Koko was on the living room floor in a paroxysm of writhing, shaking, doubling in half, falling down, contorting his body.
Qwilleran approached him with alarm. Had he been poisoned by the plants? Was this a convulsion? "Koko! Take it easy, boy! What's wrong?"
Hearing his name, Koko rose to a half-sitting position and bit his paw viciously. Only then did Qwilleran realize that something virtually invisible was wrapped around the pad and caught between the spreading toes. Gently he helped release Koko from the entanglement. It was a long hair, decorator blond.
CHAPTER 9
Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner. "Will you excuse me tonight?" he asked them. "I'm taking a guest to the golf club." He had some crackers and cheese himself, having gone hungry at the club on his last visit.
While he was dressing, the telephone rang, and he ran downstairs with lather on his face; there was no extension upstairs.
Sabrina Peel was on the line. She said, "Qwill, I lost a letter while I was at Tiptop. If you find it, just drop it in the mail; it's all stamped and addressed. It may have slipped out of my handbag when I was fishing out my car keys."
He said he had not seen the letter but promised to look on the veranda and in the parking lot. Hanging up, he gave an accusing scowl at Koko, who was sitting near the phone. Koko stretched his mouth in a yawn like an alligator.
At the appointed time a chugging motor alerted him to the arrival of Chrysalis Beechum in one of the family wrecks. The Beechums were the only two-wreck family he had ever known. He went down the steps to greet her as she climbed out of the army vehicle, looking almost attractive. Her long hair was drawn back and twisted in one long braid hanging down her back, and she wore a stiff-brimmed black hat like a toreador's. The sculptured planes of hollow cheeks and prominent cheekbones gave her face a severe but strikingly handsome aspect. Her clothes were much the same: jogging shoes, long skirt, and a top that was obviously handwoven.
"Good evening," he said. "I like your hat. You wear it well."
"Thank you," she said.
"Have you ever seen the interior of Tiptop?"
"No."
"Would you like to come in for a quick tour? The proportions are quite impressive, and there's some historic furniture."
"No, thanks," she said, her eyes flashing.
"Then let's take off. Your car or mine?" he quipped without getting any amused response. He opened the car door for her. "I've reserved a table at the golf club. I think you'll approve of the food. It's quite wholesomealmost too wholesome for my depraved taste." Still, his small talk with a light touch fell flat.
"Do you play golf?" she asked.
"No, but I have a membership at the club that permits me to use the dining room and bring guests."
As they started down Hawk's Nest Drive he pointed out the homes of the sheriff, the realty couple, and the veterinarians. His passenger looked at them without interest or comment.
"How was business in Potato Cove today?" he asked in an effort to involve her.
"We're closed Mondays," she said moodily.
"That's right. You told me so ... Your father came this morning to start building my gazebo. He said it's going to rain some more."
"How do you like his hat?" she said.
"It looks as if it might have historic significance." That was Qwilleran's tactful way of saying that it was moldy with age and mildew.
With a revival of interest Chrysalis said, "It's a family heirloom. My grandfather chased some revenuers with a shotgun once, and they ran so fast that one of them lost his hat. Grampa kept it as a trophy. He was a hero in the mountains."
"Was your grandfather a moonshiner?"
"Everyone was running corn liquor in those days, if they wanted to support their families. It was the only way they could make any money to buy shoes, and flour for making bread, and seed for planting. Grampa went to jail once for operating a still, and he was proud of it."
"How long has your family lived in the mountains?"
"Since way back, when they could buy a piece of land in a hollow for a nickel an acre. They chopped down trees to build cabins and lived without, roadsjust blazed trails."
"One has to admire the pioneers, but how did they survive?"
"By hunting and fishing and raising turnips. They carried water from a mountain spring and made everything with their own hands: soap, medicines, tools, furniture, everything. My grandmother told me all this. The affluent ones, she said, had a mule and a cow and a few chickens and an apple tree."
"When did it change?"
"Actually, not until the 1930s, when road building started and electricity came up the mountain. Some of the Taters didn't want electricity or indoor plumbing. They thought it was unsanitary to have the outhouse indoors. We still resist the idea of paved roads on Little Potato. We don't want joyriders polluting our air and littering our roadsides. There are some older Taters who've never been off the mountain."
Qwilleran said, "I have a lot to learn about mountain culture. I hope you'll tell me more about it."
They arrived at the golf club and presented themselves at the door of the dining roomQwilleran in his blue linen blazer with a tie, Chrysalis in her jogging shoes and toreador hat. The tables were dressed for dinner with white cloths, wine glasses, and small vases of fresh flowers. "Reservation for Qwilleran, table for two, nonsmoking," he told the hostess.
"Oh . . . yes ..." she said in bewilderment as she glanced at her chart and then the roomful of empty tables.
"We're a little early," he said.
"Follow me." The hostess conducted them to a table for two at the rear of the dining room, adjoining the entrance to the Off-Links Lounge, where golfers were celebrating low scores or describing missed putts with raucous exuberance.
Chrysalis said, "It sounds like a Tater horse auction." "May we have a table away from the noise?" Qwilleran asked the hostess.
She appeared uncertain and consulted her chart again before ushering them to a table between the kitchen door and the coffee station.
"We'd prefer one with a view," he said politely but firmly.
"Those tables are reserved for regular members," she said.
Chrysalis spoke up. "The other one is all right. I don't mind the noise."
They were conducted back to the entrance of the lounge. Dropping two menu cards on the table the hostess said, "Want something from the bar?"
"We'll make that decision after we're seated," Qwilleran replied as he held a chair for his guest. "Would you like a cocktail or a glass of wine, Ms. Beechum?"
"I wish you'd call me Chrysalis," she said. "Do you think I could have a beer?"
"Anything you wish . . . and please call me Qwill."
"I learned to like beer in college. Before that I'd just had a little taste of corn liquor, and I didn't care for it."
A waiter in his late teens was hovering over the table. "Something from the bar?"
"A beer for the ladyyour best brand," Qwilleran ordered, "and I'll have a club soda with a twist." The drinks arrived promptly, and he said to his guest, "The service is always excellent when you're the only customers in the place."
"Want to order?" the young man asked. His nametag identified him as Vee Jay.
"After we study the menu," Qwilleran replied. "No hurry." To Chrysalis he said, "I see you're wearing something handwoven. There's a lot of artistry in your weaving."
"Thank you," she said with pleasure. "Not everyone really notices it. The women in my family have always been weavers. Originally they raised sheep and spun the wool and made clothes for their whole family. I was weaving placemats to sell when I was seven years old. Then, in college I learned that weaving can be a creative art."
"Do you ever do wall hangings? I like tapestries."
"I've done a few, but they don't selltoo expensive for the tourist trade."
Consulting the menu she decided she would like the breast of chicken in wine sauce with pecans and apple slices, explaining, "At home we only have chicken stewed with dumplings."