The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Read online

  The choice stumped him for only a second. “The outside. I’ll leave the inside to the trolls.”

  “Let me explain,” Ms. Lessmore said with a laugh. “The inside slope faces the valley, overlooking Spudsboro, and you have spectacular sunsets. The outside faces the eastern foothills, and you can see forever. Also, it gets the morning sun.”

  “Do you have anything at the summit?” he queried.

  “Nice thinking! You want the best of both worlds! Now, if you’ll tell me your birthday, it will help me match you up with the right place.”

  “May twenty-fourth. My blood type is O, and I wear a size twelve shoe.”

  “Hmmm, you’re a Gemini, close to Taurus. You want something individual but practical.”

  “That’s right. Something rustic and secluded, but with electricity and indoor plumbing.”

  “I think we can do that,” she said cheerfully.

  “I like a firm bed, preferably extra long.”

  “I’ll make a note of that.”

  “And at least two bedrooms.”

  “For how many persons, may I ask?”

  “I have two roommates, a male and a female, both Siamese cats.”

  “Oh-oh! That poses a problem,” she said.

  “They’re well-behaved and not in the least destructive. I can vouch for that,” he said. Then, recalling that Koko had once broken a $10,000 vase, while Yum Yum would steal anything that was not nailed down, he added, “I’ll be willing to post a bond.”

  “Well . . . that might work. Let me think . . . There’s one possibility, but I’ll have to check it out. The place I have in mind is rather large—”

  “I was hoping for something small,” Qwilleran interrupted, “but under the circumstances I’d compromise on large.” He was currently living in a converted apple barn, four stories high, with balconies on three levels. “What do you mean by large?”

  “I mean large! It was originally a small country inn. It was converted into a home for the Hawkinfield family quite some time ago. There are six bedrooms. The last of the Hawkinfields really wants to sell—not rent—and it has great potential as a bed-and-breakfast operation. If you expressed an interest in eventually operating it as a B-and-B, Ms. Hawkinfield might consent to rent it for the summer. How about that?”

  “Are you asking me to perjure myself? I have no interest in a B-and-B . . . now or at any time in the future.”

  “This is all off the top of my head, of course. I have no authority. Ms. Hawkinfield lives out of state. I’ll have to consult with her and get back to you.”

  “Do that,” Qwilleran said encouragingly. “As soon as possible.”

  “By the way, we haven’t talked about the rent. How high are you prepared to go?”

  “Tell me how much she wants, and we’ll take it from there. I’m not hard to get along with.”

  Within a week the deal was sealed. The owner, who was asking $1.2 million for the property, graciously consented to rent the premises for the summer, fully furnished, to a gentleman with references and two cats, for $1,000 a week. Utilities would be provided, but he would have to pay his own telephone bills.

  “It wasn’t easy to convince her, but I did it!” Ms. Lessmore said proudly.

  Still unaccustomed to limitless wealth, Qwilleran considered the rent exorbitant, but he was determined to go to the Potatoes, and he agreed to take the inn for three months, half the rent payable in advance. Later he would wonder why he had not asked to see a picture of the place. Instead he had allowed himself to be captivated by the agent’s bubbling enthusiasm: “It’s right on top of Big Potato! There’s a fabulous view from every window, and gorgeous sunsets! Wide verandas, eight bathrooms, large kitchen, your own private lake! The Hawkinfields had it stocked with fish. Do you like to fish? And there are lovely walking trails in the woods . . .”

  Koko was sitting near the phone, listening, and when the conversation ended Qwilleran said to him, “You’ll have a choice of six bedrooms and eight bathrooms, all with a fabulous view. How does that strike you?”

  “Yow,” said Koko, and he groomed his paws in anticipation. Yum Yum was nowhere about. She had been sulking for days—pretending not to be hungry, sitting with her back turned, slithering out of reach when Qwilleran tried to stroke her.

  “Females!” he said to Koko. “They’re a conundrum!”

  With the agreement signed and the deposit made, he paid a formal visit to the walnut-paneled, velvet-draped office of Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter for a conference with the venerable senior partner. A meeting with Osmond Hasselrich always began with the obligatory cup of coffee served with the formality of a Japanese tea ceremony. The attorney himself poured from an heirloom silver coffee pot into heirloom Wedgwood cups, his aged hands shaking and the cups rattling in their saucers. Their dainty handles were finger-traps, and Qwilleran was always glad when the ritual ended. When the silver tray had been removed and the attorney at last faced him across the desk with hands folded, Qwilleran began:

  “After much cogitation, Mr. Hasselrich, I have decided to go away for the summer.” Even after five years of business and social acquaintance, the two men still addressed each other formally. “It’s my intention to distance myself totally from Moose County in order to plan my future. This agreeable community exerts a magnetic hold on me, and I need to escape its spell for a while in order to think objectively.”

  The attorney nodded wisely.

  “I’m going to the Potato Mountains.” Qwilleran paused until the legal eyelids stopped fluttering. Fluttering eyelids were the old gentleman’s standard reaction to questionable information. “No one but you will have my address. I’m cutting all ties for three months. Mr. O’Dell will look after my residence as usual. Lori Bamba handles my mail and will refer urgent matters to you. All my financial affairs are in your hands, so I anticipate no problems.”

  “How do you intend to handle current expenses while there, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “Apart from food there will be very few expenses. I’ll open a temporary checking account, and you can transfer funds to the bank down there as needed. The bank is the First Potato National of Spudsboro.” Qwilleran waited for the eyelids to stop fluttering and the jowls to stop quivering. “As soon as I know my mailing address and telephone number, I’ll convey that information to your office. My plan is to leave Tuesday and arrive in the Potatoes by Friday.”

  Although often disturbed by Qwilleran’s seeming eccentricities, Hasselrich admired his concise, well-organized manner of conducting business, little realizing that his client was merely in a hurry to escape from the suffocating environment.

  On Monday there was a bon voyage handshake from Arch Riker after Qwilleran promised to write a thousand words for the Moose County Something whenever a good subject presented itself. On Monday evening there was a farewell dinner with Polly Duncan at the Old Stone Mill, followed by a sentimental parting at her apartment.

  Then, early on Tuesday morning Qwilleran packed his secondhand, three-year-old, four-cylinder, two-tone green sedan for the journey. Despite his new wealth he still spent money reluctantly on transportation. Included in the baggage were his typewriter and computerized coffeemaker, as well as a box of books and the cats’ personal belongings. The Siamese observed the packing process closely, and as soon as their waterdish and pan of kitty gravel disappeared out the back door, they made themselves instantly invisible.

  TWO

  WHEN THE COMPACT four-door pulled away from the apple barn, both cats were in their carrier on the backseat, reclining on a cushion befitting their royal status, and Qwilleran was at the wheel contemplating a new adventure that might change his life. He planned to keep a diary during the journey, using the small recorder that was always in his pocket. It would capture his thoughts and impressions while driving, along with yowling remarks from the backseat, and he could add commentary when they stopped at motels. The following account was recorded on tape:

  * * *

  TUESDAY . .
. Left Pickax at ten-thirty, a half hour later than planned. The car was packed, and I was ready to take off, when the Siamese vanished. Nothing is more exasperating than delay caused by a last-minute cat hunt. First I found Koko on a bookshelf, doing his ostrich act behind the biographies, with six inches of tail protruding from the hiding place. With him it was a game, and the tail was intended to be a clue, but Yum Yum was in deadly earnest. She was huddled on a beam under the roof, accessible only by a forty-foot ladder. Curses! Rather than call the volunteer fire department, I opened a can of cocktail shrimp with an ostentatious rattling of utensils and remarks such as “This is delicious! Would you like a treat, Koko?” In our household the T-word is taboo unless a treat is actually forthcoming, so it always works. After a minute or two a series of soft thumps told me the princess was on her way down from her ivory tower.

  Having enjoyed their impromptu feast they hopped into their carrier, ready to hit the road. Did I say impromptu? I daresay the entire episode was plotted by those two incorrigible connivers!

  To avoid tiring my passengers, who are confined to 360 square inches of cushioned luxury, I plan to limit each day’s driving. At rest stops I release them from the carrier, giving them freedom to hop about the car interior, have a drink of water, and use their commode, which is placed on the floor of the backseat. At least, that’s the general idea; they usually ignore their commode until we arrive at a motel. Tonight we’ll stop at the Country Life Inn, which not only welcomes pets but supplies a friendly cat to any guest who wants feline company overnight. Extra charge for this, of course.

  TUESDAY EVENING . . . Here we are in room 17 of the Country Life Inn. I paid for a room with two beds, and the cats immediately went to sleep on the one I intended for myself. Meanwhile, I went out and had a decent steak at a so-called family restaurant where the waitresses wear granny dresses. More families are dining out these days. I was surrounded by broods of four or six children who screamed, spilled drinks, raced up and down the aisles, threw food, and otherwise made themselves at home. A spoonful of mashed potato and gravy narrowly missed my left ear, and I determined then and there to boycott wholesome family restaurants and patronize murky dives where the waitresses wear mini-skirts and fishnet tights, where sleazy characters hang around the bar, and where all the potatoes are french fried.

  WEDNESDAY . . . I gassed up and pulled away from the inn after a breakfast of buckwheat pancakes, eggs, and country sausages. (We have better sausages in Moose County.) Last night after I turned out the lights, the cats started roaming. I could hear their claws scurrying around the bathtub, and I assumed they were wrestling and having a good time. Later I discovered there was more to that caper than met the ear . . . Anyway, I fell asleep and didn’t hear another sound until the car doors started slamming at 7 A.M., at which time I opened one eye and looked over at the other bed. It was empty. Both cats and one dead mouse were in bed with me! Tonight we’re going to have separate rooms.

  We are now approaching urban areas and driving on freeways, and the furry folks in the backseat seem to be lulled by the steady rate of speed and drone of traffic. Or they may be drugged by the diesel fumes and broken-down oil burners on the highway.

  For lunch I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and parked at the rear near the dumpsters, thinking the garbage aromas would entertain the Siamese during my absence. After releasing them from the carrier, I took care to leave the windows ajar for ventilation and lock all four doors before going in for a quick burger and fries. When I left the restaurant fifteen minutes later I could hear a horn blowing—the continuous, annoying wail of an automobile horn that’s stuck—a short in the wiring or whatever. Imagine my embarrassment when I realized it was my own car! That roguish Koko was behind the wheel, standing on his hind legs, with his paws planted firmly on the horn button. As soon as he saw me, the rascal jumped into the backseat. I said, “That’s a clever trick, young man, but we could all be arrested for disturbing the peace.”

  It was only when I fastened my seat belt and turned the ignition key that I noticed an unauthorized object on the floor. It was below the window on the passenger side. Until I reached for it I couldn’t identify the thing. It was a piece of bent wire from a coat hanger. Car thieves—or worse, cat thieves—had tried to break in! I apologized to Koko . . . Was it a coincidence? Or is he now functioning as a burglar alarm? I can never be sure about that cat!

  WEDNESDAY EVENING . . . We checked into our motel at four-thirty. This time I paid for two rooms, both singles. The three of us are spending the evening together in room 37, the cats huddled on the bed watching TV without the audio, while I start a Thomas Mann novel I haven’t read since college. At bedtime I’ll turn out the lights and slip into room 38.

  THURSDAY . . . Now we’ve left the freeways behind. The scenery is more picturesque, but the forested hills are spoiled by billboards advertising discount stores and warehouse outlets. I went into one such store in a town called Pauper’s Cove and bought a pair of slippers, having left mine in Pickax. They had two thousand pairs but only one in size twelve. The slippers weren’t the color I wanted, but they were a rare bargain. Then I stopped for lunch at a local eatery and had some very good vegetable soup and cornbread. While I was eating, a guy rushed in and shouted something, and the entire place emptied—customers, cashier, cook, everyone! I followed, thinking it was an earthquake or a forest fire. But no! They were all standing around my car, peering in at the Siamese, who were leaping gracefully about the interior and striking magnificent poses. Whenever they know they have an audience, those two are shameless exhibitionists.

  Before starting to drive again, I went into another discount store, just to browse. They had a good price on driving gloves, so I picked up a pair to use in Moose County next winter—that is, if I’m still in Moose County next winter. Time will tell. I may be in Alaska. Or the Canary Islands.

  THURSDAY EVENING . . . Tonight I paid for two rooms at the Mountain Charm Motel, which would be improved by better plumbing and mattresses and fewer ruffles and knickknacks. When I put on my new slippers, I found out that the one I had tried on in the store was size twelve, all right, but the other was size eleven. That led me to inspect the driving gloves. They were both for the right hand! There’s one thing I like about Moose County: Everyone’s honest . . . Tomorrow we arrive in Potatoland.

  FRIDAY . . . Last leg of our journey. Koko and Yum Yum have just had their first experience with a tunnel through a mountain. They raised holy hell until we emerged into the sunlight . . . They’re getting excited. They know we’re almost there.

  Directional signs are beginning to assure me that Spudsboro really exists. The purplish ridges in the distance are turning into rounded mountains of misty blue, and the highway is heading toward a gap between them. Now and then it runs close to the Yellyhoo River . . . Just caught a strong whiff of pine scent from a truckload of logs coming out of the mountains . . . It’s been raining here; there’s a rainbow . . . We’re passing a well-kept golf course, a new hospital, three fast-food palaces, a large mall. Judging by the number of car dealers, Spudsboro is booming! . . . Here we are at the city limits—time to stop talking and concentrate on my driving.

  Upon arriving in the small but thriving metropolis of Spudsboro, Qwilleran found it to be a strip-city, a few blocks wide and a few miles long, wedged between two mountain ranges. Three or four winding but roughly parallel streets and a railroad track were built on a series of elevations—like shelves—following the course of the river. On one shelf a locomotive and some hopper-bottom cars were threatening to topple over on the buildings below. Qwilleran imagined the whole town might wash away downstream if hit by a hard rain.

  At the residential end of Center Street a conglomeration of Victorian cottages, contemporary split-levels, and middle-aged bungalows coexisted peaceably—with the usual hanging flower baskets on porches, tricycles on lawns, and basketball hoops on garage fronts. Next came the commercial strip: stores, bars, gas stations, small office buil
dings, barbers, two banks, and one traffic light. Naturally Qwilleran’s eye was quick to spot the newspaper office, the animal clinic, and the public library. In the center of town a miniature park was surrounded by the city hall, fire hall, police department, county courthouse, and post office. Pickets were parading in front of the courthouse, which had a golden dome too grandiose for a building of its modest size, and a police officer was issuing a parking ticket. Altogether it was a familiar small-town scene to Qwilleran, except for the mountains looming on each side of the valley.

  Somewhere up there, he kept telling himself, was the hideaway where he would be living and meditating for three months. It was comforting to know that he could rely on police and fire protection; that he could take his cats to the veterinarian and his car to the garage; that he could have his hair cut and his moustache trimmed. Although he wanted to get away from it all, he was reluctant to get too far away.

  At the Lessmore & Lessmore office on Center Street he angle-parked and locked all four doors, having rolled down the windows two inches with confidence that he would find no bent coat hanger on his return.

  There were two enterprises sharing the building: a real estate agency and an investment counseling service. In the realty office a woman with a husky voice was talking on two telephones at once. She was on the young side of middle age, short and rather pudgy, dressed in bright green, and coiffed with an abundance of fluffy hair. On her desk was a sign that destroyed Qwilleran’s preconceived notion of Dolly Lessmore: THANKS FOR NOT SMOK- ING.

  “Ms. Lessmore?” he inquired when she had finished phoning. “I’m Jim Qwilleran.”

  She jumped up and trotted around the desk with bubbling energy and outstretched hand. “Welcome to Spudsboro! How was the trip? Have a chair? Where are the cats?”

  “The trip was fine. The Siamese are in the car. When did you give up smoking?”