A bit of perverse humor, I guess. The tourists like it." Qwilleran said he would prefer real north country atmosphere.
"Right. So here's what you want to do: Drive west along the shore for about a mile.
You'll see a big electric sign that says FOO. The D dropped off about three years ago.
It's a dump, but they're famous for pasties, and it's strictly hats-on." "One more Question." Qwilleran touched his moustache tentatively, as he did when a situation was bothering him. "How come there are so many blue pickup trucks in this neck of the woods?" "I don't know. I never really noticed." Roger jumped up and went to the side window overlooking the parking lot of the Shipwreck Tavern. "You're right. There are two blue pickups in the lot… But there's also a red one, and a dirty green, and a sort of yellow." "And here comes another blue one," Qwilleran persisted. It was the truck with the shovels. The agile little man who jumped out of the driver's seat wore overalls and a visored cap and a faceful of untrimmed gray whiskers.
"That's old Sam the gravedigger. He's got a lot of bounce, hasn't he? He's over eighty and puts away a pint of whiskey every day — except Sunday." "You mean you still dig graves by hand?" "Right. Sam's been digging graves and other things all his life. Keeps him young…
Look at that sky. We're in for a storm." "Thanks for the information," Qwilleran said. "I think I'll go and try the pasties." He glanced at his wrist. "What time is it? I left my watch at the cabin." "That's normal. When guys come up here, the first thing they do — they forget to wear their watches. Then they stop shaving. Then they start eating with their hats on." Qwilleran drove west until he saw an electric sign flashing its message futilely in the sunshine: FOO…FOO… FOO. The parking lot was filled with pickups and vans.
No blue. He thought: Why am I getting paranoid about blue pickups? The answer was a familiar uneasiness on his upper lip.
The restaurant was a two-story building in need of paint and shingles and nails. A ventilator expelled fumes of fried fish and smoking hamburgers. Inside, the tables were filled, and red, green, blue, and yellow caps could be seen dimly through the haze of cigarette smoke. Country music on the radio could not compete with the hubbub of loud talk and laughter.
Qwilleran took a stool at the counter not far from a customer with a sheriff's department patch on his sleeve and a stiff-brimmed hat on his head.
The cook shuffled out of the kitchen and said to the deputy: "We're in for a big one." The brimmed hat nodded.
"Another roadblock last night?" Two nods.
"Find anything?" The hat waggled from side to side.
"We all know where the buggers go." Another nod.
"But no evidence." The hat registered negative.
The waitress was standing in front of Qwilleran, waiting wordlessly for his order.
"A couple of pasties," he said.
"To go?" "No. To eat here." "Two?" Qwilleran found himself nodding an affirmative.
"You want I should hold one back and keep it hot till you eat the first one?" "No, thanks. That won't be necessary." The conversation at the tables concerned fishing exclusively, with much speculation bout an approaching storm. The movement of the lake, the color of the sky, the behavior of the seagulls, the formation of the clouds, the feel of the wind — all these factors convinced veteran fishermen that a storm was coming, despite predictions on the local radio station.
When Qwilleran's two pasties arrived they completely filled two large oval platters.
Each of the crusty turnovers was a foot wide and three inches thick. He surveyed the feast. "I need a fork," he said.
"Just pick' em up," the waitress said and disappeared into the kitchen.
Roger was right. The pasties were filled with meat and potatoes and plenty of turnip, which ranked with parsnip at the bottom of Qwilleran's list of edibles. He chomped halfway through the first pasty, lubricating each dry mouthful with gulps of weak coffee, then asked to have the remaining artifacts wrapped to take home. He paid his check glumly, receiving his change in dollar bills that smelled of cigar smoke.
The cashier, a heavy woman in snugly fitting pants and a Mooseville T-shirt, leered at his orange cap and said: "All ready for Halloween, Clyde?" Glancing at her blimplike figure he thought of an apt retort but curbed his impulse.
He returned home with one and a half pasties in soggy waxed paper and discovered some new developments. The damaged screen in the porch door had been replaced, and the hawk- spotted furnishings had been cleaned. There was a can of insect spray in the kitchen.
Additional cassettes were stacked on the stereo cabinet. And his watch was missing. He clearly remembered placing it on a bathroom shelf before showering. Now it was gone. It was an expensive timepiece, presented to him by the Antique Dealers' Association at a testimonial dinner.
With mystification and annoyance muddling his head he sat down to think. Koko rubbed against his ankles, and Yum Yum jumped upon his knee. He stroked her fur absently as he reviewed the last twenty-four hours.
First there was the sunken grave; the cats were still mesmerized and kept returning to their vantage point in the guest-room window. Next there were the footsteps on the roof; the intruder was heading for the chimney when frightened away by light and noise. This morning there had been the incredible odor at the post office. And why did Roger discourage him from visiting the old cemetery? The Chamber of Commerce brochure recommended it to history buffs, photographers, and artists interested in making rubbings of nineteenth century tombstones.