“I’m fed up with these storms,” she said. “Basements are flooding on Center Street, and a bridge washed out downriver.” She declined his offer of a nightcap. “Some other time. Meanwhile, if you decide to buy Tiptop—”
“You’ll be the first to know, Sabrina,” he promised. “Perhaps we can have dinner again soon—my treat.”
“Perhaps,” she said with a glance he was unable to interpret.
Qwilleran walked slowly and carefully up the twenty-five steps to Tiptop, thinking, She’s a charming woman, interesting, very friendly . . . probably in her middle thirties . . . seems to live alone . . . an acquaintance worth cultivating. Then he thought, What could she do with Tiptop? It wouldn’t hurt to ask for a design proposal and an estimate . . . Her eyes looked green tonight. I thought they were blue . . . What’s her relationship with Spencer Poole? She has an enormously warm regard for him. Mentions him often . . .
He unlocked the door, expecting a greeting from two excited cats with tails held high. It was always dark in the foyer, day or night, and he switched on the lights, but no pale fur bodies emerged from the gloom. Nor were there any welcoming yowls. Instead, he heard human voices upstairs.
FIFTEEN
WHEN QWILLERAN WALKED into the house and heard muffled voices upstairs, he instinctively looked around for a weapon before realizing he had a formidable one in his left hand. Brandishing the carved walking staff, which had the heft of a cudgel, and forgetting to limp, he started up the stairs two at a time. Halfway up he stopped.
He heard a man’s voice saying, “Well, thanks for being with us, Bob; good luck at the tourney . . . and now a look at the weather . . .”
Qwilleran finished the flight of stairs at a slower pace and found the cats on his desk: Koko lounging sphinx-like on the yellow legal pad and Yum Yum lounging sphinx-like on the radio, the controls of which were unwisely located on top. Neither of them stirred; both regarded him with infuriating complacency.
“You rascals!” he said after counting to ten. “Why didn’t you tune in some good music?”
Only then did he realize he was walking without pain. Filled with immediate ambition he busied himself with activities neglected in the last few days: putting candles in the eight-branch candelabrum, throwing the baker’s white duck uniform into the washer, writing a thank-you note to Mrs. Beechum with a testimonial for her homemade liniment. The storm roared in on schedule—with crashing thunder, flashing lightning, and pounding rain, and the Siamese were glad to huddle in Qwilleran’s bedroom and listen to a chapter of The Magic Mountain. He had to shout to be heard above the tumult outdoors. When he tuned in the eleven o’clock news, flood warnings were in effect.
The next morning he opened his eyes and rotated his left foot painlessly; his elation knew no bounds. He was ready to plunge into the bogus research for the biography he had no intention of writing! He was eager to drive again after being grounded for three days. When he raised the blinds in the bedroom, however, the view from the window suggested that Tiptop was flying through a cloudbank at an altitude of 35,000 feet. Furthermore, the meteorologist on the radio predicted dense fog on the mountains until late afternoon, with heavy humidity. The flood warning had been changed to flood watch after last night’s rain.
Qwilleran stepped out onto the veranda and inhaled the moist smells of fog and drenched treebark, noting that only three of the twenty-five steps to the parking lot were visible; the rest were shrouded in mist. Sherry Hawkinfield’s plane would never be able to land, he told himself.
Indoors he warmed a sticky bun in the oven, but his fingers faltered over the controls on the coffeemaker: Extra Strong or merely Strong? Three cups or two? Remembering the fate of Wilson Wix, he opted for moderation. Then he fed the cats and watched them gulp and gobble with jerking of heads and swaying of tails. In his earlier days he would have had neither the time nor the inclination to watch animals eat. In many ways Qwilleran had changed since Kao K’o Kung came to live with him.
After he had showered and shaved and dressed, he again checked the veranda; there were now four steps visible. He went upstairs and made a pretense of straightening his bed; housekeeping was not one of his strong points. Koko was back on the desk, sitting on the legal pad.
“Let me see that thing,” Qwilleran said.
It was the editorial that Hawkinfield had written before he died, intending to run it the following week, and it brought a tremor to Qwilleran’s upper lip. Rushing into the cats’ room to use their phone, he called the editor of the Gazette.
He said, “Colin, I want to start my research on the Hawkinfield bio by interviewing Josh Lumpton. Can you break the ice for me and give me a good reference? Don’t mention my book on crime.”
“How soon do you want to see him?”
“This morning. Immediately.”
“Sounds as if the ankle is okay and you’re rarin’ to go. How’s the fog on the mountain? It’s not too bad down here. The airport’s still open. But the river’s raging.”
“The fog is dense, but I can get through. Where is Lumpton’s place of business?”
“South of town on the Yellyhoo, half a mile beyond the city limits—that is, if he isn’t flooded out. If I don’t call you back in five minutes, it means he’s still high and dry and willing to see you. He’s an agreeable guy.”
There was no return call. When Qwilleran ventured down the steps, the mist swirled about him. When he drove down Hawk’s Nest with fog lights on, nothing was visible except a few feet of yellow line on the pavement. Houses had disappeared in the whiteout, but he could tell their location by counting the hairpin turns. At the foot of the drive the visibility improved, however, and he dropped Sabrina’s letter to Sherry Hawkinfield in a mailbox.
South of Spudsboro the flooding had almost reached the pavement, and the ramshackle Yellyhoo Market had virtually washed away. Truckloads of sandbags were traveling toward the downtown area where banks, stores, and offices could not afford to wash away. Lumpton Transport was located safely on higher ground—a fenced parking lot for truck cabs, trailers, flatbeds, refrigerated trucks, tankers, and moving vans. There was no name on the headquarters building, but an oversized sign painted on its concrete-block front shouted: YOU GOT IT? WE MOVE IT.
The receptionist conducted Qwilleran into the boss’s private office, a plain room with a large girly-type wall calendar as the sole decoration. There, surrounded by a bank of computers, was a jolly mountain of flesh in khaki chinos, seated regally in a huge chair. His pudgy face was wreathed in smiling folds of fat.
“Come on in,” he called out affably. “Sit you down. Colin said you were comin’ over. What’s the name again?”
“Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran spelled with a QW.” He leaned across the desk to shake hands.
“Want some coffee? . . . Susie, bring some coffee!” the booming voice shouted in the direction of the door. “How d’you like our weather? Colin says you’re stayin’ at Tiptop.”
“It’s much wetter than I expected. Did you ever see it as bad as this?”
“Only once. In 1963. The Yellyhoo looked like the Mississippi, and Batata Falls looked like Niagara. I don’t worry about the river reachin’ us here, but if the county has to close South Highway, we’re out of business.”
The coffee arrived in heavy china mugs decorated with dubious witticisms, the boss’s mug bearing the good-natured message: “I’m Fat But You’re Ugly.” “How about a jigger of corn to liven it up?” he suggested with his great, hospitable smile.
“No, thanks. I like my coffee straight.”
“So you’re gonna write a book about my old buddy! Great fella! Smart as the dickens! Never be another like him! But he was jinxed—had one stroke of bad luck after another.”
Qwilleran wondered, Was it bad luck or was it calculated retaliation? He asked, “Didn’t Hawkinfield make a lot of enemies with his outspoken editorials?”
“Nah. Nobody took that stuff serious. He was okay. Did a whole lot of good for the co
mmunity. Everybody liked him.”
“How long were you sheriff?”
“Twenty-four years!” Lumpton patted his bulging stomach with pride.
“That’s an illustrious record! Everyone talks about you.”
“My constituents been bendin’ your ear? Hope they didn’t tattle too much.” He wheezed a husky chuckle.
Genially Qwilleran asked, “Should I infer that you’re covering up a few secrets?”
The trucker gave him a sharp look before chuckling again with the aplomb of a seasoned politician.
Qwilleran continued: “How did you feel about losing your last campaign for office, Mr. Lumpton?”
“Didn’t waste no tears over that. Twenty-four years of bein’ a public servant is long enough! It was time I got out—and started makin’ some money.” He gestured toward his computers.
“But wasn’t J.J. responsible for your losing the election?”
“Hell, no! I just didn’t feel like campaignin’.”
“Do you think Wilbank’s a worthy successor?”
“He’s okay. He’s doin’ a good job. Got a lot to learn, but . . . sure, he’s okay. Me, I know the county inside out. I know every man, woman, and child in the Potatoes.”
“How many of them are Lumptons?”
“Plenty! And I did my part—four sons, three daughters, five grandkids.” The trucker was leaning back in his big chair, swiveling, and enjoying the interview.
Qwilleran switched his approach from amiable to serious. “If Hawkinfield was so well liked, why was he murdered?”
“You don’t know the story? There was this nutty young fella on Li’l Tater—a real troublemaker. He had some kind of crazy grudge against J.J.—even threatened to kill him. J.J. paid no attention. I guess editors get letters from cranks all the time. But . . . it finally happened. The kid just blew his stack.”
“Wasn’t it your son who represented him at the trial?”
Lumpton nodded. “Court-appointed. They all take a few cases like that.”
“I hear the trial was remarkably brief.”
“Sure was! Our judicial system at its best! Everybody doin’ his job and doin’ it well! That way, it didn’t cost the county a whole lot of money. A long jury trial can wreck a county’s budget for the year!”
“But wasn’t there radically conflicting testimony?” Qwilleran asked.
“Sure, the defendant pleaded not guilty and told some cock-and-bull stories, but you can’t believe them Taters.”
“What do you know about Hawkinfield’s daughter? She seems to be the last of the family.”
“Don’t know her. Knew the three boys that got killed. Don’t know the daughter.”
“I believe she’s the one who was married to your son briefly.”
Lumpton frowned. “Guess so. They weren’t married long enough to notice.”
“Also, she’s the one who gave the incriminating testimony at the trial.”
“Oh, her! She doesn’t live around here.”
Qwilleran gazed at his subject with a cool eye and paused before saying in a deeper voice, “Who really killed Hawkinfield, Mr. Lumpton?”
The big man’s eyes popped. “Did I hear you right?”
“You certainly did! There are rumors in the valley that they convicted the wrong man.”
“Somebody’s crazy! If there’s any rumors in this county, I start ’em. Whatcha gettin’ at, anyway? You ask a lotta questions. Are you one of them investigative reporters?”
“I’m an author trying to get a handle on my subject matter,” Qwilleran said, softening his approach. “No one can write a biography without asking questions. Since you were in law enforcement for twenty-four years—and know everyone in the county—I thought you might have a lurking suspicion as to the real motive for Hawkinfield’s murder.”
“Look here,” said the trucker, standing up and losing his official smile. He was a mountain of a man, Qwilleran realized. “Look here, I’m busy. I don’t have time to listen to this—”
“Sorry, Mr. Lumpton. I won’t take any more of your time. Sherry Hawkinfield will be here this weekend, and I’ll get her to fill in some of the blanks.” He was on his feet and edging out of the office. “One more question: Exactly what is the Hot Potato Fund?”
“Never heard of it!” The trucker was lunging around the end of his desk in a manner that hastened Qwilleran’s departure.
“Thank you, Mr. Lumpton,” he called out from the hallway.
He drove directly to the office of the Gazette. Downtown Spudsboro was misty, but the mountains had disappeared in the fog. When he entered Colin Carmichael’s office he was carrying a plastic sack from the Five Points Market.
“Qwill! You’re walking like Homo sapiens instead of an arthritic bear,” the editor greeted him.
“I see you’re sandbagging the building,” Qwilleran observed.
“We’re also moving our microfilm out of the basement. Did you see Uncle Josh?”
“Yes, he was ready to talk, but he disliked some of my questions . . . May I close the door?” he asked before sitting down. “First, let me confess something, Colin. I have no intention of writing a biography of Hawkinfield—and never did. All I want is to find out who killed him . . . You look surprised!”
“Frankly, I am, Qwill. I thought that matter had been put to bed.”
Qwilleran tamped his moustache. “I’ve had doubts about the case for several days, and last night I found something in Hawkinfield’s study that leads me to suspect Josh Lumpton.”
Carmichael stared at him incredulously. “On what grounds? I know Hawkinfield hounded him out of office, charging corruption, but that was a few years ago. Josh runs a clean business. His computerized operation is unique in these parts. We gave it a spread on our business page. He’s treasurer of the chamber of commerce.”
“Be that as it may,” Qwilleran said, drawing the legal pad from the plastic sack. “I have here in my briefcase one of Hawkinfield’s unpublished editorials, datelined for the Wednesday after his death. It’s my theory that he was killed to forestall its publication. Someone—and who could it be but his daughter?—knew it was going to be published and tipped off the murderer. Her false testimony at the trial—and I do mean false!—suggested that she was protecting someone. Was it her once-and-future father-in-law? No doubt she also collaborated in trapping Forest Beechum. In court he was defended incompetently by Josh’s son, who is also her lover, if my information is correct.”
“Let me see that,” the editor said, reaching for the legal pad.
“I’ll read it to you. You have to imagine anywhere from one to four exclamation points after each sentence. J.J. liked to yell in print.” Qwilleran proceeded to read:
In our hysterical and ineffective war against drugs and drug lords around the world, we are tricked into forgetting those home-grown murderers who not only prey on the poor but rob the government of millions in lost revenue!! Bootleggers, some of you may be surprised to know, are still operating illegally and profitably!!! Perhaps you think the manufacture and sale of illegal whiskey died with the repeal of Prohibition. Not so! Cheap booze is still killing people!! And networks of respected citizens are involved in this heinous racket!!! Are we talking about some far-off sink of iniquity in crime-ridden New York or California? No, we are talking about this blessed valley of ours, this ideal community, this latter-day Eden, which is sinking into an abyss!
First, the local moonshiner produces the whiskey, running it in filthy stills hidden in mountain caves and using additives to fake quality, as well as dangerous short-cuts to make a cheaper product!! Then the hauler has a contract to transport it out of the mountains disguised as honest cargo—in a furniture van or under a load of logs!!! Finally the big-city bootlegger waters it down and sells it to the dregs of society! Everyone makes a profit except the consumer, who dies of lead poisoning!!
Now brace yourself for the most shocking fact!!! The distilling and hauling operations are financed by local invest
ors who innocently or not so innocently buy shares in the illegal and aptly named Hot Potato Fund, which is purported to promote the local economy! Civic leaders, church deacons, and elderly widows are sinking their savings in this profitable, damnable underground venture!! They never question that their quarterly dividends are unreported and said to be non-taxable! Or do they?
Who is guilty? Look around you!! Your next-door neighbor is guilty! Your boss is guilty!! Your golf partner is guilty!!! Your good old uncle is guilty!!!!
When Qwilleran finished reading, he looked up at his listener and waited for a reaction. Carmichael was thinking, with lowered eyes and twirling thumbs.
“How about that?” Qwilleran demanded. “Have you heard of the Hot Potato Fund? Is this why Taters discourage outsiders from prowling around their mountain? Is this why Lumpton Transport is doing so well?”
“What are you going to do with that information?” the editor wanted to know.
“If I’m on the right track, it’ll be used as evidence in court. There’ll be a new trial.”
“Give me that pad,” Colin said, “and forget you ever saw it.”
“Why?” Qwilleran asked mockingly. “Is the Gazette involved in this, too?”
“All right, I’ll tell you something I’m not supposed to, but for God’s sake, keep it under your hat. Okay?”
Qwilleran held up his right hand. “I swear,” he said lightly.
“We received an anonymous tip about a week ago. I don’t know why informers like to tip off the media, but they do. I spoke to Del Wilbank about it and learned that the feds have been investigating the Potatoes for months. They have undercover agents in the valley and the mountains. We can expect a major bust any day now. And believe me, it’ll be a big story when it breaks, hitting all the wire services. So . . . until then, you don’t know anything.”
Qwilleran pushed the pad across the desk. “You can have it, but keep it in your safe. How do you suppose Hawkinfield knew about the operation?”
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 19