The staircase was wide and well-proportioned for the spacious foyer, which had a group of inviting chairs around a stone fireplace. On either side of the entrance were two old-fashioned hat-and-umbrella stands with clouded mirrors, a couple of tired umbrellas, and some stout walking sticks for tramping about the woods. The most conspicuous item in the foyer, however, was the bulky and unattractive chest holding the telephone. Alongside it were a pair of Queen Anne side chairs matching the ten in the dining room, and above it hung the painting of a mountain range. A very good painting, Qwilleran thought; it expressed the mystery that he sensed about mountains.
Yum Yum had now ventured into the living room and was stretched on an upholstered chair in what Qwilleran called her Cleopatra pose. Koko followed her but went directly to a tall secretary desk that had empty bookshelves in the upper half. He craned his neck and mumbled to himself as if questioning the absence of books; he was an avid bibliophile.
"Okay, let's go!" said Qwilleran, clapping his hands for attention. "Let's go upstairs and see where you guys are going to bunk."
Neither of them paid the slightest heed. He had to carry them from the room, one under each arm. When they reached the staircase, however, Koko squirmed out of his grasp and headed toward the rear of the foyer. First he examined a Queen Anne chair, passing his nose up and down the legs, and then the frame of a French door, which looked newly painted.
"That's enough. Let's go," Qwilleran insisted. "You've got three months to sniff paint."
On the second floor there were two bedrooms at the rear that would get the morning sun, and the view was a breathtaking panorama of distant hills, a panorama unbroken by billboards, power lines, transmitter towers, or other signs of civilization. One of the rooms had a giant four-poster bed, a good-sized desk, and a pair of lounge chairs that appealed to Qwilleran. The back bedroom across the hall would be good for the Siamese. He put their blue cushion on the bed and left them there to explore their new surroundings while he made up his bed and hung towels in the bathroom.
Then he turned his attention to the upstairs hall, a kind of lounge where guests of the inn, once upon a time, may have been served their morning coffee. Here the gray walls were covered with memorabilia in the form of framed documents and photographs, items of no value to the thieves who had stripped the house. In old, faded photos circa 1903) there were stiffly formal men in three-piece suits and derby hats sitting in rocking chairs on the porch, while women in ankle-length dresses and enormous hats played croquet on the lawn. Also exhibited in narrow black frames were photographs of present-day celebrities with inscriptions to "J.J."
Of chief interest to Qwilleran was a clipping from the Spudsboro Gazette dating back only a few years. It was a column called "Potato Peelings" written by one Vonda Dudley Wix in a cloyingly outdated style. Yet it contained information of historic importance. The copy read:
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.
