“Sorry,” she said. “Vee Jay, remove the soup.”
“Madame! If you please! We have not yet started the soup course! Remove the chicken and keep it hot until we’re ready.” He explained to Chrysalis, “This is the first time I’ve had dinner here. We should have gone to Amy’s Lunch Bucket. It would have been more congenial.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t go out enough to know the difference.”
After a few moments of silent sipping of chowder, Qwilleran asked, “Are the shops in Potato Cove considered successful?”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘successful,’ ” she said, “but we were kind of surprised when some promoters in Spudsboro invited us to move down into the valley. They want to build an addition to the mall and call it Potato Cove.”
“How do your people react to that offer?”
“Most of us want to stay where we are, although the promoters tell us there’d be publicity and we’d get more traffic. The rent would be low, because the mall management would consider us an attraction.”
“Don’t do it!” Qwilleran said. “Potato Cove is unique. It would lose its native charm in a mall. You’d have to stay open seven days a week, eleven hours a day, and the rent would go up as soon as you were installed. They’re trying to exploit you.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I don’t trust the Spuds. They do everything for their own benefit with no consideration for us. They drive up our mountain and dump trash and used tires in our ravines instead of going to the Spudsboro landfill where they’d have to pay fifty cents.”
“Have you protested?”
“Often! But Taters never get a square deal from the local government. You’d think we didn’t pay taxes! And now they’re trying to push us off our mountain.”
“How can they do that?”
“Well, you know how it is. Old folks have to sell their land because they need money or can’t pay their taxes. The Spuds buy the land for next to nothing and then turn around and sell it to developers for a lot of money. That’s what Hawkinfield did on Big Potato, and that’s what we’re afraid will happen to us. The developers will come in; taxes will go up; and more and more Taters will have to sell out. When you live on land that’s been in your family for generations, it’s heartbreaking to lose it. Lowlanders who don’t have roots like ours don’t understand how we feel.”
The meal progressed with a minimum of annoyance after that, although Qwilleran found the chicken unusually salty for a dining room that prided itself on flavoring with herbs. He did his best to maintain a pleasant attitude, however. He said, “I must ask you about something that baffled me the first night I was here. It was Friday, around midnight. The atmosphere was very clear, and I saw a circle of light on Little Potato. It was revolving.”
Chrysalis rolled her eyes. “I don’t know whether I should tell you about that. It’s kind of far-out . . . You have to understand my mother. She’s a positive thinker, you know. She believes that sheer willpower can make things happen. Do you buy that?”
“I’ll buy anything,” he said, thinking of Koko’s supra-normal antics.
“It’s not just her own idea. My grandmother and great-grandmother believed the same way. They survived hard times and both lived to a ripe old age. I wish I had their conviction.”
“How about your mother? Has she been able to make things happen?”
“Well . . . my father was in a terrible accident at the factory once, and the doctors said he couldn’t possibly pull through. But my mother and grandmother willed him to live. That was twenty-five years ago, and you’d never know anything had happened to him, except for a slight limp.”
“That’s a convincing story.”
“Some people call it witchcraft.”
“Tell that to Norman Vincent Peale,” Qwilleran said. Noticing that she was picking at her food, he inquired how she liked the chicken.
“It’s rather salty. I’m not used to much salt.”
“I agree the chef has a heavy hand with the saltshaker. Someone should set him straight . . . Are there any other examples of your mother’s positive thinking?”
“She always used to arrange good weather for our family reunions,” Chrysalis said with a whimsical laugh. “Seriously, though, she made up her mind that Forest and I would go to college, and you know what happened? The state started offering free tuition to mountain students!”
“With all that you’ve told me, how do you explain your mother’s speech affliction?”
She stared at him with the hollow-cheeked sadness he had seen when she spoke of her brother’s imprisonment. “She blames herself for the terrible thing that happened to Forest.”
“I don’t understand,” Qwilleran said.
“She used all her mental powers to stop Hawkinfield from ruining the mountains. She didn’t want him murdered; she just wanted him to have a change of heart!” Chrysalis stopped and stared into space until Qwilleran urged her to go on. “The horrible irony was that my brother was convicted of the murder—and he was innocent. She made a vow never to speak another word as long as he’s in prison.”
Qwilleran murmured sympathy and regrets and then said, “What about the circle of light on the mountain?”
She shook her head. “Some of our kinfolk go out on top of Little Potato at midnight, carrying lanterns. They walk in a silent circle and meditate, concentrating on getting Forest released—somehow.” She shook her head.
“Do they think the moving circle increases their effectiveness?” he asked gently, although he had his doubts.
“It’s supposed to concentrate the force of their collective will. That’s what they say.”
“You sound as if you’re not entirely convinced.”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to think. When we picket the courthouse, we march in a circle, the same way.”
“Now that you mention it,” he said, “it seems to me that pickets always move in a circle.”
“The picketing was Amy’s idea,” said Chrysalis. “She and Forest were getting ready to marry when he was arrested. They were going to be married at the waterfall at the cove, where the mist rises up like a veil. All the plans were made . . . and then this happened. He was held without bail and railroaded to prison. It’s my brother’s baby that Amy takes to the Lunch Bucket every day. His name is Ashley . . . I’m sorry. I’ve been talking too much, but it’s good to have a considerate listener who’s not a Tater. Lately, I’ve been getting to be like my mother, not wanting to speak.”
“You must not let that happen, Chrysalis. Tell me about the trial. What did you think was wrong about it?”
“Well, first, the court-appointed attorney wasn’t even there for the arraignment. He phoned to say he’d be late, but the court didn’t want to wait around.”
“That sounds like a violation of constitutional rights,” Qwilleran said.
“How did we know? We were just Taters. Then Forest was held without bail, and the attorney said it was for his personal safety because the whole town was out to get him. My brother! I couldn’t believe it!”
“If there was so much animosity, didn’t he try for a change of venue?”
She nodded. “It was denied.”
“What was the attorney’s name?”
“Hugh Lumpton.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache; another one of those ubiquitous Lumptons!
Chrysalis said, “He didn’t put a single defense witness on the stand, and he let the state’s witnesses get away with lies! The jury brought in a guilty verdict so fast, we hardly knew it was over!”
“I’m no lawyer,” Qwilleran said, “but it seems to me you should be able to get a new trial. You’d need a different attorney—a good one.”
“What would it cost? We tried to borrow money to hire one when Forest was first accused, but the banks—being mixed up with the land speculators, you know—refused to give us a mortgage. They advised us to sell, but you wouldn’t believe what the speculators offered for ou
r choice piece of the mountain. But now it doesn’t matter; we’d sell our land for any amount of money if it would get Forest out of prison.”
“There might be another way,” Qwilleran said, smoothing his moustache. “Let me think about it. But your brother would still have to convince a jury that he’s innocent.”
They finished the meal with sparse conversation. The salad dressing also was salty. Chrysalis moodily declined dessert and simply sipped a cup of tea, silent behind her staring, hollow-cheeked mask.
When they left the dining room, it was still only partially occupied, and there were plenty of empty tables with a view of the golf course. Qwilleran told his guest to wait in the vestibule while he had a few words with the hostess. Eight words were sufficient. Speaking calmly he said, “Give this to the management with my compliments,” and he tore up his membership card.
It was still full daylight, and Chrysalis said, “Would you like to drive up to Tiptop the back way? It’s only a logging trail, but it goes up the outside of Big Potato, and there’s something I want you to see.” She directed him through a maze of winding roads in true wilderness. “There!” she said when they reached the top of a knob. “Stop the car! What does that look like?”
Qwilleran saw a vast area of wiped-out forest—a tangle of stumps, fallen trees, and dead branches. “It looks like the aftermath of a tornado or a bombing raid.”
“That’s slashing!” she said. “Everything is leveled, and then they take the good straight hardwood and leave the rejects. Maybe you’ve seen the logging trucks leaving the mountains. This is what’ll happen to the whole outside of Big Potato if we don’t stop them, and this is what speculators would like to do to L’il Tater.”
The logging trail narrowed to a mere wagon track twisting upward. She pointed the way, and Qwilleran clutched the wheel as the car lurched through the rough terrain.
“Would you care to come in for a nightcap?” he asked when they finally reached the Tiptop parking lot.
“No, thank you, but I enjoyed the evening, and thank you for listening. It was very kind of you.”
He walked her to the decrepit army vehicle. “I’m sincerely sorry about your brother’s predicament. I hope something can be done.”
She climbed into the driver’s seat. “It would be easier to move a mountain,” she said with a helpless shrug.
Qwilleran watched her leave before mounting the steps to the veranda. Koko was waiting for him in the foyer, prancing back and forth as if he had something urgent to report, but Qwilleran had other things on his mind. He went directly to the phone and called Moose County without waiting for the discount rates.
“Polly, this is Qwill!” he announced abruptly.
“Dearest! I’m so thankful you called. We have terrible news. Halifax Goodwinter has taken his own life!”
“NO!”
“He buried his wife last Friday, you know, and last night he overdosed.”
“This is hard to believe! Did he leave an explanation?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. But the rumor is circulating that his wife’s death was a mercy killing. She’d been hopelessly ill for so long, and the poor man was going on eighty. There’ll never be another country doctor like Dr. Hal. The whole county is grieving. Melinda is definitely moving back from Boston to take over his practice, but it won’t be the same.”
“I agree,” said Qwilleran with a gulp. He was worrying less about Moose County’s medical prospects than about his own personal relationships. Before Melinda moved to Boston, she had been hell-bent on marriage, and he had been equally determined to stay single, even though he found her disturbingly attractive.
“Now that you’ve heard the bad news, Qwill,” Polly was saying, “how’s everything in the mountains?”
“I’m spittin’ mad,” he said.
“That sounds like mountain vernacular, and you’ve been there only three days.”
“I’ve just had an infuriating experience at a restaurant.”
“What did they do wrong?”
“Everything! They gave me the worst table in the place. The service was abominable. The soup was cold. The food was too salty. It was the salty food that explained the whole conspiracy.”
“Are you saying it was done purposely?”
“Damn right it was! I made the mistake of taking the wrong person to dinner. My guest was a mountaineer. They’re called Taters around here.”
“Really! Are they so undesirable?”
“They’re an unpopular minority, although they were here first, and they get a rotten shake at every turn. In Moose County we have cliques but no prejudice like this, and I was unprepared. The whole dinner was an embarrassment.”
“What are you going to do?” Polly knew Qwilleran was not one to turn the other cheek.
“I’ve got to think about it.”
“I’m sorry you’re so upset.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, his anger subsiding. “I’m going to consult Koko. He’ll come up with an idea. How’s Bootsie?”
“He’s fine. He weighs ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds going on thirty! And how are you?”
“I’m fine. The library board is giving a formal dinner Friday, and I’m altering the neck of my long dress so I can wear my pearls. I miss you, dearest.”
“I miss you, too.” There was a breathy pause. Despite his facility with words, Qwilleran found terms of endearment difficult. “À bientôt,” he said with feeling in his voice.
“À bientôt, dearest.”
He went outdoors and walked briskly around the veranda a few times. The sun was dropping behind the West Potatoes, and the dragon clouds were waging a riotous battle—violent pink and purple against a turquoise sky. When a damp chill from the northeast chased him indoors, Koko was still prancing.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked absently.
“Yow!” said Koko with urgency, running back and forth through the living room arch.
“Where’s Yum Yum?” It occurred to Qwilleran that he had not seen her since returning from dinner. Immediately he checked all the comfortable chairs in the living room and all the beds upstairs. Calling her name he rushed from room to room, opening closets, cabinets, and even drawers. Then—back in the living room—he saw Koko dive under the floor-length skirt that Sabrina had draped on a round table.
“You devils!” he muttered as he fell on his hands and knees and peered under the skirt. There they were, both of them, wearing beatific expressions, and on the floor between them was a stamped, addressed letter with perforations in two corners. “Who stole this?” he demanded, although he knew Koko was the culprit, attracted by the adhesive on the stamp and the envelope. Although Yum Yum’s famous paw pilfered Scrabble tiles and cigarette lighters, Koko specialized in documents, leaving fang marks as evidence. Qwilleran dropped the Peel & Poole letter in a drawer of the Fitzwallow huntboard for safekeeping until he could mail it, noting as he did so that it was addressed to Sherry Hawkinfield in Maryland—probably a bill for Sabrina Peel’s appraisal services.
Before going upstairs to finish the evening with a book, he gave the Siamese their bedtime snack, a dry food concocted by a gourmet cook in Moose County. Qwilleran watched them gobble and crunch, but his mind was elsewhere. He had no desire to take sides in local politics and no intention of becoming a gullible confederate in a Tater obsession. Yet, the shabby treatment at the golf club and the emotional outpourings from his dinner guest were stirring his blood.
The matter of a good attorney could be handled easily; he had only to call Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter in Moose County, but old Mr. Hasselrich—he of the fluttering eyelids and quivering jowls—would expect a well-organized brief. Some kind of preliminary investigation of the Father’s Day murder would be necessary, something that could be done quietly without causing alarm in the valley.
As Qwilleran absentmindedly watched the Siamese washing up after their snack, he started patting his moustache; an idea was formulating. For cover
he would use a ploy that had worked on a previous occasion. It would explain his presence in the Potatoes and his need to see a transcript of the Beechum trial, and it would enable him to question a number of local residents, especially those victimized by Hawkinfield’s damaging editorials. To spread the word and establish his credentials he would first break the news to Carmichael at the Gazette.
“Colin,” he would say, “I want you to be the first to know. I plan to write a biography of J.J. Hawkinfield.”
TEN
BEECHUM HAD BEEN right again. It rained all night, charging in like a herd of elephants, battering the trees, beating on the roof, soaking the earth. By Tuesday morning the downpour had abated leaving the trees dripping, the atmosphere soggy, and the ground muddy. Qwilleran doubted that the carpenter would show up to work on the gazebo.
While he was preparing his breakfast coffee and thawing a four-day-old doughnut, the telephone rang, and a man’s voice said genially, “How are you, Qwill? Getting settled? I hear you had dinner at the club last night. This is Colin Carmichael.”
“Let’s say that I participated in a farce that masqueraded as dinner,” Qwilleran retorted in a bad humor. “How did you hear about it?”
“They called me because I sponsored you.”
“If they want to apologize, it’s too late. I’ve torn up my card.”
“It’s not exactly an apology. It’s an explanation,” the editor said. “They thought I should explain the situation to you. To put it bluntly, you brought a Tater to the club as your guest, and the members don’t care for that.”
“That’s what I suspected,” Qwilleran said belligerently. “Tell the members they know what they can do. Editors excluded, of course.”
“Honestly, I hated to call you, Qwill. Sorry it happened.”
“So am I. It tells me something about Spudsboro that I didn’t want to know.”
“Don’t hold it against me. How about lunch?”
“I think it would be better if I dropped into your office. There’s something I want to discuss with you, and I’d like to see some back copies while I’m there.”
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 12