"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.
As he stood there he doubted not only Beechum's prediction but also the story he had just heard. How many rimes had he interviewed the parent, spouse, or neighbor of a convicted felon and listened to the same tale! "My son would never harm anyone! . . . My husband is a gentle, peace-loving man! . . . He was a wonderful neighbor, always ready to help anyone!"
Whatever the facts about the Hawkinfield murder and the conviction of Forest Beechum, Qwilleran was beginning to understand his negative reaction to Tiptop. It was not only the gray color scheme and the barren rooms; it was an undercurrent of villainy. Exactly what kind of villainy had yet to be discovered.
Then he remembered that the Siamese had been left alone all day in unfamiliar surroundings, and he drove back to the inn. Hawk's Nest Drive, so smoothly paved and so expertly dished on the curves, made pleasant driving after the discomforts of the road to Potato Cove.
To unload his purchases it was necessary to make several trips up the long flight of stepswith the ottoman, the supply of liquor, the turkey roaster, his new radio, Polly's batwing cape, three dozen candles, four coffee mugs, and a very heavy iron candelabrum. After transporting them as far as the veranda, he sat down on the top step to catch his breath, but his respite was brief. A feline chorus inside the French doors was making imperative demands, Yum Yum saying, "N-n-NOW!"
"All right, all right, I know it's dinnertime," he called out as he turned the key in the lock. "You don't need to make a federal case out of it!"
It was not food that concerned them, however; it was an envelope that had been pushed under the door. Qwil-leran ripped it open and read, "Cocktails Sunday at Seven Levels. Come around five o'clock and meet your neighbors. Very casual. Dolly." He pocketed the invitation and carried his acquisitions into the house.
"I've brought you a present," he told the Siamese. "You'll be the only cats in the Potato Mountains with a state-of-the-art commode imported from Germany!"
Koko, who had to inspect everything that came into the house, was chiefly interested in the liquor supply as it was lined up on the bar. The sherry particularly attracted his nose. This was Polly's favorite drink, and it would be astounding, Qwilleran thought, if the cat could make the connection. More likely it was the label. Koko had a passion for glue, and the Spanish wine industry might use a special kind of seductive adhesive in labeling bottles.
After opening a can of crabmeat for the Siamese and a can of spaghetti for himself, he checked the house for catly mischief; they could be remarkably creative in their naughtiness when they felt neglected. Surprisingly everything was in order except for the painting of mountains in the foyer, which had been tilted again.
As he straightened it, Koko came up behind him, yowling indignantly.
"Objection overruled," Qwilleran said. "Why don't you go and massage your teeth on that half-ton buffet in the dining room?"
The painting, which had an indecipherable signature in the lower righthand corner, hung above a primitive cabinet built low to the floor on flat bun feet. It was crudely decorated with hunting symbols and a cartouche on which was inscribed "Lord Archibald Fitzwallow." There were two drawers (empty) and cabinet space beneath (also empty). It was no beauty, but it was a handy place to keep the telephone and throw car keys. As Qwilleran was examining the cabinet, Koko impudently jumped to its surface and moved the mountain for the third time.
"Are you trying to be funny?" Qwilleran shouted at him. "We'll put an end to that little game, you rascal!" With this pronouncement he lifted the picture from its hook and placed it on the floor, leaning it against the wall. Koko stayed where he was, but now he was standing on his hind legs and pawing the wall.
"What's that?" Qwilleran exclaimed. Hanging from the picture hook was an old-fashioned black iron key about three inches long. Koko had sensed its presence! He always knew when anything was unusual or out of place.
"Sorry I yelled, old boy. I should have realized you knew what you were doing," Qwilleran apologized, but now he combed his moustache in perplexity. What was the key intended to unlock? And why had it been hung behind the painting?
It was clear, he told himself, that the Tiptop Inn had catered to a wealthy clientele who traveled with their jewels, making security an important consideration. All the bedroom doors were fitted with old-fashioned, surface-mounted brass locks, the kind requiring a long key. Other doors throughout the housewith the exception of cylinder locks at front and back doorsretained the old style as part of the quaint authenticity of the historic building.
Carrying the key and marveling at its inconvenient size and weight, Qwilleran began a systematic check of the house from the fruit cellar on the lower level to the walk-in linen closet upstairs. He found no lock that would take the key, not even the door to the attic stairway. The attic stairs were steep and dusty, and the atmosphere was stifling, but he went up to explore. It was a lumberroom for old steamer trunks and cast-off furniture. There was also a ladder to the rooftop, which he climbed. Upon pushing open a hatch, he emerged on a small railed observation deck.
This was the highest point in the entire mountain range, close to the dragon-like clouds that rampaged across the sky as if in battle, the sun highlighting their golden scales. Below were the same views seen from the veranda, but they were glorified by the extra elevation, and there were unexpected sights. To the north, the top of Big Potato had been sliced off, and an extensive construction project was under way. To the south, there was a glimpse of a silvery blue mountaintop lake, and the beginning of a footpath pointed in that direction.
Forgetting his mission, Qwilleran hurried downstairs, threw the key in the drawer of the Fitzwallow eyesore, and grabbed a sturdy walking stick from the umbrella stand in the foyer.