Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

"When you be wantin' it?"

"Soon as possible."

The workman raised his green fedora and scratched his head. There was a line of demarcation across his forehead—weatherbeaten tan below, pasty white above. "Mebbe Monday," he said.

"That sounds good."

"Mebbe Wednesday. All depends. Could rain." Beechum started back to the pickup with his paint buckets and brushes.

Accompanying him down the steps Qwilleran took another look at the red pickup with one blue fender and said, "I believe I stopped at your house last night, Mr. Beechum, when I was trying to find my way here. A young woman kindly came to my rescue. I'd like to thank her in some way."

"Don't need no thanks," the man mumbled as he started the reluctant motor.

Qwilleran returned to the house to feed the cats, prepare some coffee for himself, and dress for a shopping trip to Spudsboro. Saying goodbye to the Siamese he inquired, "Will you characters be all right if I go out for a while?" They regarded him with a blank feline stare capable of undermining self-esteem. He knew that look. It meant, Just be sure you come back at dinnertime.

Before descending the twenty-five steps to the parking lot, he stood on the veranda and absorbed the view. Directly below him were treetops and an occasional odd-shaped roof or turquoise swimming pool. In the valley the dome of the courthouse glistened in the sunlight, and a meandering line of trees marked the course of the Yelly-hoo River. Across the river the West Potatoes rose majestically. He snapped a few pictures to send to Polly and then walked down the steps, wondering if his car would start, and if he still had a jigger of gas in the tank, and if one could safely coast down the mountain to a gas station in the valley.

There was no cause for concern; the small car could run on a thimbleful. Maneuvering it around the curves of Hawk's Nest Drive he was thankful for the smooth pavements, the guardrails, and the white and yellow lines. He passed the Wilbank and Lessmore houses and other contemporary dwellings with glass where one would expect walls—and walls where one would expect glass. All had neat, circular drives, blacktopped. In one large area cleared of trees a new house was being built, and a powerful backhoe was gouging out the hillside. At the bottom of the hill the entrance to Hawk's Nest Drive was marked by two stone pylons and a sign: TIPTOP ESTATES . . . PRIVATE ROAD.

Qwilleran filled his gas tank and asked for foolproof directions to Five Points—without shortcuts—and was amazed how easily he found the star-shaped intersection. At the Five Points Cafe he sat in a booth, ordered ham and eggs, and perused the Spudsboro Gazette, in which the headline news was Friday's excessive rain, seven inches in two hours. The river was running high, and the softball field on the west bank was too wet for play. Otherwise, Colin Carmichael's newspaper was similar to the Moose County Something, although it surprised Qwilleran to learn that the "Potato Peelings" column was still being written by Vonda Dudley Wix. She was gushing about Father's Day.

The radio at the restaurant was playing country music and advertising a sale of recliners at a local furniture store, and in an adjoining booth three men were arguing over their coffee.

A voice with a nasal twang said, "I see the damned pickets came crawling out of the woodwork again."

"They're there every Friday afternoon and Saturday," said another man with a high-pitched voice. "They're trying to embarrass the city when the weekend tourists arrive."

"There oughta be a law!"

"Ever hear of freedom of speech, Jerry?" This voice sounded somewhat familiar to Qwilleran. "It's their constitutional right. I'd carry a picket sign myself if I had a legitimate beef. Okay?"

The second speaker said, "The trouble is—things are going so good in this town. Why do they have to make waves?"

"They're a bunch of radicals, that's why!" said Jerry. "That whole crowd on Little Potato is radical to the eyebrows!"

"Oh, come off it, Jerry. Okay?"

"I mean it! Always trying to sabotage progress. Just because they live like bums, they don't want the rest of us to live nice and make a little money."

"Listen, Jerry, there should be a way to live nice without spoiling it for everybody else. Okay? Look what happened to the road up Big Potato! They call it Hawk's Nest Drive and put up a sign to keep people out. That's no private road! That's a secondary county highway, and they can't legally stop anybody from driving up there. When I was a kid, my dad used to drive us to the top of Big Potato where the old inn is, and we'd have picnics at Batata Falls. That was before they dammed it and made it Lake Batata. In those days it was nothing but a dirt road. Then J.J. pulled strings and got it paved at taxpayers' expense, after which they try to call it a private drive. I'm gonna get a picket sign myself one of these days. Okay?"

"Bill's right, Jerry. J.J. started it, and now his cronies are selling timber rights and slashing the forest for a motel or hotel or something. Investors, they call 'em. Not even local people!"

"Whoever they are, it's good for the economy," Jerry insisted. "It creates jobs and brings more people in. You paint more houses, and Bill sells more hot dogs, and I sell more hardware."

"Speaking of hot dogs," Bill said, "I've gotta get back to the store. See you loafers next week—okay?" As he paid for his coffee on the way out, Qwilleran recognized the manager of the Five Points Market and would have relished a few words with him about the Snaggy Creek cutoff, but Bill Treacle slipped out too quickly.

Qwilleran himself left the cafe soon afterward and drove downtown. He parked and walked along Center Street, noting the new brick sidewalks, ornamental trees, and simulated gaslights. Approaching the Lessmore agency, he thought of stopping to ask a couple of questions: Would there be any objection to a gazebo? What were the revolving lights on the mountain? The office was closed, however. Generally, Center Street had the deserted air of a downtown business district on Saturday when everyone is at the mall. There was no one but Qwilleran to read the picket signs in front of the courthouse: SAVE OUR MOUNTAIN ... NO MORE SLASHING . . . STOP THE RAPE . . FREE FOREST.

At the office of the Spudsboro Gazette a Saturday calm prevailed, and when he asked for Mr. Carmichael, die lone woman in the front office pointed down a cor-ndor.

The editor was in his office, talking to a law enforcement officer, but he jumped up exclaiming, "You must be Jim Qwilleran! I recognized the moustache. This is our sheriff, Del Wilbank . . . Del, this is the man who's renting Tiptop for the summer. Jim Qwilleran used to cover the police beat for newspapers around the country. He also wrote a book on urban crime."

"Am I intruding?" Qwilleran asked.

"No, I was just leaving," said the sheriff. He turned to the editor. "Don't touch this thing, Colin. Don't even consider it—at this time. Agreed?"

"You have my word, Del. Thanks for coming in."

The sheriff nodded to Qwilleran. "Enjoy your stay, Mr "

"Qwilleran."

The editor, a fortyish man with thinning hair and a little too much weight, came around the desk and pumped his visitor's hand. "When Kip told me you were coming, 1 flipped! You were my hero when I was in J school, Qwill. Okay if I call you Qwill? In fact, your book was required reading. I remember the title, City of Brotherly Crime. Dolly told me you were renting Tiptop. How do you like it? Have a chair."