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. Hasselrichhe of the fluttering eyelids and quivering jowlswould 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."
CHAPTER 10
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."
"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."
Tiggered to git you sumpin' special."
"I appreciate that." Qwilleran sauntered around with his hands in his pockets. "Nice view from here. You were nght about that, too."
"Lotsa purty sights in the mount'ns." The carpenter straightened up and pointed with his handsaw. "They's a puny 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 humorscaring 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 soupfon 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. 1 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?"