Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

"I thought I'd call and find out exactly what kind of accommodations you have in mind," she said. "We have a lot of rentals available. First off, do you want the inside of the mountain or the outside?"

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. Less-more 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.