"Ever hear of freedom of speech, Jerry?" This voice sounded somewhat familiar to Qwilleran. "It's their constitutional right. I'd carry a picket sign myself if I had a legitimate beef. Okay?"
The second speaker said, "The trouble is—things are going so good in this town. Why do they have to make waves?"
"They're a bunch of radicals, that's why!" said Jerry. "That whole crowd on Little Potato is radical to the eyebrows!"
"Oh, come off it, Jerry. Okay?"
"I mean it! Always trying to sabotage progress. Just because they live like bums, they don't want the rest of us to live nice and make a little money."
"Listen, Jerry, there should be a way to live nice without spoiling it for everybody else. Okay? Look what happened to the road up Big Potato! They call it Hawk's Nest Drive and put up a sign to keep people out. That's no private road! That's a secondary county highway, and they can't legally stop anybody from driving up there. When I was a kid, my dad used to drive us to the top of Big Potato where the old inn is, and we'd have picnics at Batata Falls. That was before they dammed it and made it Lake Batata. In those days it was nothing but a dirt road. Then J.J. pulled strings and got it paved at taxpayers' expense, after which they try to call it a private drive. I'm gonna get a picket sign myself one of these days. Okay?"
"Bill's right, Jerry. J.J. started it, and now his cronies are selling timber rights and slashing the forest for a motel or hotel or something. Investors, they call 'em. Not even local people!"
"Whoever they are, it's good for the economy," Jerry insisted. "It creates jobs and brings more people in. You paint more houses, and Bill sells more hot dogs, and I sell more hardware."
"Speaking of hot dogs," Bill said, "I've gotta get back to the store. See you loafers next week—okay?" As he paid for his coffee on the way out, Qwilleran recognized the manager of the Five Points Market and would have relished a few words with him about the Snaggy Creek cutoff, but Bill Treacle slipped out too quickly.
Qwilleran himself left the cafe soon afterward and drove downtown. He parked and walked along Center Street, noting the new brick sidewalks, ornamental trees, and simulated gaslights. Approaching the Lessmore agency, he thought of stopping to ask a couple of questions: Would there be any objection to a gazebo? What were the revolving lights on the mountain? The office was closed, however. Generally, Center Street had the deserted air of a downtown business district on Saturday when everyone is at the mall. There was no one but Qwilleran to read the picket signs in front of the courthouse: SAVE OUR MOUNTAIN ... NO MORE SLASHING . . . STOP THE RAPE . . FREE FOREST.
At the office of the Spudsboro Gazette a Saturday calm prevailed, and when he asked for Mr. Carmichael, die lone woman in the front office pointed down a cor-ndor.
The editor was in his office, talking to a law enforcement officer, but he jumped up exclaiming, "You must be Jim Qwilleran! I recognized the moustache. This is our sheriff, Del Wilbank . . . Del, this is the man who's renting Tiptop for the summer. Jim Qwilleran used to cover the police beat for newspapers around the country. He also wrote a book on urban crime."
"Am I intruding?" Qwilleran asked.
"No, I was just leaving," said the sheriff. He turned to the editor. "Don't touch this thing, Colin. Don't even consider it—at this time. Agreed?"
"You have my word, Del. Thanks for coming in."
The sheriff nodded to Qwilleran. "Enjoy your stay, Mr"
"Qwilleran."
The editor, a fortyish man with thinning hair and a little too much weight, came around the desk and pumped his visitor's hand. "When Kip told me you were coming, 1 flipped! You were my hero when I was in J school, Qwill. Okay if I call you Qwill? In fact, your book was required reading. I remember the title, City of Brotherly Crime. Dolly told me you were renting Tiptop. How do you like it? Have a chair."
"I came to see if I could take you to lunch," Qwilleran said.
"Absolutely not! I'll take you to lunch. We'll go to the golf club, and now's a good time to go, before the rush. My car's parked in back."
On the way to the club Carmichael pointed out the new public library, the site of a proposed community college, a modern papermill, a church of unconventional design.
"This is a yuppie town, Qwill. Most all the movers and shakers are young, energetic, and ambitious."
"I noticed a lot of expensive cars on Center Street," Qwilleran said, "and a lot of small planes at the airport."
"Absolutely! The town's booming. I bought at the right time. The furniture factory is being automated. An electronics firm is building downriver and will be on-line this year. Any chance you'd like to re-locate in Spudsboro? Kip said you took early retirement. There's plenty to do here—fishing, white-water rafting, golf, backpacking, tennis . . . My kids love it."
