The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

CHAPTER 17

When Sherry wandered downstairs after her nap, she had added gold jewelry and a whiff of perfume. She looked refreshed. In Qwilleran's opinion she also looked stunning. She had style, but it was style copied from her role model. Tossing her hair back with both hands, she asked, "How much did Sabrina charge you for decorating all this?"

He was glad to be able to say, honestly, that a bill had not yet arrived from Peel & Poole. "If I buy the inn, Sabrina will re-design it inside and out," he said, partly to needle Sherry for her tasteless query. "She has some clever ideas. Also a charming personality," he added to carry his taunt further.

"Have you met her husband?" Sherry asked, not without malice in her attitude. "He's a real charmer!"

"Husband?" Qwilleran repeated casually, feeling a mild disappointment.

"Spencer Poole. He taught her everything she knows. He's an older man with white hair, but he's a virile type and lots of fun."

"Would you care for coffee? Or other refreshment?" he asked absently. He was remembering the souvenir he had found under the huntboard—a dusty ball of hair. White hair.

"Other," she replied slyly. "Same thing. But I'll wait until my friend gets here. The wind's coming up. I hate it when it whips around the house and howls."

She watched Qwilleran light the eight candles in the dusky foyer and ran her hand over the smooth interior of the rough burl bowl, asking how much he had paid for the bowl and the candelabrum.

"What time do you expect your friend?" he asked. "Right about now. He's Hugh Lumpton. Do you know him?"

"I've heard the name. Isn't he an attorney and a golfer?" "Yes, but the other way around," she said with an impish grimace.

"How long have you known him?" "Since high school. I think I hear his car." She ran to the front door. "Yes, here he is!"

The man she greeted had a gauntly handsome face with that look of concentration that Carmichael had mentioned, plus a golfer's suntan emphasized by a light blue club shirt and a shock of ash-blond hair. It was easy to understand why he had a female following.

Their meeting was reasonably ardent, with most of the ardor on Sherry's part. "Lucky you weren't hurt," he said to her.

"This is Jim Qwilleran, who came to my rescue . . . Qwill, this is Hugh Lumpton."

They shook hands. "What was the last name again?" the attorney asked.

"Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. But call me Qwill." He waved his guests into the living room. "What may I serve you to drink?"

"Qwill makes a super manhattan," Sherry said as she settled familiarly on the sofa.

"Go easy on those things," Lumpton warned her. "I'll have bourbon, thanks, with a little water."

As Qwilleran prepared the drinks, he was wondering, Has Josh talked to him? How much does Hugh know? Does he know how much I know?

"No!" he said to Koko, who was ready for another swig of grape juice. "You've had your quota."

When he carried the tray into the living room, Sherry and Hugh were sitting on the sofa with their handsome heads close together—a striking couple. They were whispering—not necessarily sweet-nothings, Qwilleran guessed; more likely they were comparing notes, such as: He says he's a crime writer. He's asking a lot of questions. Someone's been in the office, or tried to get in . . . He's been talking to my dad. He knows I defended Beechum. He's questioning the trial. They were only conjectures on Qwilleran's part. Nevertheless, the pair on the sofa pulled quickly apart and assumed sociable smiles as soon as he entered the room.

Lumpton proposed a toast. "Tip of the topper to Tiptop!"

Sherry said, "Qwill may buy it, honey."

"What would you do with it?" the attorney asked him.

"Open a country inn if I could find a competent manager. Hotel keeping is not exactly my forte."

"Qwill is an author. He writes textbooks on crime," Sherry said. "He's going to write a biography about my father." She recited it as if reading a script.

"Is that a fact?" Lumpton said without looking surprised.

Qwilleran said, "J.J. would make a challenging subject. You have a famous father yourself, Hugh. I met him this morning."

"Famous or infamous? He's always had a penchant for getting his name in the headlines, sometimes as a hero and sometimes as a villain, but that goes with the territory when you're sheriff. I'm glad to see him established in the private sector now."

Sherry said, "Hugh makes a lot of headlines himself. He's going to Michigan next week to play in an invitational."

"Bob Lessmore and I are competing," the golfer said.

"Ironically, the course here is under water, while Michigan is in the throes of a drought."

It was not much after four o'clock, and Qwilleran had a bombshell of a topic that he wanted to drop a little later. Meanwhile, it was important to keep the conversation polite, and he steered it through the details of Sherry's accident . . . Lucy's rescue mission in the woods . . . the preponderance of Lumptons in the Potatoes.

Qwilleran was sitting in Yum Yum's favorite lounge chair facing his guests, who were on the sofa in front of a folding screen. After a while he became aware of movement above their heads, and glancing upward he perceived Koko balancing on the top edge of the screen, having risen to its eight-foot summit without effort and without sound. Qwilleran avoided staring at him, but in the periphery of his vision there was an acrobatic cat teetering precariously with all four feet bunched on a very narrow surface. He was looking down on the visitors with feline speculation like a tiger in a tree, waiting for a gazelle.

Don't do it! Qwilleran was thinking, hoping Koko would read his mind. Koko could read minds, but only when it suited him.

Somewhat worried about the impending catastrophe, Qwilleran asked questions about white-water rafting, the new electronics firm, and the history of Spudsboro. Soon another air-borne bundle of fur appeared on top of the screen; Yum Yum had chosen this vantage point to observe the chopped liver on the cocktail table. Nervously the host talked about book publishing, the weather in Moose County, and the peculiar spelling of his name.

Eventually it was time to serve a second round of drinks, and he rose slowly from his chair and moved quietly from the room, hoping not to provoke the Siamese into any precipitous action.

Despite the menacing sound of the wind, his guests seemed to be enjoying the occasion. Conversation flowed easily, with a modicum of pleasant wit.

Qwilleran decided it was the auspicious time to launch his wild shot. It was his only recourse, considering his lack of credentials as an investigator.

"If either of you can suggest sources of information on J.J.," he began, "I'll appreciate your help. For dramatic effect I propose to start the book with his murder. Sherry, I hope this subject is not too painful for you . . , Then I'll flash back to his career and family life throughout the years, ending with the trial. And that brings up a sensitive question. In doing my research, I find reason to believe that the wrong man may have been convicted. It seems some new evidence has been brought to light."

"I was the defense attorney," Lumpton said briskly, "and this is the first intimation I've had of any new evidence—or even a rumor of such. What is your source of information?"

"That's something I don't wish to divulge at this time, but I suspect that the murderer was not a hot-headed environmentalist! Why does this interest me? First of all, I don't like to see an innocent man sent to prison. Secondly, to be perfectly frank, the expose of a crooked trial would make a damned good finale for my book. How do you react?"

Sherry was looking scared. Lumpton was moistening his lips. Both of them had set down their glasses on the cocktail table.

Lumpton said, "This is preposterous! I defended Bee-chum at the court's request, but there was no doubt from the very beginning that he was guilty."

Qwilleran said, "I'm reluctant to doubt your statement, but I'm led to suspect that more than one person was involved in the murder, and one or more persons may have committed the big P."

"What?" Sherry asked in a small voice.

"Perjury!"

What happened next may have been caused by the sudden gust of wind that slammed against the building. Whatever the cause, the cats' timing was perfect. Both of them flew down from the screen, narrowly missing the two heads on the sofa, and landed on the cocktail table, scattering drinks, nuts, coasters, and chopped liver.

"I knew it!" Sherry shrieked. "They're dangerous! Where are they? Where did they go?"

Qwilleran rushed to the kitchen for towels, while the guests dropped to their knees, sopping up wet spills with cocktail napkins, collecting cashews and ice cubes, and avoiding broken glass.

"I apologize," Qwilleran said. "They've never done that before. I think they were spooked by the wind. I hope you didn't cut yourselves. Let me get some fresh glasses, and we'll have another round."

"Not for me," said Sherry, noticeably shaken.

"No, thanks," said the attorney, "but I'd like to ask what you intend to do with your information."

"Naturally, I'd prefer to hold it for the publication of my book, but I feel morally obliged to report my findings to the police at once, namely, that J.J. wrote a blistering expose of certain criminal activities in this area. Someone knew the editorial was about to be published. Someone found it necessary to stop its publication by eliminating the editor. Someone came to the house at a prearranged time and threw him over the cliff. Someone forged death threats purportedly from Beechum, which conveniently disappeared before they could be introduced by the prosecution, but someone testified to having seen them."

He stopped, and there was silence in the room as his listeners considered his threatening statements. Outdoors the wind was banging a loose shutter or downspout.

"My only contribution to the inevitable investigation," he went on, "is some material evidence found in the foyer here, where the assault is said to have occurred. It's been hidden under a piece of furniture for a year. Would anyone like to see it?"

As he strode to the Fitzwallow huntboard, Lumpton sprang to his feet and followed. With the only light com- ing from the eight candles in the iron candelabrum, he half-stumbled over two cats streaking toward the staircase.

Qwilleran opened the drawer slowly and produced a handful of ash-blond hair mixed with lint and dust. "This is it," he said calmly, keeping his eyes on the attorney.

It took Lumpton a split second to recognize it and reach for the Queen Anne chair. As he swung it over his head, ready to crash down on his accuser's head, a burst of loud music from the second floor broke the rhythm of his swing just enough to give Qwilleran the edge. Qwilleran seized the iron candelabrum and rammed it into his attacker's midriff like a flaming pitchfork. The chair fell and Lump-ton bellowed and sank to his knees. Sherry screamed! Dropping the candelabrum, Qwilleran picked up the heavy burl bowl and overturned it on the attorney's head, rendering him a limp lump on the floor.

Candle flames were licking the carpet, and Sherry screamed again. "Fire!"

"Shut up and sit down!" Qwilleran ordered as he stamped his feet on the smouldering carpet. "Pick up that chair and sit in it!"

"Can I—"

"No! Sit there. Put your feet together. Fold your hands. You won't have long to wait."

In minutes a car could be heard pulling into the parking lot, and soon the Wilbanks were climbing the steps, struggling against gale-force winds.

"Treat!" Qwilleran yelled, and two cats came running down the stairs fast enough to resemble a continuous streak of pale fur. "Koko, you keep an eye on this woman. Don't let her move or open her mouth."

As if he understood his instructions, the cat assumed a belligerent stance, lashing his tail and staring at his captive in the Queen Anne chair. Yum Yum sniffed Lumpton's loafers but found no shoelaces to untie.

When Qwilleran admitted the Wilbanks, they stepped into the foyer with gasps of relief, Ardis saying, "Isn't this wind awful?"

"We can only stay for one drink," Del said. "We're moving to a motel in the valley."

"We're worried about mudslides," said his wife. "Why is it so dark in here? Did the power go off again?"

Q wilier an flicked a switch, lighting the six wall sconces and three chandeliers. They illuminated a grim tableau. He said, "Allow me to introduce our other guests. On the floor, under the wooden bowl, we have the attorney for the defense, actually J.J.'s murderer. In the chair, scared speechless, is the accomplice before and after the fact, guilty of perjury . . . There they are! Do your duty, Del. The telephone's over there."

As the sheriff was calling for an ambulance and a deputy, Ardis said, "What's wrong with Sherry? She looks as if she's in a trance."

"She's all right. Talk to her," Qwilleran said. Then he yelled, "Treat!" Both cats shot out of the foyer, and he followed them to the kitchen, where he gave them a crunchy snack.

Wilbank wandered into the kitchen, too. "I saw Colin this afternoon. He told me everything that you and he talked about. He said you suspected Josh Lumpton of kill-ing JJ."

"I did, until I found some evidence incriminating Hugh. When I confronted him with it, he picked up the same chair that clobbered J.J. and would have pitched me over the cliff, too, I imagine, if I hadn't been ready for him. If my guesses are right, he killed J.J. to protect himself and his father. I see Hugh as the mastermind of the Hot Potato Fund, while Josh was the organizer of the bootleg operation. J.J.'s editorial would have exposed both of them. Hugh's future wife collaborated because she wanted to inherit her father's estate. They compounded their crime by conspiring to send an innocent man to prison. This time around, justice will be done. If it isn't, my attorneys are going to raise the roof of the courthouse, and I daresay the Gazette won't let the prosecutor get away with anything this time."

"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 Wilbankstold 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?"

Tm 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 Klingen-schoen Foundation makes funds available for worthy causes."

Tm 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. Tve 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 rat 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 bouse, 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 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.

Tm 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 sheriffs 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 Yelly-hoo 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."