"Really?" she asked in surprise. "I didn't know they were willing to rent. What condition is it in?"
"The building's in good repair and has all the essentials, but it's rather bleak and full of echoes. Someone has cleaned out all the bric-a-brac."
"The Hawkinfield daughter," the designer said, nodding. "When J.J. died, she took everything in the way of decorative accessories to sell in her shop in Maryland. I helped her appraise the stuff. But now, if you'd like any help in making the interior comfortable for the summer, I'm at your service. I'm Sabrina Peel."
"Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW," he said. "Are you familiar with Tiptop?"
"Definitely! Our studio helped Mrs. Hawkinfield with the interior a few years agojust before she went into the hospital. The poor woman never returned to enjoy it."
"What happened?"
"She was committed to a mental hospital, and she's still theredoesn't even know that her husband is dead. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"I never say no to coffee," he said.
"Or a glass of chardonnay?"
"Coffee, if you please."
While she prepared the beverage he wandered about the studio, admiring the Peel & Poole taste. He also found the ottoman she had mentioned: large, cushiony, inviting, and labeled "floor sample." After the first sip of coffee, he regarded her with the beseeching eyes that women could barely resist and asked, "Would you consider selling me four floor sample?"
She took a moment to react, pushing her hair back from her face with an attractive two-handed gesture. "On one conditionif you'll let me spruce up your summer residence. I can use small rugs and pillows and folding screens to make it more livable and without a large investment on your part. You owe it to yourself to have a pleasant environment when you're vacationing."
"Sounds good to me!" he said. "Would you like to drive up and look it over?"
"How about Monday afternoon at one-thirty? I'll take along some accessories for your approval."
"Tell me something about the Hawkinfields," Qwilleran said. "Why did they want such a large house?"
"They had several children and did a lot of entertainingoriginally. Then all of a sudden their life went into a tailspin. Three of the boys were killed within a year."
"How?" Qwilleran was always quick to suspect foul play, and since their father had enemies and was a murder victim himself, the possibilities were rife.
"There were two accidents a few months apart, both related to outdoor sports. It was a crushing blow for the parents. After the second incident Mrs. Hawkinfield couldn't cope and had a nervous breakdown. We all felt terrible about it. She was a nice woman, although she let her husband keep her under his thumb. Everyone wished she'd stand up for herself ... I don't know why I'm telling you this, except that it's Tiptop history, and it goes with the house, along with the carpet and draperies."
"I appreciate knowing," he said. "I've been getting negative vibrations."
"Is that true? How interesting!" the designer said, leaning forward. "I'm very sensitive to the aura of a house. When I visit a client for the first time, I get a definite feeling about the family's past and present."
"Mrs. Hawkinfield seemed to be hooked on gray, if that signifies anything."
"Hooked is the right word! We tried to warm it up with antique gold and Venetian red, but she loved gray and always wore it. Actually it was becoming. She had lovely gray eyesand prematurely gray hair, which we all blamed on her husband."
Qwilleran was about to inquire about the murder, but a chime at the front door announced another customer, and he drained his coffee cup. "I'll look forward to seeing you Monday afternoon, Ms. Peel."
"Sabrina," she corrected him.
"Don't bring anything gray, Sabrina. And please call me Qwill."
Driving away from the design studio with the ottoman in the trunk, he felt a bond of camaraderie with Sabrina Peel. He liked designers, especially those with that particular roseate hair tint, which he thought of as "decorator blond." When he stopped at the Five Points Market to stock his bar for possible guests, he included chardonnay with the usual hard and soft drinks.
The friendly Bill Treacle, who was bustling about the store with managerial urgency, saw Qwilleran loading a shopping cart with scotch, bourbon, vodka, rum, sherry, beer, fruit juices, and mixes. "Having a party?" he asked cheerily. "Looks like you found Tiptop okay."
"No problem," Qwilleran replied. After meeting Sabrina he was feeling too good to quibble about the Snaggy Creek cutoff and the thawed seafood and the melted ice cream.
At the same intersection he went into Lumpton's Hardware and asked for a turkey roaster.
"What size?" asked a man with a nasal twang.
"I thought one size fits all."
"We've got three sizes, top of the line. From Germany. How big a turkey are you talking about?"
"Just a small one," Qwilleran said. He was staggered by the price, but he could afford it, and the cats deserved a second facility. He himself had eight bathrooms at Tiptop; why should they be limited to one commode? He also bought a radio with more features than he really wanted, the control panel having several switches, six knobs, and seventeen buttons. Even so, it cost less than the cats' commode.
Upon leaving the hardware store Qwilleran saw a barn-wood sign advertising mountain crafts and handmade gifts at Potato Cove. He followed the arrow, thinking he might find a gift for Polly and a ceramic mug for himself. The coffee cups at Tiptop had finger-trap handles and limited capacity; he could empty one in two gulps.
The road to Potato Cove was the kind that map makers call "unimproved," meaning that it was gravel with teeth-rattling bumps and ruts. It was marked at every turn and every fork, however, and it wound through a dense forest where the pines stood tall and straight, as close together as pickets in a fence.
On the way to the cove Qwilleran saw a few dwellings, poor excuses for housing, and yet there were more signs of life than he had found around Tiptop Estates. He saw children chasing each other and climbing trees, two women laughing as they hung diapers on a clothesline, cats and dogs sunning, a man chopping wood, a white-haired woman sitting on the porch of a log cabin, peeling apples. There was something poetic about this humble scene: her placid demeanor as she sat in a rocking chair with a bowl cradled in her lap, leisurely wielding the paring knife as if she had all afternoon. Qwilleran's camera was on the seat beside him, and he would have snapped a picture if it had not been for the shotgun leaning against a porch post.
Farther along the road there was an enterprise that called itself "Just Rust." A long, low shed was jammed with rusty artifacts that spilled over into the front yard: bed frames, parts of sewing machines, plows, broken tools, folding metal chairs, wash boilers, scythes, bathtubs, bird cages, bed pans, frying pans, wheelbarrows . . .
Next came a streetscene that might have been the set for a low-budget Hollywood western: crude buildings of weathered wood, spaced haphazardly along the road and connected with wooden sidewalks. Yet, even in this ramshackle environment the hand of an artist was evident in the signs painted on barnwood. The first was a parody of small-town hospitality: WELCOME TO POTATO COVE . . . POPULATION 0. Similar signs nailed to the buildings identified the shops of Otto the Potter, Vance the Village Smith, and specialists in woodcraft, leather goods, hand-dipped candles, baskets, and the like. There was wit in some of the signs. The chair caner called his shop The Bottom Line.
Among the visitors who walked up and down the wooden sidewalks there were townspeople wearing Saturday casuals and doing a little shopping, as well as tourists in shorts and sandals, gawking and snapping pictures. Qwilleran followed a few who were walking briskly toward a shed behind Otto's pottery.