The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

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 community. Everybody loved 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—"

"Sony, Mr. Lumpton. I won't take any more of your rime. 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 Hawkin-field—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."