Qwilleran said, "That's odd. I've been to Potato Cove a couple of times, and I didn't get that impression at all. They come across as amiable people, totally involved with their handcrafts."
"Oh, sure! But don't look at one of them cross-eyed, or you might get the top of your head blown off.
CHAPTER 8
Qwilleran nursed his glass of soda, sampled the hors d'oeuvres, and listened to the other guests at the Lessmore party as they discussed the problems of mountain living: the inadequacy of fire protection, the high cost of black-topping a circular drive, poor television reception, the threat of mudslides, the possibility of getting street lights and mail delivery on Hawk's Nest Drive.
When he thought it was time to go home, he asked the hostess for a taste of liver pat6 for the Siamesethere was no caviarand started the uphill walk to Tiptop. Hawk's Nest ascending, he discovered, was steeper than Hawk's Nest descending, and the calves of his legs, accustomed to the flatlands of Moose County, were already sore from Saturday's ramble in the woods. He trudged up the slope slowly and found himself repeatedly smoothing his moustache. It had a peculiar sensitivity to certain stimuli, and he felt a sensation in its roots whenever he encountered prevarication, deception, or any degree of improbity. And now it was sending him signals. Koko, with his twitching whiskers and inquisitive nose, had the same propensity. In a way they were brothers under the skin.
Qwilleran spent the rest of the evening reading The Magic Mountain and wishing he had some kind of muscle-rub. He read aloud to the Siamese, but the day's exercise, coupled with lack of sleep on the previous night, sent him to bed early. In spite of the offending lace on the bed linens, he slept well until seven-thirty, when a noisy engine and broken muffler told him that Dewey Beechum had arrived to start building the gazebo.
He pulled on some clothes hurriedly and went down to the parking lot to greet the carpenter. "Better build it over there," he suggested, pointing to a small clearing.
"T'other side o' them trees is better," said the man. "That's where I'm fixin' to put it."
"Well, I have to admit you were dead right about the rain, Mr. Beechum, so I'll take your word for it."
"Rain ain't over yit," the workman mumbled to himself.
Qwilleran watched him unload tools and materials from his truck and then helped carry them to the building site. To be sociable he remarked, dropping his subjective pronouns like a Tater, "Had a scare Saturday just before the rain. Went for a walk in the woods. Got lost."
"Ain't safe 'thout a shotgun," Beechum said. "See any bears?"
"Just a big black dog. Are there bears in these woods?"
"Not more'n two-hun'erd-pounders. Killed five-hun'erd-pounders when we was young-uns. Hard times then. Hadda kill our meat."
Qwilleran listened politely, then excused himself and returned to the house to feed the cats. Feeding the cats, he reflected, was the one constant in his unstructured life the twice-daily ritual around which his other activities pivoted. A few years ago he would never have believed this to be possible. "Don't be alarmed if you hear hammering and sawing," he told them. "It's being done for your benefit. I'll be back around one o'clock, in case I get any phone calls."
After having breakfast downtown he bought four hot dogs, laid in a supply of flashlights, and opened a checking account at the First Potato National. He was on Center Street when a train rumbled through town on the ledge directly above the bank. The ground shuddered, and the roar of locomotive and freight cars reverberated through the valley.
"Has there ever been a washout here?" he asked the young bank teller. "Did a locomotive ever come crashing down on the central business district?"
"Not that I know of," she said with the detachment of her profession. "Would you like plain checks or the ones with a mountain design? There's an extra charge for designer checks."
"Plain," he said.
At ten-thirty he reported for his appointment with Vonda Dudley Wix. Of all the Victorian houses in the residential section of Center Street, the Wix residence had the fanciest gingerbread trim on gables and porch, as well as the greatest number of hanging flower baskets. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened, and the buxom Ms. Wix greeted him in a blue satin hostess gown and pearls. Her hair, he was sure, was dyed.
"You're so delightfully punctual, Mr. Qwilleran," she cried. "Please come in and make yourself comfortable in the parlor while I brew the tea."
She swept away in ripples of satin that highlighted her rounded contours, while Qwilleran ventured into a room with red walls, rose-patterned carpet, and swagged windows. Reluctant to sit on any of the delicate carved-back chairs, he wandered about and looked at the framed photos on the marble-top tables and shawl-draped piano.
"Do you like Darjeelin'?" she asked when she returned with a silver tea service on a tea cart.
"When it comes to tea, my education has been sadly neglected," Qwilleran said. It was his courteous way of saying he never drank the stuff if he could avoid it. His hostess arranged her folds of blue satin on the black horsehair settee, and he lowered himself carefully to the seat of a dainty chair with a carved back. Then he opened a barrage of questions: "Are these all family heirlooms? . . .
How long have you lived in Spudsboro? . . . Does the river ever flood your backyard?"
While giving conscientious answers Ms. Wix poured tea into finger-trap cups that were eggshell thin, using a pearl-handled silver tea strainer.
"An excellent brew," he remarked. "What is your secret?"
"Don't overboil the water!" she said in a confidential whisper. "My late husband adored my tea, but I never revealed my secret."
"How long has Mr. Wix been . . . gone?"
"Almost a year, and I miss him dreadfully. It was a late marriage. We had only eight years together, eight blissful years."
"My condolences," Qwilleran murmured, waiting a few respectful moments before resuming his interrogation: "Who painted the portrait of you? ... Do you do your own decorating? . . . When was this house built?" He noticed a small recording device on the tea table, but she had forgotten to turn it on.
"Isn't it a charming house? It was built more than a hundred years ago by a Mr. Lumpton who owned the general store. Spudsboro was a sleepy old-fashioned town for decades until J.J. Hawkinfield took over the newspaper and brought the community to life."
"Was your husband a journalist?"
"Oh, no! Wilson was a highly successful building contractor. He had the contract to build all the houses on Hawk's Nest Drive. He was also on the city council. Wilson was responsible for introducing trash containers and parking meters on Center Street."
"I suppose you studied journalism in college?" he asked slyly.
"Oh, dear, no! I simply had a natural gift for writing, and J.J. elevated me from subscription clerk to columnist overnight! That was twenty-five years ago, and I've been 'peeling potatoes,' so to speak, ever since. I'm afraid I'm telling you my age," she added with coy girlishness.
"Then you knew J.J. very well. How would you describe him?"
"Let me see . . . He had black, black eyes that could bore right through a person . . . and a very important nose . . . and a stern expression that made everyone toe the lineemployees, city officials, everyone! I believe that's how he achieved such great things for the city. Better schools, new sewers, a good library . . ."
"Did you feel intimidated?"
"Not really," she said with a small, guilty smile. "He was very nice to me. Before I married Wilson, J.J. used to invite me to swimming parties at Lake Batata and wonderful Christmas parties at Tiptop. It was very exciting."