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 yearsand know everyone in the countyI 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-fieldand 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. Someoneand 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!
First, the local moonshiner produces the whiskey, running it in filthy stills hidden in mountain caves and using additives to fake quality, as well as dangerous short-cuts to make a cheaper product!! Then the hauler has a contract to transport it out of the mountains disguised as honest cargoin a furniture van or under a load of logs!!! Finally the big-city boot-legger waters it down and sells it to the dregs of society! Everyone makes a profit except the consumer, who dies of lead poisoning!!
Now brace yourself for the most shocking fact!!! The distilling and hauling operations are financed by local investors who innocently or not so innocently buy shares in the illegal and aptly named Hot Potato Fund, which is purported to promote the local economy! Civic leaders, church deacons, and elderly widows are sinking their savings in this profitable, damnable underground venture!! They never question that their quarterly dividends are unreported and said to be non-taxable! Or do they?
Who is guilty? Look around you!! Your next-door neighbor is guilty! Your boss is guilty!! Your golf partner is guilty!!! Your good old uncle is guilty!!!!"
When Qwilleran finished reading, he looked up at his listener and waited for a reaction. Carmichael was thinking, with lowered eyes and twirling thumbs.
"How about that?" Qwilleran demanded. "Have you heard of the Hot Potato Fund? Is this why Taters discourage outsiders from prowling around their mountain? Is this why Lumpton Transport is doing so well?"
"What are you going to do with that information?" the editor wanted to know.
"If I'm on the right track, it'll be used as evidence in court. There'll be a new trial."
"Give me that pad," Colin said, "and forget you ever saw it."
"Why?" Qwilleran asked mockingly. "Is the Gazette involved in this, too?"
"All right, I'll tell you something I'm not supposed to, but for God's sake, keep it under your hat. Okay?"
Qwilleran held up his right hand. "I swear," he said lightly.
"We received an anonymous tip about a week ago. I don't know why informers like to tip off the media, but they do. I spoke to Del Wilbank about it and learned that the feds have been investigating the Potatoes for months. They have undercover agents in the valley and the mountains. We can expect a major bust any day now. And believe me, it'll be a big story when it breaks, hitting all the wire services. So ... until then, you don't know anything."
Qwilleran pushed the pad across the desk. "You can have it, but keep it in your safe. How do you suppose Hawkinfield knew about the operation?"
"From what I hear, he had everything but wire taps."
"I still want to find his killer, but I need evidence before I take the matter to the police . . . How would you like to break for lunch, Colin?"
"Not today. How about Monday?" the editor suggested.
Qwilleran went alone to The Great Big Baked Potato, after he had stopped at Five Points for some delicacies for the Siamese, including the white grape juice that was champagne to Koko. Just in case Sherry Hawkinfield's plane landed, he put in a supply of cashew nuts, crackers, and a chopped liver canape spread.
His enforced confinement had whetted his appetite for steak, and he ordered a twelve-ounce cut, medium rare. "But no potato," he specified to the waitress.
"No potato? Is that what you said?" she repeated in a whining voice.
"That's right. No potato."