Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

"Oh, sure," Qwilleran said aloud, huffing cynically into his moustache. "Frank Lloyd Wright was probably throwing up in his grave!" He had another look at the framed photographs of celebrities. Many of them were posed with a man having a prominent nose and a high forehead. That, he guessed, was J.J. Hawkinfield "whom we all know and love" and who probably died of an overdose of compassion for his fellow citizens.

At that moment he was summoned to the telephone.

"How's everything at Tiptop?" asked Dolly Lessmore's cheery voice.

"Didn't you get my message? The place has been ransacked," Qwilleran said.

"Sorry, I neglected to tell you, but Ms. Hawkinfield was very close to her mother and wanted some family mementos—things that her mother loved so much."

"Like the television? That's gone, too."

"I didn't realize that. Well ... we have an extra TV you can borrow for the summer."

"Never mind. I don't watch TV. The cats enjoy it, but they can live without the summer re-runs."

"But you do understand about the accessories, don't you? Ms. Hawkinfield couldn't bear the thought of her mother's favorite things going to strangers who might purchase the house."

"Okay, I'll accept that. I just wanted you to know that they weren't here when I moved in. Not even any fireplace equipment."

"Is everything else all right?"

"One question," Qwilleran said. "When we discussed this place on the phone, did you say it was roomy or gloomy? Either you're going to run up an enormous electric bill, or the cats and I are going to turn into moles."

"Today wasn't terribly sunny," the realty agent explained, "and you have to remember that twilight comes earlier in the mountains. Ordinarily the light is so bright on the mountaintop that you'll be glad the windows are shaded by a veranda. Did you find the bed linens and towels all right?"

"I went through the entire linen closet," Qwilleran said irritably, "and there was not a single plain sheet. They're all loaded with lace!"

Ms. Lessmore's voice registered shock. "You don't like it? That's all handmade lace! Those bed linens were Mrs. Hawkinfield's pride and joy!"

"Then why didn't her daughter take them?" he snapped. "Sorry. Forget I said that. You'll have to excuse me. I'm tired tonight. I've been traveling for four days with two temperamental backseat drivers."

"You'll get a good night's rest and feel better tomorrow," she said encouragingly. "Mountain air is great for sleeping."

After hanging up the phone Qwilleran had an overwhelming urge to call someone in Moose County. Whether he knew it or not, the loneliness of a mountain-top and the emptiness of the house were making him homesick. Polly Duncan's number was the one that came promptly to mind. The chief librarian was the major link in the chain that bound him to Moose County, although the link had been weakened since her acquisition of a Siamese kitten named Bootsie. Her obsessive concern and maudlin affection for that cat made Qwilleran feel that he was sharing her with a rival. Furthermore, he considered "Bootsie" a frivolous name for a pedigreed Siamese with the appetite of a Great Dane, and he had told Polly so.

Now, consulting his watch, he was inclined to wait until the maximum discount rates went into effect. Despite his net worth and his extravagance in feeding the Siamese, be was thrifty about long-distance calls, and phone service was not included in the rent. He invited the Siamese into bis bedroom for a read.

"Book!" he announced loudly, and they came running. They always listened raptly as if they comprehended the meaning of his words, although more likely they were mesmerized by his melodious reading voice. Being unable to find an ottoman anywhere in the house (that woman, be was sure, had taken the ottomans, too), he pulled up a second lounge chair and propped his feet on it. Then, with Yum Yum on his lap and Koko on the arm of his chair, he read about a fellow who went to the mountains for a few weeks and stayed seven years.

He read until eleven o'clock, at which time he telephoned Polly Duncan at her apartment in Pickax City. It was a carriage house apartment, and he had spent many contented hours there—contented, that is, until the unfortunate advent of Bootsie.

"Qwill, I'm so glad to hear your voice," she said in the pleasing, well-modulated tones that made his skin tingle. "I wondered when you were going to call, dear. How was the trip?"

"Uneventful, for the most part. We had a little difficulty in finding the top of the mountain, but we're here with our sanity intact."

"What is your house like?"

"It's an architectural style called Musty Rustic. I'll be able to appraise it more objectively when I've had a good night's sleep. How's everything in Pickax?" he asked.

"Dr. Goodwinter's wife finally died. She was buried today."

"How long had she been ill?"

"Fifteen years, ten of them bedridden. Just about everyone in the county attended the funeral—as a tribute to Dr. Hal. He's dearly loved—the last of the old-fashioned country doctors. We're all wondering if he'll retire now."

Qwilleran's mind leaped to Melinda Goodwinter, the young doctor with green eyes and long lashes, who had cured him of pipe smoking. Had she returned to Pickax for her mother's funeral? He hesitated to inquire. She had been Polly's predecessor in his affections, and Polly was inordinately jealous. Approaching the question obliquely he remarked, "I never knew if the Goodwinters had many children."

"Only Melinda. She came from Boston for the funeral. There's speculation that she might stay and take over her father's practice."

Qwilleran recognized the possibility as a hot potato and changed the subject. "How's Bootsie?"

"You'll be glad to know I've thought of a new name for him. What do you think of Bucephalus?"

"It sounds like a disease."

"Bucephalus," Polly said indignantly, "was the favorite horse of Alexander the Great. He was a noble beast."

"You don't need to tell me that. The name still sounds like a disease, although I agree that Bootsie eats like a horse. Back to the drawing board, Polly."

"Oh, Qwill! You're so hard to please," she protested. "How do the cats like the mountains? Does the altitude affect them?"

"They seem happy. We're reading The Magic Mountain."

"Do you have a good view? Don't forget to send me some snapshots."

"We have a spectacular view. The place is called Tiptop, but if I owned it, I'd name it Hawk's Nest."

"You're not thinking of buying, are you?" she asked with concern.

"I make quick decisions, but not that quick, Polly! I arrived only a couple of hours ago. First I have to get some sleep, and then go into Spudsboro tomorrow to do some errands. Also I've got to learn how to drive in these rnountains. One drives south in order to go north, and down in order to go up."

The two of them chattered on with companionable familiarity until Qwilleran started worrying about his phone bill. They ended their visit with the usual murmur: "A bientot."

"That was Polly," he said to Koko, who was sitting next to the telephone. "Bootsie sends his regards."