulated tones that made his skin tingle. “I wondered when you were going to call, dear. How was the trip?”
“Uneventful, for the most part. We had a little difficulty in finding the top of the mountain, but we’re here with our sanity intact.”
“What is your house like?”
“It’s an architectural style called Musty Rustic. I’ll be able to appraise it more objectively when I’ve had a good night’s sleep. How’s everything in Pickax?” he asked.
“Dr. Goodwinter’s wife finally died. She was buried today.”
“How long had she been ill?”
“Fifteen years, ten of them bedridden. Just about everyone in the county attended the funeral—as a tribute to Dr. Hal. He’s dearly loved—the last of the old-fashioned country doctors. We’re all wondering if he’ll retire now.”
Qwilleran’s mind leaped to Melinda Goodwinter, the young doctor with green eyes and long lashes, who had cured him of pipe smoking. Had she returned to Pickax for her mother’s funeral? He hesitated to inquire. She had been Polly’s predecessor in his affections, and Polly was inordinately jealous. Approaching the question obliquely he remarked, “I never knew if the Goodwinters had many children.”
“Only Melinda. She came from Boston for the funeral. There’s speculation that she might stay and take over her father’s practice.”
Qwilleran recognized the possibility as a hot potato and changed the subject. “How’s Bootsie?”
“You’ll be glad to know I’ve thought of a new name for him. What do you think of Bucephalus?”
“It sounds like a disease.”
“Bucephalus,” Polly said indignantly, “was the favorite horse of Alexander the Great. He was a noble beast.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. The name still sounds like a disease, although I agree that Bootsie eats like a horse. Back to the drawing board, Polly.”
“Oh, Qwill! You’re so hard to please,” she protested. “How do the cats like the mountains? Does the altitude affect them?”
“They seem happy. We’re reading The Magic Mountain.”
“Do you have a good view? Don’t forget to send me some snapshots.”
“We have a spectacular view. The place is called Tiptop, but if I owned it, I’d name it Hawk’s Nest.”
“You’re not thinking of buying, are you?” she asked with concern.
“I make quick decisions, but not that quick, Polly! I arrived only a couple of hours ago. First I have to get some sleep, and then go into Spudsboro tomorrow to do some errands. Also I’ve got to learn how to drive in these mountains. One drives south in order to go north, and down in order to go up.”
The two of them chattered on with companionable familiarity until Qwilleran started worrying about his phone bill. They ended their visit with the usual murmur: “À bientôt.”
“That was Polly,” he said to Koko, who was sitting next to the telephone. “Bootsie sends his regards.”
“Yow,” said Koko, batting an ear with his paw.
Qwilleran went outdoors and paced the veranda that circled the entire house, wondering why he was here alone when he had been so comfortable in Moose County among friends. From the front veranda he could see across the dark treetops to the valley, where pinpoints of light traced the city of Spudsboro. Directly below him the mountainside was dotted with the high-powered yardlights of the houses on Hawk’s Nest Drive. One bank of lights flooded a swimming pool like a baseball diamond illuminated for a night game.
Elsewhere, the view was one of total darkness, except for a circle of light toward the south. It appeared to be on a nearby mountain, and the circle appeared to be revolving. Qwilleran went indoors for his binoculars and trained them on the circle. It was definitely moving—a phenomenon that would bear investigation.
A chill wind was stirring, and he retired for his first overnight on Big Potato.
&
nbsp; FOUR
QWILLERAN TOOK A few precautions before falling into the arms of Morpheus. It was June, and the sun would be rising early; that meant the Siamese would be awake at dawn, clamoring for their breakfast. Fortunately there were blinds on the bedroom windows—opaque, room-darkening roller blinds. Qwilleran pulled them down in the cats’ quarters as well as in his own—four in each room. He also took care to leave their door open so they could go downstairs to the pantry and the turkey roaster that served as their commode. It was a long walk to the pantry, and they really needed a second commode, he thought. He added “turkey roaster” to his shopping list for the next day. There was nothing like a turkey roaster, he had discovered, for a non-tip, rustproof, easy-to-clean, long-lasting litterbox.
He expected to sleep well in the fresh mountain atmosphere. There were many claims made for living at high altitudes, he recalled as he started to doze off: People who live in the mountains are nicer . . . They live longer because the water and air are so pure . . . Heavy drinkers have fewer hangovers in the mountains . . .
He slept fairly well, considering the strange bed and the lace on the sheets and pillowcases. Whenever he shifted position he felt an alien substance under his chin. Nevertheless, he managed well enough until about five-thirty. At that early hour he was jolted awake.
Was it a gunshot? It brought him to a sitting position even before his eyes were open. At the sound of the second shot he was wide awake! The realization that it was happening inside the house catapulted him from the bed just as the third shot rang out! He dashed for the door, fearing for the cats and unmindful of his own safety. He yanked open the door in time to hear the fourth shot!
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 4
