Then, in the 1950s, the inn was purchased, along with most of Big Potato Mountain, by Otis Hawk-infield, the highly respected owner of the Spudsboro Gazette, as a summer retreat. After his death his son (whom we all know and love as J.J.) refurbished the inn as a permanent home for his lovely wife and their four beautiful children. Fortune did not smile on them, alas, but let us skip swiftly to today's happy news.
J.J. Hawkinfield has announced his intention to share Big Potato Mountain with the world! (Bless you, J.J.!)
"For two generations," he announced in an interview today, "the Hawkinfields have been privileged to enjoy this sublime mountain environment. I can no longer be selfish, however, about the spectacular views, the summer breezes, the good mountain water, the wooded trails, and the breathtaking waterfalls. The time has come to share it with my fellow citizens." (Cheers! Cheers!)
Yes! J.J. and a syndicate of investors plan to develop the inside of Big Potato for family living. The approach road has already been paved, and architects are working on plans for year-round homes to be built on lots of no less than three acres, in designs integrated with the mountain terrain.
Boasted J.J. with excusable pride, "I believe that Frank Lloyd Wright would approve of what we are about to do." (Hear! Hear!)
Future plans call for a campground for prestige-type recreation vehicles, offering such facilities as a swimming pool, hot tubs, and tennis courts. (That's class, my friends!) Condominiums and a mountaintop high-rise hotel with helicopter pad are also envisioned by J.J.
"Eventually," he revealed, "the outer slopes of Big Potato will have a ski lodge and several ski runs. What I have in mind is the economic growth and health of the entire valley, as well as an opportunity for all to share in sports, recreation, and the joys of nature."
"Oh, sure," Qwilleran said aloud, huffing cynically into his moustache. "Frank Lloyd Wright was probably throwing up in his grave!" He had another look at the framed photographs of celebrities. Many of them were posed with a man having a prominent nose and a high forehead. That, he guessed, was J.J. Hawkinfield "whom we all know and love" and who probably died of an overdose of compassion for his fellow citizens.
At that moment he was summoned to the telephone.
"How's everything at Tiptop?" asked Dolly Lessmore's cheery voice.
"Didn't you get my message? The place has been ransacked," Qwilleran said.
"Sorry, I neglected to tell you, but Ms. Hawkinfield was very close to her mother and wanted some family mementos—things that her mother loved so much."
"Like the television? That's gone, too."
"I didn't realize that. Well ... we have an extra TV you can borrow for the summer."
"Never mind. I don't watch TV. The cats enjoy it, but they can live without the summer re-runs."
"But you do understand about the accessories, don't you? Ms. Hawkinfield couldn't bear the thought of her mother's favorite things going to strangers who might purchase the house."
"Okay, I'll accept that. I just wanted you to know that they weren't here when I moved in. Not even any fireplace equipment."
"Is everything else all right?"
"One question," Qwilleran said. "When we discussed this place on the phone, did you say it was roomy or gloomy? Either you're going to run up an enormous electric bill, or the cats and I are going to turn into moles."
"Today wasn't terribly sunny," the realty agent explained, "and you have to remember that twilight comes earlier in the mountains. Ordinarily the light is so bright on the mountaintop that you'll be glad the windows are shaded by a veranda. Did you find the bed linens and towels all right?"
"I went through the entire linen closet," Qwilleran said irritably, "and there was not a single plain sheet. They're all loaded with lace!"
Ms. Lessmore's voice registered shock. "You don't like it? That's all handmade lace! Those bed linens were Mrs. Hawkinfield's pride and joy!"
"Then why didn't her daughter take them?" he snapped. "Sorry. Forget I said that. You'll have to excuse me. I'm tired tonight. I've been traveling for four days with two temperamental backseat drivers."
"You'll get a good night's rest and feel better tomorrow," she said encouragingly. "Mountain air is great for sleeping."
After hanging up the phone Qwilleran had an overwhelming urge to call someone in Moose County. Whether he knew it or not, the loneliness of a mountain-top and the emptiness of the house were making him homesick. Polly Duncan's number was the one that came promptly to mind. The chief librarian was the major link in the chain that bound him to Moose County, although the link had been weakened since her acquisition of a Siamese kitten named Bootsie. Her obsessive concern and maudlin affection for that cat made Qwilleran feel that he was sharing her with a rival. Furthermore, he considered "Bootsie" a frivolous name for a pedigreed Siamese with the appetite of a Great Dane, and he had told Polly so.
