"We don't need much to live on, but we do fairly well in summer. In the winter I drive the school bus."
"You meanyou maneuver a bus up these mountain roads? You have my admiration . . . I'll see you tomorrow," he said as more tourists entered the shop. "Is there any place in the cove where I can get a cup of coffee?"
"Amy's Lunch Bucket," she said, pointing up the hill. Although she didn't smile, she had lost the chip on her shoulder.
Qwilleran waved a hand toward the silent woman at the loom. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Beechum, and compliments on your weaving!" She nodded without looking up.
Amy's Lunch Bucket was aptly named, being large enough for four old kitchen tables and some metal folding chairs obviously from the Just Rust collection. But it was clean. The floorboards were painted grass green, and the white walls were decorated with an abstract panorama of green mountains against a blue sky. A plump and pretty woman with the healthy radiance of youth presided over a make-shift kitchen behind a chest-high counter. "Nice day," she said.
"Are you Amy?" Qwilleran asked.
"Sure am!" she replied cheerfully. "What can I dish up for you?"
The menu posted on the wall behind her offered vegetable soup, veggieburgers, oat bran cookies, yogurt, apple juice, and herb tea. "Do you have coffee?" he asked.
"Sure don't. Only coffee sub and herb tea."
There was a sudden squawk behind the counter, -as if from some exotic bird.
"Goo goo goo," said Amy, leaning down.
Qwilleran peered over the counter. On a table was an infant in a basket. "Yours?" he asked.
"Yes, this is our Ashley. Two months, one week, and three days. He's going to be an ecologist when he grows up."
Qwilleran accepted coffee substitute and two oat bran cookies, which he carried to a table near the front window. The only other patrons were the candle dipper, who was eating yogurt and reading a paperback, and the blacksmith, who had ordered everything on the menu and was nicking into it with ravenous gulps.
"Howya," he said with his mouth full, and the candle dipper looked up and smiled at the man who had bought almost a hundred dollars' worth of beeswax.
A moment later Chrysalis Beechum burst into the restaurant in a hurry, waving a ceramic mug. "Apple juice for Ma," she told Amy. "How's Ashley? Is Ashley a good boy today?"
"Ashley is an angel today. How's business down the hill?"
"Surprisingly good! Put the juice on our bill, Amy."
As Chrysalis started out the door with the brimming mug, Qwilleran stood up and intercepted her. "We meet again," he said pleasantly. "Won't you join me for a cup of coffee substitute and an oat bran cookie?"
She hesitated. "I've left my mother alone at the shop,"
The candle dipper spoke up. "I'm all through eatin', Chrys. I'll stay with her till you git back."
"Aw, thanks, Missy. Take this apple juice and tell her I won't be long." Chrysalis turned back to Qwilleran. "My mother doesn't speak, so I can't leave her in the shop alone."
"She doesn't speak?" Sympathy was masking his curiosity as he held a rusty chair for her.
"It's a psychological disorder. She hasn't said a word for almost a year."
"What may I serve you?"
"Just some yogurt, plain, and thank you very much."
In that small restaurant Amy heard the order and had it ready by the time Qwilleran reached the counter.
"How do you like Potato Cove?" Chrysalis asked him.
"Interesting community," he said. "Very good shops. I like everything except the tourists."
"I know what you mean, but they pay the rent. How do you feel about what's happening to the mountains?"
"Having arrived only yesterday, I'm not ready to make a statement, I'm afraid. Are you referring to the land development?"
"That's what they call it," she said aggressively. "I call it environmental suicide! They're not only cutting down trees to ship to Japan; they're endangering life on this planet! They're creating problems of erosion, drainage, water supply, and waste control! They're robbing the wildlife of their habitat! I'm talking about Big Potato. And the Yellyhooone of the few wild rivers leftis in danger of pollution. I'm not going to have children, Mr. . . ."
"Qwilleran."
"I'm not going to have children because the next generation will inherit a ravaged earth."
He had heard all this before but never with such passion and at such close range. He was formulating a reply when she demanded:
"You're a journalist, you say. Why don't you write about this frightening problem? They're ripping the heart out of Big Potato, and they'd like to take our land away from us, too. Little Potato will be next!"
"I'd need to know a lot more about this subject than I do," he said. "Are you connected with the group that pickets in front of the courthouse?"
"I take my turn," she said sullenly. "So does Amy. So does Vance." She nodded toward the blacksmith. "Who knows whether it does any good? I get very depressed."
"Answer one question for me," Qwilleran said. "When I was downtown today, there was a picket sign I didn't understand: Free Forest. Are you campaigning for a national park or something like that?"
Her thin lips twisted in a grim smile. "My brother is Forest Beechum . . . and he's in the state prison!" She said it bravely, holding her head high and looking at him defiantly.
"Sorry to hear that. What kind of term"
"He was sentenced to life! And he's innocent!"
Qwilleran thought, They always say that. "What was the charge?"
"Murder!"
Amy called out from behind the counter, "The trial was a pack of lies! Forest would never hurt a fly! He's an artist. He's a gentle person."
They always say that, Qwilleran repeated to himself.
The blacksmith, still speaking with his mouth full, said, "There's lotsa Spuds that coulda done it, but the cops never come up with a suspect from the valley. They made up their mind it hadda be one of us."
Qwilleran asked, "Did you have a good attorney?"
"We couldn't afford an attorney," Chrysalis said, "so the court appointed one for us. We thought he'd work to get my brother off, since he was innocent. We were so naive. That man didn't even try!" She spoke with bitterness flashing in her eyes. "He wanted Forest to plead guilty to a lesser charge, but why should he? He was totally innocent! So there was a jury trial, and the jury was rigged. All the jurors were Spuds. Not one Tater! It was all so wrong, so unjust, so unfair!"
"Ain't nothin' fair," said the blacksmith.
There was a minute of silence in the little restaurant, a moment heavy with emotion. Then Chrysalis said, "I've got to get back to the shop. Thank you for the yogurt and for listening, Mr. . . ."
"Qwilleran."
"Do you really want to see the batwing capes tomorrow?"
"I most certainly do," he said, rising as she left the table. No one spoke until Ashley made his lusty bid for attention.
"Goo goo goo," said Amy.
"The cookies were delicious," Qwilleran told her. "Did you make them?"
"No, they're from the bakery up the hill. They have wonderful things up there."
"Good! That will be my next stop."
"It's after four o'clock. They're closed. But you should come back and try their Danish pastries made with fresh fruit, and their sticky buns made with whole wheat potato dough."
"Amy, you've touched the weakest spot in my character." Qwilleran started out the door and then turned back. "About this murder trial . . . who was the victim?" he asked, although a sensation on his upper lip was telling him the answer.
"Big shot in Spudsboro," said the blacksmith.
"He owned the newspaper," Amy added. "Also an old inn on top of Big Potato."
Qwilleran patted his moustache with satisfaction. All his hunches, large and small, seemed to emanate from its sensitive roots. Right again!
CHAPTER 6
Qwilleran stood in front of Amy's Lunch Bucket and gazed at the sky. The heavens refuted Beechum's prediction of rain. With the sun shining and the sky blue and the mountain breezes playing softly, it was one of those rare days that June does so well. There were dragon-like clouds over the valleysprawling, ferocious shapes quite unlike the puffy clouds over Moose County. They looked more dramatic than threatening, however, and the meteorologist on the car radio had promised fair weather for the next twenty-four hours.