“Nobody knows. The Lessmores made the deal. He’s supposed to be a writer.”
“That could be a front for something else.”
“Anyway, it doesn’t sound good.”
Qwilleran hustled away with his mugs wrapped in newspaper and stashed them in the trunk of his car before joining the parade up the wooden sidewalk. He stopped to watch a man making sandals and a woman caning chair-seats. Then, hearing the ring of hammer on metal, he followed the sound to the smithy. Within a barn with doors flung wide there was a glowing forge, and red hot metal was being hammered on an anvil by a sinewy young man with full beard and pigtail. He wore a leather apron and a soiled tee with the sleeves cut out.
“Howya,” he said when he saw Qwilleran watching intently. Picking up a rod with tongs, he thrust it into the glowing coals, checked it for redness, fired it again, and finally hammered it into shape. When the hot iron was plunged into a tub of water to cool, the sizzle added to the show of sights, sounds, and smells.
Qwilleran examined the hand-wrought objects for sale: hooks, tongs, pokers, spikes, and cowbells, but his eye was taken by an item in a shadowy corner of the barn. It was a wrought-iron candelabrum, seven feet tall and branched to hold eight candles. An iron vine twisted around the main stem and sprouted a few tendrils and leaves. “Is that for sale?” he asked.
The smith looked at it dubiously. “Guess so,” he said.
“How much are you asking?”
“Jeez, I dunno. It was just somethin’ I hadda prove I could do. Mosta the time I’m a mechanic down in the valley.”
“It’s a spectacular hunk of iron,” Qwilleran said, thinking of it for his apple barn in Pickax. “Set a price and let me buy it.”
“Uh . . . two hundred?” the blacksmith suggested hesitantly.
“Sold! If I pull my car up, will you help me load it? How much does it weigh?”
“Plenty, man!”
By reclining the passenger seat they were able to pack the candelabrum lengthwise inside the car. Next, Qwilleran amazed the candle dipper by buying three dozen handmade, twelve-inch beeswax candles. Pleased with his purchases and hoping to find a cup of coffee, he trudged up the hill. He had a few words with the quiltmaker and a woman making cornhusk dolls, and then he spotted a building that looked like an old schoolhouse, with a sign saying: THE BEECHUM FAMILY WEAVERS. An old army vehicle was parked alongside.
The open door revealed a veritable cocoon of textiles: shawls, scarfs, placemats, pillows, tote bags, even hammocks hanging from the ceiling. Two customers—tourists, judging by their sunglasses, sun hats, and cameras—were fingering placemats and asking questions about washability and price. They were being answered curtly by a tall young woman with hollow cheeks and long, straight hair hanging to her waist. She turned around, caught sight of Qwilleran’s moustache, hesitated, then turned back to the shoppers.
At the same moment he heard soft thumping and beating sounds at the rear of the shop. A woman with gray hair pulled severely into a bun at the back of her head was sitting at a loom, rhythmically operating the heddles, throwing the shuttles and pulling the beater. He watched her work—watched her with fascination and admiration—but she never looked up.
Examining the products in the shop, Qwilleran found it difficult to believe that they had been woven, thread by thread, on that loom. One was a capelike jacket, incredibly soft, in the new brighter blue that Polly now liked. The pricetag read $100, and he made a quick decision to buy jackets for four other friends as well. His chief joy in having inherited money was the pleasure of giving it away. During his days as an underpaid journalist, generosity had been a luxury beyond his means, but now he was enjoying the opportunity to be munificent. Buying capes for Polly, Mildred, Fran, Lori, and Hixie in Moose County would also be a way of expressing his gratitude to the aloof young woman who had rescued him the night before.
He heard her say to the shoppers, “These are woven by hand on that loom. If you want two-dollar placemats you’ll find them at Lumpton’s Department Store in Spudsboro.” She made no attempt to be tactful, and they walked out.
“Hello again,” Qwilleran said amiably.
“Howya,” she said in a minor key without smiling.
“Is this all your own handwork? It’s beautiful stuff!”
“My mother and I are the weavers,” she said, wasting no thanks for the compliment.
“I’m very grateful to you, Ms. Beechum, for steering me to the right mountain last night. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.”
“We aim to be good neighbors in the mountains.” There was no trace of neighborly warmth in the statement.
“I’d like to buy this blue—this blue—”
“Batwing cape.”
“I’d like to send it to a friend of mine up north. Do you have any others? I could use four more in different colors.”
“They’re a hundred dollars,” she informed him, as if he might have misread the price tag.
“So I noticed. Very attractively priced, I would say. May I see the others?”
The weaver relaxed her stern expression for the first time. “They’re not here. They didn’t sell well, so I took them home. Most of the shoppers are looking for things under five dollars. But I could bring the capes to the shop if you want to come back another day.” She looked at him dubiously as if questioning his sincerity.
“Are you open tomorrow?”
“Sunday’s our biggest day.”
“What hours?”
“Noon till dusk.”
“Very well. I’ll be here first thing. My name is Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. And what’s your first name, Ms. Beechum?” She told him, and he asked her to spell it.
“C-h-r-y-s-a-l-i-s.”
“Pretty name,” he said. “I met a Dewey Beechum this morning. He’s going to build a gazebo for me.”
“That’s my father. He’s an expert cabinetmaker,” she said proudly. “He was one of the best hands at the furniture factory before they automated. He’s looking for work now. If you know anyone who wants custom-made furniture—”
“I’ll be glad to recommend him.” As she wrapped the blue cape in tissue and a Five Points grocery bag, he said, “Pardon my ignorance, but why is this called Potato Cove? I’ve just arrived in these parts. What is a cove?”
“A cove is smaller than a valley but larger than a hollow,” she said. “Are you going to live here?”
“Only for the summer.”
“Alone?”
“No, I have two Siamese cats.”
“What brought you here?” she asked suspiciously.
“Some friends from up north camped in the national forest across the river last summer, and they recommended the Potatoes. I was looking for a quiet place where I could do some serious thinking.”
“About what?” Her blunt nosiness amused him. He was nosy himself, although usually more artful.
“About my career,” he replied cryptically.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist by profession . . . Tell me about you. How long have you lived in the mountains?”
“All my life. I’m a Tater. Do you know about Taters? We’ve been here for generations, living close to nature. We were environmentalists before the word was invented.”
“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Ms. Beechum, you don’t talk like a Tater.”
“I went away to college. When you go into the outside world, you gain something, but you also lose something.”
“Can you make a living by weaving?” he asked. If she had license to pry, so did he.
“We don’t need much to live on, but we do fairly well in summer. In the winter I drive the school bus.”
“You mean—you maneuver a bus up these mountain roads? You have my admiration . . . I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as more tourists entered the shop. “Is there any place in the cove where I can get a cup of coffee?”
“Amy’s Lunch Bucket,” she said,
pointing up the hill. Although she didn’t smile, she had lost the chip on her shoulder.
Qwilleran waved a hand toward the silent woman at the loom. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Beechum, and compliments on your weaving!” She nodded without looking up.
Amy’s Lunch Bucket was aptly named, being large enough for four old kitchen tables and some metal folding chairs obviously from the Just Rust collection. But it was clean. The floorboards were painted grass green, and the white walls were decorated with an abstract panorama of green mountains against a blue sky. A plump and pretty woman with the healthy radiance of youth presided over a makeshift kitchen behind a chest-high counter. “Nice day,” she said.
“Are you Amy?” Qwilleran asked.
“Sure am!” she replied cheerfully. “What can I dish up for you?”
The menu posted on the wall behind her offered vegetable soup, veggieburgers, oat bran cookies, yogurt, apple juice, and herb tea. “Do you have coffee?” he asked.
“Sure don’t. Only coffee sub and herb tea.”
There was a sudden squawk behind the counter, as if from some exotic bird.
“Goo goo goo,” said Amy, leaning down.
Qwilleran peered over the counter. On a table was an infant in a basket. “Yours?” he asked.
“Yes, this is our Ashley. Two months, one week, and three days. He’s going to be an ecologist when he grows up.”
Qwilleran accepted coffee substitute and two oat bran cookies, which he carried to a table near the front window. The only other patrons were the candle dipper, who was eating yogurt and reading a paperback, and the blacksmith, who had ordered everything on the menu and was tucking into it with ravenous gulps.
“Howya,” he said with his mouth full, and the candle dipper looked up and smiled at the man who had bought almost a hundred dollars’ worth of beeswax.
A moment later Chrysalis Beechum burst into the restaurant in a hurry, waving a ceramic mug. “Apple juice for Ma,” she told Amy. “How’s Ashley? Is Ashley a good boy today?”
“Ashley is an angel today. How’s business down the hill?”
“Surprisingly good! Put the juice on our bill, Amy.”
As Chrysalis started out the door with the brimming mug, Qwilleran stood up and intercepted her. “We meet again,” he said pleasantly. “Won’t you join me for a cup of coffee substitute and an oat bran cookie?”
She hesitated. “I’ve left my mother alone at the shop.”
The candle dipper spoke up. “I’m all through eatin’, Chrys. I’ll stay with her till you git back.”
“Aw, thanks, Missy. Take this apple juice and tell her I won’t be long.” Chrysalis turned back to Qwilleran. “My mother doesn’t speak, so I can’t leave her in the shop alone.”
“She doesn’t speak?” Sympathy was masking his curiosity as he held a rusty chair for her.
“It’s a psychological disorder. She hasn’t said a word for almost a year.”
“What may I serve you?”
“Just some yogurt, plain, and thank you very much.”
In that small restaurant Amy heard the order and had it ready by the time Qwilleran reached the counter.
“How do you like Potato Cove?” Chrysalis asked him.
“Interesting community,” he said. “Very good shops. I like everything except the tourists.”
“I know what you mean, but they pay the rent. How do you feel about what’s happening to the mountains?”
“Having arrived only yesterday, I’m not ready to make a statement, I’m afraid. Are you referring to the land development?”
“That’s what they call it,” she said aggressively. “I call it environmental suicide! They’re not only cutting down trees to ship to Japan; they’re endangering life on this planet! They’re creating problems of erosion, drainage, water supply, and waste control! They’re robbing the wildlife of their habitat! I’m talking about Big Potato. And the Yellyhoo—one of the few wild rivers left—is in danger of pollution. I’m not going to have children, Mr . . . .”
“Qwilleran.”
“I’m not going to have children because the next generation will inherit a ravaged earth.”
He had heard all this before but never with such passion and at such close range. He was formulating a reply when she demanded:
“You’re a journalist, you say. Why don’t you write about this frightening problem? They’re ripping the heart out of Big Potato, and they’d like to take our land away from us, too. Little Potato will be next!”
“I’d need to know a lot more about this subject than I do,” he said. “Are you connected with the group that pickets in front of the courthouse?”
“I take my turn,” she said sullenly. “So does Amy. So does Vance.” She nodded toward the blacksmith. “Who knows whether it does any good? I get very depressed.”
“Answer one question for me,” Qwilleran said. “When I was downtown today, there was a picket sign I didn’t understand: Free Forest. Are you campaigning for a national park or something like that?”
Her thin lips twisted in a grim smile. “My brother is Forest Beechum . . . and he’s in the state prison!” She said it bravely, holding her head high and looking at him defiantly.
“Sorry to hear that. What kind of term—”
“He was sentenced to life! And he’s innocent!”
Qwilleran thought, They always say that. “What was the charge?”
“Murder!”
Amy called out from behind the counter, “The trial was a pack of lies! Forest would never hurt a fly! He’s an artist. He’s a gentle person.”
They always say that, Qwilleran repeated to himself.
The blacksmith, still speaking with his mouth full, said, “There’s lotsa Spuds that coulda done it, but the cops never come up with a suspect from the valley. They made up their mind it hadda be one of us.”
Qwilleran asked, “Did you have a good attorney?”
“We couldn’t afford an attorney,” Chrysalis said, “so the court appointed one for us. We thought he’d work to get my brother off, since he was innocent. We were so naive. That man didn’t even try!” She spoke with bitterness flashing in her eyes. “He wanted Forest to plead guilty to a lesser charge, but why should he? He was totally innocent! So there was a jury trial, and the jury was rigged. All the jurors were Spuds. Not one Tater! It was all so wrong, so unjust, so unfair!”
“Ain’t nothin’ fair,” said the blacksmith.
There was a minute of silence in the little restaurant, a moment heavy with emotion. Then Chrysalis said, “I’ve got to get back to the shop. Thank you for the yogurt and for listening, Mr . . . .”
“Qwilleran.”
“Do you really want to see the batwing capes tomorrow?”
“I most certainly do,” he said, rising as she left the table. No one spoke until Ashley made his lusty bid for attention.
“Goo goo goo,” said Amy.
“The cookies were delicious,” Qwilleran told her. “Did you make them?”
“No, they’re from the bakery up the hill. They have wonderful things up there.”
“Good! That will be my next stop.”
“It’s after four o’clock. They’re closed. But you should come back and try their Danish pastries made with fresh fruit, and their sticky buns made with whole wheat potato dough.”
“Amy, you’ve touched the weakest spot in my character.” Qwilleran started out the door and then turned back. “About this murder trial . . . who was the victim?” he asked, although a sensation on his upper lip was telling him the answer.
“Big shot in Spudsboro,” said the blacksmith.
“He owned the newspaper,” Amy added. “Also an old inn on top of Big Potato.”
Qwilleran patted his moustache with satisfaction. All his hunches, large and small, seemed to emanate from its sensitive roots. Right again!
SIX
QWILLERAN STOOD IN front of Amy’s Lunch Bucket and gazed at the sky. The heavens refuted Beechum’s pred
iction of rain. With the sun shining and the sky blue and the mountain breezes playing softly, it was one of those rare days that June does so well. There were dragon-like clouds over the valley—sprawling, ferocious shapes quite unlike the puffy clouds over Moose County. They looked more dramatic than threatening, however, and the meteorologist on the car radio had promised fair weather for the next twenty-four hours.
As he stood there he doubted not only Beechum’s prediction but also the story he had just heard. How many times had he interviewed the parent, spouse, or neighbor of a convicted felon and listened to the same tale! “My son would never harm anyone! . . . My husband is a gentle, peace-loving man! . . . He was a wonderful neighbor, always ready to help anyone!”
Whatever the facts about the Hawkinfield murder and the conviction of Forest Beechum, Qwilleran was beginning to understand his negative reaction to Tiptop. It was not only the gray color scheme and the barren rooms; it was an undercurrent of villainy. Exactly what kind of villainy had yet to be discovered.
Then he remembered that the Siamese had been left alone all day in unfamiliar surroundings, and he drove back to the inn. Hawk’s Nest Drive, so smoothly paved and so expertly dished on the curves, made pleasant driving after the discomforts of the road to Potato Cove.
To unload his purchases it was necessary to make several trips up the long flight of steps—with the ottoman, the supply of liquor, the turkey roaster, his new radio, Polly’s batwing cape, three dozen candles, four coffee mugs, and a very heavy iron candelabrum. After transporting them as far as the veranda, he sat down on the top step to catch his breath, but his respite was brief. A feline chorus inside the French doors was making imperative demands, Yum Yum saying, “N-n-NOW!”
“All right, all right, I know it’s dinnertime,” he called out as he turned the key in the lock. “You don’t need to make a federal case out of it!”
It was not food that concerned them, however; it was an envelope that had been pushed under the door. Qwilleran ripped it open and read, “Cocktails Sunday at Seven Levels. Come around five o’clock and meet your neighbors. Very casual. Dolly.” He pocketed the invitation and carried his acquisitions into the house.
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 7
