Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

He unlocked the door, expecting a greeting from two excited cats with tails held high. It was always dark in the foyer, day or night, and he switched on the lights, but no pale fur bodies emerged from the gloom. Nor were there any welcoming yowls. Instead, he heard human voices upstairs.

CHAPTER 15

When Qwilleran walked into the house and heard muffled voices upstairs, he instinctively looked around for a weapon before realizing he had a formidable one in his left hand. Brandishing the carved walking staff, which had the heft of a cudgel, and forgetting to limp, he started up the stairs two at a time. Halfway up he stopped.

He heard a man's voice saying, "Well, thanks for being with us, Bob; good luck at the tourney . . . and now a look at the weather ..."

Qwilleran finished the flight of stairs at a slower pace and found the cats on his desk: Koko lounging sphinx-like on the yellow legal pad and Yum Yum lounging sphinx-like on the radio, the controls of which were unwisely located on top. Neither of them stirred; both regarded him with infuriating complacency.

"You rascals!" he said after counting to ten. "Why didn't you tune in some good music?"

Only then did he realize he was walking without pain. Filled with immediate ambition he busied himself with activities neglected in the last few days: putting candles in the eight-branch candelabrum, throwing the baker's white duck uniform into the washer, writing a thank-you note to Mrs. Beechum with a testimonial for her homemade liniment. The storm roared in on schedule—with crashing thunder, flashing lightning, and pounding rain, and the Siamese were glad to huddle in Qwilleran's bedroom and listen to a chapter of The Magic Mountain. He had to shout to be heard above the tumult outdoors. When he tuned in the eleven o'clock news, flood warnings were in effect.

The next morning he opened his eyes and rotated his left foot painlessly; his elation knew no bounds. He was ready to plunge into the bogus research for the biography he had no intention of writing! He was eager to drive again after being grounded for three days. When he raised the blinds in the bedroom, however, the view from the window suggested that Tiptop was flying through a cloud-bank at an altitude of 35,000 feet. Furthermore, the meteorologist on the radio predicted dense fog on the mountains until late afternoon, with heavy humidity. The flood warning had been changed to flood watch after last night's rain.

Qwilleran stepped out onto the veranda and inhaled the moist smells of fog and drenched treebark, noting that only three of the twenty-five steps to the parking lot were visible; the rest were shrouded in mist. Sherry Hawkin-field's plane would never be able to land, he told himself.

Indoors he warmed a sticky bun in the oven, but his fingers faltered over the controls on the coffeemaker: Extra Strong or merely Strong? Three cups or two? Remembering the fate of Wilson Wix, he opted for moderation. Then he fed the cats and watched them gulp and gobble with jerking of heads and swaying of tails. In his earlier days he would have had neither the time nor the inclination to watch animals eat. In many ways Qwilleran had changed since Kao K'o Kung came to live with him.

After he had showered and shaved and dressed, he again checked the veranda; there were now four steps visible. He went upstairs and made a pretense of straightening his bed; housekeeping was not one of his strong points. Koko was back on the desk, sitting on the legal pad.

"Let me see that thing," Qwilleran said.

It was the editorial that Hawkinfield had written before he died, intending to run it the following week, and it brought a tremor to Qwilleran's upper lip. Rushing into the cats' room to use their phone, he called the editor of the Gazette.

He said, "Colin, I want to start my research on the Hawkinfield bio by interviewing Josh Lumpton. Can you break the ice for me and give me a good reference? Don't mention my book on crime." "How soon do you want to see him?" "This morning. Immediately."

"Sounds as if the ankle is okay and you're rarin' to go. How's the fog on the mountain? It's not too bad down here. The airport's still open. But the river's raging."

"The fog is dense, but I can get through. Where is: Lumpton's place of business?"

"South of town on the Yellyhoo, half a mile beyond the city limits—that is, if he isn't flooded out. If I don't call you back in five minutes, it means he's still high and dry and willing to see you. He's an agreeable guy."

There was no return call. When Qwilleran ventured down the steps, the mist swirled about him. When he drove down Hawk's Nest with fog lights on, nothing was visible except a few feet of yellow line on the pavement. Houses had disappeared in the whiteout, but he could tell their location by counting the hairpin turns. At the foot of the drive the visibility improved, however, and he dropped Sabrina's letter to Sherry Hawkinfield in a mailbox.

South of Spudsboro the flooding had almost reached the pavement, and the ramshackle Yellyhoo Market had virtually washed away. Truckloads of sandbags were traveling toward the downtown area where banks, stores, and offices could not afford to wash away. Lumpton Transport was located safely on higher ground—a fenced parking lot for truck cabs, trailers, flatbeds, refrigerated trucks, tankers, and moving vans. There was no name on the headquarters building, but an oversized sign painted on its concrete-block front shouted: YOU GOT IT? WE MOVE IT.

The receptionist conducted Qwilleran into the boss's private office, a plain room with a large girly-type wall calendar as the sole decoration. There, surrounded by a bank of computers, was a jolly mountain of flesh in khaki chinos, seated regally in a huge chair. His pudgy face was wreathed in smiling folds of fat.

"Come on in," he called out affably. "Sit you down. Colin said you were comin' over. What's the name again?"

"Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran spelled with a QW." He leaned across the desk to shake hands.

"Want some coffee? . . . Susie, bring some coffee!" the booming voice shouted in the direction of the door. "How d'you like our weather? Colin says you're stayin' at Tiptop."

"It's much wetter than I expected. Did you ever see it as bad as this?"

"Only once. In 1963. The Yellyhoo looked like the Mississippi, and Batata Falls looked like Niagara. I don't worry about the river reachin' us here, but if the county has to close South Highway, we're out of business."

The coffee arrived in heavy china mugs decorated with dubious witticisms, the boss's mug bearing the good-natured message: "I'm Fat But You're Ugly." "How about a jigger of corn to liven it up?" he suggested with his great, hospitable smile.

"No, thanks. I like my coffee straight."

"So you're gonna write a book about my old buddy! Great fella! Smart as the dickens! Never be another like him! But he was jinxed—had one stroke of bad luck after another."

Qwilleran wondered, Was it bad luck or was it calculated retaliation? He asked, "Didn't Hawkinfield make a lot of enemies with his outspoken editorials?"

"Nah. Nobody took that stuff serious. He was okay.

Did a whole lot of good for the community. Everybody loved him."

"How long were you sheriff?"

Twenty-four years!" Lumpton patted his bulging stomach with pride.