"Has there ever been a washout here?" he asked the young bank teller. "Did a locomotive ever come crashing down on the central business district?"
"Not that I know of," she said with the detachment of her profession. "Would you like plain checks or the ones with a mountain design? There's an extra charge for designer checks."
"Plain," he said.
At ten-thirty he reported for his appointment with Vonda Dudley Wix. Of all the Victorian houses in the residential section of Center Street, the Wix residence had the fanciest gingerbread trim on gables and porch, as well as the greatest number of hanging flower baskets. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened, and the buxom Ms. Wix greeted him in a blue satin hostess gown and pearls. Her hair, he was sure, was dyed.
"You're so delightfully punctual, Mr. Qwilleran," she cried. "Please come in and make yourself comfortable in the parlor while I brew the tea."
She swept away in ripples of satin that highlighted her rounded contours, while Qwilleran ventured into a room with red walls, rose-patterned carpet, and swagged windows. Reluctant to sit on any of the delicate carved-back chairs, he wandered about and looked at the framed photos on the marble-top tables and shawl-draped piano.
"Do you like Darjeelin'?" she asked when she returned with a silver tea service on a tea cart.
"When it comes to tea, my education has been sadly neglected," Qwilleran said. It was his courteous way of saying he never drank the stuff if he could avoid it. His hostess arranged her folds of blue satin on the black horsehair settee, and he lowered himself carefully to the seat of a dainty chair with a carved back. Then he opened a barrage of questions: "Are these all family heirlooms? . . .
How long have you lived in Spudsboro? . . . Does the river ever flood your backyard?"
While giving conscientious answers Ms. Wix poured tea into finger-trap cups that were eggshell thin, using a pearl-handled silver tea strainer.
"An excellent brew," he remarked. "What is your secret?"
"Don't overboil the water!" she said in a confidential whisper. "My late husband adored my tea, but I never revealed my secret."
"How long has Mr. Wix been . . . gone?"
"Almost a year, and I miss him dreadfully. It was a late marriage. We had only eight years together, eight blissful years."
"My condolences," Qwilleran murmured, waiting a few respectful moments before resuming his interrogation: "Who painted the portrait of you? ... Do you do your own decorating? . . . When was this house built?" He noticed a small recording device on the tea table, but she had forgotten to turn it on.
"Isn't it a charming house? It was built more than a hundred years ago by a Mr. Lumpton who owned the general store. Spudsboro was a sleepy old-fashioned town for decades until J.J. Hawkinfield took over the newspaper and brought the community to life."
"Was your husband a journalist?"
"Oh, no! Wilson was a highly successful building contractor. He had the contract to build all the houses on Hawk's Nest Drive. He was also on the city council. Wilson was responsible for introducing trash containers and parking meters on Center Street."
"I suppose you studied journalism in college?" he asked slyly.
"Oh, dear, no! I simply had a natural gift for writing, and J.J. elevated me from subscription clerk to columnist overnight! That was twenty-five years ago, and I've been 'peeling potatoes,' so to speak, ever since. I'm afraid I'm telling you my age," she added with coy girlishness.
"Then you knew J.J. very well. How would you describe him?"
"Let me see . . . He had black, black eyes that could bore right through a person . . . and a very important nose . . . and a stern expression that made everyone toe the line—employees, city officials, everyone! I believe that's how he achieved such great things for the city. Better schools, new sewers, a good library . . ."
"Did you feel intimidated?"
"Not really," she said with a small, guilty smile. "He was very nice to me. Before I married Wilson, J.J. used to invite me to swimming parties at Lake Batata and wonderful Christmas parties at Tiptop. It was very exciting."
"What happened to their three sons?" Qwilleran asked.
She set down her teacup and turned to him with a doleful face. "They were killed—all three of them! The two younger boys were buried in an avalanche while skiing, and the older boy was lost on the river. Their mother, poor soul, had a nervous breakdown and is still hospitalized somewhere in Pennsylvania . . . May I pour you some tea?"
Qwilleran allowed his cup to be refilled and then asked, "What was the local reaction to JJ.'s murder?"
"We were all simply ravaged with grief! He was the most important personage in the Potatoes! Of course, we all knew it was one of those awful mountain people, and it's a wonder he wasn't lynched before he came to trial."
Qwilleran glanced at his watch and rose abruptly. "I regret I must tear myself away. This has been a most enjoyable visit, but I have another appointment."
