A Fit of Tempera by Mary Daheim Page B

school don’t mean you can lollygag around here in your birthday suit!”
    Thor galloped off toward the house. His sister seemed unmoved by the incident, standing pigeon-toed and staring at the cousins. The children’s father wiped his dirty hands off on a greasy rag.
    â€œDang these kids—if they ain’t squabblin’, they’re pesterin’ the livestock. Want to buy a chicken? The Little Woman can wring a neck for you in less time than it takes to say cock-a-doodle-doo.”
    â€œNo, thanks,” Judith replied, feeling a little dazed. “We came over to use your pay phone. And to call on Mr. Dixon.” Seeing Morton’s blank expression, she gestured at the white Mercedes. “That’s his car. He spent the night here.”
    â€œOh, him.” Kennedy Morton grimaced. “Fancy fella, puttin’ on airs. Why can’t people be real?” He started for the second cabin, while his daughter scuffed at the gravel and wandered off. “You go use the phone. I’ll fetch Mr. Dixon,” Morton called to the cousins over his shoulder.
    After the initial wrestling with the antiquated telephone, Judith finally reached the sheriff’s office. Her explanation about the ladder and the broken window was taken by a woman with a monotone voice who sounded bored to tears. The second call, to Directory Assistance, yielded Iris Takisaki’s number in the city. Judith dialed, but got no answer.
    â€œMaybe she’s making funeral arrangements,” Renie suggested after Judith had gotten out of the booth.
    Kennedy Morton returned alone. He waved the greasy rag at Judith and chuckled in an apologetic manner. “Sorry, I forgot Mr. Dixon was going up the road to have breakfast at the Green Mountain Inn. He walked.”
    So did the cousins, covering the distance in just over five minutes. The Green Mountain Inn was of the same vintage as the Woodchuck Auto Court, but it had been built with more imagination and a bigger budget. The faux thatched roof was an Irish green. The second story, which housed the guest rooms, was gabled with dormer windows and shutters that matched the roof. The stucco exterior was whitewashed at least every other year. A quaint sign printed in Olde English style stood at the edge of the road. Half of the first floor was a grocery; the other half, a restaurant.
    Judith and Renie had known the original owners quite well. But the business had changed hands twice since the early sixties. The cousins were only nodding acquaintances with Dee and Gary Johanson, who had owned the property since 1989.
    Dee was working in the restaurant as both hostess and waitress. A rangy woman in her late thirties, she wore her blond hair in a Dutch bob and disdained cosmetics.
    â€œTwo for breakfast? Or lunch?”
    It was not quite ten-thirty; the cousins had eaten only a little more than an hour ago. “Coffee,” said Judith.
    â€œWith pie,” put in Renie.
    Dee led them to a place by the window. Flowered oilskin covered the tables, providing a cheery note. Otherwise, the decor was kept to a minimum—a copper warming pan on one wall, a mounted rainbow trout on another, and a montage of old photographs depicting loggers, miners, and railroad men from the early part of the century. An impressive rack of antlers loomed over the entrance to the bar.
    It being midmorning in the off-season, the restaurant was virtually deserted. Except, Judith noted with satisfaction, for the two men who sat at a table across the room: Dewitt Dixon and Clive Silvanus were deep in conversation.
    Dee Johanson proffered menus, but Judith held up a hand. “Just coffee for me. Really.”
    Renie ordered coffee and blackberry pie with whipped cream. Dee started to move away, then turned back. “You look familiar. Are you up from Glacier Falls?”
    Judith and Renie identified themselves. Dee visibly relaxed. She had the common Pacific Northwestern rural suspicion