The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

"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."

The waiter brought the antipasto on very cold plates, followed by the entrees on very hot plates. Having ordered tagliatelle in a sauce of ricotta, leeks, and ham, Qwilleran twirled his fork in rapt appreciation for a while.

Eventually he asked, "Who is this partner you're always mentioning?"

"Spencer Poole. He's an older man and a wonderful person. When I was in high school he gave me a summer job, folding samples and keeping the studio dusted. After I graduated from design school, he took me into the firm because he liked the sound of Peel & Poole."

Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought, grooming his moustache. It was more likely because she's a stunning young woman.

Sabrina said, "I told him it should be Poole & Peel, since he's the senior partner, but he pointed out the importance of vowel sounds in the name of a design studio. He said 'ee-oo' has more class than 'oo-ee,' which is associated with hog calling. Spencer is fussy about details, but that's what makes him a terrific designer. He's taught me a lot," she said, her eyes sparkling. They were green tonight; a few days ago they were blue.

"With a name like Peel, you must be Scottish," he remarked. "My mother was a Mackintosh."

"Say something in Scots," she said teasingly.

"Mony a mickle mak' a muckle," he recited.

"Many small things make a large thing," she guessed.

"That's its popular meaning, although the dictionary defines mickle and muckle as synonyms. George Washing-eon used the expression in the popular sense, however, and if it's good enough for the Father of our Country, it's good enough for me."

"My partner would love the sound of it," she said.

Speaking seriously in a lower voice, Qwilleran said, "Your partner seems like an astute individual. Does he have any idea who really killed Hawkinfield? The man's enemies are easy to identify; the ones who arouse my suspicion are his so-called friends."

Sabrina put down her fork and stared at him. "Well," she said hesitantly, "when it first happened . . . Spencer thought it might be the husband of J.J.'s girlfriend. But now I guess there's no doubt it was Beechum."

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "Hawkinfield had a girlfriend? Was it well-known?"

"This is a very small town, Qwill. It was well-known but not talked about. She worked at the Gazette—still does, in fact—and she thought J.J. walked on water. That's the kind of woman he liked. She used to bake cookies for him all the time, and he called her Cookie, even around the office. Everyone knows he paid for her face-lift."

"But she had a husband?"

"Not until a few years ago. She married a run-of-the-mill house builder who immediately landed the contract for all the houses on Big Potato, and he turned out to be a real Hawksman."

"Did he know about his wife's connection with Hawk-infield?"

"Who knows? He was a simple soul—sort of a male Polly anna. We all liked him when we worked with him on interiors. He had a massive heart attack and died . . . Don't quote me on any of this."

When dessert was served—almond ravioli with raspberry sauce—Qwilleran returned to the subject of the biography. He said, "In doing my research I'd like to explore Hawkin-field's relationship with his children—just for background information, so that I feel comfortable with my subject."

"Yes, I can understand that," she said. "The three boys were the center of his universe, you know, and they were really bright kids, but J.J. neglected his daughter because she had the misfortune to be female. He gave the boys bikes, skis, golf lessons, even private tutoring. Sherry got piano lessons, which she hated."

"How did she feel about her father?"

"Not enthusiastic! She referred to him flippantly as her male parent and scorned her mother for being weak. When I was doing the interior of Tiptop, Sherry latched onto me as a sort of role model. That's how she acquired an interest in selling decorative accessories."