It was about three in the morning that he became aware of a weight on his chest. He opened his eyes. The bedroom lights were glaring, and both cats were hunched on his chest, staring at him. He chased them into their own room, then shuffled sleepily through the house, turning off lights that had been on when the power failed. Three of them were in Hawkinfield's office, and once more he entered the secret room, wondering what it contained to make secrecy so necessary. Curious about the scrapbook that Koko had discovered, he found it to contain clippings from the Spudsboro Gazetteeditorials signed with the initials J.J.H. Qwilleran assumed that Koko had been attracted to the adhesive with which they were mounted, probably rubber cement.
The cat might be addicted to glue, but Qwilleran was addicted to the printed word. At any hour of the day or night he was ready to read. Sitting down under a lamp and propping his feet on the editor's ottoman, he delved into the collection of columns headed "The Editor Draws a Bead."
It was an appropriate choice. Hawkinfield took potshots at Congress, artists, the IRS, the medical profession, drunk drivers, educators, Taters, unions, and the sheriff. The man had an infinite supply of targets. Was he really that sour about everything? Or did he know that inflammatory editorials sold papers? From his editorial throne be railed against Wall Street, welfare programs, Hollywood, insurance companies. He ridiculed environmentalists and advocates of women's rights. Obviously he was a tyrant that many persons would like to assassinate. Even his style was abusive:
"So-called artists and other parasites, holed up in their secret coves on Little Potato and performing God knows what unholy rites, are plotting to sabotage economic growth . . . Mountain squatters, uneducated and unwashed, are dragging their bare feet in mud while presuming to tell the civilized world how to approach the twenty-first century ..."
The man was a mono-maniac, Qwilleran decided. He stayed with the scrapbook, and another one like it, until dawn. By the time he was ready for sleep, however, the Siamese were ready for breakfast, Yum Yum howling her ear-splitting "N-n-NOW!" Only at mealtimes did she assume her matriarchal role as if she were the official breadwinner, and it was incredible that this dainty little female could utter such piercing shrieks.
"This is Father's Day," Qwilleran rebuked her as he opened a can of boned chicken. "I don't expect a present, but I deserve a little consideration."
Father's Day had more significance at Tiptop than he knew, as he discovered when he went to Potato Cove to pick up the four batwing capes.
The rain had stopped, and feeble rays of sun were glistening on trees and shrubs. When he stood on the veranda with his morning mug of coffee, he discovered that mountain air when freshly washed heightens the senses. He was seeing details he had not noticed the day before: wildflow-ers everywhere, blue jays in the evergreens, blossoming shrubs all over the mountains. On the way to Potato Cove he saw streams of water gushing from crevices in the roadside cliffsimpromptu waterfalls that made their own rainbows. More than once he stopped the car, backed up, and stared incredulously at the arched spectrum of color.
The rain had converted the Potato Cove road into a ribbon of mud, and Qwilleran drove slowly, swerving to avoid puddles like small ponds. As he passed a certain log cabin he saw the apple peeler on the porch again, rocking contentedly in her high-backed mountain rocker. Today she was wearing her Sunday best, evidently waiting for someone to drive her to church. An ancient straw hat, squashed but perky with flowers, perched flatly on her white hair. What caused Qwilleran to step on the brake was the sight of her entourage: a black cat on her lap, a calico curled at her feet, and a tiger stretched on the top step. Today the shotgun was not in evidence.
Slipping his camera into a pocket, he stepped out of his car and approached her with a friendly wave of the hand. She peered in his direction without responding.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he called out in his most engaging voice. "Is this the road to Potato Cove?"
She rocked back and forth a few times before replying.
"Seems like y'oughta know," she said with a frown. "I see'd you go by yestiddy. Road on'y goes one place."
"Sorry, but I'm new here, and these mountain roads are confusing." He ventured closer in a shambling, non-threatening way. "You have some nice cats. What are their names.
This here one's Blackie. That there's Patches. Over yonder is Tiger." She recited the names in a businesslike way as if he were the census taker.
"I like cats. I have two of them. Would you mind if I take a picture of them?" He held up his small camera for her approval.
She rocked in silence for a while. "Iffen I git one," she finally decided.
Til see that you get prints as soon as they're developed." He snapped several pictures of the group in rapid succession. "That does it! ... Thank you . . . This is a nice cabin. How long have you lived on Little Potato?"
"Born here. Fellers come by all the time pesterin' me to sell. You one o' them fellers? Ain't gonna sell."
"No, I'm just spending my vacation here, enjoying the good mountain air. My name's Jim Qwilleran. What's your name?" Although he was not prone to smile, he had an ingratiating manner composed of genuine interest and a caressing voice that was irresistible.
"Ev'body calls me Grammaw Lumpton, seein' as how I'm a great-grammaw four times."
"Lumpton, you say? It seems there are quite a few Lumptons in the Potatoes," Qwilleran said, enjoying his unintentional pun.
"Oughta be!" the woman said, rocking energetically. "Lumptons been here more'n a hun'erd yearraisin' young-uns, feedin' chickens, sellin' eggs, choppin' wood, growin' taters and nips, runnin' corn whiskey . . ."
A car pulled into the yard, the driver tooted the horn, and the vigorous old lady stood up, scattering cats, and marched to the car without saying goodbye. Now Qwilleran understoodor thought he understoodthe reason for the shotgun on the porch the day before; it was intended to ward off land speculators if they became too persistent, and Grammaw Lumpton probably knew how to use it.
Despite the muddy conditions in Potato Cove, the artists and shopkeepers were opening for business. Chrysalis Beechum met him on the wooden sidewalk in front of her weaving studio. What she was wearing looked handwo-ven but as drab as before; her attitude had mellowed, however.
"I didn't expect you to drive up here in this mud," she said.
"It was worth it," Qwilleran said, "if only to see the miniature waterfalls making six-inch rainbows. What are the flowers all over the mountain?"
"Mountain laurel," she said. They entered the shop, stepping into the enveloping softness of wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling textiles.
"Was this place ever an old schoolhouse?" he asked.
"For many years. My great-grandmother learned the three Rs here. Until twenty years ago the Taters were taught in one-room schoolseight grades in a single room, with one teacher, and sometimes with one textbook. The Spuds got away with murder! . . . Here are your capes. I brought six so you'll have a color choice. What are you going to do with them, Mr. . . ."
"Qwilleran. I'm taking them home to friends. Perhaps you could help me choose. One woman is a golden blond; one is a reddish blond; one is graying; and the other is a different color every month."
"You're not married?" she asked in her forthright way but without any sign of personal interest.
"Not any more . . . and never again! Did you have a power outage last night?"
"Everybody did. There's no discrimination when it comes to power lines. Taters and Spuds, we all black out together."