The fashionable past of our lush and lovely mountain is about to be revived, gentle reader, in a way unheard of in 1903. In that memorable year the Tiptop Inn opened its snazzy French doors to a galaxy of well-heeled guests. Those were days of pomp and circumstance (ta-da! ta-da!), and the gilt-edged elite arrived by train from New York, Washington, and Chicago, some of them in their poshly private railway cars. (Sorry. No names.) They were transported up the mountain to the exclusive resort in sumptuous carriages driven by Dickensian coachmen in red velvet coats and top hats.
There they spent a gloriously sybaritic week in salubrious surroundings (look that up in your Webster, dears). The emphasis was on dining well (no one had heard of calories), but they also strolled along mountain paths or played battledore-and-shuttlecock (fun!) after which they relaxed on the endless veranda or repaired to the gameroom for some naughty gambling. Throughout the week they were pampered by an attentive staff, including an English majordomo, a French chef, and a bevy of Irish maids. (Oh, those Irish maids!) During the ten-course dinners a violinist played "Barcarolle" and Schubert's "Serenade" (what else?), after which the evening mu-sicale featured art songs by an oh-so-lyric soprano.
So, you are asking, what happened? . . . Well, the stock market went boom, and the richly rich stopped coming to Tiptop. A prolonged Depression and World War II delivered the coup de grace to the poor old inn. After that it was owned by a Philadelphia bank for many cruel, cruel years, during which it was boarded up and sadly forgotten.
Then, in the 1950s, the inn was purchased, along with most of Big Potato Mountain, by Otis Hawk-infield, the highly respected owner of the Spudsboro Gazette, as a summer retreat. After his death his son (whom we all know and love as J.J.) refurbished the inn as a permanent home for his lovely wife and their four beautiful children. Fortune did not smile on them, alas, but let us skip swiftly to today's happy news.
J.J. Hawkinfield has announced his intention to share Big Potato Mountain with the world! (Bless you, J.J.!)
"For two generations," he announced in an interview today, "the Hawkinfields have been privileged to enjoy this sublime mountain environment. I can no longer be selfish, however, about the spectacular views, the summer breezes, the good mountain water, the wooded trails, and the breathtaking waterfalls. The time has come to share it with my fellow citizens." (Cheers! Cheers!)
Yes! J.J. and a syndicate of investors plan to develop the inside of Big Potato for family living. The approach road has already been paved, and architects are working on plans for year-round homes to be built on lots of no less than three acres, in designs integrated with the mountain terrain.
Boasted J.J. with excusable pride, "I believe that Frank Lloyd Wright would approve of what we are about to do." (Hear! Hear!)
Future plans call for a campground for prestige-type recreation vehicles, offering such facilities as a swimming pool, hot tubs, and tennis courts. (That's class, my friends!) Condominiums and a mountaintop high-rise hotel with helicopter pad are also envisioned by J.J.
"Eventually," he revealed, "the outer slopes of Big Potato will have a ski lodge and several ski runs. What I have in mind is the economic growth and health of the entire valley, as well as an opportunity for all to share in sports, recreation, and the joys of nature."
"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 mementosthings 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 therecontented, 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."