The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints - M. V. Carey [1]
The Potter’s flowing robes disturbed her sense of things as they should be. So did The Potter’s long, gleaming white hair and his neatly combed beard, to say nothing of the ceramic medallion that dangled from a leather thong about his neck. The design on the medallion was a scarlet eagle with two heads. In Aunt Mathilda’s opinion, one head per eagle was the right number. The two-headed bird was only another of The Potter’s strange whims.
Now Aunt Mathilda looked down at the man’s feet with open disapproval. As always, The Potter was barefooted. “You’ll step on a nail!” warned Aunt Mathilda.
The Potter only laughed. “I never step on nails, Mrs Jones,” he told her. “You know that. But I could do with some help from you folks today. I am expecting—”
The Potter stopped suddenly and stared at the cabin which served as office for the salvage yard. “What,” demanded The Potter, “is that?”
“Mr. Potter,” said Aunt Mathilda, “do you mean you haven’t seen it? It’s months old.” She lifted a picture frame down from the office wall and offered it to The Potter for his examination. Under the glass was a series of brightly coloured photographs with captions. They had obviously been taken from a magazine. There was one of the front of The Jones Salvage Yard. In the picture, Uncle Titus posed proudly before the wooden fence which surrounded his yard. Artists of Rocky Beach had decorated the fence with a painting of a sailing ship struggling through a stormy, green ocean. In the photograph, one could clearly see a curious painted fish which thrust its head above the waves to watch the ship.
Beneath the photograph of the salvage yard was a picture of Mr. Dingier, who made silver jewellery in a small shop in Rocky Beach, and one of Hans Jorgenson painting a seascape. And there was one of The Potter himself. The photographer had snapped an excellent close-up of the old man as he emerged from the market, his beard gleaming in the sunlight, his two-headed eagle showing clearly against the white of his robe – and a very ordinary, everyday bag of groceries clutched in one arm. The caption beneath The Potter’s photograph pointed out that the residents of Rocky Beach were not disturbed if some of the more artistic citizens took to wearing eccentric garb.
“Surely you knew about it,” said Aunt Mathilda. “It’s from Westways magazine.
You remember, they did a story on the artists in the beach towns?”
The Potter frowned. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I remember one day there was a young man with a camera. I didn’t pay much attention. We get so many tourists and they all seem to have cameras. If only …”
“If only what, Mr. Potter?” asked Aunt Mathilda.
“Nothing,” said The Potter. “It can’t be helped now.” He turned away from Aunt Mathilda and her treasured photograph and put a hand on Jupe’s shoulder. “Jupiter,”
he said, “I’d like to look through your merchandise. I’m expecting company, and I’m afraid my guests may find my house a little … well, a little bare.”
“Expecting company?” echoed Aunt Mathilda. “My gracious to heavens!”
In spite of his cheerful, outgoing ways, The Potter had never been known to have a close friend. Jupiter knew that his aunt was wondering mightily who might be coming to visit the old man. However, she refrained from questioning him and simply ordered Jupiter to show him around. “Your Uncle Titus won’t be back from Los Angeles for more than an hour,” she said, and hurried away to turn off the hose at the tap.
Jupe was only too happy to show The Potter around. Aunt Mathilda might have her doubts about the old man, but Jupe liked him. “Live and let live” seemed to be his motto, and Jupe thought it was no one’s business but The Potter’s if he enjoyed bare feet and white robes.
“Now first,” said The Potter, “I’ll need a couple of bedsteads.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jupe.
The Jones Salvage Yard was an extremely well-organized