"That's Bob Lessmore and Hugh Lumpton, top guns in the club," the editor explained. "Champion golfers have a certain look, don't they? Their build, their walk, even their facial set. It comes from concentration, I guess. Do you play golf?"
"No," Qwilleran said. "I never thought that anything -mailer than a baseball was worth hitting. Baseball was my game until I injured a knee. I was too short for basketball, too cowardly to play football, too poor to play polo, and too sane to play soccer."
Carmichael recommended the poached flounder, saying that the new chef was introducing a lighter menu to a membership hooked on corned beef sandwiches and sixteen-ounce steaks. Qwilleran ordered the poached flounder, although he noticed that his host ordered a corned beef sandwich and cheddar cheese soup. It proved to be a small piece of fish, lightly sauced and served on an oversized plate along with three perfect green beans, a sliver of parboiled carrot, and two halves of a cherry tomato broiled and sprinkled with parsley. It was accompanied by the starch of the day, mashed turnip flavored with grated orange rind.
Gingerly Qwilleran forked into this repast, and as he did so, he was aware that a woman at a nearby table was staring at his moustache. She had the embalmed look that conies from too many facelifts, and she was wearing a voluptuous brimmed hat that zoomed up on one side and swooped down on the other.
"Who's the woman in the hat who's giving me the eye?" he asked under his breath.
"That's Vonda Dudley Wix," the editor said without moving his lips. "She writes the 'Potato Peelings' column. She's spotted your moustache, I'm afraid, and she'll be nailing you for an interview."
"She'll have to catch me first. I've read her column. What do you think of her style?"
"Overripe, to say the least. I tried to kill the column when I bought the paper, but the readers rose up in protest. They actually like it! Newspaper subscribers are unpredictable."
Helping himself to a third mini-muffin, Qwilleran was glad he had eaten a substantial breakfast at the Five Points Cafe. He maintained an amiable composure, however. "How long does it take to learn your way around the mountains, Colin? All I've got is three months." He related his experience of the previous day: how he wound up on the wrong mountain and how he was rescued by one of the Taters. He said, "Her manner was definitely hostile, and yet she went miles out of her way to help me find Hawk's Nest Drive. I don't understand it."
"They're not easy to understand," said Carmichael. "In fact, there are some weird characters in them thar hills."
"The MacDiarmids told me the artists have a community where they sell their handcrafts. Where's that?"
"Potato Cove. It's on the outside of Little Potato. It was a ghost town that they resurrected."
"Is it difficult to find?"
"It's on a dirt road, but the route is well marked because it's a tourist attraction. Go to Five Points and then follow the signs."
Qwilleran said, "I saw something strange last night. It was around midnight. I went out for a lungful of fresh air before turning in and walked around the veranda. On a mountain toward the south there was a circle of light, and it was revolving."
"Oh sure, we see that once in a while."
"Is it some kind of natural phenomenon? I have friends in Moose County who'd insist it was an alien aircraft from outer space."
The editor chuckled. "Are you ready for this, Qwill? . . . They say there's a witches' coven up on Little Potato. Apparently they celebrate certain phases of the moonor whatever."
"Have you ever done a story on them?"
"Are you kidding? Even if we could find them in that godforsaken wilderness, no outsider could get close enough to take a picture or spy on them. But if you want to take a whack at it, we'll buy the story," Carmichael added in a jocular vein.
"No, thanks," said Qwilleran, "but I think it was one of the witches who came to my rescue last night."
They ordered coffee, and Qwilleran had a slice of double chocolate fudge cake that restored his interest in the golf club. On the way out, at the editor's urging, he signed up for a social membership that would permit him to use the dining room. They gave him a card with the club logo: SGC in embossed gold, on a brown oval representing a potato.
"And now where do you want to be dropped?" Carmichael asked.
"At a furniture store, if there's one downtown. I left my car on Center Street."
"Didn't you rent the place furnished?"
"Supposedly, but I need an ottoman. I like to put my feet up when I read. I also need a small radio for weather reports."
"The hardware store at Five Points is the best for that. Get one that can operate on batteries in case of a blackout."
"Do you lose power often?" Qwilleran asked.
"Only when a tree blows down across a power line."
As they drove back downtown, the editor pointed out some local attractions: the Lumpton furniture factory, offering guided tours every afternoon; the historical museum in an old house on Center Street; the scenic drive about to be named after J.J. Hawkinfield.
"How old was he when he died?" Qwilleran asked.
"Not old. In his fifties."
"What happened to him?"
Carmichael hesitated. "You haven't heard? He was murdered."
Qwilleran put his hand to his moustache. "Ms. Less-more didn't tell me that." He had sensed something sinister, though.
"Well, you know, Qwill . . . small towns are sensitive about serious crimes . . . and with the emphasis on tourism here, murder is never mentioned to vacationers."
"I had a hunch that something irregular had happened to the owner of Tiptop. What were the circumstances?"
"He was pushed off his own mountain. You can read about it in our files if you're interested. The murderer is in prison, although there's an element here that thinks they convicted the wrong man, but that's par for the course, isn't it? . . . Well, here's your furniture store, Qwill. It's great to have you here. Don't be too solitary. Keep in touch."
CHAPTER 5
According to signs plastered on the windows, the furniture store was having a sale of recliners, a fact corroborated by the lineup of chairs on the sidewalk. Qwilleran walked in and asked to see some ottomans.
"Did you see our recliners on sale?" asked a pleasant elderly woman, eager to be of service.
"Yes, but I'm interested in an ottoman."
"All the recliners in the store are twenty-five percent off," she said encouragingly.
"Do you have any ottomans?" he asked with exaggerated politeness.
"Harry!" she shouted toward the rear of the store. "Do we have any ottomans?"
"No!" Harry yelled. "Show the customer the recliners!"
"Never mind," Qwilleran said. "Show me a telephone book."
Consulting the classified section, he found a likely source of ottomans just two blocks away: Peel & Poole Design Studio. It was a juxtaposition of names that appealed to his fancy for words.
At the Peel & Poole studio he was greeted by a smartly suited young woman who reminded him of Fran Brodie, a designer in Pickax. They had the same suave buoyancy and the same reddish blond hair.
"May I help you?" she asked cordially. Her hair flowed silkily to her shoulders, and long, straight bangs drew attention to the blueness of her eyes.
"I need an ottoman," he said. "I'm renting a furnished place for the summer, and I like to put my feet up when I read. I do notwanta recliner!" he said with measured emphasis.
"You're quite right," she agreed. "I'm a firm believer in ottomans, and we have a nice one that we can order for you in any cover."
"How long does it take for a special order?"
"Six to eight weeks."
"That won't do. I'll be here only three months. I'm renting Tiptop for the summer."