The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “To be perfectly frank, I don’t plan to be social while I’m here. My purpose is to do some necessary work in quiet seclusion, and I’m afraid any mention in your popular column would defeat my purpose.”

  “Have no fear, Mr. Qwilleran. I would cover that aspect in my profile and even envelop you in a protective air of mystery. Perhaps I might run up to see you tomorrow.”

  As a columnist himself, Qwilleran knew his reaction when a subject declined to be interviewed; he considered it a personal affront. Yet, he had no intention of being peeled as one of Vonda Dudley Wix’s potatoes. He said, “I’m still in the process of getting settled, Ms. Wix, and tomorrow I have another appointment downtown, but I could meet you somewhere for a cup of coffee and talk for a few minutes. Just tell me where to meet you.”

  “Oh, please come to my house and have tea!” she cried. “I live on Center Street in a little Victorian gingerbread cottage. Tell me when it’s convenient for you.”

  “How about ten-thirty? I have an appointment at eleven-fifteen, but I can give you half an hour.”

  “Delightful! Beyond my wildest dreams!” she said. “May I have a Gazette photographer here?”

  “Please—no photos,” Qwilleran said.

  “Are you sure? You’re such a handsome man! I saw you lunching at the club, and I adore your moustache! It’s so romantic!”

  “No pictures,” Qwilleran said firmly. Why, he wondered, did strangers feel free to talk to him about his moustache? He never said, “I like the size of your nose . . . Your ears are remarkably flat . . . You have an unusual collarbone.” But his moustache was considered in the public domain, to be discussed without permission or restraint.

  When he concluded his conversation with the columnist, he found Koko sitting on Lord Fitzwallow’s sideboard with ears askew, waiting for a recap.

  “That was Vonda Tiddledy Winks,” Qwilleran told him as he unbuckled his harness.

  “Yow,” said Koko, who never wasted words.

  “And you’re having an early dinner tonight because I’m going to a cocktail party. Maybe I’ll bring you some caviar.”

  Shortly after five o’clock Qwilleran walked down Hawk’s Nest Drive, past the Wilbank house, to Seven Levels. There were half a dozen cars parked there, and Dolly Lessmore greeted him at the door, carrying a double old-fashioned glass and wearing something too short, too tight, and too red, in Qwilleran’s opinion.

  “We were going to have it around the pool,” she said, “but everything is so wet after last night’s rain. Come into the family room, Jim, and meet your neighbors from Tiptop Estates. May I call you Jim? Please call me Dolly.”

  “My friends call me Qwill,” he said.

  “Oh, I like that! What will you have to drink?”

  “What are you having?”

  “My downfall—brandy and soda.”

  “I’ll have the same—on ice—without the brandy.”

  “Qwill, you remember my husband, the golf nut.”

  “Hi there,” said Robert with a handshake that was more athletic than cordial.

  “Are you getting comfortably settled at Tiptop?” Dolly asked.

  “Gradually. Sabrina Peel is coming tomorrow to throw a few things around and liven it up. Is it okay if I have a carpenter build a gazebo in the woods?”

  “Sure! Anything you like . . . as long as you pay for it and don’t take it with you when you leave,” she added with a throaty laugh. She steered Qwilleran into a cluster of guests.

  “These are your nearest neighbors, Del and Ardis Wilbank. Sheriff Wilbank, you know . . . And this is Dr. John and Dr. Inez Wickes, veterinarians . . . Qwill has two cats,” she explained to the Wickes couple. “John and Inez have a perfectly enchanting house over a waterfall, Qwill. It’s called Hidden Falls. Perhaps you’ve seen the sign.”

  “We thought it was a good idea,” said Inez with chagrin, “but honestly, it runs all the time, like faulty plumbing. There are nights when we’d give anything to shut it off, especially after all the rain we’ve had this spring.”

  “The water table is dangerously high,” said her husband, whose sober mien was emphasized by owl-like eyeglasses. “We have unstable slope conditions here, and we have to worry about mudslides. I’ve never known the ground to be so saturated.”

  The hostess introduced several other couples living on Hawk’s Nest Drive, and their conversation followed the usual formula: “When did you arrive? . . . How long are you staying? . . . How do you like our mountain? . . . Do you play golf?”

  Qwilleran was glad that no one mentioned his moustache, although the women stared at it with a look of appreciation that he had come to recognize. There were two other moustaches there, but neither of them could equal his—in luxuriance or character.

  It was a stand-up cocktail party, for which he was grateful. He liked to wander in and out of chatty groups or draw one guest aside for a moment of private conversation. He was curious by nature and an interrogator by profession. Catching Del Wilbank standing alone, nursing a drink and staring out at the pool, he went to him and said, “I’ve admired your house, Sheriff. It’s an ingenious design.”

  “We like it,” said Wilbank gruffly, “but it’s not everybody’s idea of a house. Look at those diagonal boards long enough and you start leaning to one side. Our property is three-point-two acres. Ardis wanted to see the sunsets, so we cleared out about fifty trees. The TV reception’s not very good.”

  “I presume you knew Hawkinfield,” Qwilleran said.

  “Everyone knew J.J.”

  “It was an unfortunate end to what I understand was a distinguished career.”

  “But not totally unexpected,” the sheriff said. “We knew something was going to erupt. J.J. was an independent cuss and didn’t pull any punches. It was a crime waiting to happen.”

  “I hear he went over the cliff,” Qwilleran ventured.

  Wilbank nodded grimly. “That’s a long way down! There was a violent altercation first.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “About two in the afternoon. Ardis and I were at home, waiting for our son to call from Colorado.”

  “Were there witnesses?”

  “No. J.J. was home alone. His daughter was visiting from out of town for Father’s Day, and she went down to Five Points for groceries. When she got back, she saw broken glass and a broken railing on the back porch. She screamed for her dad and couldn’t find him. Then she heard their Doberman howling at the bottom of the cliff. She came running down the hill to our house, hysterical. That was a year ago today. I was just standing here, thinking about it.”

  “Were there many suspects?”

  “All you need is one, if you’ve got the right guy. We traced him through his vehicle. When J.J.’s daughter went down the hill for groceries, she saw this old army vehicle coming up. When she got back, it was gone. Good observation on her part! It led us right to Beechum. He’d been a troublemaker all along.”

  “Did he have a record?”

  “Nothing on the books, but he’d threatened J.J. He was apprehended, charged with murder, brought to trial, and convicted—open-and-shut case. These Taters, you know . . . some of them have a murderous streak. You’ve heard of the Hatfields and McCoys? Well, that crew didn’t live in the Potatoes, but we have the same breed around here. Hot-tempered . . . prone to hold grudges . . . quick with the shotgun.”

  Qwilleran said, “That’s odd. I’ve been to Potato Cove a couple of times, and I didn’t get that impression at all. They come across as amiable people, totally involved with their handcrafts.”

  “Oh, sure! But don’t look at one of them cross-eyed, or you might get the top of your head blown off.”

  EIGHT

  QWILLERAN NURSED HIS glass of soda, sampled the hors d’oeuvres, and listened to the other guests at the Lessmore party as they discussed the problems of mountain living: the inadequacy of fire protection, the high cost of black-topping a circular drive, poor television reception, the threat of mu
dslides, the possibility of getting street lights and mail delivery on Hawk’s Nest Drive.

  When he thought it was time to go home, he asked the hostess for a taste of liver pâté for the Siamese—there was no caviar—and started the uphill walk to Tiptop. Hawk’s Nest ascending, he discovered, was steeper than Hawk’s Nest descending, and the calves of his legs, accustomed to the flatlands of Moose County, were already sore from Saturday’s ramble in the woods. He trudged up the slope slowly and found himself repeatedly smoothing his moustache. It had a peculiar sensitivity to certain stimuli, and he felt a sensation in its roots whenever he encountered prevarication, deception, or any degree of improbity. And now it was sending him signals. Koko, with his twitching whiskers and inquisitive nose, had the same propensity. In a way they were brothers under the skin.

  Qwilleran spent the rest of the evening reading The Magic Mountain and wishing he had some kind of muscle-rub. He read aloud to the Siamese, but the day’s exercise, coupled with lack of sleep on the previous night, sent him to bed early. In spite of the offending lace on the bed linens, he slept well until seven-thirty, when a noisy engine and broken muffler told him that Dewey Beechum had arrived to start building the gazebo.

  He pulled on some clothes hurriedly and went down to the parking lot to greet the carpenter. “Better build it over there,” he suggested, pointing to a small clearing.

  “T’other side o’ them trees is better,” said the man. “That’s where I’m fixin’ to put it.”

  “Well, I have to admit you were dead right about the rain, Mr. Beechum, so I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Rain ain’t over yit,” the workman mumbled to himself.

  Qwilleran watched him unload tools and materials from his truck and then helped carry them to the building site. To be sociable he remarked, dropping his subjective pronouns like a Tater, “Had a scare Saturday just before the rain. Went for a walk in the woods. Got lost.”

  “Ain’t safe ’thout a shotgun,” Beechum said. “See any bears?”

  “Just a big black dog. Are there bears in these woods?”

  “Not more’n two-hun’erd-pounders. Killed five-hun’erd-pounders when we was young-uns. Hard times then. Hadda kill our meat.”

  Qwilleran listened politely, then excused himself and returned to the house to feed the cats. Feeding the cats, he reflected, was the one constant in his unstructured life—the twice-daily ritual around which his other activities pivoted. A few years ago he would never have believed this to be possible. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear hammering and sawing,” he told them. “It’s being done for your benefit. I’ll be back around one o’clock, in case I get any phone calls.”

  After having breakfast downtown he bought four hot dogs, laid in a supply of flashlights, and opened a checking account at the First Potato National. He was on Center Street when a train rumbled through town on the ledge directly above the bank. The ground shuddered, and the roar of locomotive and freight cars reverberated through the valley.

  “Has there ever been a washout here?” he asked the young bank teller. “Did a locomotive ever come crashing down on the central business district?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said with the detachment of her profession. “Would you like plain checks or the ones with a mountain design? There’s an extra charge for designer checks.”

  “Plain,” he said.

  At ten-thirty he reported for his appointment with Vonda Dudley Wix. Of all the Victorian houses in the residential section of Center Street, the Wix residence had the fanciest gingerbread trim on gables and porch, as well as the greatest number of hanging flower baskets. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened, and the buxom Ms. Wix greeted him in a blue satin hostess gown and pearls. Her hair, he was sure, was dyed.

  “You’re so delightfully punctual, Mr. Qwilleran,” she cried. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable in the parlor while I brew the tea.”

  She swept away in ripples of satin that highlighted her rounded contours, while Qwilleran ventured into a room with red walls, rose-patterned carpet, and swagged windows. Reluctant to sit on any of the delicate carved-back chairs, he wandered about and looked at the framed photos on the marble-top tables and shawl-draped piano.

  “Do you like Darjeelin’?” she asked when she returned with a silver tea service on a tea cart.

  “When it comes to tea, my education has been sadly neglected,” Qwilleran said. It was his courteous way of saying he never drank the stuff if he could avoid it. His hostess arranged her folds of blue satin on the black horsehair settee, and he lowered himself carefully to the seat of a dainty chair with a carved back. Then he opened a barrage of questions: “Are these all family heirlooms? . . . How long have you lived in Spudsboro? . . . Does the river ever flood your backyard?”

  While giving conscientious answers Ms. Wix poured tea into finger-trap cups that were eggshell thin, using a pearl-handled silver tea strainer.

  “An excellent brew,” he remarked. “What is your secret?”

  “Don’t overboil the water!” she said in a confidential whisper. “My late husband adored my tea, but I never revealed my secret.”

  “How long has Mr. Wix been . . . gone?”

  “Almost a year, and I miss him dreadfully. It was a late marriage. We had only eight years together, eight blissful years.”

  “My condolences,” Qwilleran murmured, waiting a few respectful moments before resuming his interrogation: “Who painted the portrait of you? . . . Do you do your own decorating? . . . When was this house built?” He noticed a small recording device on the tea table, but she had forgotten to turn it on.

  “Isn’t it a charming house? It was built more than a hundred years ago by a Mr. Lumpton who owned the general store. Spudsboro was a sleepy old-fashioned town for decades until J.J. Hawkinfield took over the newspaper and brought the community to life.”

  “Was your husband a journalist?”

  “Oh, no! Wilson was a highly successful building contractor. He had the contract to build all the houses on Hawk’s Nest Drive. He was also on the city council. Wilson was responsible for introducing trash containers and parking meters on Center Street.”

  “I suppose you studied journalism in college?” he asked slyly.

  “Oh, dear, no! I simply had a natural gift for writing, and J.J. elevated me from subscription clerk to columnist overnight! That was twenty-five years ago, and I’ve been ‘peeling potatoes,’ so to speak, ever since. I’m afraid I’m telling you my age,” she added with coy girlishness.

  “Then you knew J.J. very well. How would you describe him?”

  “Let me see . . . He had black, black eyes that could bore right through a person . . . and a very important nose . . . and a stern expression that made everyone toe the line—employees, city officials, everyone! I believe that’s how he achieved such great things for the city. Better schools, new sewers, a good library . . .”

  “Did you feel intimidated?”

  “Not really,” she said with a small, guilty smile. “He was very nice to me. Before I married Wilson, J.J. used to invite me to swimming parties at Lake Batata and wonderful Christmas parties at Tiptop. It was very exciting.”

  “What happened to their three sons?” Qwilleran asked.

  She set down her teacup and turned to him with a doleful face. “They were killed—all three of them! The two younger boys were buried in an avalanche while skiing, and the older boy was lost on the river. Their mother, poor soul, had a nervous breakdown and is still hospitalized somewhere in Pennsylvania . . . May I pour you some tea?”

  Qwilleran allowed his cup to be refilled and then asked, “What was the local reaction to J.J.’s murder?”

  “We were all simply ravaged with grief! He was the most important personage in the Potatoes! Of course, we all knew it was one of those awful mountain people, and it’s a wonder he wasn’t lynched before he came to trial.”

  Qwilleran glanced at his watch and rose abruptly. “I regret
I must tear myself away. This has been a most enjoyable visit, but I have another appointment.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thank you for the delicious tea.”

  Vonda Dudley Wix escorted him to the door and said goodbye with effusive expressions of goodwill, and Qwilleran went on his way with smug satisfaction at his handling of the interview.

  Returning to Tiptop, he prepared for the visit of Sabrina Peel with somewhat more enthusiasm, chilling wine glasses, re-hanging the mountain painting, placing the iron candelabrum alongside the Fitzwallow chest. He also took care to move the secretary desk back across the door to J.J.’s office; someone had a reason for wanting him to keep out, and he thought it wise to preserve appearances.

  Promptly at one-thirty the designer arrived with a van-load of accessories and a young man named Jimmie to carry them up the twenty-five steps. There were wall hangings, toss pillows, a pair of eight-foot folding screens, accent rugs, lamps, and boxes of bric-a-brac.

  She said, “You don’t have to buy these things, you know. They were on the floor in our studio, and I’m renting them to you. The florist is on the way here with some rental plants. Do you intend to do much entertaining?”

  “I might have one or two persons in for drinks, that’s all,” Qwilleran said.

  “Then let’s close the French doors to the dining room and bank some large plants in the foyer . . . I never saw that before!” She pointed to the seven-foot, eight-branch iron tree.

  “I bought it from the blacksmith in Potato Cove.”

  “You have a good eye, Qwill. It shows some imagination, and it’s not overdone. Happily it distracts the eye from that hideous Fitzwallow huntboard, which I hasten to say did not come from our studio.”

  “You call it a huntboard? That’s appropriate. My cat is always hunting for something underneath it.”

  “You didn’t tell me you have a cat.”

  “I have two Siamese, and they’re up there on the stairs, watching your every move.”