Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

"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."

Qwilleran tamped his moustache. "I've had doubts about the case for several days, and last night I found something in Hawkinfield's study that leads me to suspect Josh Lumpton."

Carmichael stared at him incredulously. "On what grounds? I know Hawkinfield hounded him out of office, charging corruption, but that was a few years ago. Josh runs a clean business. His computerized operation is unique in these parts. We gave it a spread on our business page. He's treasurer of the chamber of commerce."

"Be that as it may," Qwilleran said, drawing the legal pad from the plastic sack. "I have here in my briefcase one of Hawkinfield's unpublished editorials, datelined for the Wednesday after his death. It's my theory that he was killed to forestall its publication. Someone—and who could it be but his daughter?—knew it was going to be published and ripped off the murderer. Her false testimony at the trial— and I do mean false!—suggested that she was protecting someone. Was it her once-and-future father-in-law? No doubt she also collaborated in trapping Forest Beechum. In court he was defended incompetently by Josh's son, who is also her lover, if my information is correct."

"Let me see that," the editor said, reaching for the legal pad.

"I'll read it to you. You have to imagine anywhere from one to four exclamation points after each sentence. J.J. liked to yell in print." Qwilleran proceeded to read:

In our hysterical and ineffective war against drugs and drug lords around the world, we are tricked into forgetting those home-grown murderers who not only prey on the poor but rob the government of millions in lost revenue!! Bootleggers, some of you may be surprised to know, are still operating illegally and profitably!!! Perhaps you think the manufacture and sale of illegal whiskey died with the repeal of Prohibition. Not so! Cheap booze is still killing people!!

And networks of respected citizens are involved in this heinous racket!!! Are we talking about some far-off sink of iniquity in crime-ridden New York or California? No, we are talking about this blessed valley of ours, this ideal community, this latter-day Eden, which is sinking into an abyss!