Dedicated to Earl Bettinger, the husband who ...
CHAPTER 1
A man of middle age, with a large, drooping moustache and brooding eyes, hunched over the steering wheel and gripped the rim anxiously as he maneuvered his car up a mountain road that was narrow, unpaved, and tortuous. Unaccustomed to mountain driving, he found it a bloodcurdling ordeal. On one side of the road the mountain rose in a solid wall of craggy rock; on the other side it dropped off sharply without benefit of guardrail, and it was narrowed further by fallen rocks at the base of the cliff. The driver kept to the middle of the road and clenched his teeth at each hairpin turn, pondering his options if another vehicle were to come hurtling downhill around a blind curve. A head-on collision? A crash into the cliff? A plunge into the gorge? To aggravate the tension there were two passengers in the backseat who protested as only Siamese cats can do.
It was late in the day, and the gas gauge registered less than a quarter full. For almost two hours Jim Qwilleran had been driving on mountain passes, snaking around triple S-curves, blowing the horn at every hairpin turn, making the wrong decision at every fork in the road. There were no directional signs, no habitations where he might inquire, no motorists to flag down for help, no turn-outs where he could pull over in an effort to get his bearings and collect his wits. The situation had all the elements of a nightmare, although Qwilleran was totally awake. So were the two in the backseat, bumping about in their carrier as the car swerved and jolted, all the while airing their protests in ear-splitting howls and nerve-wracking shrieks.
"Shut up," he bellowed at them, a reprimand that only increased the volume of the clamor. "We're lost! Where are we? Why did we ever come to this damned mountain?"
It was a good question, and one day soon he would know the answer. Meanwhile he was frantically pursuing a non-stop journey to nowhere.
Two weeks before, Qwilleran had experienced a sudden urge to go to the mountains. He was living in Moose County, a comfortably flat fragment of terrain in the northernmost reaches of the lower Forty-eight, more than a thousand miles away from anything higher than a hill. The inspiration came to him while celebrating a significant event in his life. After five years of legal formalities that had required him to live in Moose County, he had officially inherited the Klingenschoen fortune, and he was now a certified billionaire with holdings reaching from New Jersey to Nevada.
During his five years in Pickax City, the county seat, he had won over the natives with his genial disposition and his streak of generosity that constantly benefited the community. Strangers passing him on the street went home and told their families that Mr. Q had said good morning and raised his hand in a friendly salute. Men enjoyed his company in the coffee houses. Women went into raptures over his flamboyant moustache and shivered at the doleful expression in his hooded eyes, wondering what past experience had saddened them.
To celebrate his inheritance, more than two hundred friends and admirers gathered in the ballroom of the seedy old hostelry that called itself the "New" Pickax Hotel. Qwilleran circulated among them amiably, jingling icecubes in a glass of ginger ale, accepting congratulations, and making frequent trips to a buffet laden with the hotel's idea of party food. He was an outstanding figure, standing out from the crowd: six-feet-two and well-built, with a good head of hair graying at the temples, and a luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache that seemed to have a life of its own.
Chief among his well-wishers were Polly Duncan, administrator of the Pickax library; Arch Riker, publisher of the Moose County Something; and Osmond Hasselrich of Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter, attorneys for the Klingenschoen empire. The mayor, city council members, chief of police, and superintendent of schools were there, as well as others who had played a role in Qwilleran's recent life: Larry and Carol Lanspeak, Dr. Halifax Goodwinter, Mildred Hanstable, Eddington Smith, Fran Brodiea list longer than the guest of honor had imagined. None of them dared to hope that this newly minted billionaire, city-born and city-bred, would continue to live in what urban politicians called a rural wasteland. None could guess what he would do next, or where he would choose to live. He had been a prize-winning journalist in several major cities before fate steered him to Moose County. How could anyone expect him to remain in Pickax City?
Kip MacDiarmid, editor of the newspaper in the adjoining county, was the first to ask the question that was on everyone's mind. "Now that you have all the money in the world, Qwill, and twenty-five good years ahead of you, what are your plans?"
When Qwilleran hesitated, Arch Riker, his lifelong friend, hazarded a guess. "He's going to buy a string of newspapers and a TV network and start a media revolution."
"Or buy a castle in Scotland and go in for bird watching," Larry Lanspeak contributed with tongue in cheek.
"Not likely," said Polly Duncan, who had given Qwilleran a bird book and binoculars in vain. "He'll buy an island in the Caribbean and write that book he's always talking about." She spoke blithely to conceal her feelings; as the chief woman in his life for the last few years Polly would feel the keenest regret if he should leave the north country.
Qwilleran chuckled at their suggestions. "Seriously," he said as he loaded his plate for the third time with canned cocktail sausages and processed cheese slices, "the last few years have been the richest in my entire life, and I mean it! Until coming here I'd always lived in cities with a population of two million or more. Now I'm content to live in a town of three thousand, four hundred miles north of everywhere. And yet . . ."
"You're not living up to your potential," Polly said bravely.
"I don't know about that, but I'll tell you one thing: Taking it easy is not my idea of the good life. I don't play golf. I'd rather go to jail than go fishing. Expensive cars and custom-made suits are not for me. What I do need is a goala worthwhile direction."
"Have you thought of getting married?" asked Moira MacDiarmid.
"No!" Qwilleran stated vehemently.
"It wouldn't be too late to start producing heirs."
Patiently he explained, as he had done many times before, "Several years ago I discovered I'm a washout as a husband, and I might as well face the truth. As for heirs, I've established the Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute my moneyboth while I'm alive and after I've gone. But . . ." He stroked his moustache thoughtfully, "I'd like to get away from it all for a while and rethink my purpose in lifeon top of a mountain somewhereor on a desert island, if there are any left without tourists."
"What about your cats?" asked Carol Lanspeak. "Larry and I would be glad to board them in the luxury to which they're accustomed."
"I'd take them along. The presence of a cat is conducive to meditation."
"Do you like mountains?" Kip MacDiarmid asked.
"To tell the truth, I haven't had much experience with mountains. The Alps impressed me when my paper sent me to Switzerland on assignment, and my honeymoon was spent in the Scottish Highlands . . . Yes, I like the idea of altitude. Mountains have a sense of mystery, whether you're up there looking down or down here looking up."
Moira said, "Last summer we had a great vacation in the Potato Mountainsdidn't we, Kip? We took the kids and the camper. Beautiful scenery! Wonderful mountain air! And so peaceful! Even with four kids and two dogs it was peaceful."
"I've never heard of the Potato Mountains," Qwilleran said.
"They're just being developed. You should get there before the influx of tourists," Kip advised. "If you'd like to borrow our camper for a couple of weeks, you're welcome to it."
Arch Riker said, "I don't picture Qwill in a camper unless it has twenty-four-hour room service. We used to be in scouting together, and he was the only kid who hated campouts and cookouts."