"With a name like Peel, you must be Scottish," he remarked. "My mother was a Mackintosh."
"Say something in Scots," she said teasingly.
"Mony a mickle mak' a muckle," he recited.
"Many small things make a large thing," she guessed.
"That's its popular meaning, although the dictionary defines mickle and muckle as synonyms. George Washing-eon used the expression in the popular sense, however, and if it's good enough for the Father of our Country, it's good enough for me."
"My partner would love the sound of it," she said.
Speaking seriously in a lower voice, Qwilleran said, "Your partner seems like an astute individual. Does he have any idea who really killed Hawkinfield? The man's enemies are easy to identify; the ones who arouse my suspicion are his so-called friends."
Sabrina put down her fork and stared at him. "Well," she said hesitantly, "when it first happened . . . Spencer thought it might be the husband of J.J.'s girlfriend. But now I guess there's no doubt it was Beechum."
Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "Hawkinfield had a girlfriend? Was it well-known?"
"This is a very small town, Qwill. It was well-known but not talked about. She worked at the Gazettestill does, in factand she thought J.J. walked on water. That's the kind of woman he liked. She used to bake cookies for him all the time, and he called her Cookie, even around the office. Everyone knows he paid for her face-lift."
"But she had a husband?"
"Not until a few years ago. She married a run-of-the-mill house builder who immediately landed the contract for all the houses on Big Potato, and he turned out to be a real Hawksman."
"Did he know about his wife's connection with Hawk-infield?"
"Who knows? He was a simple soulsort of a male Polly anna. We all liked him when we worked with him on interiors. He had a massive heart attack and died . . . Don't quote me on any of this."
When dessert was servedalmond ravioli with raspberry sauceQwilleran returned to the subject of the biography. He said, "In doing my research I'd like to explore Hawkin-field's relationship with his childrenjust for background information, so that I feel comfortable with my subject."
"Yes, I can understand that," she said. "The three boys were the center of his universe, you know, and they were really bright kids, but J.J. neglected his daughter because she had the misfortune to be female. He gave the boys bikes, skis, golf lessons, even private tutoring. Sherry got piano lessons, which she hated."
"How did she feel about her father?"
"Not enthusiastic! She referred to him flippantly as her male parent and scorned her mother for being weak. When I was doing the interior of Tiptop, Sherry latched onto me as a sort of role model. That's how she acquired an interest in selling decorative accessories."
"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.