Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

At the rear of the drawer the miscellaneous papers and file folders included a large yellow legal pad on which Hawkinfield apparently drafted his editorials in longhand, using a soft lead pencil. The one on the pad was datelined two days after Father's Day of the previous year. It had never been published and had never journeyed beyond the center drawer of Hawkinfield's desk, but before Qwilleran could read it, the doorbell rang.

Beechum had finished the gazebo and was coming to collect payment. Qwilleran knew it was rash to pay for the work without inspecting it, but he trusted the man and even added a bonus for prompt service. He then asked the carpenter to move the desk back against the office door—but not before he had retrieved the yellow legal pad. After that it was time to shave and dress for dinner with Sabrina Peel, and Qwilleran transferred the pad to his own desk upstairs.

When Sabrina arrived she brought two pillows in bright red and gold, each a yard square, to stack on the living room floor between two windows. "I think they make the statement we want," she said. "They balance the color accents and add some desirable weight at that end of the room . . . How's the ankle, Qwill?"

"The Pain-and-Anguish Scale went down sixteen points when you walked in," he said, admiring the misty green silk dress that complemented her decorator-blond hair. "Shall we have a drink before we leave?"

"Mmmm . . . no," she said. "I've requested a choice booth, and they won't hold a reservation more than fifteen minutes. I hope you don't object to the no-smoking section . . . Where did you find that fabulous burl bowl? At Potato Cove? ... I see you need candles. I could have brought you some."

"I have plenty," he said. "The candle dipper sold me a lifetime supply, but I haven't found time to stick them in the candleholder . . . Let me check out the Siamese before we leave."

The two cats were exactly where he thought they would be—perched on top of the new floor pillows, looking haughty and possessive, their cold blue eyes challenging anyone to de-throne them.

With Qwilleran taking one experimental step at a time, he and Sabrina walked slowly down the long flight to the parking lot.

"Do you mind living alone?" she asked.

"I've tried it both ways," he replied, "and I know it can be a let-down to come home to an empty apartment, but now I have the Siamese to greet me at the door. They're good companions; they need me; they're always happy to see me come home. On the other hand, they're always glad to see me go out—one of the things that cats do to keep a person from feeling too important."

On the way down Hawk's Nest Drive she pointed out clients' houses. She had helped the Wilbanks select their wallpapers . . . Peel & Poole was re-designing the entire interior for the Lessmores . . . Her partner had done the windows and floors for the Wickes house.

"Are you the only design studio in town?" Qwilleran asked her slyly.

"The only good one," she retorted, flashing an arch smile at her passenger. "I'd give anything to get my hands on Tiptop and do it over, inside and out."

"Would you kill for it?"

He expected a flip reply, but Sabrina was concentrating on traffic at the foot of the drive and she ignored the remark.

They turned onto a road that roughly paralleled the overflowing banks of the Yellyhoo River and then led into the foothills where the restaurant called Pasta Perfect occupied a dimple in the landscape. It was a rustic road-house that appeared ready to collapse.

Qwilleran said, "In the flat country where I live, this place would look like a dump, but in the mountains even the dumps look picturesque."

"It was a challenge to blend its dumpishness with an appetizing interior," Sabrina admitted. "The owners wanted a shirt-sleeve ambiance that looked and felt clean, so I had the old wood floors refinished to look like old wood floors, left the posts and beams in their original dark stain, and painted the wall spaces white to emphasize all the cracks and knots and wormholes."

The restaurant was a rambling layout of small rooms that had been added throughout the years, and Sabrina and her guest were seated in the Chief Batata Room, where high-backed booths provided privacy as well as a mountain view through panels of plate glass. The focal point of the room was a painted portrait of an Indian chief smoking a peace pipe.

Sabrina said, "I want you to look at this staggering menu, Qwill. The fifteen kinds of pasta and all the sauces are house-made, fresh daily." For an appetizer he ordered smoked salmon and avocado rolled in lasagna noodles, with a sauce of watercress, dill, and horseradish. Sabrina chose trout quenelles on a bed of black beans with Cajun hollandaise—and a bottle of Orvieto wine.

"How are you enjoying your vacation?" she asked.

"So far, it's been nothing but rain and minor calamities, but let's not talk about that. What do you know about the Fitzwallow huntboard?"

"J.J. bought it at an auction, claiming there was a Fitzwallow in his ancestry. It's a monstrous thing, and his wife hated it."

"My cat has taken a fancy to it," Qwilleran said. "If he isn't jumping on top of it, he's rolling on the floor at the base. I think he has some Fitzwallow blood himself. One thing I wouldn't mind owning, though, is Forest Bee-chum's painting. What is it worth?"

"It's definitely worth $3,000, Qwill. As an artist he's an unknown, but it's good, and it's big! He did this painting of Chief Batata, too. I thought it would be amusing in the no-smoking room, but I'm afraid no one gets the joke. I suppose you're an ex-smoker like the rest of us."

"I used to smoke a pipe, thinking I looked thoughtful and wise while puffing. Also, re-lighting it filled in lengthy pauses when I didn't know what to say. Now I have to sit and twiddle my thumbs and look empty-headed."

"Qwill, I can't imagine you ever looking empty-headed. What do you do, anyway? There's been a lot of speculation in the valley."

"I'm a wandering writer, searching for a subject, and I think I've found it. I want to write a biography of J.J. Hawkinfield. He was a large, power-mad frog in a small puddle, with a bombastic style of writing, a penchant for making enemies, and a succession of family sorrows ending in his own murder. It's the Greek tragedy of the Potato Mountains! It calls for a Greek chorus of Taters and Spuds!"

"Will it be a whitewash?" she asked. "Or are you going to paint him warts and all?"

"Being a journalist by profession, I'm especially interested in the warts."

"Do you think you can get people to talk?"

"The public," Qwilleran said, "is immensely fond of talking to authors—especially about someone who's dead and can't lash back. I may start with ex-sheriff Lumpton."

Sabrina laughed. "That freeloader! Don't believe a word you get from Uncle Josh."

"What do you know about him?"

"Well, he and J.J. were feuding for years. He's in the trucking business now, and he's building an enormously expensive house. We're doing the interior with a no-limit budget."

"Trucking logs out of the mountains must be lucrative," Qwilleran commented.

"According to conventional wisdom, Uncle Josh was stashing the money away in a coffee can buried in his backyard all the time he was sheriff."