"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!
CHAPTER 6
Qwilleran stood in front of Amy's Lunch Bucket and gazed at the sky. The heavens refuted Beechum's prediction of rain. With the sun shining and the sky blue and the mountain breezes playing softly, it was one of those rare days that June does so well. There were dragon-like clouds over the valley—sprawling, ferocious shapes quite unlike the puffy clouds over Moose County. They looked more dramatic than threatening, however, and the meteorologist on the car radio had promised fair weather for the next twenty-four hours.
As he stood there he doubted not only Beechum's prediction but also the story he had just heard. How many rimes had he interviewed the parent, spouse, or neighbor of a convicted felon and listened to the same tale! "My son would never harm anyone! . . . My husband is a gentle, peace-loving man! . . . He was a wonderful neighbor, always ready to help anyone!"
Whatever the facts about the Hawkinfield murder and the conviction of Forest Beechum, Qwilleran was beginning to understand his negative reaction to Tiptop. It was not only the gray color scheme and the barren rooms; it was an undercurrent of villainy. Exactly what kind of villainy had yet to be discovered.
Then he remembered that the Siamese had been left alone all day in unfamiliar surroundings, and he drove back to the inn. Hawk's Nest Drive, so smoothly paved and so expertly dished on the curves, made pleasant driving after the discomforts of the road to Potato Cove.
