“The prosecutor was defeated in the last election,” said Wilbank. “A woman holds the office now.”
“She’ll find some former witnesses guilty of perjury, including Sherry,” Qwilleran predicted.
“Ardis and I know Sherry pretty well. It’s hard to believe she’d be a party to it.”
“Sherry was a would-be heiress who wanted to see her male parent underground, although she found it expedient to profess filial friendship. On the weekend of the murder, perhaps J.J. read his inflammatory editorial to her. Writers with any ego like to read their stuff to a friendly ear, you know. Did Colin show it to you?”
Wilbank nodded. “It’s in his safe. He said he made the situation clear to you.”
“Quite clear! What will happen to Sherry now?”
“We’ll take her with us and work something out with the prosecutor . . . I think I hear the sirens.”
* * *
As the paramedics maneuvered the stretcher down the twenty-five steps, the Wilbanks told Qwilleran they’d take a raincheck on the drink; they left with a silent young woman in tow, who tossed her hair back nervously.
He had a strong desire to call Polly Duncan and break the news of his successful investigation. Now that it was all over, he could tell her the whole story without alarming her. He felt free to boast to Polly; she listened with understanding. But first he had to wait for the discount phone rates to go into effect.
Tuning in the eleven o’clock news on the local radio station, he heard this brief announcement: “A police prisoner in Spudsboro General Hospital is a new suspect in the Father’s Day murder of J.J. Hawkinfield last June, name withheld pending charges. A spokesperson for the sheriff’s department refused to predict what effect the suspect’s apprehension will have on the previous murder trial. Forest Beechum is currently serving a life term for the crime.”
Before the announcer could conclude with dire predictions of damaging rain and severe flooding, Qwilleran’s telephone rang, and an excited voice cried, “Did you hear the newscast? They have a new suspect! Forest may be coming home! Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”
“I’m very happy for you, Chrysalis. I’ve recently talked to my attorneys in Pickax, and they expressed an interest in the case, so if you want legal advice, you can call on them.”
“Are they high-priced?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. The Klingenschoen Foundation makes funds available for worthy causes.”
“I’m so happy! I could cry!”
Qwilleran himself was exhilarated by the events of the day, and when he called Polly he said, “G-o-ood e-e-evening!” in a musical and seductive voice. She knew it well.
“Dearest, I’m so glad to hear from you!” she cried. “I’ve had a most unnerving experience!”
“What happened?” he asked in a normal tone, thinking that Bootsie had swallowed a bottle cap or fallen down a heat register.
“I’m still trembling! I attended that formal dinner I told you about and arrived home after dark. Just as I approached my driveway, I saw a car in front of the main house, parked the wrong way, and someone was behind the wheel. It was standing there with the lights off. I thought it was strange, because no one’s living in the main house, and curb parking isn’t allowed on Goodwinter Boulevard, you know. When I turned into the side drive, the car started up and followed me—without lights! I was terrified! When I reached the carriage house, I parked near the door, left my headlights on, and had my doorkey ready. Then I jumped out, almost tripping on my long dress, and saw this man getting out of the car! I was able to get inside and slam the door before he reached me, and I sat down on the stairs and bawled like a baby!”
Qwilleran had been speechless as he listened to the chilling account. “This is terrible, Polly! Did you call the police?”
“As soon as I could collect my wits. Gib Campbell was on patrol duty, and he was there in three minutes. The prowler had gone, of course.”
“You weren’t able to see his face?”
“The outdoor lights weren’t on, unfortunately.”
“You should always leave them on when you go out in the evening.”
“I thought I’d be home before dark; the days are so long in June.”
A specific dread swept over Qwilleran. “I don’t like the sound of this, Polly. I’d better get back to Pickax. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“But your vacation has only just begun!”
“I’m canceling it. I can’t have anything happening to you.”
“It’s a sweet thought, dear, but—”
“No buts! Can you stay home until I arrive?”
“I have to be at the library tomorrow and Monday.”
“Well, don’t go anywhere after work, and if you see anyone who looks the least bit suspect, ask for a police escort. I’ll be home Tuesday and I’ll call you every night while I’m on the road.”
“Qwill, dear, you shouldn’t do this.”
“I’m doing it because I love you, Polly! Now hang up so I can call Brodie!”
Qwilleran called the Pickax police chief at his home. “Andy, I’m sorry to bother you. Do you know about the prowler on Goodwinter Boulevard tonight?”
“Just happened to pick it up on my radio on the way home from the lodge meeting, Campbell responded. No trace.”
“The prowler was after Polly. He was waiting for her when she came home.”
“Where are you?” Brodie asked.
“I’m still in the Potato Mountains, but I’m leaving for Pickax tomorrow. This worries me, Andy. Polly’s connection with me is well known around the county—around Lockmaster County, too. I’m a prime prospect for a ransom demand.”
“You’re talking about . . . kidnapping? We’ve never had a kidnap case in a hundred years!”
“Things are changing. Outsiders are coming in, and you can expect more incidents. I’ll be home Tuesday. What can you do about it in the meantime?”
“We’ll step up the patrols on Goodwinter, and I’ll talk to Polly tomorrow—see that she gets a ride to work. We don’t want to lose a good librarian!”
After the two calls to Pickax, Qwilleran paced the floor anxiously, and the roaring of the wind added to his agitation. Soon the nightly downpour started, hitting the veranda roofs and the upstairs windows like hailstones. Before retiring, he packed for the journey and assembled his luggage in the foyer. The Siamese were nervous, and he allowed them to stay in his room. They promptly fell asleep, but the events of the day churned in his mind.
Sometime in the middle of the night, as he was tossing restlessly and listening to the wind and rain, a sudden, deafening roar drowned out all other sounds. It was like a locomotive crashing into the side of the house, like a jet shearing off the mountaintop, like an earthquake, a tornado, and a tidal wave! He turned the switch on his bedside lamp, but the power was off. Gradually the booming pandemonium receded into the distance, and he ventured downstairs with the bedside flashlight and even stepped out onto the veranda. Nothing seemed to be damaged, but there was an unearthly moaning on the mountain.
Somehow he made it through the night, trying the radio on batteries from time to time, but the local station never transmitted after midnight. When he finally managed to catch a few hours’ sleep, he was aroused by the fitful behavior of the Siamese, pouncing on and off the bed. The sheriff’s helicopter was circling the mountain.
Once more he tried the radio and found the station on emergency programming. Along with directives, warnings, and pleas for volunteers, there was this repeated announcement:
“Big Potato Mountain and parts of Spudsboro have been declared a disaster area, following the collapse of Lake Batata Dam early this morning. The dam burst at 3:45 A.M., dumping tons of water down the mountainside, washing out sections of Hawk’s Nest Drive, and destroying homes on the drive as well as certain commercial buildings on Center Street and at Five Points. The Yellyhoo River, already overflowing its banks, has been swollen by the rush of water from the
artificial lake, and it is now feared that debris carried down the mountainside will collect in the Yellyhoo south of town and dam the rampaging flood water from the north. Residents on both sides of the river are being evacuated. The power has failed in most of the county, and most subscribers are without telephone service. The hospital, municipal buildings, and communications centers are operating on emergency generators. At this hour there is no report on casualties. The sheriff’s helicopter is searching for survivors. Stand by for further information.”
EIGHTEEN
“WE’RE TRAPPED!” QWILLERAN said to the cats after hearing the news of the Batata washout. “It could be days before we get out of here! And we don’t have a phone, water, refrigeration, or even a cup of coffee! Don’t sit there blinking! What shall we do?”
Then he remembered the old logging trail down the outside of the mountain. It emerged from the forest onto the highway north of town, beyond the golf course and near the airport. “Okay, we’re going out the back way. Fasten your seat belts!”
There was no way of knowing what had happened to the Lessmores, or their house, or their place of business, but after reaching Pickax there would be time enough to return the keys and explain his sudden departure to Dolly, Sabrina, Colin, and Chrysalis. In his hurry he abandoned most of his purchases, having lost interest in the objects bought so impulsively at Potato Cove. Only the five batwing capes went into his luggage. Even his box of secondhand books was left behind with the exception of The Magic Mountain, and there was no point in taking the expensive turkey roaster that the cats had declined to use.
The Siamese were silent while Qwilleran packed the trunk of the car and placed their carrier on the backseat. Soon he headed for the trail that Chrysalis had shown him. In passing the gazebo he stopped to admire Dewey Beechum’s handiwork: a handsome hexagonal structure that the cats would never use. It had a cedar shake roof and a cupola and carved wood brackets supporting the roof between the six screened panels. There was one puzzling detail, and Qwilleran left the car to walk over and confirm his suspicions. No door! There was no way to get into the thing! He could imagine Beechum removing his moldy green hat to scratch his head while saying, “Y’didn’t let on as how y’wanted a door.”
The logging trail was hardly more than a set of tire tracks between the trees, and as long as he stayed in the muddy ruts, Qwilleran thought, it would be navigable. The trail wound in and out, up and down, back and forth—always descending—but the lower the altitude, the muddier the tracks, enough so that he became alarmed. He gripped the steering wheel and hoped for the best. Despite the swerving and jolting, there was not a sound from the backseat; that in itself was ominous. The small car bounced in and out of ruts and wheeled successfully through large puddles until a misleading depression in the road swallowed the wheels, and the car sank axle-deep in the mire.
Qwilleran gunned the motor and spun the wheels; the second-hand, three-year-old, four-cylinder, two-tone green sedan would move neither forward nor backward. It only sank deeper. Stunned by this new misfortune, Qwilleran sat behind the steering wheel and felt his throat tightening and his face burning. Why? Why? Why, he asked himself, did I ever come to the Potatoes?
He considered leaving the car and slogging the two miles back to Tiptop through slimy clay that would be shin-deep—lugging the cat carrier, slipping and falling and dropping it. And if he stayed in the car, what would happen? No one in Spudsboro would know that he had left Tiptop. No one would miss him. No one would come searching for him. Worse yet, no one ever used this route! Occasionally he heard the chop-chop of the helicopter, but that was scant help; trees arching over the trail provided complete camouflage.
The Siamese had been mercifully silent during this crisis, and once more he considered struggling back to Tiptop, leaving them in the car until he could return with help, but the phones were out of order. How would he make his plight known? He leaned forward with his arms circling the steering wheel and his head on his arms, in an effort to think logically, yet nothing even remotely resembling a solution occurred to him.
“Yow!” said Koko, for the first time that day.
Qwilleran ignored him.
“YOW!” the cat repeated in a louder voice. It was not complaint nor rebuke nor expression of sympathy. It was a cry of excitement.
Qwilleran looked up and caught a glimpse of a moving vehicle approaching through the trees. It was lurching slowly up the hill—a rusty red pickup with one blue fender, the body of the truck riding high over the wheels. It stopped inches away from his front bumper, and Chrysalis leaned out of the driver’s window.
“Where are you going?” she called out.
“Nowhere! I’m stuck!”
She jumped out of the truck cab, wading through the mud in rubber boots that reached above her knees. “I was going up to Tiptop to see if you were all right. I heard about the washout on the radio and thought you’d be marooned.”
“I was, and I should have stayed that way,” Qwilleran said, “but there’s a serious emergency at home. I need to get there in a hurry. If you’ll be good enough to drive me to the airport, I’ll rent a car.”
“Perhaps I could haul you out and tow you down,” she suggested.
“Around these sharp turns? No thanks!” From where he sat in his stalled car he could see a thousand-foot drop down the mountain. “Let me put my luggage and the cats in your truck and leave the car here.”
“Do you have boots? The mud’s over a foot deep here.”
“I’ll take off my shoes and roll up my pants.”
With his shoes hanging around his neck and his socks in his pocket, he transferred the baggage. The cat carrier went on the seat between them.
“Nice cats,” Chrysalis said. “Siamese?”
“Yes. They’re good companions and very smart.”
“Yow!” said Koko.
“He knows we’re talking about him,” Qwilleran explained. “His vocabulary is limited, but he expresses himself well.”
She said, “Don’t worry about tracking mud into the cab; we’ve got enough dirt in this thing to grow strawberries. When we get to Bear Crossing, there’s a stream where you can wash your feet and put on your shoes.” She backed the truck down the trail and around two hairpin turns before crashing through underbrush to make a U-turn.
“You handle this swamp buggy like a stunt driver,” he said with admiration.
“This old crate will go anywhere, and it’s a lot more fun than the school bus!” She was a different person since hearing about the arrest of a suspect, and Qwilleran almost regretted that he was leaving. “When are you coming back to the Potatoes?” she asked.
“Probably never. I’m needed at home. I’ve checked out of Tiptop, and if you can haul my car out of the mud, you’re welcome to keep it. I’ll give you the keys and send you the title.” Before Chrysalis could adequately splutter her surprise and thanks, he changed the subject. “Were you surprised to hear about the washout?”
“Not really. We always knew it would happen someday. Too bad, though. Damage is already estimated at ten million, according to the latest on the radio. I hope no one got hurt, but it’ll be a miracle if they didn’t. The air is so full of disaster news that they haven’t mentioned any more about the suspect. I wonder who it is. I wonder how they found out. I wonder how soon Forest will be coming home.”
“George Barter of Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter can probably expedite things for you. He planned to fly down here Monday.”
“I hope he’s bringing boots,” she said.
“The disaster may delay his visit—I’m sure it’s being reported on national news—but when he arrives, he’ll have some good news. The Klingenschoen Foundation wants to establish a conservancy to save Little Potato. They’ll buy any property that’s for sale, to insure that it’s never commercially developed. Some Taters may opt to sell and retain lifetime rights to live on the property. And the price paid will be fair. No gouging.”
“I can’t believ
e this!” Chrysalis said. “I’ve heard about the conservancy idea, but I never dreamed it would happen to Li’l Tater! Was it your suggestion, Qwill? We’re so lucky that you came to the Potatoes! How can we thank you?”
“In the mountains we aim to be good neighbors,” he said.
“Yow!” was the affirmation from the carrier.
Later, driving away from the airport in a rental car, Qwilleran tried to organize his ambivalent feelings about the Potatoes. So much rain! So much corruption and prejudice! And yet he had never seen so many rainbows . . . witnessed such dramatic skies . . . felt such magic in the mountain air! Too much had happened in one week. One week? To Qwilleran it seemed like a year! Time became distorted in the mountains. Look what happened to Rip Van Winkle!
He and the Siamese again spent a night at the Mountain Charm Motel, famed for its uncomfortable beds and country-style fripperies. Despite its shortcomings, it was the only hostelry in the area that welcomed pets. After dinner he turned on the television, minus the sound, to keep Koko and Yum Yum entertained. It was a nature program, and they huddled together at the foot of one lumpy bed, staring at the screen, while Qwilleran lounged on the other lumpy bed, trying to read the newspaper. His mind could not focus on world news. Unanswered questions plagued him: What really triggered Wilson Wix’s heart attack? Did Robert Lessmore’s investment firm promote the Hot Potato Fund? Was Yates Penney a baker from Akron or a federal agent?
Then he reflected, If Koko had not found that key behind the painting and that door behind the secretary desk, Forest Beechum would be spending the rest of his life in prison. Did Koko know what he was doing? Or was he simply on the scent of a postage stamp and a dog’s mattress? As for finding the key, was Koko pursuing his hobby of tilting pictures? Or did he know that something was not where it should be?
Though Qwilleran found it difficult to rationalize Koko’s behavior, he could understand why Sherry had hidden the key as she did. Were not women prone to hide things in the sugar bowl, behind the clock, under the carpet, or in their underclothing? Sherry wanted no unauthorized person in her male parent’s office until she could find time to examine, and possibly burn, his personal papers.
The Cat Who Moved a Mountain Page 22