"Was she as smart as her brothers?"
"She was shrewd, rather than book smarteven 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 girlcertainly 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 quite 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 boya really good-looking kid. Two years later, after graduating from her school in Virginia, she sneaked off and married him."
"I'il 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."
"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 soonmy 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.
CHAPTER 15
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 schedulewith 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 cloud-bank 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 Hawkin-field'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 limitsthat 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."