There was a flashlight in the drawer, and he beamed it under the chest, but all he could see was a collection of dustballs wafted in by drafts from the French doors. It was clear why Mrs. Hawkinfield disliked it; not only was it an ugly piece of furniture, but it was built too low for a vacuum cleaner, and to use the attachments would mean lying flat on one's face.
"Forget it," Qwilleran said to Koko.
"Yow!" the cat replied in a scolding tone, and he toppled over on his back and extended his forepaw under the huntboard again.
Qwilleran stroked his moustache and obeyed. From the umbrella stand he selected a slender bamboo cane with a crook handle. Then, getting down on his knees and touching his head to the floor, he took a few blind swipes under the chest. Out came several dustballs or "kittens," as his mother used to call themflurry balls of lint, dust, and hair that collected under furniture. Fuzz from the gray carpet made the Hawkinfield kittens predominantly gray. The cane also dredged up a short length of ribbon and a fragment of tissue from some long-forgotten gift.
"That's all," he said to Koko, who was prancing back and forth, obviously excited about the show, and he turned off the flashlight that was projecting its narrow beam of light under the huntboard.
"Yow!" Koko protested.
"There's nothing under there, and I don't enjoy standing on my head to entertain man or beast."
"Yow-ow-ow!" the cat insisted in a loud, clear voice, and Yum Yum appeared from nowhere to add her supportive "N-n-NOW!"
Qwilleran felt a creeping sensation on his upper lip, and he went down on his knees again, turned on the flashlight, pressed forehead to floor, and combed the space under the chest with the crook handle. Out came a rubber dog-bone.
"Dammit! Is that all you wanted?" Qwilleran said in consternation, his face flushed.
"Ik ik ik," Koko chattered, ignoring the bone.
"I do this under duress, I want you to know." Once more he used the cane to explore the murky back corners. First he snagged another kitten . . . and then a hard rubber ball . . . and then a kitten so unusual, so significant, that Qwilleran dropped it in a drawer of the huntboard. After returning the cane to the umbrella stand and cleaning up the debris, he sat down to plan his course of action.
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 huntboarda 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 togethera striking couple. They were whisperingnot 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.