Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

"Hope you don't object to sharing a town wagon with drapery samples and wallpaper books."

Shortly after six o'clock a car pulled into the parking lot and a smiling Bill Treacle—still exuding pep after an eight-hour shift at the market—appeared at the door with two sacks of groceries. "Hey, you weren't lying!" he said when he saw Qwilleran hobbling with the aid of a stick. "Want me to put this stuff in the refrigerator? Some of it should go in the freezer right away. Okay?"

"First door on the left," Qwilleran instructed him, pointing down the foyer, "and while you're there, help yourself to a beer. You can bring me a ginger ale. We'll sit in the living room."

"This is some barn of a place," the young grocer observed as he started down the hall. When he returned with the drinks he was accompanied by the Siamese, walking beside him like an honor guard, their tails rigidly at attention.

"Friendly brutes, aren't they?" he said.

"Cats are instinctively attracted to a source of energy," Qwilleran explained. "Have a chair, and excuse me if I keep my foot elevated."

"What happened to it?"

"I slipped on some wet leaves."

"There's plenty of those around. I never saw so much rain in June. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you while you're laid up. Okay?"

Qwilleran seized his cue. "There's one thing you could do, Bill. I noticed that Lumpton's Hardware has fax service, and if you'll take some copy and shoot it through tomorrow, I'll be grateful. It's a column I write for my hometown newspaper, and they want to run it Friday."

"Is that your job? Everybody's been wondering who you are and why you're here."

That was another cue. "One reason I'm here is to write a biography of J.J. Hawkinfield."

"No kidding! I didn't know he was that important. I can tell you a few things about the Old Buzzard if you want to know. I used to work for him at the Gazette."

"How was he as a boss?"

"Unbelievable! If there was a mistake made, he'd come storming into the production department or newsroom and yell, 'Who's responsible for this stupid error?' And he'd fire somebody on the spot, or else rage around the department and sweep everything off the desks and dump files out on the floor. He was really nuts!"

"Do you know the Beechums?"

"Sure do! Do you know about Forest and the trial? Have you met Chrys? I used to date her before all this happened. Now Forest is locked up without being guilty; their mother has stopped talking; and Chrys has turned off about everything. Bad news all the way around."

"Are you the one who printed handbills for Forest?"

"Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do—okay?—but nobody was cooperating, and I had to help somehow. He was a hundred percent right about what was happening to Big Potato. So, being in charge of job printing at the Gazette, I ran off a few flyers between orders. The Old Buzzard caught up with me and not only canned me but blackballed me wherever I applied for another job. But I got back at him!" Treacle said with a grin. "I knew the hospital spent a lot of money to print forms and booklets. They were giving the Gazette jobbing shop $20,000 of business a year. Okay? So I showed the hospital auxiliary how they could set up their own print shop and do the work with volunteers."

Qwilleran asked, "How did Hawkinfield react?"

"They say he nearly busted a blood vessel. It turned out to be a break for me, too. A guy on the hospital board of commissioners owns Five Points Market, and he was so impressed he gave me this job. So that was another kick in the head for the Old Buzzard . . . Hey, the cats kinda like me, don't they?"

Koko and Yum Yum were being sociable as cats do when they have an ulterior motive—sniffing shoelaces, rubbing ankles, purring throatily. They knew he was a grocer and not a printer. He also happened to be sitting in Yum Yum's favorite chair.

Qwilleran said, "If Forest is innocent, it means the real criminal is free and possibly walking around Spudsboro. Have you thought of that?"

"Yeah, but nobody's ever gonna do anything about it. The public wanted a quick conviction—okay? And they wanted to hang a Tater—okay? The judge and the prosecutor were both coming up for reelection, so what have you got? A beautiful frame-up."

"How do you explain this prejudice against Taters?"

"Don't ask me! When the first settlers came to the Potatoes, there were Indians here, and it was whites against redskins. Now it's valley whites against mountain whites."

"Did you attend the trial?"

"Sure did. I took time off from my job. I sat with the Beechums."

"Were you in the courtroom when Wilson Wix collapsed?"

"He dropped dead right in front of me! He was a Hawksman, you know. That's what they called the Old Buzzard's cronies on the council, zoning board, school board, and all that. Wix was a nice guy, but he was a Hawksman."

"Do you remember the day Hawkinfield was murdered?" Qwilleran asked.

"Sure do. My sister and I were taking our parents out to dinner for Father's Day—okay? First I drove them up to the top of Big Potato, like my dad used to do when we were kids, before the waterfall was dammed. When we got to the top there were a couple of cars in the Tiptop parking lot, and we heard a dog howling, so we turned around and drove down again."

"What time was it?"

"Two o'clock, I'm pretty sure, because we had a reservation at The Great Big Baked Potato for two-thirty. Later on, after we found out what happened, I remembered the dog was howling like the Old Buzzard was already dead. So what were those two cars doing in the parking lot? . . . Anyway, after Forest was arrested and charged, I went to his attorney with this information. I didn't have a description of the cars or license numbers. All I knew was that neither of them was the Beechum jalopy, and maybe I could testify to that. He told me I was a known accomplice of Forest and had been fired for dishonesty, so any testimony from me would do more harm than good. That's what he told me."

"You're referring to Hugh Lumpton?" Qwilleran asked. "Did he do a conscientious job of defending Forest in your opinion?"

"That guy? He did a lousy job! I could've done better myself. In the first place, the county doesn't pay much when they assign a lawyer. In the second place, he's a Spud and he plays golf with the prosecutor. The whole thing was a joke, only it wasn't funny. At the end, all Lumpton said to the jury was that the prosecution hadn't proved their case. The jury wasn't out long enough to get a cup of coffee, and when they came back with a guilty verdict, I was ready to commit murder myself!"

"I'm curious about the Lumptons. I see the name everywhere."

"Yeah, you can't spit without hitting a Lumpton. They're in pizza, furniture, hardware, everything. They've been here for generations. Some moved to the valley and made good, and some are still Taters. For a long time we had a popular sheriff who was a Lumpton. He was jolly and sort of easy-going. Who says cops have to go around looking fierce and rattling handcuffs? Josh Lumpton was too independent for the Old Buzzard, and he finally got him defeated. Now the sheriff is a guy named Wilbank."