Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

"I don't drink coffee," she said as she parked her umbrella on the veranda. "It goes to my head and makes me quite tipsy."

"I don't have tea. How about a glass of apple juice?"

"Oh, feathers! I'll throw discretion to the winds and have coffee," she said airily, "if it isn't too much trouble."

"No trouble—that is, if you don't mind drinking it in the kitchen. My computerized coffeemaker does all the work."

Leaning on his carved walking staff he conducted her slowly to the rear of the house, while she chattered about her last visit to Tiptop, and how it had changed, and what delightful parties the Hawkinfields used to give in the old days.

Qwilleran pressed the button on the coffeemaker (the dial was set permanently at Extra Strong) and unwrapped the cookies: three inches in diameter, an inch thick, and loaded with morsels of chocolate and chunks of walnuts.

"They're a trifle excessive," said his guest, "but that's how my boss liked them. I used to bake them for J.J. once a week." Qwilleran thought, That's why he let her keep on writing that drivel. "This is the first time I've made them since he died," she added.

"I feel flattered." He poured mugs of the black brew.

"Are the rumors true, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"What rumors?"

"That you're going to buy Tiptop and open a bed-and-breakfast?"

"I'm a writer, Ms. Wix. Not an innkeeper. By the way, the cookies are delicious."

"Thank you . . . Oooooh!" Taking her first sip of coffee, she reacted as if it were turpentine. Then, composing herself, she said, "This is the kind of coffee I used to prepare for my late husband. Wilson never drank alcohol or smoked tobacco, but he adored strong coffee. The doctor warned him about drinking so much of it, but he wouldn't listen." She sighed deeply. "It was almost a year ago that he had his massive heart attack."

Qwilleran set down his mug and touched his moustache with misgivings. "Was your husband overweight?" he asked hopefully.

"Not at all! I have his picture right here." She rummaged in her handbag and produced a snapshot of a broad-shouldered, muscular man with close-cropped gray hair. "He worked out at the gym faithfully and was never sick a day in his life!" Mrs. Wix found a tissue in her handbag and touched her eyes carefully. "He died not long after J.J. They were business associates, you know."

Qwilleran thought, It would be interesting to know what kind of stress triggered the attack. Shock at the murder of his colleague? Fear for his own life? Anxiety about his financial future? Guilt of some kind? . . . Stalling for time while he formulated a pertinent question, Qwilleran changed the subject. "You spell your name W-i-x, but there's a street downtown spelled W-i-c-k-s and an animal clinic spelled W-i-c-k-e-s. Any connection there?"

"Are you interested in genealogy?" she asked with sudden animation. "All three names go back to my husband's great-great-grandfather, Hannibal W-i-x-o-m, who settled here in 1812 and operated a grist mill. He had several daughters but only one son, George, who married Abigail Lumpton and earned his living by making furniture. He shortened the name to W-i-x, and some of his descendents became W-i-c-k-s or W-i-c-k-e-s, because they weren't careful about the spelling on county records in those days."

Qwilleran nodded, although his mind was elsewhere.

"Interestingly," she went on, "I've been able to trace families by the name of W-i-x in Vermont, Indiana, and recently Utah. Actually the name originated in England, the family being founded by Gregory W-i-c-k-s-h-a-m, who fought in the War of the Roses. Subsequent branches of the family altered it to W-i-c-k-s-u-m or W-i-x-x-o-m, one of the latter being quite high up in the English court. Don't you find this intriguing?" she asked.

Qwilleran blinked and said, "Yes, indeed. May I fill your cup?"

"Only halfway. It's very strong. But so good!" She adjusted her hat primly.

"That's a handsome hat, Ms. Wix, and you wear it very well. Not every woman could carry it off."

"Thank you. It's supposed to enhance my best profile." She tilted her head coquettishly.

"How long was your husband associated with Hawk-infield?"

"Ever since the beginning of Tiptop Estates. J.J. thought highly of Wilson as a builder and was instrumental in getting him elected to the city council. Of course, my husband knew how to handle him," she said with a sly, conspiratorial smile. "Wilson simply let him have his own way!"

An ideal pair, Qwilleran thought. The quintessential yes man and the quintessential apple polisher.

"May I remove my scarf?" she was asking. "It's a trifle warm."

"By all means. Make yourself comfortable. Are you sure you won't have a cookie?"

She whipped off her scarf with evident relief. "No, I made them expressly for you."

Qwilleran asked casually, "I imagine you and your husband were shocked by Hawkinfield's murder. Where were you when you heard the news?"

"Let me see ... It was Father's Day. I gave Wilson a present and took him to dinner at the golf club. As soon as we walked into the dining room, the hostess broke the news, and we were so distressed we turned around and went home. J.J. had been my employer and friend for twenty-five years, and he was so good to Wilson after we were married!" Ms. Wix removed her hat and mopped her brow with a tissue. "Wilson was one of the pallbearers, and he was supposed to be a state's witness at the trial, but before he could testify, he collapsed—right there in the courtroom—and died on the way to the hospital."

"Were you there?"

"No. It was all over by the time they notified me. A terrible shock! I was under a doctor's care for three days." She was now fanning herself with a brochure from her handbag.

"You say Wilson was supposed to testify for the prosecution. Do you know the nature of his testimony?"

"I think it was about death threats," she said, gasping a little. "I'm not sure. He didn't want to talk about it. It was all very upsetting to both of us."

"You mean threats that Forest Beechum had made?"

"I think so ... yes ... I didn't want to know about it."

"You don't know if they were verbal or written?"

"May I have a glass of water . . . cold?"

While Qwilleran was adding ice cubes to the glass, the Siamese, who had finished napping upstairs, sauntered into the kitchen in search of crumbs. Moving in a ballet of undulating bodies and inter-twining tails, they performed their complex choreography around chair legs and table legs.

"You have . . . three of them?" she asked between sips of water.

"Only two, Koko and Yum Yum."

"I believe . . . I'm seeing double," she said.

"Does the cold water help?" he asked anxiously.

"This coffee ... I'd better go home." She stood up and quickly sat down again, her face alarmingly flushed. There were droplets of moisture on her brow and chin.

"Are you sure you're all right? Do you want to lie down? Try eating a cookie."

"Just let me ... get a breath of fresh air," she said. "Where's my hat?" She clapped it on her head at a careless angle, and he assisted her from the kitchen to the veranda as well as he could, considering his own unstable condition. What could he do? To drive her home would be an impossibility. She might have to stay. He might have to call a doctor.