The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

CHAPTER 5

According to signs plastered on the windows, the furniture store was having a sale of recliners, a fact corroborated by the lineup of chairs on the sidewalk. Qwilleran walked in and asked to see some ottomans.

"Did you see our recliners on sale?" asked a pleasant elderly woman, eager to be of service.

"Yes, but I'm interested in an ottoman."

"All the recliners in the store are twenty-five percent off," she said encouragingly.

"Do you have any ottomans?" he asked with exaggerated politeness.

"Harry!" she shouted toward the rear of the store. "Do we have any ottomans?"

"No!" Harry yelled. "Show the customer the recliners!"

"Never mind," Qwilleran said. "Show me a telephone book."

Consulting the classified section, he found a likely source of ottomans just two blocks away: Peel & Poole Design Studio. It was a juxtaposition of names that appealed to his fancy for words.

At the Peel & Poole studio he was greeted by a smartly suited young woman who reminded him of Fran Brodie, a designer in Pickax. They had the same suave buoyancy and the same reddish blond hair.

"May I help you?" she asked cordially. Her hair flowed silkily to her shoulders, and long, straight bangs drew attention to the blueness of her eyes.

"I need an ottoman," he said. "I'm renting a furnished place for the summer, and I like to put my feet up when I read. I do not—want—a recliner!" he said with measured emphasis.

"You're quite right," she agreed. "I'm a firm believer in ottomans, and we have a nice one that we can order for you in any cover."

"How long does it take for a special order?"

"Six to eight weeks."

"That won't do. I'll be here only three months. I'm renting Tiptop for the summer."

"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 ago—just 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 there—doesn'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 condition—if 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 entertaining—originally. 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 eyes—and 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.

"What's going on?" he asked one of them.

"Kiln opening," was the hurried answer.

In the shed, lighted by sunshine streaming through holes in the rusted metal roof, twenty or more bystanders were watching eagerly as a soft-spoken man in a canvas apron removed pots from a large oven, holding them up one by one. "This is my new decorated platter," he said modestly. "And this is a weed holder with the new glaze I've been working on."

Responses shot out from the onlookers: "I'll take it... Let me see that one up close . . . Do you have three more like that plate? . . . Oh! That's a pretty one! . . . I'll take that, Otto."

The potter continued his commentary in a quiet monotone. "The ones closer to the fire may have some variation m color . . . This bowl's imperfect. It got a little too hot and started bloating. Like we say, the kiln giveth and the kiln taketh away. Here's one of my new pitchers with pine tree decoration."

"I'll take that!" said a man in the back row, and the pitcher was passed over the heads of the others. In a low voice he said to his companion, "I can sell it in my shop for three times the price."

Qwilleran noticed that men in designer shirts and gold jewelry and women in pastel pants suits and expensive cologne were grabbing four-dollar mugs and seven-dollar candleholders, handmade and signed by the potter. He himself found a mug with a handle that accommodated his fingers comfortably, and when he learned it was one-tenth the price of the cats' commode, he bought four. At last the kiln was emptied, and a groan of disappointment went up from the audience.

"Sorry I don't have more," the potter apologized. "I really tried to pack the kiln this time, using miniatures to fill up the corners."

As the purchasers stood in line to pay, voices filled the small shed with social hubbub—exulting over their finds, greeting friends, sharing local gossip. Qwilleran overheard two women saying:

"Did you hear about Tiptop? Some crazy fella with a big moustache and a lot of cats is renting it for $2,000 a week!"

"Is he a Canadian or Japanese or what?"

"Nobody knows. The Lessmores made the deal. He's supposed to be a writer."

"That could be a front for something else."

"Anyway, it doesn't sound good."

Qwilleran hustled away with his mugs wrapped in newspaper and stashed them in the trunk of his car before joining the parade up the wooden sidewalk. He stopped to watch a man making sandals and a woman caning chairseats. Then, hearing the ring of hammer on metal, he followed the sound to the smithy. Within a barn with doors flung wide there was a glowing forge, and red hot metal was being hammered on an anvil by a sinewy young man with full beard and pigtail. He wore a leather apron and a soiled tee with the sleeves cut out.

"Howya," he said when he saw Qwilleran watching intently. Picking up a rod with tongs, he thrust it into the glowing coals, checked it for redness, fired it again, and finally hammered it into shape. When the hot iron was plunged into a tub of water to cool, the sizzle added to the show of sights, sounds, and smells.

Qwilleran examined the hand-wrought objects for sale: hooks, tongs, pokers, spikes, and cowbells, but his eye was taken by an item in a shadowy corner of the barn. It was a wrought-iron candelabrum, seven feet tall and branched to hold eight candles. An iron vine twisted around the main stem and sprouted a few tendrils and leaves. "Is that for sale?" he asked.

The smith looked at it dubiously. "Guess so," he said.

"How much are you asking?"

"Jeez, I dunno. It was just somethin' I hadda prove I could do. Mosta the time I'm a mechanic down in the valley."

"It's a spectacular hunk of iron," Qwilleran said, thinking of it for his apple barn in Pickax. "Set a price and let me buy it."

"Uh . . . two hundred?" the blacksmith suggested hesitantly.

"Sold! If I pull my car up, will you help me load it? How much does it weigh?"

"Plenty, man!"

By reclining the passenger seat they were able to pack the candelabrum lengthwise inside the car. Next, Qwilleran amazed the candle dipper by buying three dozen handmade, twelve-inch beeswax candles. Pleased with his purchases and hoping to find a cup of coffee, he trudged up the hill. He had a few words with the quiltmaker and a woman making cornhusk dolls, and then he spotted a building that looked like an old schoolhouse, with a sign saying: THE BEECHUM FAMILY WEAVERS. An old army vehicle was parked alongside.

The open door revealed a veritable cocoon of textiles: shawls, scarfs, placemats, pillows, tote bags, even hammocks hanging from the ceiling. Two customers—tourists, judging by their sunglasses, sunhats, and cameras—were fingering placemats and asking questions about washabil-iry and price. They were being answered curtly by a tall young woman with hollow cheeks and long, straight hair hanging to her waist. She turned around, caught sight of Qwilleran's moustache,, hesitated, then turned back to the shoppers.

At the same moment he heard soft thumping and beating sounds at the rear of the shop. A woman with gray hair pulled severely into a bun at the back of her head was sitting at a loom, rhythmically operating the heddles, throwing the shuttles and pulling the beater. He watched her work—watched her with fascination and admiration—but she never looked up.

Examining the products in the shop, Qwilleran found it difficult to believe that they had been woven, thread by thread, on that loom. One was a capelike jacket, incredibly soft, in the new brighter blue that Polly now liked. The pricetag read $100, and he made a quick decision to buy jackets for four other friends as well. His chief joy in having inherited money was the pleasure of giving it away. During his days as an underpaid journalist, generosity had been a luxury beyond his means, but now he was enjoying the opportunity to be munificent. Buying capes for Polly, Mildred, Fran, Lori, and Hixie in Moose County would also be a way of expressing his gratitude to the aloof young woman who had rescued him the night before.

He heard her say to the shoppers, "These are woven by hand on that loom. If you want two-dollar placemats you'll find them at Lumpton's Department Store in Spuds-boro." She made no attempt to be tactful, and they walked out.

"Hello again," Qwilleran said amiably.

"Howya," she said in a minor key without smiling.

"Is this all your own handwork? It's beautiful stuff!"

"My mother and I are the weavers," she said, wasting no thanks for the compliment.

"I'm very grateful to you, Ms. Beechum, for steering me to the right mountain last night. I don't know what I'd have done without your help."

"We aim to be good neighbors in the mountains." There was no trace of neighborly warmth in the statement.

"I'd like to buy this blue—this blue—"

"Batwing cape."

"I'd like to send it to a friend of mine up north. Do you have any others? I could use four more in different colors."

"They're a hundred dollars," she informed him, as if he might have misread the pricetag.

"So I noticed. Very attractively priced, I would say. May I see the others?"

The weaver relaxed her stern expression for the first time. "They're not here. They didn't sell well, so I took them home. Most of the shoppers are looking for things under five dollars. But I could bring the capes to the shop if you want to come back another day." She looked at him dubiously as if questioning his sincerity.

"Are you open tomorrow?"

"Sunday's our biggest day."

"What hours?"

"Noon till dusk."

"Very well. I'll be here first thing. My name is Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. And what's your first name, Ms. Beechum?" She told him, and he asked her to spell it.

"C-h-r-y-s-a-1-i-s."

"Pretty name," he said. "I met a Dewey Beechum this morning. He's going to build a gazebo for me."

"That's my father. He's an expert cabinetmaker," she said proudly. "He was one of the best hands at the furniture factory before they automated. He's looking for work now. If you know anyone who wants custom-made furniture—"

"I'll be glad to recommend him." As she wrapped the blue cape in tissue and a Five Points grocery bag, he said, "Pardon my ignorance, but why is this called Potato Cove? I've just arrived in these parts. What is a cove?"

"A cove is smaller than a valley but larger than a hollow," she said. "Are you going to live here?"

"Only for the summer."

"Alone?"

"No, I have two Siamese cats."

"What brought you here?" she asked suspiciously.

"Some friends from up north camped in the national forest across the river last summer, and they recommended the Potatoes. I was looking for a quiet place where I could do some serious thinking."

"About what?" Her blunt nosiness amused him. He was nosy himself, although usually more artful.

"About my career," he replied cryptically.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a journalist by profession . . . Tell me about you. How long have you lived in the mountains?"

"All my life. I'm a Tater. Do you know about Taters? We've been here for generations, living close to nature. We were environmentalists before the word was invented."

"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Ms. Beechum, you don't talk like a Tater."

"I went away to college. When you go into the outside world, you gain something, but you also lose something."

"Can you make a living by weaving?" he asked. If she had license to pry, so did he.

"We don't need much to live on, but we do fairly well in summer. In the winter I drive the school bus."

"You mean—you maneuver a bus up these mountain roads? You have my admiration . . . I'll see you tomorrow," he said as more tourists entered the shop. "Is there any place in the cove where I can get a cup of coffee?"

"Amy's Lunch Bucket," she said, pointing up the hill. Although she didn't smile, she had lost the chip on her shoulder.

Qwilleran waved a hand toward the silent woman at the loom. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Beechum, and compliments on your weaving!" She nodded without looking up.

Amy's Lunch Bucket was aptly named, being large enough for four old kitchen tables and some metal folding chairs obviously from the Just Rust collection. But it was clean. The floorboards were painted grass green, and the white walls were decorated with an abstract panorama of green mountains against a blue sky. A plump and pretty woman with the healthy radiance of youth presided over a make-shift kitchen behind a chest-high counter. "Nice day," she said.

"Are you Amy?" Qwilleran asked.

"Sure am!" she replied cheerfully. "What can I dish up for you?"

The menu posted on the wall behind her offered vegetable soup, veggieburgers, oat bran cookies, yogurt, apple juice, and herb tea. "Do you have coffee?" he asked.

"Sure don't. Only coffee sub and herb tea."

There was a sudden squawk behind the counter, -as if from some exotic bird.

"Goo goo goo," said Amy, leaning down.

Qwilleran peered over the counter. On a table was an infant in a basket. "Yours?" he asked.

"Yes, this is our Ashley. Two months, one week, and three days. He's going to be an ecologist when he grows up."

Qwilleran accepted coffee substitute and two oat bran cookies, which he carried to a table near the front window. The only other patrons were the candle dipper, who was eating yogurt and reading a paperback, and the blacksmith, who had ordered everything on the menu and was nicking into it with ravenous gulps.

"Howya," he said with his mouth full, and the candle dipper looked up and smiled at the man who had bought almost a hundred dollars' worth of beeswax.

A moment later Chrysalis Beechum burst into the restaurant in a hurry, waving a ceramic mug. "Apple juice for Ma," she told Amy. "How's Ashley? Is Ashley a good boy today?"

"Ashley is an angel today. How's business down the hill?"

"Surprisingly good! Put the juice on our bill, Amy."

As Chrysalis started out the door with the brimming mug, Qwilleran stood up and intercepted her. "We meet again," he said pleasantly. "Won't you join me for a cup of coffee substitute and an oat bran cookie?"

She hesitated. "I've left my mother alone at the shop,"

The candle dipper spoke up. "I'm all through eatin', Chrys. I'll stay with her till you git back."

"Aw, thanks, Missy. Take this apple juice and tell her I won't be long." Chrysalis turned back to Qwilleran. "My mother doesn't speak, so I can't leave her in the shop alone."

"She doesn't speak?" Sympathy was masking his curiosity as he held a rusty chair for her.

"It's a psychological disorder. She hasn't said a word for almost a year."

"What may I serve you?"

"Just some yogurt, plain, and thank you very much."

In that small restaurant Amy heard the order and had it ready by the time Qwilleran reached the counter.

"How do you like Potato Cove?" Chrysalis asked him.

"Interesting community," he said. "Very good shops. I like everything except the tourists."

"I know what you mean, but they pay the rent. How do you feel about what's happening to the mountains?"

"Having arrived only yesterday, I'm not ready to make a statement, I'm afraid. Are you referring to the land development?"

"That's what they call it," she said aggressively. "I call it environmental suicide! They're not only cutting down trees to ship to Japan; they're endangering life on this planet! They're creating problems of erosion, drainage, water supply, and waste control! They're robbing the wildlife of their habitat! I'm talking about Big Potato. And the Yellyhoo—one of the few wild rivers left—is in danger of pollution. I'm not going to have children, Mr. . . ."

"Qwilleran."

"I'm not going to have children because the next generation will inherit a ravaged earth."

He had heard all this before but never with such passion and at such close range. He was formulating a reply when she demanded:

"You're a journalist, you say. Why don't you write about this frightening problem? They're ripping the heart out of Big Potato, and they'd like to take our land away from us, too. Little Potato will be next!"

"I'd need to know a lot more about this subject than I do," he said. "Are you connected with the group that pickets in front of the courthouse?"

"I take my turn," she said sullenly. "So does Amy. So does Vance." She nodded toward the blacksmith. "Who knows whether it does any good? I get very depressed."

"Answer one question for me," Qwilleran said. "When I was downtown today, there was a picket sign I didn't understand: Free Forest. Are you campaigning for a national park or something like that?"

Her thin lips twisted in a grim smile. "My brother is Forest Beechum . . . and he's in the state prison!" She said it bravely, holding her head high and looking at him defiantly.

"Sorry to hear that. What kind of term—"

"He was sentenced to life! And he's innocent!"

Qwilleran thought, They always say that. "What was the charge?"

"Murder!"

Amy called out from behind the counter, "The trial was a pack of lies! Forest would never hurt a fly! He's an artist. He's a gentle person."

They always say that, Qwilleran repeated to himself.

The blacksmith, still speaking with his mouth full, said, "There's lotsa Spuds that coulda done it, but the cops never come up with a suspect from the valley. They made up their mind it hadda be one of us."

Qwilleran asked, "Did you have a good attorney?"

"We couldn't afford an attorney," Chrysalis said, "so the court appointed one for us. We thought he'd work to get my brother off, since he was innocent. We were so naive. That man didn't even try!" She spoke with bitterness flashing in her eyes. "He wanted Forest to plead guilty to a lesser charge, but why should he? He was totally innocent! So there was a jury trial, and the jury was rigged. All the jurors were Spuds. Not one Tater! It was all so wrong, so unjust, so unfair!"

"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!