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 carit was even heavier than it lookedand 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 mountainsso 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 believe 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 carefulit'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.
"So, anyway, she wrote a check for $300 and asked him to deliver the painting the next day as a surprise for her father. She wanted it exactly at one o'clock . . . Would you like coffee sub with your burger, Mr. . . ."
"Qwilleran. No, thanks. I'll skip the beverage today."
"Well, he drove to Tiptop on Sunday, and Sherry told him where to hang the painting in the hallway. Just as he was pounding the nail in the wall, the Old Buzzard rushed inthat's what Forest called him. The Old Buzzard rushed in from somewhere and said to his daughter, 'By God! What's that damned rabble-rouser doing in my house? Get him out of here!' She didn't say anything, but Forest said, I'm delivering a painting of a mountain, sir, so you'll know what mountains used to look like before you started mutilating them, sir!' And the man said, 'Get out of my house and take that piece of junk with you, or I'll have you arrested for trespassing and littering!' And he grabbed a stick out of the umbrella stand and was threatening him. Forest won't stand for abuse, verbal or otherwise, so he said, 'Go ahead! Hit me, sir, and I'll have the publisher of the Gazette charged with assault and battery!' The Old Buzzard was getting as red as a beet, and Sherry told Forest he'd better leave."
"He left the painting there, I gather."
Amy nodded. "She'd paid for it, you know. Anyway, he stomped out of the house and drove back to the cove, madder than I've ever seen him."
"What time was that?"
"About one-thirty, I think. At three o'clock the police came, and Forest was charged with murder! We couldn't understand it! We didn't know what it was all about! We were all so confused. And thenwhen Sherry told such horrible lies at the trialit was like a nightmare! . . . Excuse me."
Two tourists had walked into the restaurant, and Amy went behind the counter, greeting them with her usual smile, her eyes glistening unnaturally. There was a happy squawk from Ashley.
"Goo goo goo," she said. "His name is Ashley," she told the customers. "He's two months, one week, and six days."
Qwilleran smoothed his sensitive moustache. He thought, If Amy's story is true, and if Forest didn't kill J.J., who did? And why is Sherry Hawkinfield protecting the murderer?
CHAPTER 11
As Qwilleran was leaving Amy's Lunch Bucket she said meekly, "If you want real coffee, you can get it at the bakery up the hill."
"Thanks, Amy. You're a real friend," he said.
"Have you ever seen the waterfall? It's very exciting. The trail starts behind the bakery."
"Are there poison snakes back there?"
"Of course not! There are no poison snakes in the Potatoes, Mr. . . ."
"Qwilleran."
He ambled up the gradual incline on the wooden sidewalk until he scented a yeasty aroma and came upon an isolated building with the remains of a steeple. The weaving studio occupied an abandoned schoolhouse; the bakery occupied an abandoned church. Hanging alongside the door was a barnwood sign shaped like a plump loaf of bread, but he read the lettering twice before he could believe what he saw: THE HALF-BAKED BAKERY. A screened door flapped loosely as he entered.