"About two in the afternoon. Ardis and I were at home, waiting for our son to call from Colorado."
"Were there witnesses?"
"No. J.J. was home alone. His daughter was visiting from out of town for Father's Day, and she went down to Five Points for groceries. When she got back, she saw broken glass and a broken railing on the back porch. She screamed for her dad and couldn't find him. Then she heard their Doberman howling at the bottom of the cliff. She came running down the hill to our house, hysterical. That was a year ago today. I was just standing here, thinking about it."
"Were there many suspects?"
"All you need is one, if you've got the right guy. We traced him through his vehicle. When J.J.'s daughter went down the hill for groceries, she saw this old army vehicle coming up. When she got back, it was gone. Good observation on her part! It led us right to Beechum. He'd been a troublemaker all along."
"Did he have a record?"
"Nothing on the books, but he'd threatened J.J. He was apprehended, charged with murder, brought to trial, and convicted—open-and-shut case. These Taters, you know . . . some of them have a murderous streak. You've heard of the Hatfields and McCoys? Well, that crew didn't live in the Potatoes, but we have the same breed around here. Hot-tempered . . . prone to hold grudges . . . quick with the shotgun."
Qwilleran said, "That's odd. I've been to Potato Cove a couple of times, and I didn't get that impression at all. They come across as amiable people, totally involved with their handcrafts."
"Oh, sure! But don't look at one of them cross-eyed, or you might get the top of your head blown off.
CHAPTER 8
Qwilleran nursed his glass of soda, sampled the hors d'oeuvres, and listened to the other guests at the Lessmore party as they discussed the problems of mountain living: the inadequacy of fire protection, the high cost of black-topping a circular drive, poor television reception, the threat of mudslides, the possibility of getting street lights and mail delivery on Hawk's Nest Drive.
When he thought it was time to go home, he asked the hostess for a taste of liver pat6 for the Siamese—there was no caviar—and started the uphill walk to Tiptop. Hawk's Nest ascending, he discovered, was steeper than Hawk's Nest descending, and the calves of his legs, accustomed to the flatlands of Moose County, were already sore from Saturday's ramble in the woods. He trudged up the slope slowly and found himself repeatedly smoothing his moustache. It had a peculiar sensitivity to certain stimuli, and he felt a sensation in its roots whenever he encountered prevarication, deception, or any degree of improbity. And now it was sending him signals. Koko, with his twitching whiskers and inquisitive nose, had the same propensity. In a way they were brothers under the skin.
Qwilleran spent the rest of the evening reading The Magic Mountain and wishing he had some kind of muscle-rub. He read aloud to the Siamese, but the day's exercise, coupled with lack of sleep on the previous night, sent him to bed early. In spite of the offending lace on the bed linens, he slept well until seven-thirty, when a noisy engine and broken muffler told him that Dewey Beechum had arrived to start building the gazebo.
He pulled on some clothes hurriedly and went down to the parking lot to greet the carpenter. "Better build it over there," he suggested, pointing to a small clearing.
"T'other side o' them trees is better," said the man. "That's where I'm fixin' to put it."
"Well, I have to admit you were dead right about the rain, Mr. Beechum, so I'll take your word for it."
"Rain ain't over yit," the workman mumbled to himself.
Qwilleran watched him unload tools and materials from his truck and then helped carry them to the building site. To be sociable he remarked, dropping his subjective pronouns like a Tater, "Had a scare Saturday just before the rain. Went for a walk in the woods. Got lost."
"Ain't safe 'thout a shotgun," Beechum said. "See any bears?"
"Just a big black dog. Are there bears in these woods?"
"Not more'n two-hun'erd-pounders. Killed five-hun'erd-pounders when we was young-uns. Hard times then. Hadda kill our meat."
Qwilleran listened politely, then excused himself and returned to the house to feed the cats. Feeding the cats, he reflected, was the one constant in his unstructured life— the twice-daily ritual around which his other activities pivoted. A few years ago he would never have believed this to be possible. "Don't be alarmed if you hear hammering and sawing," he told them. "It's being done for your benefit. I'll be back around one o'clock, in case I get any phone calls."
After having breakfast downtown he bought four hot dogs, laid in a supply of flashlights, and opened a checking account at the First Potato National. He was on Center Street when a train rumbled through town on the ledge directly above the bank. The ground shuddered, and the roar of locomotive and freight cars reverberated through the valley.
