The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

"Not at all," he said in a monotone intended to be civil but not encouraging.

"Mr. Qwilleran, I would dearly love to write a profile of you and your exploits, which Mr. Carmichael tells me are positively prodigious, and I'm wondering if I might drive up your glorious mountain this afternoon for an impromptu interview."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible," he said. "I'm getting dressed to go out to a party."

"Of course! You're going to be tremendously popular! A journalistic lion! And that's why I do so terribly want to write about you before all the best people engulf you with invitations. I promise," she added with a coy giggle, "to spell your name right."

"To be perfectly frank, I don't plan to be social while I'm here. My purpose is to do some necessary work in quiet seclusion, and I'm afraid any mention in your popular column would defeat my purpose."

"Have no fear, Mr. Qwilleran. I would cover that aspect in my profile and even envelop you in a protective air of mystery. Perhaps I might run up to see you tomorrow."

As a columnist himself, Qwilleran knew his reaction when a subject declined to be interviewed; he considered it a personal affront. Yet, he had no intention of being peeled as one of Vonda Dudley Wix's potatoes. He said, "I'm still in the process of getting settled, Ms. Wix, and tomorrow I have another appointment downtown, but I could meet you somewhere for a cup of coffee and talk for a few minutes. Just tell me where to meet you."

"Oh, please come to my house and have tea!" she cried. "I live on Center Street in a little Victorian gingerbread cottage. Tell me when it's convenient for you."

"How about ten-thirty? I have an appointment at eleven-fifteen, but I can give you half an hour."

"Delightful! Beyond my wildest dreams!" she said. "May I have a Gazette photographer here?"

"Please—no photos," Qwilleran said.

"Are you sure? You're such a handsome man! I saw you lunching at the club, and I adore your moustache! It's so romantic!"

"No pictures," Qwilleran said firmly. Why, he wondered, did strangers feel free to talk to him about his moustache? He never said, "I like the size of your nose . . . Your ears are remarkably flat. . . You have an unusual collarbone." But his moustache was considered in the public domain, to be discussed without permission or restraint.

When he concluded his conversation with the columnist, he found Koko sitting on Lord Fitzwallow's sideboard with ears askew, waiting for a recap.

"That was Vonda Tiddledy Winks," Qwilleran told him as he unbuckled his harness.

"Yow," said Koko, who never wasted words.

"And you're having an early dinner tonight because I'm going to a cocktail party. Maybe I'll bring you some caviar.

Shortly after five o'clock Qwilleran walked down Hawk's Nest Drive, past the Wilbank house, to Seven Levels. There were half a dozen cars parked there, and Dolly Lessmore greeted him at the door, carrying a double old-fashioned glass and wearing something too short, too tight, and too red, in Qwilleran's opinion.

"We were going to have it around the pool," she said, "but everything is so wet after last night's rain. Come into the family room, Jim, and meet your neighbors from Tiptop Estates. May I call you Jim? Please call me Dolly."

"My friends call me Qwill," he said.

"Oh, I like that! What will you have to drink?"

"What are you having?"

"My downfall—brandy and soda."

"I'll have the same—on ice—without the brandy."

"Qwill, you remember my husband, the golf nut."

"Hi there," said Robert with a handshake that was more athletic than cordial.

"Are you getting comfortably settled at Tiptop?" Dolly asked.

"Gradually. Sabrina Peel is coming tomorrow to throw a few things around and liven it up. Is it okay if I have a carpenter build a gazebo in the woods?"

"Sure! Anything you like ... as long as you pay for it and don't take it with you when you leave," she added with a throaty laugh. She steered Qwilleran into a cluster of guests. "These are your nearest neighbors, Del and Ar-dis Wilbank. Sheriff Wilbank, you know . . . And this is Dr. John and Dr. Inez Wickes, veterinarians . . . Qwill has two cats," she explained to the Wickes couple. "John and Inez have a perfectly enchanting house over a waterfall, Qwill. It's called Hidden Falls. Perhaps you've seen the sign."

"We thought it was a good idea," said Inez with chagrin, "but honestly, it runs all the time, like faulty plumbing. There are nights when we'd give anything to shut it off, especially after all the rain we've had this spring."

"The water table is dangerously high," said her husband, whose sober mien was emphasized by owl-like eyeglasses. "We have unstable slope conditions here, and we have to worry about mudslides. I've never known the ground to be so saturated."

The hostess introduced several other couples living on Hawk's Nest Drive, and their conversation followed the usual formula: "When did you arrive? . . . How long are you staying? . . . How do you like our mountain? . . . Do you play golf?"

Qwilleran was glad that no one mentioned his moustache, although the women stared at it with a look of appreciation that he had come to recognize. There were two other moustaches there, but neither of them could equal his—in luxuriance or character.

It was a stand-up cocktail party, for which he was grateful. He liked to wander in and out of chatty groups or draw one guest aside for a moment of private conversation. He was curious by nature and an interrogator by profession. Catching Del Wilbank standing alone, nursing a drink and staring out at the pool, he went to him and said, "I've admired your house, Sheriff. It's an ingenious design."

"We like it," said Wilbank gruffly, "but it's not everybody's idea of a house. Look at those diagonal boards long enough and you start leaning to one side. Our property is three-point-two acres. Ardis wanted to see the sunsets, so we cleared out about fifty trees. The TV reception's not very good."

"I presume you knew Hawkinfield," Qwilleran said.

"Everyone knew J.J."

"It was an unfortunate end to what I understand was a distinguished career."

"But not totally unexpected," the sheriff said. "We knew something was going to erupt. J.J. was an independent cuss and didn't pull any punches. It was a crime waiting to happen."

"I hear he went over the cliff," Qwilleran ventured.

Wilbank nodded grimly. "That's a long way down! There was a violent altercation first."

"What time of day was it?"

"About two in the afternoon. Ardis and I were at home, waiting for our son to call from Colorado."

"Were there witnesses?"

"No. J.J. was home alone. His daughter was visiting from out of town for Father's Day, and she went down to Five Points for groceries. When she got back, she saw broken glass and a broken railing on the back porch. She screamed for her dad and couldn't find him. Then she heard their Doberman howling at the bottom of the cliff. She came running down the hill to our house, hysterical. That was a year ago today. I was just standing here, thinking about it."

"Were there many suspects?"

"All you need is one, if you've got the right guy. We traced him through his vehicle. When J.J.'s daughter went down the hill for groceries, she saw this old army vehicle coming up. When she got back, it was gone. Good observation on her part! It led us right to Beechum. He'd been a troublemaker all along."

"Did he have a record?"

"Nothing on the books, but he'd threatened J.J. He was apprehended, charged with murder, brought to trial, and convicted—open-and-shut case. These Taters, you know . . . some of them have a murderous streak. You've heard of the Hatfields and McCoys? Well, that crew didn't live in the Potatoes, but we have the same breed around here. Hot-tempered . . . prone to hold grudges . . . quick with the shotgun."