It occurred to him that Wilson Wix may have been enlisted against his better judgment, and the stress of committing what he knew to be perjury triggered his heart attack. One could not lay the whole blame on caffeine. Qwilleran poured a third cup.
He had a strong urge to visit the Old Buzzard’s office once more in search of clues if not answers. The obstacle was the heavy desk concealing the door. Then Dewey Beechum arrived to work on the gazebo, and the problem was solved. The dampness of the season had caused his historic hat to grow moss, and his beard was curling and looking wilder than ever.
Qwilleran called to him from the veranda and beckoned him up the steps. “It’s hard for me to leave the house,” he explained to the carpenter. “I’ve hurt my ankle. How’s the job progressing? It’s impossible to see from here.”
“Finish up today, like as not. Built the screens in my barn. Aimin’ to save time.”
“Good idea! I’ll be around here all day. Just add up your bill, and I’ll write you a check. Do you think we’re going to have any flood damage?”
“Iffen it don’t stop rainin’.”
“We could use a few hours of sunshine and a little breeze to dry things up,” said Qwilleran, who had learned the banal art of weatherspeak in Moose County.
Beechum gave a sour look upward, perhaps searching for a black snake in a tree. “Won’t git it,” he pronounced.
Having disposed of the amenities, Qwilleran explained his problem. The workman nodded and followed him into the house, trudged through the living room without looking to right or left, lifted the bookcase off the base with ease, pulled the desk away from the wall without asking any questions, and returned to his work on the gazebo.
Taters were strong, silent types, Qwilleran reflected. They worked hard, lived long lives, never worried about being overweight, and did a little midnight farming as a hobby.
Koko was delighted to see the office open again. He immediately went in to sniff Lucy’s mattress. Yum Yum, on the other hand, was sleeping off her medication on a down-cushioned chair in the living room. It was the one chair that was more comfortable than all the rest, and with true feline instinct she had commandeered it.
There was something in Hawkinfield’s office that Qwilleran expressly wished to examine: a family photograph hanging on the wall. Seated in the center of the group was J.J. with his lofty brow and “important” nose, obviously the master of the house. Standing behind him were three bright-looking boys of graduated heights, and on either side were seated a pretty woman with a shy smile and a teenage girl with a sullen pout. She had the Hawkinfield nose and an exaggerated overbite. Was this the Sherry Hawkinfield, Qwilleran wondered, that he had invited to dinner? He could only hope she had improved with age.
Sprawling in J.J.’s lounge chair and propping his ankle on J.J.’s ottoman, he delved into another of the editor’s scrapbooks and read attacks on the county animal shelter, Mother’s Day, and the high school football coach. It was prose written by a madman with a passion for exclamation points. In one tirade he aimed his barbs at a sheriff who was running for reelection. This candidate, Hawkinfield pointed out, was three months in arrears on his water bill, regularly had his wife’s parking tickets voided, and at one time succeeded in hushing up his own felonious bad-check charge. No name was mentioned, but even a stranger in the Potatoes like Qwilleran could guess that it was Uncle Josh Lumpton, who forthwith lost his post to Del Wilbank.
Koko, tired of sniffing Lucy’s mattress and the law books on the shelf, suddenly landed on the desktop with whiskers twitching and paws digging. He wanted desperately to get into the center drawer, the shallow one that is usually a catchall. Qwilleran obliged him, having an avid curiosity of his own. In the compartments at the front of the drawer there were pencils, pens, paper clips, rubber bands, a few pennies, three cigarettes in a squashed pack, two large screws, and one stray postage stamp. Koko pounced on the stamp and carried it away to sniff and lick in some dark corner. Now how did that cat know it was there? Qwilleran asked himself.
At the rear of the drawer the miscellaneous papers and file folders included a large yellow legal pad on which Hawkinfield apparently drafted his editorials in longhand, using a soft lead pencil. The one on the pad was datelined two days after Father’s Day of the previous year. It had never been published and had never journeyed beyond the center drawer of Hawkinfield’s desk, but before Qwilleran could read it, the doorbell rang.
Beechum had finished the gazebo and was coming to collect payment. Qwilleran knew it was rash to pay for the work without inspecting it, but he trusted the man and even added a bonus for prompt service. He then asked the carpenter to move the desk back against the office door—but not before he had retrieved the yellow legal pad. After that it was time to shave and dress for dinner with Sabrina Peel, and Qwilleran transferred the pad to his own desk upstairs.
When Sabrina arrived she brought two pillows in bright red and gold, each a yard square, to stack on the living room floor between two windows. “I think they make the statement we want,” she said. “They balance the color accents and add some desirable weight at that end of the room . . . How’s the ankle, Qwill?”
“The Pain-and-Anguish Scale went down sixteen points when you walked in,” he said, admiring the misty green silk dress that complemented her decorator-blond hair. “Shall we have a drink before we leave?”
“Mmmm . . . no,” she said. “I’ve requested a choice booth, and they won’t hold a reservation more than fifteen minutes. I hope you don’t object to the no-smoking section . . . Where did you find that fabulous burl bowl? At Potato Cove? . . . I see you need candles. I could have brought you some.”
“I have plenty,” he said. “The candle dipper sold me a lifetime supply, but I haven’t found time to stick them in the candleholder . . . Let me check out the Siamese before we leave.”
The two cats were exactly where he thought they would be—perched on top of the new floor pillows, looking haughty and possessive, their cold blue eyes challenging anyone to dethrone them.
With Qwilleran taking one experimental step at a time, he and Sabrina walked slowly down the long flight to the parking lot.
“Do you mind living alone?” she asked.
“I’ve tried it both ways,” he replied, “and I know it can be a letdown to come home to an empty apartment, but now I have the Siamese to greet me at the door. They’re good companions; they need me; they’re always happy to see me come home. On the other hand, they’re always glad to see me go out—one of the things that cats do to keep a person from feeling too important.”
On the way down Hawk’s Nest Drive she pointed out clients’ houses. She had helped the Wilbanks select their wallpapers . . . Peel & Poole was redesigning the entire interior for the Lessmores . . . Her partner had done the windows and floors for the Wickes house.
“Are you the only design studio in town?” Qwilleran asked her slyly.
“The only good one,” she retorted, flashing an arch smile at her passenger. “I’d give anything to get my hands on Tiptop and do it over, inside and out.”
“Would you kill for it?”
He expected a flip reply, but Sabrina was concentrating on traffic at the foot of the drive and she ignored the remark.
They turned onto a road that roughly paralleled the overflowing banks of the Yellyhoo River and then led into the foothills where the restaurant called Pasta Perfect occupied a dimple in the landscape. It was a rustic roadhouse that appeared ready to collapse.
Qwilleran said, “In the flat country where I live, this place would look like a dump, but in the mountains even the dumps look picturesque.”
“It was a challenge to blend its dumpishness with an appetizing interior,” Sabrina admitted. “The owners wanted a shirt-sleeve ambiance that looked and felt clean, so I had the old wood floors refinished to look like old wood floors, left the posts and beams in their original dark stain, and painted the wall spaces white to emphasize all the cracks and knots
and wormholes.”
The restaurant was a rambling layout of small rooms that had been added throughout the years, and Sabrina and her guest were seated in the Chief Batata Room, where high-backed booths provided privacy as well as a mountain view through panels of plate glass. The focal point of the room was a painted portrait of an Indian chief smoking a peace pipe.
Sabrina said, “I want you to look at this staggering menu, Qwill. The fifteen kinds of pasta and all the sauces are house-made, fresh daily.” For an appetizer he ordered smoked salmon and avocado rolled in lasagna noodles, with a sauce of watercress, dill, and horseradish. Sabrina chose trout quenelles on a bed of black beans with Cajun hollandaise—and a bottle of Orvieto wine.
“How are you enjoying your vacation?” she asked.
“So far, it’s been nothing but rain and minor calamities, but let’s not talk about that. What do you know about the Fitzwallow huntboard?”
“J.J. bought it at an auction, claiming there was a Fitzwallow in his ancestry. It’s a monstrous thing, and his wife hated it.”
“My cat has taken a fancy to it,” Qwilleran said. “If he isn’t jumping on top of it, he’s rolling on the floor at the base. I think he has some Fitzwallow blood himself. One thing I wouldn’t mind owning, though, is Forest Beechum’s painting. What is it worth?”
“It’s definitely worth $3,000, Qwill. As an artist he’s an unknown, but it’s good, and it’s big! He did this painting of Chief Batata, too. I thought it would be amusing in the no-smoking room, but I’m afraid no one gets the joke. I suppose you’re an ex-smoker like the rest of us.”
“I used to smoke a pipe, thinking I looked thoughtful and wise while puffing. Also, re-lighting it filled in lengthy pauses when I didn’t know what to say. Now I have to sit and twiddle my thumbs and look empty-headed.”
“Qwill, I can’t imagine you ever looking empty-headed. What do you do, anyway? There’s been a lot of speculation in the valley.”
“I’m a wandering writer, searching for a subject, and I think I’ve found it. I want to write a biography of J.J. Hawkinfield. He was a large, power-mad frog in a small puddle, with a bombastic style of writing, a penchant for making enemies, and a succession of family sorrows ending in his own murder. It’s the Greek tragedy of the Potato Mountains! It calls for a Greek chorus of Taters and Spuds!”
“Will it be a whitewash?” she asked. “Or are you going to paint him warts and all?”
“Being a journalist by profession, I’m especially interested in the warts.”
“Do you think you can get people to talk?”
“The public,” Qwilleran said, “is immensely fond of talking to authors—especially about someone who’s dead and can’t lash back. I may start with ex-sheriff Lumpton.”
Sabrina laughed. “That freeloader! Don’t believe a word you get from Uncle Josh.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Well, he and J.J. were feuding for years. He’s in the trucking business now, and he’s building an enormously expensive house. We’re doing the interior with a no-limit budget.”
“Trucking logs out of the mountains must be lucrative,” Qwilleran commented.
“According to conventional wisdom, Uncle Josh was stashing the money away in a coffee can buried in his backyard all the time he was sheriff.”
The waiter brought the antipasto on very cold plates, followed by the entrees on very hot plates. Having ordered tagliatelle in a sauce of ricotta, leeks, and ham, Qwilleran twirled his fork in rapt appreciation for a while. Eventually he asked, “Who is this partner you’re always mentioning?”
“Spencer Poole. He’s an older man and a wonderful person. When I was in high school he gave me a summer job, folding samples and keeping the studio dusted. After I graduated from design school, he took me into the firm because he liked the sound of Peel & Poole.”
Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought, grooming his moustache. It was more likely because she’s a stunning young woman.
Sabrina said, “I told him it should be Poole & Peel, since he’s the senior partner, but he pointed out the importance of vowel sounds in the name of a design studio. He said ‘ee-oo’ has more class than ‘oo-ee,’ which is associated with hog calling. Spencer is fussy about details, but that’s what makes him a terrific designer. He’s taught me a lot,” she said, her eyes sparkling. They were green tonight; a few days ago they were blue.
“With a name like Peel, you must be Scottish,” he remarked. “My mother was a Mackintosh.”
“Say something in Scots,” she said teasingly.
“Mony a mickle mak’ a muckle,” he recited.
“Many small things make a large thing,” she guessed.
“That’s its popular meaning, although the dictionary defines mickle and muckle as synonyms. George Washington used the expression in the popular sense, however, and if it’s good enough for the Father of our Country, it’s good enough for me.”
“My partner would love the sound of it,” she said.
Speaking seriously in a lower voice, Qwilleran said, “Your partner seems like an astute individual. Does he have any idea who really killed Hawkinfield? The man’s enemies are easy to identify; the ones who arouse my suspicion are his so-called friends.”
Sabrina put down her fork and stared at him. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “when it first happened . . . Spencer thought it might be the husband of J.J.’s girlfriend. But now I guess there’s no doubt it was Beechum.”
Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “Hawkinfield had a girlfriend? Was it well-known?”
“This is a very small town, Qwill. It was well-known but not talked about. She worked at the Gazette—still does, in fact—and she thought J.J. walked on water. That’s the kind of woman he liked. She used to bake cookies for him all the time, and he called her Cookie, even around the office. Everyone knows he paid for her face-lift.”
“But she had a husband?”
“Not until a few years ago. She married a run-of-the-mill house builder who immediately landed the contract for all the houses on Big Potato, and he turned out to be a real Hawksman.”
“Did he know about his wife’s connection with Hawkinfield?”
“Who knows? He was a simple soul—sort of a male Pollyanna. We all liked him when we worked with him on interiors. He had a massive heart attack and died . . . Don’t quote me on any of this.”
When dessert was served—almond ravioli with raspberry sauce—Qwilleran returned to the subject of the biography. He said, “In doing my research I’d like to explore Hawkinfield’s relationship with his children—just for background information, so that I feel comfortable with my subject.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” she said. “The three boys were the center of his universe, you know, and they were really bright kids, but J.J. neglected his daughter because she had the misfortune to be female. He gave the boys bikes, skis, golf lessons, even private tutoring. Sherry got piano lessons, which she hated.”
“How did she feel about her father?”
“Not enthusiastic! She referred to him flippantly as her male parent and scorned her mother for being weak. When I was doing the interior of Tiptop, Sherry latched onto me as a sort of role model. That’s how she acquired an interest in selling decorative accessories.”
“Was she as smart as her brothers?”
“She was shrewd, rather than book smart—even devious,” Sabrina said. “I think her second-class standing in the family slanted her that way; she had to look out for Sherry. And now that she’s in business for herself, that’s not a bad quality to have.”
“I saw a family photograph,” Qwilleran said, “and she looked like an unhappy girl—certainly unattractive.”
“Yes, her teeth needed attention, and she desperately wanted a nose job, but J.J. considered that an extravagance. Fortunately, her maternal grandmother left her some money, so she was able to have orthodontal work and esthetic surgery. What a difference! Her personality blossomed, and she became qui
te popular. In fact . . .” Sabrina glanced around the room and dropped her voice, “her father sent her away to school because she was dating a Lumpton boy—a really good-looking kid. Two years later, after graduating from her school in Virginia, she sneaked off and married him.”
“I’ll bet there were fireworks on Big Potato when that happened,” Qwilleran said.
“Were there ever! J.J. was sure the boy just wanted to marry an heiress and get into a ‘good’ family. You see, he was the son of the infamous Josh Lumpton! So Sherry was given a choice: annulment or disinheritance. She was no fool; she opted to stay in her father’s will, thinking she’d inherit millions. Actually, all she got was Tiptop. The rest is in trust for her mother.”
“What happened to Josh Lumpton’s son?”
“He and Sherry are still close. They’ll probably marry when she sells the inn and gets her million plus. He went on to law school and passed the bar, although he doesn’t have much of a practice. He’d rather play golf . . . Are you interested in all this small-town gossip?” she asked.
“I live in a small town,” he said, “where gossip is the staff of life. I live in a barn.” He told her about his converted apple barn with its balconies and tapestries and contemporary furnishings.
“It sounds fabulous! I’d love to see it,” she said.
There was no lingering over the espresso. Thunder storms were gathering, according to the local weathercast, and Sabrina wanted to be home before the deluge. “Driving in the mountains is spooky during an electrical storm,” she told Qwilleran as she drove him home. “By the way, did you find the letter I lost?”
“Yes, I did,” he replied without revealing that it was still languishing in a drawer of the huntboard. “It was in the house. I found it on the floor. If you’d lost it outdoors, it would have been rain-soaked, I’m afraid.”
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 18