The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  “We had to be sure you were here, Qwill. We thought you might be out with Polly. Where is Polly tonight?”

  “In Lockmaster at a wedding.”

  “Oh, really? Why didn’t you go?” she asked slyly. “Afraid you’d catch the bouquet?”

  “Don’t be cheeky, young lady,” he warned her. “I haven’t paid your bill yet.” He watched her leave—a good designer, easy to like, half his age and refreshingly impudent, stunning even in grubby rehearsal togs. Dennis walked out with Susan, the two of them sharing a secret joke. Eddington Smith tagged along with the Lanspeaks, who were giving him a ride home.

  VanBrook lingered long enough to say, “I’ll have my assistant contact you about the student tours.”

  This time Qwilleran was ready with a reply. “An excellent idea,” he said, “but I must make one stipulation. I insist that Dennis conduct the tours and explain the design and construction methods. If you will take the initiative and line him up, I’ll consent gladly.” He knew that the principal and the builder had been at odds during rehearsals.

  VanBrook rolled his eyes around the interior once more, said a curt goodnight, and followed the others who were trooping to their parked cars, all of them laughing and shouting, reliving the play, hitching rides, making dates. Headlights were turned on and motors turned over, some of them purring and others backfiring or roaring like jets. Qwilleran watched the taillights bounce and weave as they followed the rutted lane to the highway.

  Closing the door, he turned off the yardlights and most of the interior lights, then gave the Siamese a bedtime treat. “You two characters behaved very well. I’m glad you sent them home, Koko. Do you realize what time it is?”

  The Siamese gloated over their morsel of food as if it were a five-course meal, and as Qwilleran watched them his mind wandered to his recent visitors. He envied them the experience of rehearsing, performing, bowing to applause, grieving over roles that got away, complaining about the director, agonizing over miscues and lost props. For a short time he had been an active member of the club, but Polly had convinced him that learning lines and attending rehearsals would rob him of time better spent on serious writing. Actually, he suspected, the middle-aged librarian who wore size sixteen was jealous of the svelte and exuberant young actresses in the club. Polly was an intelligent woman and a loving companion who shared his interest in literature, but she had one fault. Jealousy caused her to be overpossessive.

  The Siamese, having licked their empty plate for several minutes, were now laving their brown masks and white whiskers with moistened brown paws, as well as swiping long pink tongues over their nearly white breasts. Then, in the midst of a swipe, they both stopped and posed like waxworks with tongues extended. Abruptly, Koko broke away and trotted to the front door, where he peered through the side windows into the darkness. Qwilleran followed, and Yum Yum padded along behind. As he stared into the blackness of the orchard he could see the last set of taillights disappearing down the trail and turning into Trevelyan Road.

  The spill of light from the barn also picked up a metallic reflection that had no business being in the orchard. A car without lights was still parked among the trees.

  He huffed into his moustache. “Can you beat that?” he said aloud. “I’ll bet it’s Dennis and Susan . . . Why don’t they go to his place or her place?”

  “Yow,” Koko agreed.

  Dennis’s wife and child were still in St. Louis, and he had not seen them for several months, owing to the barn project and the play rehearsals.

  “Oh, well, live and let live,” Qwilleran said as he turned out yardlights and remembered his own reckless youth. “Let’s screen the fireplace and go to bed.”

  He turned away from the front door and followed Yum Yum, who was scampering up the ramp, but Koko remained stubbornly at his post, a determined voyeur, his body taut and his tail pointed stiffly. Qwilleran heard a low rumble. Was it a growl?

  “Cut that out,” he called to him. “Just mind your own business and turn in. It’s three o’clock.”

  Still the cat growled, and the rumble that came from his lower depths ended in a falsetto shriek. It was an ominous pronouncement that Koko never made without reason. Qwilleran picked up a jacket and a flashlight and started out the door, pushing the excited cat aside with a persuasive toe and shouting a stern “No!” when he tried to follow.

  “Hey, you down there!” he called out as he crossed the barnyard, swinging the flashlight in arcs. “Any trouble?”

  The night was silent. There was no traffic noise from Main Street at that hour. No wind whistled through the dying apple trees. And there was no movement in the vehicle, a well-kept late-model car. No one turned on the ignition or switched on the headlights.

  Qwilleran flashed his light on the surrounding ground and between the trees. Then he beamed it into the car at an oblique angle to avoid reflections in the window glass. Only the driver could be seen, and he was slumped over the wheel.

  Heart attack, Qwilleran thought in alarm. Only when he hurried to the other side of the car did he see the blood and the bullethole in the back of the head.

  TWO

  QWILLERAN’S HAND HOVERED over the phone for an instant before he lifted the handset and reported the homicide. As a hard-headed journalist Down Below he would have notified his newspaper first and then the police, but there was a sense of intimacy in a town the size of Pickax, and his loyalties had changed. He knew the victim, and the police chief was a personal friend. Without further hesitation he called Chief Brodie at home.

  “Brodie!” was the gruff answer from a man who was accustomed to being roused from sleep at 3 A.M.

  “Andy, this is Qwill, reporting a homicide in your precinct.”

  “Where?”

  “In my orchard.”

  “Who?”

  “Hilary VanBrook.”

  There was a momentary pause. “What was he doing in your orchard?”

  “There was a party here for the Theatre Club, and he was the last to leave. He was shot before he had a chance to start his car.”

  Brodie shifted from gruff lawman to concerned parent. “Was Fran there?”

  “The whole club was here.”

  “Be right over.”

  “Hold it, Andy! The driveway is probably full of tire tracks and footprints, if that concerns you. Come in the other way, through the theatre parking lot. I’ll meet you there and unlock the gate.”

  Brodie grunted and hung up.

  Qwilleran pulled pants and a sweater over his pajamas, picked up the flashlight once more, and headed at a run toward Main Street. The road through the woods had been freshly graded and graveled, and it was only a few hundred yards to the fence. Even so, when he arrived at the gate headlights were already illuminating the theatre parking lot. In a town the size of Pickax, everything was five minutes away from everything else.

  He jumped into Chief Brodie’s car and pointed the way through the woods, while other vehicles with flashing lights followed. He explained, “We’ve had trespassers lately, so I lock the gate at night.”

  “How’d you find out about VanBrook?” Brodie snapped.

  “After everyone left the orchard, there was still one car parked among the trees. Then that cat of mine started howling suspiciously. I went out to investigate and found VanBrook slumped over the steering wheel.”

  “He wasn’t a happy individual. No wife. No family. Could be suicide.”

  “Not with a bullethole in the back of his head,” Qwilleran said. “It blew his hairpiece off.” They had reached the rear of the barn. “Park here. All the activity was on the other side.”

  A Pickax prowl car and a state police vehicle pulled alongside, leaving room for the ambulance, which arrived immediately, and the medical examiner.

  “Anything I can do?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Stay indoors till we need you,” Brodie ordered. “Leave the house lights on.”

  Qwilleran threw the master switch once more, and the entire ba
rn glowed like a beacon, the light spilling out to illuminate the surrounding grounds.

  The Siamese were nervous. They knew something was wrong. Strangers were milling about the yard, and police spotlights were turning the misshapen trees into frightening giants. Qwilleran picked up the cats and climbed the ramp with one squirming animal under each arm. In their own apartment on the top balcony there were comforting carpets and cushions, useful baskets and perches, a scratching post, and TV. Slipping a video of birdlife into the VCR to calm them, he returned to the main level, feeling mildly guilty; he had not yet called the newspaper.

  He notified the night desk, asking if they had a reporter available. Yes, they said, Roger was subbing for Dave.

  “Tell him to use the Main Street entrance,” Qwilleran said.

  Then he tried to reach Larry Lanspeak; as president of the school board Larry deserved to be notified immediately. It appeared, however, that the Lanspeaks had not yet arrived home. They lived in the country; Larry was a cautious driver; and they always drove Eddington Smith home first. Qwilleran gave them another fifteen minutes to reach the affluent suburb of West Middle Hummock before he punched their number again.

  Larry answered on the tenth ring. “Just walked in the door, Qwill. What’s up?”

  “I have bad news for you, Larry. You’ll have to shop around for another high school principal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “VanBrook has been killed.”

  “What happened? Car accident?”

  “You won’t believe this, Larry, but someone put a bullet through his skull. The police are here, combing the orchard with their spotlights.”

  “How did you find out? Did you hear the shot?”

  “Didn’t hear a thing, except someone’s jalopy backfiring. After the gang pulled out, there was one car left. I went out to check it.”

  “This is a mess, Qwill. The police will assume it was one of us.”

  “I don’t know what they’ll assume, but we’d better be prepared to answer questions tomorrow.”

  Larry volunteered to call the superintendent of schools and alert him. “Otherwise he’ll hear it on the radio, or the cops will bang on his door. I can’t believe this is happening!”

  A chugging motor in the yard caught Qwilleran’s ear. “Excuse me, Larry. Another car just drove in. I think it’s a reporter. I’ll talk with you later.”

  The car parked alongside the police vehicles, and Qwilleran recognized Roger MacGillivray’s ten-year-old boneshaker. He went out to meet the bearded young man who had given up teaching history in order to report living history for the local paper.

  “What happened?” asked the reporter, slinging two cameras over his shoulder.

  “We had a Theatre Club party here after the final performance, and at three o’clock everyone drove away except the director. That’s all I know. If you want details, you’ll have to get them from Brodie. He’s down there where it happened.”

  Qwilleran watched the scene as Roger approached the chief and said a few words. Brodie turned and threw a scowl at the barn, then answered some questions tersely before jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Roger snapped a couple of quick shots before retreating to the barn.

  “How come you’re working tonight?” Qwilleran asked as he opened the door.

  “Dave had to go to a wedding in Lockmaster, so I switched with him,” Roger explained. “Hey, this place is fabulous! Sharon would love to see it!”

  “Bring her down here for a drink some evening. Bring Mildred, too.”

  “One of us will have to baby-sit, so I’ll send the girls alone. Don’t let my mother-in-law drink too much. She’s been hitting the bottle since Stan died. I don’t know why. She’s one hundred percent better off without him, but . . . you know how women are!”

  “How will Sharon and Mildred react when they hear about their principal’s sudden demise?”

  “They’ll go into shock, but they won’t be sorry. VanBrook did some good things for the curriculum and the school’s academic standing, and they admired him in a grudging way, but none of the teachers liked the guy, and that included me. He treated us like kids. And then there were his meetings! Teachers don’t like meetings anyway—they’re nonproductive—and Horseface chaired meetings that were just boring ego trips. That’s the chief reason I quit and went to work for the paper. After that, whenever I went to the school to cover a story, VanBrook made me feel like the plumber who’d come to fix the latrines . . . Any idea who shot him? It had to be one of your guests. Right?”

  “I’m not hazarding any guesses, Roger, and certainly not for the rapacious press. Would you like a beer?”

  “Might as well. Okay if I look around?”

  “Go ahead. On the first balcony I have a sleeping room and writing studio. You can open the door and look in, but don’t expect it to be tidy. On the second balcony is the guestroom. The cats have the third level. Don’t disturb them; they’ve had a harrowing night.”

  “Don’t worry. You know me and cats! Sharon says I’m an ailurophobe.”

  The phone rang, and it was Qwilleran’s old friend on the line. Arch Riker, fellow journalist from Down Below, was now editor and publisher of the local newspaper. “What’s going on there?” he demanded. “The night desk tipped me off. Why didn’t you let me know?”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Arch. Go back to bed. Roger’s here. You’ll read about it on your front page Monday.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “You can ask Roger.”

  “Put him on.”

  The reporter’s remarks on the phone revealed that he had learned nothing from Brodie. After hanging up he said to Qwilleran, “How about telling me who was here at the party?”

  “That information may be crucial to the investigation. I can’t discuss it at this time,” Qwilleran recited in a monotone.

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  Before Qwilleran could answer there was an authoritative knock on the door, and Brodie was standing there with orders for Roger to clear out. The reporter made a routine protest but shouldered his cameras and drove away.

  “Want a cup of coffee?” Qwilleran asked the chief.

  “Hell, I wouldn’t take my life in my hands by drinking the stuff you brew!” He strode into the barn with a lumbering swagger. Off duty he was a genial Scot who wore a kilt and played the bagpipe. Tonight he was the gruff, grumbling investigator, taking in the scene with a veteran’s eye.

  “Any clues out there?” Qwilleran asked. “Any evidence?”

  “I’m here to ask questions, friend—not answer them.” Brodie scanned the contemporary furniture upholstered in pale tweeds and leathers. “Got anything to sit on? Like kitchen chairs?”

  Qwilleran led the way to the snack bar.

  “I smell pizza,” said the chief.

  “Actors get hungry. You should know that, Andy. You’ve been feeding one.”

  “Not any more,” said Brodie with a frown. “Fran’s moved out. Wanted her own place. Don’t know why. She had it comfortable at home.” He looked troubled—a north-country father who thought daughters should either marry and settle down or live at home with the folks.

  Qwilleran said, “It’s normal for a young career woman to want her own apartment, Andy.”

  Brodie snapped out of his fatherly role. “Who was here tonight?”

  “I happen to have a printed guestlist.” He handed the chief one of the playbills, listing the cast of characters in order of appearance.

  Brodie ran a thumb down the righthand side of the page. “Were all these people here?”

  “All except the woman from Lockmaster who played the queen. And of course the spear carriers left on the school bus right after the coronation scene. You saw the show, didn’t you?”

  Brodie grunted an affirmative. “What were they all doing here besides eating pizza?”

  “Drinking beer and soft drinks and coffee . . . hashing over the run of the play . . . celebrating its su
ccess . . . making a lot of noise.”

  “Were they smoking anything they shouldn’t?”

  “No. Carol puts the clamps on that. She runs a tight ship. Fran can tell you.”

  “Any arguments? Any brawls?”

  “Nothing like that. Everyone was in a good humor.”

  “Did you see anybody hanging around the orchard that didn’t belong?”

  “Not tonight, but we’ve had curiosity-seekers prowling around ever since we moved in.”

  “How come VanBrook honored the party with his presence? He was an unsociable cuss.”

  “He had an ulterior motive,” said Qwilleran. “He wanted to bring the entire student body tramping through my barn on field trips. He didn’t ask me; he told me!”

  “That sounds like him, all right. How popular was he in the club?”

  “Ask Fran about that. I’m not an active member.”

  “Did you hear gunfire in the orchard?”

  “No, but the cats heard something, and when I looked out the window I saw the taillights of a car pulling onto the highway.”

  “Which way did it go?”

  “Turned right.”

  “Notice anything about the taillights?”

  “Now that you mention it, Andy, they weren’t the horizontal ones you see on passenger cars. They were vertical and set wide apart, like those on a van or truck.”

  “How long has your mailbox been knocked over?”

  “It was okay when I picked up my Saturday mail.”

  “Well, somebody sideswiped it and bent the post.”

  “That should make your job easier,” Qwilleran said, thinking, Somewhere there is a vehicle with a damaged fender over the right front wheel.

  Brodie stood up. “No need to keep you up all night. I’ll get back to you in the morning.”

  “Not too early—please!”

  The chief walked to the door and turned to give the interior a final scowling appraisal. “I climbed many a ladder like that when I was a kid. What are the three white things that look like smokestacks?”

  “Smokestacks. It’s a contemporary idea for venting a fireplace. Bring your wife over some evening. She’ll enjoy seeing Fran’s work.”