When he carried the tray into the living room, Sherry and Hugh were sitting on the sofa with their handsome heads close together—a striking couple. They were whispering—not 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.
Don't do it! Qwilleran was thinking, hoping Koko would read his mind. Koko could read minds, but only when it suited him.
Somewhat worried about the impending catastrophe, Qwilleran asked questions about white-water rafting, the new electronics firm, and the history of Spudsboro. Soon another air-borne bundle of fur appeared on top of the screen; Yum Yum had chosen this vantage point to observe the chopped liver on the cocktail table. Nervously the host talked about book publishing, the weather in Moose County, and the peculiar spelling of his name.
Eventually it was time to serve a second round of drinks, and he rose slowly from his chair and moved quietly from the room, hoping not to provoke the Siamese into any precipitous action.
Despite the menacing sound of the wind, his guests seemed to be enjoying the occasion. Conversation flowed easily, with a modicum of pleasant wit.
Qwilleran decided it was the auspicious time to launch his wild shot. It was his only recourse, considering his lack of credentials as an investigator.
"If either of you can suggest sources of information on J.J.," he began, "I'll appreciate your help. For dramatic effect I propose to start the book with his murder. Sherry, I hope this subject is not too painful for you . . , Then I'll flash back to his career and family life throughout the years, ending with the trial. And that brings up a sensitive question. In doing my research, I find reason to believe that the wrong man may have been convicted. It seems some new evidence has been brought to light."
"I was the defense attorney," Lumpton said briskly, "and this is the first intimation I've had of any new evidence—or even a rumor of such. What is your source of information?"
"That's something I don't wish to divulge at this time, but I suspect that the murderer was not a hot-headed environmentalist! Why does this interest me? First of all, I don't like to see an innocent man sent to prison. Secondly, to be perfectly frank, the expose of a crooked trial would make a damned good finale for my book. How do you react?"
Sherry was looking scared. Lumpton was moistening his lips. Both of them had set down their glasses on the cocktail table.
Lumpton said, "This is preposterous! I defended Bee-chum at the court's request, but there was no doubt from the very beginning that he was guilty."
