“Sure. Any time after two will be okay. We’re putting a special to bed at two, and it’s quite important. I want to be on top of it.”
“What kind of special?”
“Sixteen pages of June brides, heavy on advertising, of course.”
“Of course,” said Qwilleran. “See you after two.”
To his surprise, the red pickup with one blue fender pulled into the lot, and he went to the building site to greet the carpenter.
“Morning, Mr. Beechum. That was quite some rain we had last night.”
“Gonna git worse.”
“Hmmm . . . well . . . but the job is shaping up nicely. I didn’t know it was going to be hexagonal, though.”
“Hex what?”
“It has six sides instead of four.”
“Figgered to git you sumpin’ special.”
“I appreciate that.” Qwilleran sauntered around with his hands in his pockets. “Nice view from here. You were right about that, too.”
“Lotsa purty sights in the mount’ns.” The carpenter straightened up and pointed with his handsaw. “They’s a purty trail down thataway.”
“Thanks, but I’m not taking any more chances on getting lost in the woods.”
“Iffen you git lost, jes’ keep on goin’. You bound to come out somewheres.”
“I admire your philosophy, Mr. Beechum. What about the caves? I hear there are some interesting caves in the mountains. Do you know anything about the caves?”
“Fulla bats. You like bats? Know a feller was bit by a bat. Kicked the bucket.”
“I gather you don’t recommend the caves. How about the spectacular waterfall at the cove?”
“Purty sight! Lotsa pizen snakes back there, but it’s a mighty purty sight!” The carpenter’s eyes were twinkling roguishly.
Qwilleran thought, This is mountain humor—scaring lowlanders with tales of snakes, bears, and bats. Let him have his fun. “When do you think this job will be finished?” he asked.
“Like ’bout when I git it done. Gonna rain some more.”
“The man on the radio said the rain is over for a while,” Qwilleran assured him.
“Them fellers don’t know nothin’ on radio,” said the weather expert.
Qwilleran returned indoors to dress for downtown, and while he was shaving he heard another vehicle pull into the parking lot. A peek out the front window of the upstairs hall revealed Dolly Lessmore in brilliant yellow stepping out of her white convertible. He toweled the lather off his face and rushed downstairs to admit her.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said gaily. “I just wanted to see what Sabrina did for you. The plants do a lot for the foyer, don’t they? Where’d you get that gorgeous candleholder?”
“From Potato Cove,” Qwilleran said. “Go into the living room and sit down. I’ll bring some coffee.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Shall I add a surreptitious soupcon of brandy?”
“What I don’t know won’t hurt me,” she said, “but not too much, please; I’m on my way to the office . . . Are these the cats?” The Siamese were walking regally into the room as if they expected to be the main attraction.
“Some persons call them that,” he said. “I think of them as domestic software.”
Dolly turned away. “I don’t know anything about cats. We’ve always had dogs.”
At that pronouncement Koko and Yum Yum turned around and walked out, their long, lithe bodies making U-turns in unison. Foreparts seemed to be leaving the room while hindparts were still coming in.
Qwilleran served coffee in the new mugs, explaining that they were handmade by Otto the Potter and remarking, “The cove’s an interesting little business community. I hope no one convinces them to move into a mall.”
“Don’t worry! Those Taters don’t have enough sense to grab a good offer when they get one. They’d rather play store all summer and go on welfare all winter. Don’t get friendly with Taters, Qwill.”
He huffed into his moustache. Now he knew the reason for her impromptu visit; the club had notified her of his faux pas. “Didn’t you hire a Tater to make repairs to this house?” he challenged her.
“Well, you know, Mr. Beechum does very good work for not much money.” Dolly surveyed the living room with approval. “Sabrina did a super job here. She’s a Virgo. That’s a good sign for a designer.”
“What’s your sign?” he asked. “Or is that a trade secret?”
“I’m a Leo.”
“I assume that’s a good sign for selling real estate.”
“It’s a good sign for selling anything,” she said with a throaty laugh.
“How about Hawkinfield’s sign? Does anyone know?”
“Oh, sure. He was a Capricorn, meaning he was tough and power-hungry and always seemed to win, but he had a sensitive side that not many people knew. When he lost his three sons, his life was wrecked. Did you know about that?”
“I knew there were a couple of fatal accidents.”
“The thing that drove him half-mad,” said Dolly, turning suddenly serious, “was the suspicion that the mountain people were responsible.”
“How did he figure that?”
“You don’t know the story. I’ll tell you . . . There was an avalanche on a ski trail. A group from the Valley Boys’ Club went cross-country skiing with an adult counselor. They always hired a Tater guide, of course, who knew the mountains. Well, the skiers were strung out along the trail, with the guide leading and the counselor bringing up the rear, and most of them had squeezed through this one narrow pass when the snow started to slide off the cliff above. The counselor yelled a warning, but the two young Hawkinfield boys panicked and got tangled up in their skis. Snow and ice came thundering down on top of them.”
“How do you know all these details?” Qwilleran asked.
“The counselor told us; he plays golf at the club. He yelled for help, but the rest of them were too far ahead. The pass was blocked. He dug frantically with his hands at the mountain of snow, but it was hopeless. There were tons of it! It was two days before they found the bodies. J.J. wrote an editorial on the loss of his sons that would break your heart! Privately, though, he was furious. He imagined a Tater plot. The guide, he thought, had spaced the skiers out along the trail, and an accomplice on top of the cliff started the snowslide.”
“That’s a far-fetched scenario, Dolly. Having someone to blame may have been a safety valve for his emotions, but . . . do you believe Taters would be so malicious?”
“You haven’t heard the whole story. The following summer his one remaining son went rafting on the river with a couple of high school buddies. It was after a heavy rain—a real mountain downpour—and the river was turbulent. That’s what the kids like, of course—risks! Their raft turned over, and the other two saved themselves, but the body of the Hawkinfield boy was never found. J.J. hired private detectives, thinking his son had been kidnapped by Taters; that’s how crazed he was! Those were rough years for him. His wife ended up in a private mental hospital, and he lived alone in this big house.”
“What about his daughter?”
“He thought it would be better for her if she went away to school.”
Qwilleran said accusingly, “You didn’t tell me he’d been murdered on the premises. As it happened, I found out from other sources.”
“Oh, come on, Qwill. You’re not spooked by anything like that, are you?” she asked teasingly.
“I myself don’t object to a homicide or two,” he retorted, “but a purchaser of the inn could sue you if you don’t reveal the skeletons in the closet.”
“Well, now you know,” Dolly said with a shrug. “J.J. had made enemies, but we never dreamed it would end the way it did, and now that his murderer turned out to be a Tater, we can’t help wondering about the other incidents involving his sons.”
“Did you attend the trial?”
“Yes, I was there with Sherry Hawkinfield. The poor girl
had no one, you know.”
“What convicted Forest Beechum?”
“The crucial testimony came from her. She was here for Father’s Day, and on Saturday she went to Potato Cove to buy a gift for her dad. She bought a painting and asked the artist to deliver it on Sunday as a surprise. Robert and I were supposed to come up here for a drink on Sunday afternoon and then take J.J. and Sherry to dinner at the club. While we were dressing, we heard police cars and an ambulance going up the mountain. We phoned the Wilbank house, and Ardis told us there’d been a murder at Tiptop. We couldn’t believe it!”
“What time was that?”
“We were due there at three. I think it was about two-thirty when we found out.”
“Del Wilbank told me there were no witnesses to the actual incident. Where was Sherry?”
“She’d gone down to Five Points to buy cocktail snacks. The artist was coming up the mountain as she drove down, and he was gone when she returned . . . You seem quite interested in this, Qwill.”
“I should be! I’m living at the scene of the crime, and I might hear chains rattling in the middle of the night,” he said lightly. “Seriously, though, I’ve been searching for a writing project, and I’ve come to the conclusion that J.J. would be a good subject for a biography.”
“That would be super! Absolutely super!” Dolly said. “It would put Spudsboro on the map, for sure. If there’s anything Robert and I can do to help . . . Well, look, I’ve got to hie myself down to the office. Thanks for the coffee. The brandy didn’t hurt it a bit!”
Qwilleran walked with her down the long flights of steps, and she said, “Are you sure you don’t want to buy Tiptop and open a country inn? You’d make a charming host.”
“Positively not!”
“It’ll be a year-round operation when the ski runs are completed. This could be another Aspen!”
“If it doesn’t stop raining, Tiptop could be another Ark,” Qwilleran said.
Returning to the foyer he found Koko prowling aimlessly. “Any comment?” he asked the cat. Koko merely stretched out on the floor of the foyer, making himself a yard long, and he rolled over a few times in front of the Fitzwallow huntboard.
“Treat!” Qwilleran announced, striding toward the kitchen. Koko scrambled to his feet and raced him to the feeding station, but Yum Yum failed to report. For either of them to ignore the T-word was cause for alarm. Qwilleran went looking for her, starting with the new hiding place under the table skirt in the living room. There she was!
“Yum Yum! What are you doing?” he said in shock. She was completely absorbed in an aggressive ritual, biting small clumps of fur from her flanks. Feathery tufts were scattered on the gray carpet. Briefly she stopped and gave him a deranged look with slightly crossed eyes, then went on biting.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Qwilleran asked tenderly as he drew her out from her retreat. She made no protest but cuddled in his arms as he walked back and forth in the foyer. She made no protest, but neither did she squeeze her eyes in bliss or extend a paw to touch his moustache. “Are you homesick?” he asked. “Is it stress?” She had been yanked away from familiar surroundings and subjected to four days on the road, after which she found herself in a strange house with an unhappy history. Furthermore, he had neglected her for three days while pursuing his own interests. Koko might be tough and self-reliant, but Yum Yum was sensitive and emotionally vulnerable, having been an abused kitten before Qwilleran rescued her.
With one hand he punched the phone number of Lori Bamba in Moose County, still cradling Yum Yum in his arm. Lori, his part-time secretary, was knowledgeable about cats.
“Qwill!” she cried. “I didn’t expect to hear from you for three months! Is everything all right?”
“Yes and no,” he said. “I’m concerned about Yum Yum. Suddenly she’s started tearing her fur out.”
“Where?”
“On her flanks.”
“Mmmm . . . yes . . . that sometimes happens. It could be an allergy. Has it just started?”
“I noticed it for the first time today. She was hiding and doing this secret thing to herself, and it seemed, well, obscene! I know she’s been under stress lately.”
“The vet can give her a shot for that,” Lori said, “but wait a day or two and see what develops. Give her some extra attention. It could be a hormonal thing, too. If it continues, take her to the doctor.”
“Thanks, Lori. That relieves my mind. I thought I had a feline masochist on my hands. How’s everything in Moose County? I heard about Dr. Halifax.”
“Wasn’t that a shame? I don’t know what we’ll do without that dear man. The whole county is upset. Otherwise, everything’s okay. I’ve been able to handle your correspondence without bothering Mr. Hasselrich.”
“And how’s the family?”
“The family’s fine. Nick is still looking for a different kind of work. We were thinking of starting a bed-and-breakfast.”
“Don’t move too quickly,” Qwilleran cautioned. “Give it plenty of thought. Get some advice.”
After talking with Lori, he willingly changed his plans for the morning. He had intended to spend time at the public library, have lunch somewhere, and call on Colin Carmichael after two o’clock. Instead, he spent the next few hours sweet-talking Yum Yum, scratching her chin, fondling her ears, stroking her fur, and doing lap service. Only when she fell into a deep, contented sleep did he steal out of the house and drive down the mountain.
Upon reaching Five Points he was undecided. He had seen a certain bowl at the woodcrafter’s shop in Potato Cove, and it kept haunting him. About fifteen inches in diameter, it was cut from the burl of a cherry tree and turned on a lathe until the interior was satin-smooth. In contrast, the top edges and entire exterior were rough and gnarled. He liked it. There had been a time in his life when art objects held little appeal for him, but that had changed along with his circumstances and increased leisure. On a previous visit to the cove he had lingered over the bowl, and now he decided to go back and buy it. He could have lunch at Amy’s, walk around for a while, and reach the Gazette office in Spudsboro around two o’clock.
“Sumpin’ told me you’d be back to git it,” said Wesley, the wood crafter, gleefully. Word had spread around the cove that a stranger with an oversized moustache, who claimed to be a journalist, was hanging around the shops and buying high-ticket items.
Qwilleran loaded the bowl in the trunk of his car—it was even heavier than it looked—and drove to the Village Smithy to tell Vance that his candelabrum was a great success. While there he also bought a hand-forged cowbell with a tone that reminded him of Switzerland.
The blacksmith said, “Somethin’s screwy with your car. It don’t sound right. You git it from bouncin’ ’round these mount’n roads.”
“Glad you mentioned it,” Qwilleran said. “Where’s a good repair shop?”
“I kin fix it. Are you gonna be around? Gimme your keys.”
“That’s very good of you, Vance. I’ll have lunch at Amy’s and see you later.”
At the Lunch Bucket the plump and pretty proprietor was behind the high counter, smiling as usual, and the baby was burbling in his basket.
Qwilleran said, “I have to confess I’ve forgotten the baby’s name.”
“Ashley,” she said proudly. “Two months, one week, and six days.”
“I like your mountain names: Ashley, Wesley, Vance, Forest, Dewey. Names like that have dignity.”
“It’s always been that way in the mountains; I don’t know why. Women have first names like Carson and Tully and Taylor and Greer. I think it’s neat. With a name like Amy, wouldn’t you know I’m from the prairie?” She made a comic grimace.
“What brought you to Little Potato?”
“I dated Forest in college and loved the way he painted mountains—so real and yet out of this world. He painted all the signs for Potato Cove, too. They wanted him to paint the signs for Tiptop Estates, but he refused because he didn’t belie
ve in what Hawkinfield was doing to Big Potato. Anyway . . . we were going to be married at the waterfall last June when all the wildflowers were out. Here’s his picture.” Amy opened the locket that she wore and showed Qwilleran the face of a lean, unsmiling young man with long, black hair. “Suddenly our whole life caved in. I’ll never be able to think of Father’s Day without getting sick . . . What can I get you to eat?”
Qwilleran ordered soup and a veggieburger, and while she was preparing it, he said, “There are conflicting reports on what happened at Tiptop on that day.”
“I can tell you God’s honest truth. Wait till I finish this burger.” She ladled up a bowl of vegetable soup. “Here, you can start with this. It’s especially good today. I hit it just right, but be careful—it’s very hot.”
“That’s the way I like it,” he said, thinking of the corn chowder at the golf club. It was thick with vegetables, including turnips, which he swallowed without complaint. “Excellent soup, Amy! A person could live on this stuff!”
“Sometimes we have to,” she said as she carried the burger to his table and sat down.
Qwilleran was the only customer, and he wondered how this tiny, unpopular restaurant could survive. “Where do you buy your groceries?” he asked.
“We belong to a co-op where we can buy in bulk. Other things come from the Yellyhoo Market on the river. We buy right out of the crates and off the back of trucks. There’s a big saving.”
“You were going to tell me Forest’s story, Amy.”
“Hope it doesn’t spoil your lunch, Mr . . . .”
“Qwilleran.”
“Well, here goes. It started the Saturday before Father’s Day, when Sherry Hawkinfield came into the weaving studio. Forest was minding the store while Chrys did a few errands. He used to show his mountain paintings there—all sizes. The tourists bought the small ones, but Sherry wanted a large one as a Father’s Day gift and tried to haggle over the price. Imagine! It was only $300. Forest told her the painting would be worth $3,000 in a big-city gallery, and if she wanted something cheap, she should go to Lumpton’s Department Store. He was never very tactful.”
“I can see that,” Qwilleran said.
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 13
