"But that's our specialty."
"Be that as it may, hold the potato!"
She returned with the manager. "Sir, is this your first rime here?" he asked. "We're famous for our baked potatoes."
"Where are they grown?" Qwilleran inquired, expecting to hear Idaho or Maine or Michigan.
"Right here in the foothills, sir, where the soil is ideal for growing potatoes with flavor."
Now Qwilleran knew why these were the Potato Mountains! As he pondered a decision, a young woman at the next table leaned over and said in a pleasant voice, "Take the potato. It's better than the steak." He noticed that she was eating only a potato with a variety of toppings. He noticed also that she had hair like black satin. He took her advice. She had left the restaurant when his meal was served; otherwise he would have thanked her. The steak tasted of tenderizer, but the potato was the best he had ever eaten.
By the time Qwilleran drove home, the fog had burned off in the valley, but halfway up Hawk's Nest Drive it closed in like a white blanket, and he reduced his speed. Although it was difficult to see anything but a small patch of pavement, he was aware of rivulets of water running diagonally across the road. Farther along, the asphalt was covered with mud, and he slowed even more, hugging the cliff on the right and watching for downbound foglights. He had just passed the spot where the Lessmore house should be, when something loomed up in front of him. He eased on the brakes, leaned on the horn, and veered across the yellow line, stopping his car just before crashing into the obstruction. It was another vehicle, skidded diagonally across the road and smashed against the roadside cliff. Backing into his own lane, he turned on the flashers and hurried to the wreck. The cause of the accident was obvious: a mudslide . . . fallen rocks ... a tree across the road.
As he approached the driver's side of the wrecked car, a woman behind the wheel signaled frantically and shouted, "I can't open the door! I can't open the door!" It was the woman with black satin hair.
CHAPTER 16
The woman trapped in the wrecked car on the mountainside was in a panic. "I can't get out!" she screamed.
"Are you hurt?" Qwilleran shouted through the glass as he tried the door handle. It was jammed.
"No, but I can't get out!"
"Turn off the ignition!"
"I did! What shall I do?"
"Can you roll down the window?"
"Nothing works!"
It was a two-door model, and Qwilleran tried the opposite door, but the fenders were folded in, and the car was wedged between the wall of rock and the large tree that had tumbled down from the top of the cliff.
"I'll go for help!" he shouted at the driver.
"It might explode!" she cried hysterically.
"No chance! Stay cool! I'll be right back!"
Starting uphill at a jogtrot, he was amazed that his ankle would support the effort. Running downhill to the Lessmore house might have been easier, but he was sure the couple were both at work downtown. He knew how the road curved near the Wilbank residence, and he was sure Ardis would be at home on a day like this. If not, he was prepared to run all the way to Tiptop. Now he wished he had invested in a CB radio or cellular phone.
At the Wilbank driveway he shouted "Hallo! Hallo!" while jogging toward the house. By the time the front door materialized through the mist, Ardis was standing on the deck.
"Trouble?" she called out.
"Accident down the hill! Call the police and a wrecker! A woman's trapped in the car but not hurt!"
"Del's home," she said . . . "Del, there's an accident!"
Qwilleran started back downhill and was picked up by the off-duty sheriff on the way to the scene. Together they set out flares. Already the sirens could be heard in the valley, amplified by the stillness of the atmosphere.
The trapped driver was pounding on the window glass. "Get me out! Get me out!"
"Help's on the way! The sheriff is here!" Qwilleran reassured her, shouting to be heard. He noticed the rental sticker in the rear window. "Are you Sherry? I'm Qwilleran from Tiptop! Didn't expect you in this fog! When did your plane land? I thought all flights would be canceled."
He was trying to divert her attention, but she was too frightened for small talk. "Could it catch fire?"
"No! Don't worry! You'll be out in a jiffy!"
She only glared at him and hammered on the window uselessly. So this was Sherry Hawkinfield! If she were not so terrified she would be quite attractive, he thought.
Police, fire and rescue vehicles arrived, and Qwilleran stepped back out of the way, talking with Ardis, who had walked down to see the wreck. One man with a chainsaw was working on the tree trunk that barricaded the road. The rescue crew was cutting open the car with the Jaws of Life.
When the woman was finally helped out of the wreckage, her first words were, "Hell! I didn't buy insurance! How stupid! Why didn't I take out insurance?"
"Hi, Sherry," said Wilbank. "What are you doing up here?"
"Going to Tiptop to discuss business . . . Where is he?"
"Here I am," said Qwilleran. "As soon as they clear the road I'll drive you up there . . . Hold on!" he shouted to the driver of the tow truck. "Let's get her luggage out of the trunk!"
"Howya!" said the man. It was Vance, the blacksmith. "Glad you're gittin' around ag'in."
The sheriff said to Qwilleran, "How's everything at Tiptop?"
"Wet outside, comfortable inside. Is this your day off? Why don't you and Ardis come up for drinks at five o'clock?"
On the drive to the mountaintop he said to Sherry, "Would you like something for your nerves when we arrive? A drink, or a nap, or a shower?" She was looking disheveled in her travel denims and rumpled hair.
"All three," she said peevishly, staring at the dashboard. "What rotten luck!"
He tried to relieve the leaden silence that followed by making such insipid remarks as, "This is the worst fog I've ever seen." . . . And then, "Well, at least we don't worry about flooding up here." . . . And as he carried her luggage up the stone steps, "Fog has an interesting smell, doesn't it?"
When at last they entered the foyer of Tiptop, she was composed enough to say, "I could use that drink. Can you mix a sherry manhattan?"
"Six-to-one? Lemon peel?"asked Qwilleran, who had worked his way through college tending bar. "I want to freshen up first."
He gestured toward the stairway. "Make yourself at home. You have your choice of the four front rooms, and you know where the towels are kept. I'll take your luggage up."
"I can carry it," she"said sharply. "First I need to make a phone call. Now that I have no car, my friend will have to pick me up here after work." "Go ahead, and ask your friend to stay for a drink."
Soon he heard her on the phone saying, "Honey, you'll never guess what happened to me!"
After she had gone upstairs, Qwilleran quickly retrieved the old-fashioned key from the drawer of the huntboard and hung it on the picture hook behind the Beechum paintingjust in case she might be nosy. Her offhand manners led him to expect anything. What had she learned at that school in Virginia?
A moment later he heard a scream on the second floor, and he dashed up the stairs three at a time. Sherry was standing in the upper hall looking wild-eyed and petrified. "Those cats!" she cried. "I'm deathly afraid of Siamese!"
Koko and Yum Yum, who had emerged languidly from their bedroom after their midday nap, were yawning widely and showing cavernous pink gullets and murderous fangs. Sherry screamed again.
"Take it easy," Qwilleran said. "They won't pay any attention to you. Didn't Dolly tell you I had two cats?"
"I didn't know they were Siamese!"
He settled the matter by announcing, "Treat!" and two furry bodies rippled down the stairs to the kitchen. He followed and gave them something crunchy to eat while he mixed a sherry manhattan for his guest. For himself he poured white grape juice and also gave Koko half a jigger in a saucer.
As he was carrying the tray into the living room, Sherry came downstairs slowly, looking at everything. "It's different. You've done something to it," she said.