"I still have one of each left," Qwilleran replied. "What happened to the rest of J.J.'s assets?"
"They went into a trust for the care of his wife. You know, Qwill, you could buy this place for a lot less than she's asking. Why don't you make an offer and open a B-and-B? I could do wonders with it, inside and out." Sabrina construed his scowl. "Then how about a chic nursing home?" she suggested with a mischievous smile. "Or an illegal gambling casino? . . . No? . . . Well, I must get back to the valley. These mountain retreats lull one into a false sense of something or other. Thanks for the wine. I needed it. Where did I leave my shoulder bag?"
"On a chair in the foyer," he said. "May I take you to lunch at the golf club some day?"
"I know a better place. I'll take you to dinner," she countered.
As they left the living room, the designer stopped in the archway to view her handiwork. "We need one more splash of color over there between the windows," she said. "A couple of floor pillows perhaps."
Qwilleran had entered the foyer in time to see two furry bodies leaping from a chair. Sabrina's handbag was slouched on the chair seat, and it was unzipped. He then realized that the Siamese had been too quiet for the last half hour and too suspiciously absent. There was no way of guessing what larceny they might have committed.
"Thank you, Sabrina, for what you've accomplished this afternoon," he said. "And you make it look so easy! You're a real pro."
"You're entirely welcome. My bill will be in the mail," she laughed as she shouldered her handbag and zipped the closure.
He walked with her down the twenty-five steps, and when he returned to the house he said, "Okay, you scoundrels! What have you done? If you've stolen anything, she'll be back here with Sheriff Wilbank."
Koko, sitting on the stairs halfway up, crossed his eyes and scratched his ear. Yum Yum huddled nonchalantly on the flat top of the newel post while Qwilleran searched the foyer. He found nothing that might have come from a woman's handbag. Shrugging, he went out to check Bee-chum's progress with the gazebo. The carpenter had gone for the day, but the structure was taking shapenot the shape Qwilleran had requested, but it looked good. When he returned to the house he encountered a disturbing scene.
Koko was on the living room floor in a paroxysm of writhing, shaking, doubling in half, falling down, contorting his body.
Qwilleran approached him with alarm. Had he been poisoned by the plants? Was this a convulsion? "Koko! Take it easy, boy! What's wrong?"
Hearing his name, Koko rose to a half-sitting position and bit his paw viciously. Only then did Qwilleran realize that something virtually invisible was wrapped around the pad and caught between the spreading toes. Gently he helped release Koko from the entanglement. It was a long hair, decorator blond.
CHAPTER 9
Qwilleran gave the Siamese an early dinner. "Will you excuse me tonight?" he asked them. "I'm taking a guest to the golf club." He had some crackers and cheese himself, having gone hungry at the club on his last visit.
While he was dressing, the telephone rang, and he ran downstairs with lather on his face; there was no extension upstairs.
Sabrina Peel was on the line. She said, "Qwill, I lost a letter while I was at Tiptop. If you find it, just drop it in the mail; it's all stamped and addressed. It may have slipped out of my handbag when I was fishing out my car keys."
He said he had not seen the letter but promised to look on the veranda and in the parking lot. Hanging up, he gave an accusing scowl at Koko, who was sitting near the phone. Koko stretched his mouth in a yawn like an alligator.
At the appointed time a chugging motor alerted him to the arrival of Chrysalis Beechum in one of the family wrecks. The Beechums were the only two-wreck family he had ever known. He went down the steps to greet her as she climbed out of the army vehicle, looking almost attractive. Her long hair was drawn back and twisted in one long braid hanging down her back, and she wore a stiff-brimmed black hat like a toreador's. The sculptured planes of hollow cheeks and prominent cheekbones gave her face a severe but strikingly handsome aspect. Her clothes were much the same: jogging shoes, long skirt, and a top that was obviously handwoven.
"Good evening," he said. "I like your hat. You wear it well."
"Thank you," she said.
"Have you ever seen the interior of Tiptop?"
"No."
"Would you like to come in for a quick tour? The proportions are quite impressive, and there's some historic furniture."
"No, thanks," she said, her eyes flashing.
"Then let's take off. Your car or mine?" he quipped without getting any amused response. He opened the car door for her. "I've reserved a table at the golf club. I think you'll approve of the food. It's quite wholesomealmost too wholesome for my depraved taste." Still, his small talk with a light touch fell flat.
"Do you play golf?" she asked.
"No, but I have a membership at the club that permits me to use the dining room and bring guests."
As they started down Hawk's Nest Drive he pointed out the homes of the sheriff, the realty couple, and the veterinarians. His passenger looked at them without interest or comment.
"How was business in Potato Cove today?" he asked in an effort to involve her.
"We're closed Mondays," she said moodily.
"That's right. You told me so ... Your father came this morning to start building my gazebo. He said it's going to rain some more."
"How do you like his hat?" she said.
"It looks as if it might have historic significance." That was Qwilleran's tactful way of saying that it was moldy with age and mildew.
With a revival of interest Chrysalis said, "It's a family heirloom. My grandfather chased some revenuers with a shotgun once, and they ran so fast that one of them lost his hat. Grampa kept it as a trophy. He was a hero in the mountains."
"Was your grandfather a moonshiner?"
"Everyone was running corn liquor in those days, if they wanted to support their families. It was the only way they could make any money to buy shoes, and flour for making bread, and seed for planting. Grampa went to jail once for operating a still, and he was proud of it."
"How long has your family lived in the mountains?"
"Since way back, when they could buy a piece of land in a hollow for a nickel an acre. They chopped down trees to build cabins and lived without, roadsjust blazed trails."
"One has to admire the pioneers, but how did they survive?"
"By hunting and fishing and raising turnips. They carried water from a mountain spring and made everything with their own hands: soap, medicines, tools, furniture, everything. My grandmother told me all this. The affluent ones, she said, had a mule and a cow and a few chickens and an apple tree."
"When did it change?"
"Actually, not until the 1930s, when road building started and electricity came up the mountain. Some of the Taters didn't want electricity or indoor plumbing. They thought it was unsanitary to have the outhouse indoors. We still resist the idea of paved roads on Little Potato. We don't want joyriders polluting our air and littering our roadsides. There are some older Taters who've never been off the mountain."
Qwilleran said, "I have a lot to learn about mountain culture. I hope you'll tell me more about it."
They arrived at the golf club and presented themselves at the door of the dining roomQwilleran in his blue linen blazer with a tie, Chrysalis in her jogging shoes and toreador hat. The tables were dressed for dinner with white cloths, wine glasses, and small vases of fresh flowers. "Reservation for Qwilleran, table for two, nonsmoking," he told the hostess.