The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “From what I hear, he had everything but wire taps.”

  “I still want to find his killer, but I need evidence before I take the matter to the police . . . How would you like to break for lunch, Colin?”

  “Not today. How about Monday?” the editor suggested.

  Qwilleran went alone to The Great Big Baked Potato, after he had stopped at Five Points for some delicacies for the Siamese, including the white grape juice that was champagne to Koko. Just in case Sherry Hawkinfield’s plane landed, he put in a supply of cashew nuts, crackers, and a chopped liver canape spread.

  His enforced confinement had whetted his appetite for steak, and he ordered a twelve-ounce cut, medium rare. “But no potato,” he specified to the waitress.

  “No potato? Is that what you said?” she repeated in a whining voice.

  “That’s right. No potato.”

  “But that’s our specialty.”

  “Be that as it may, hold the potato!”

  She returned with the manager. “Sir, is this your first time here?” he asked. “We’re famous for our baked potatoes.”

  “Where are they grown?” Qwilleran inquired, expecting to hear Idaho or Maine or Michigan.

  “Right here in the foothills, sir, where the soil is ideal for growing potatoes with flavor.”

  Now Qwilleran knew why these were the Potato Mountains! As he pondered a decision, a young woman at the next table leaned over and said in a pleasant voice, “Take the potato. It’s better than the steak.” He noticed that she was eating only a potato with a variety of toppings. He noticed also that she had hair like black satin. He took her advice. She had left the restaurant when his meal was served; otherwise he would have thanked her. The steak tasted of tenderizer, but the potato was the best he had ever eaten.

  By the time Qwilleran drove home, the fog had burned off in the valley, but halfway up Hawk’s Nest Drive it closed in like a white blanket, and he reduced his speed. Although it was difficult to see anything but a small patch of pavement, he was aware of rivulets of water running diagonally across the road. Farther along, the asphalt was covered with mud, and he slowed even more, hugging the cliff on the right and watching for downbound foglights. He had just passed the spot where the Lessmore house should be, when something loomed up in front of him. He eased on the brakes, leaned on the horn, and veered across the yellow line, stopping his car just before crashing into the obstruction. It was another vehicle, skidded diagonally across the road and smashed against the roadside cliff. Backing into his own lane, he turned on the flashers and hurried to the wreck. The cause of the accident was obvious: a mudslide . . . fallen rocks . . . a tree across the road.

  As he approached the driver’s side of the wrecked car, a woman behind the wheel signaled frantically and shouted, “I can’t open the door! I can’t open the door!” It was the woman with black satin hair.

  SIXTEEN

  THE WOMAN TRAPPED in the wrecked car on the mountainside was in a panic. “I can’t get out!” she screamed.

  “Are you hurt?” Qwilleran shouted through the glass as he tried the door handle. It was jammed.

  “No, but I can’t get out!”

  “Turn off the ignition!”

  “I did! What shall I do?”

  “Can you roll down the window?”

  “Nothing works!”

  It was a two-door model, and Qwilleran tried the opposite door, but the fenders were folded in, and the car was wedged between the wall of rock and the large tree that had tumbled down from the top of the cliff.

  “I’ll go for help!” he shouted at the driver.

  “It might explode!” she cried hysterically.

  “No chance! Stay cool! I’ll be right back!”

  Starting uphill at a jogtrot, he was amazed that his ankle would support the effort. Running downhill to the Lessmore house might have been easier, but he was sure the couple were both at work downtown. He knew how the road curved near the Wilbank residence, and he was sure Ardis would be at home on a day like this. If not, he was prepared to run all the way to Tiptop. Now he wished he had invested in a CB radio or cellular phone.

  At the Wilbank driveway he shouted “Hallo! Hallo!” while jogging toward the house. By the time the front door materialized through the mist, Ardis was standing on the deck.

  “Trouble?” she called out.

  “Accident down the hill! Call the police and a wrecker! A woman’s trapped in the car but not hurt!”

  “Del’s home,” she said . . . “Del, there’s an accident!”

  Qwilleran started back downhill and was picked up by the off-duty sheriff on the way to the scene. Together they set out flares. Already the sirens could be heard in the valley, amplified by the stillness of the atmosphere.

  The trapped driver was pounding on the window glass. “Get me out! Get me out!”

  “Help’s on the way! The sheriff is here!” Qwilleran reassured her, shouting to be heard. He noticed the rental sticker in the rear window. “Are you Sherry? I’m Qwilleran from Tiptop! Didn’t expect you in this fog! When did your plane land? I thought all flights would be canceled.”

  He was trying to divert her attention, but she was too frightened for small talk. “Could it catch fire?”

  “No! Don’t worry! You’ll be out in a jiffy!”

  She only glared at him and hammered on the window uselessly. So this was Sherry Hawkinfield! If she were not so terrified she would be quite attractive, he thought.

  Police, fire and rescue vehicles arrived, and Qwilleran stepped back out of the way, talking with Ardis, who had walked down to see the wreck. One man with a chainsaw was working on the tree trunk that barricaded the road. The rescue crew was cutting open the car with the Jaws of Life.

  When the woman was finally helped out of the wreckage, her first words were, “Hell! I didn’t buy insurance! How stupid! Why didn’t I take out insurance?”

  “Hi, Sherry,” said Wilbank. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Going to Tiptop to discuss business . . . Where is he?”

  “Here I am,” said Qwilleran. “As soon as they clear the road I’ll drive you up there . . . Hold on!” he shouted to the driver of the tow truck. “Let’s get her luggage out of the trunk!”

  “Howya!” said the man. It was Vance, the blacksmith. “Glad you’re gittin’ around ag’in.”

  The sheriff said to Qwilleran, “How’s everything at Tiptop?”

  “Wet outside, comfortable inside. Is this your day off? Why don’t you and Ardis come up for drinks at five o’clock?”

  On the drive to the mountaintop he said to Sherry, “Would you like something for your nerves when we arrive? A drink, or a nap, or a shower?” She was looking disheveled in her travel denims and rumpled hair.

  “All three,” she said peevishly, staring at the dashboard. “What rotten luck!”

  He tried to relieve the leaden silence that followed by making such insipid remarks as, “This is the worst fog I’ve ever seen.” . . . And then, “Well, at least we don’t worry about flooding up here.” . . . And as he carried her luggage up the stone steps, “Fog has an interesting smell, doesn’t it?”

  When at last they entered the foyer of Tiptop, she was composed enough to say, “I could use that drink. Can you mix a sherry manhattan?”

  “Six-to-one? Lemon peel?”asked Qwilleran, who had worked his way through college tending bar.

  “I want to freshen up first.”

  He gestured toward the stairway. “Make yourself at home. You have your choice of the four front rooms, and you know where the towels are kept. I’ll take your luggage up.”

  “I can carry it,” she said sharply. “First I need to make a phone call. Now that I have no car, my friend will have to pick me up here after work.”

  “Go ahead, and ask your friend to stay for a drink.”

  Soon he heard her on the phone saying, “Honey, you’ll never guess what happened to me!”

  After she had gone upstairs, Qwillera
n quickly retrieved the old-fashioned key from the drawer of the huntboard and hung it on the picture hook behind the Beechum painting—just in case she might be nosy. Her offhand manners led him to expect anything. What had she learned at that school in Virginia?

  A moment later he heard a scream on the second floor, and he dashed up the stairs three at a time. Sherry was standing in the upper hall looking wild-eyed and petrified. “Those cats!” she cried. “I’m deathly afraid of Siamese!”

  Koko and Yum Yum, who had emerged languidly from their bedroom after their midday nap, were yawning widely and showing cavernous pink gullets and murderous fangs. Sherry screamed again.

  “Take it easy,” Qwilleran said. “They won’t pay any attention to you. Didn’t Dolly tell you I had two cats?”

  “I didn’t know they were Siamese!”

  He settled the matter by announcing, “Treat!” and two furry bodies rippled down the stairs to the kitchen. He followed and gave them something crunchy to eat while he mixed a sherry manhattan for his guest. For himself he poured white grape juice and also gave Koko half a jigger in a saucer.

  As he was carrying the tray into the living room, Sherry came downstairs slowly, looking at everything. “It’s different. You’ve done something to it,” she said.

  “Sabrina brought in the plants and accessories to make it look more comfortable,” he explained.

  Sherry had changed into white pants and a white blouse with a red scarf—a striking complement to her pearly white skin and shiny black hair. It was a severe cut—shoulder-length like Sabrina’s, with bangs like Sabrina’s, and she tossed it back with a gesture he recognized.

  Qwilleran served drinks in the living room, which Sherry studied minutely as if inventorying the accessories and estimating their retail price. After he proposed a toast, she said, “Thanks for getting me out of that scrape.”

  “One good turn deserves another,” he replied. “You recommended the potato in the restaurant, and it was the best potato experience I’ve ever had. Why haven’t I been served one before?”

  “This is turnip country. Most of the commercial potato crop is shipped to gourmet centers in New York and California—”

  “—where they’re called Potato potatoes, no doubt,” he said, hoping to get a smile, but she was still stiffly out of sorts.

  Losing no time in getting down to business, she said, “So you’re interested in the painting.” She nodded toward the foyer.

  “That’s why I phoned you. Is it for sale?”

  “Everything’s for sale.”

  “What are you asking for it?” He recalled that Sabrina estimated it would bring $3,000.

  “Well, it’s been appraised at $5,000, but you can have it for $4,500.”

  “It’s a good painting,” Qwilleran said, “but isn’t that a trifle steep for the work of an unrecognized artist?”

  “Ordinarily it would be,” she said, “but this is no ordinary situation. It was painted by a convicted murderer, and the painting has notoriety value. I suppose you know what happened.”

  Qwilleran nodded sympathetically, but he thought, My God! She not only sent an innocent man to prison, but she’s profiteering from her treachery. Wasn’t the original price $300, including delivery? To Sherry he said, “I’ll give your offer some serious consideration.”

  “What about the Fitzwallow chest? You said you were interested. I’d let that go for $1,000.”

  “It’s a unique example of folk art. The question is: What would I do with it—unless I bought the inn?”

  “The way things are going in the Potatoes,” she said, “Tiptop will be a good investment.”

  “It needs a lot of work, though, chiefly lightening and brightening. The veranda makes the rooms dark even in broad daylight, as you must know. Today’s vacationers like sunlight.”

  “You could take off the veranda and build open decks all around the building,” Sherry suggested, showing some animation. “That’s what my mother always wanted to do.”

  “It would be a costly project,” Qwilleran objected.

  “The building’s listed for $1.2 million, but if you want to buy from me direct, I’ll let it go for a million. You can use the difference for remodeling.”

  “Is that ethical? Dolly Lessmore has the listing.”

  “She’s had it for almost a year and hasn’t done a damn thing. I’d like to unload it so I can concentrate on my retail business.”

  “Your shop has a clever name,” Qwilleran remarked. “Did you think of it?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking pleased. “Glad you like it.” She held out her glass. “Is there another one where this came from?”

  “Forgive me. I’m being an imperfect host,” Qwilleran apologized. “But only because I find our conversation so engaging.”

  When he carried the tray to the kitchen, both cats were in the foyer in their listening position—extremities tucked under compact bodies, ears pointed toward the living room. “You two behave yourselves,” he said quietly as he passed.

  Sherry was beginning to relax, and she accepted her second manhattan with more grace. “You mix a good cocktail, Mr. Qwilleran,” she complimented him.

  “Call me Qwill,” he reminded her.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Just the straight stuff. I never combine the grape and the grain.” He clinked the ice cubes in his white grape juice. “Incidentally, white looks very good on you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I wear it a lot. Well, tell me about you. What do you do?”

  “I’m an author,” he said with an appealing display of pride mixed with modesty and a hint of apology.

  “What have you written? Your books must be selling pretty well, but I never saw your name.”

  “I write textbooks,” he said, exercising his talent for instant falsehood. “They’re rather dull stuff, but they pay well.”

  “What’s your subject?”

  “Crime.”

  “Oh,” she said, and her eyes were momentarily downcast. “That must be fascinating. I’m afraid I don’t have much time to read. What brought you to the Potatoes?”

  “I was looking for a mountain retreat for the summer, where I could work without distractions, and the Potatoes were recommended by a friend who had camped here. I didn’t expect to rent anything this large, but I wanted to be on the summit of the mountain.” He decided it was unwise to mention the cats again.

  “Are you accomplishing anything?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve decided on a new project. I’m planning to write a biography of your father.”

  “No! Do you mean it?” Qwilleran thought her surprise was tempered by qualms rather than enthusiasm.

  “Yes, he was a remarkable man. I don’t need to tell you that. He made a great contribution to the growth and well-being of the community. He practiced an aggressive, adversarial style of journalism that is rare in these times, and his editorials were blockbusters. Yet, there was a warmly human side to him as well.” Qwilleran thought, I can’t believe I’m saying this! “I’m referring to his love of family, his deep sorrow at the loss of his sons; the pain he must have suffered over your mother’s illness . . . I suppose you were a great source of support and comfort to him.” Searching her face for reactions, he found her attempts to assume the right expression almost comical. “The city is planning to name a scenic drive after your father. Do you think he would approve?”

  “I think he’d rather have the city named after him,” she said in a burst of candor brought on by the second manhattan.

  “Did you have a good father-daughter relationship?” he asked innocently.

  “Well, to tell the truth, Qwill, I was one of those early mistakes that happen to young couples. My parents were still in college when I was born, and my father was not too happy about it. Besides, he preferred sons to daughters. But in recent years we developed a real friendship. That happens when you get older, I guess.”

  Or when the prospect of an inher
itance looms on the horizon, Qwilleran thought.

  “We’d reached the point,” she continued, “where he’d confide in me and I felt free to discuss my problems with him. So his death was a terrible loss to me . . . What’s that?” She stiffened with fright and looked toward the foyer, where sounds of thumping and muttering and whimpering could be heard.

  Qwilleran said, “The cat’s talking to himself. He’s faced with some kind of problem. Excuse me a moment.”

  Koko was on the floor, writhing and biting his paw, and Qwilleran released him from the entanglement of a long hair, thinking as he did so, This is the second time! Most unusual!

  “He had something caught in his toes,” he explained to his guest when he returned.

  She had been sitting on the sofa with her back to one of the folding screens, but now she was walking around to inspect the rented furnishings. It appeared to Qwilleran that she kept glancing at the secretary desk at the far end of the room.

  He said, “How do you like Sabrina’s idea for foreshortening the room with folding screens?”

  “Neat,” she said without enthusiasm. She sat down again and helped herself to cashews.

  “Gray was apparently your mother’s favorite color. Sabrina said she had beautiful gray eyes.”

  “Yes, she liked gray. She always wore it.”

  “You have your mother’s eyes, Sherry.”

  “I guess I do,” she replied vaguely as if preoccupied.

  “Sorry to hear about her illness.” Sherry was fidgeting, and Qwilleran was working hard to engage her attention. “I haven’t been able to find Lake Batata. Is it a myth?”

  “No, it’s there. That’s where my brothers used to go fishing.”

  “I assume that you don’t care for fishing.”

  “I was never invited,” she said with a half-hearted shrug.

  “Do you remember when Lake Batata was a waterfall?”

  “Uh . . . yes, I remember. In winter it was one big icicle as high as a ten-story building . . . Excuse me, Qwill, but I think I could use that nap now. The accident, you know . . . and the drinks . . .”

  “Yes, of course. I understand.”