The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  The store called Edd’s Editions was a gloomy cave filled with gray, dusty, musty hardcover books as well as paperbacks with torn covers and yellowed edges. Eddington materialized from the shadows at the rear of the store.

  “Find my book?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Not so far, but I haven’t unpacked everything yet,” said the conscientious old bookseller. “Did the police find any evidence?”

  “You know as much as I do, Edd.”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night. ‘Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.’ ” Eddington amazed his customers by having a quotation for every occasion.

  “Who said that?”

  “Webster, I think.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know. How many are there?”

  At that moment a smoky Persian, whose voluminous tail dusted the books, walked sedately toward Qwilleran and sat down on a biography of Sir Edmund Backhouse.

  “Am I to consider that a recommendation?” Qwilleran asked. “Or is Winston just resting?”

  “It looks like an interesting book,” said the bookseller. “He was a British orientalist and sort of a mystery man.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Qwilleran, who could never walk out of a bookstore without making a purchase.

  At Lois’s Luncheonette he sat at the counter and ordered eggs over lightly, country fries extra crisp, rye toast dry, and coffee right away; no cream.

  “Whatcha think of the murder, Mr. Q?” asked the waitress, whose nametag read Alvola.

  “ ‘Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out,’ ” he recited with declamatory effect.

  “Is that Shakespeare?” she asked. Thanks to Henry VIII, the Bard was the fad of the month among young people in Pickax. In October it would be a rock star or comic strip hero. “It sounds like Shakespeare,” said Alvola knowledgeably.

  “No, it was some other dude,” Qwilleran said as he buried his nose in his book. Actually he was listening to the conversation at nearby tables. No one was mourning the principal; all were fearful that the killer might prove to be a well-known citizen, or a student, or a friend, or a neighbor. It was fear mixed with excitement, expressed with a certain amount of relish. Qwilleran thought, This case will never be solved; no one in Moose County wants it to be solved.

  His next stop was Amanda’s Design Studio, where he dropped in to see Fran Brodie. On the job she wore three-inch heels, and her skirts rose higher than most Pickax hemlines—facts that were not lost on her client. “Where’s your boss?” he asked.

  “Amanda’s gone to a design center Down Below. Is anything happening at the barn?”

  “Various authorities are there, doing their duty. No one is talking, of course. I keep my nose out of it.”

  “Dad told Mother that they found traces of foam rubber in the car, meaning it had been used as a silencer.”

  “But the cats heard it. They can hear a leaf fall.”

  “Want to hear something ironic?” the designer asked. “Hilary ordered custom-made treatments for twenty windows—the whole main floor—and they arrived by motor freight this morning. This morning! I called Amanda, and she had a fit.”

  “What does his house look like?”

  “It’s one of those stone houses on Goodwinter Boulevard, you know. The main floor is done in Japanese; he did it himself. The window treatments we ordered for him last month are shoji screens. I’ve never been upstairs, but he told me the bedrooms are filled with books.”

  Thinking of City of Brotherly Crime Qwilleran said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing that place.”

  “I have the key, and Amanda wants the screens to be on the premises when we file our claim on the estate. Would you like to help me deliver them?”

  “When?” he asked with unusual eagerness.

  “I’ll have to let you know, but it’ll be soon.”

  As he was leaving the studio he said, “We’ve got to do something about the fish-bowl effect at the barn. The Peeping Toms are having a field day.” What had once been the huge barn door was now a huge wall of glass.

  “Mini-blinds would solve the problem,” the designer said. “I’ll drop in and measure the windows. I still have your key.”

  Qwilleran’s planned destination was the public library, a building that looked like a Greek temple except for the bicycle rack and the book-drop receptacle near the front steps. As he walked through the vestibule he automatically turned his head to the left, where a chalkboard displayed the Shakespeare quotation of the day—one of Polly’s pet ideas. He expected to see Murder most foul. Instead, he read: Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs. The wedding in Lockmaster had put her in a romantic mood.

  In the main hall the clerks gave him the bright greeting due the richest man in the county who was also their supervisor’s companion of choice. To delude them he first browsed through the new-book shelves and punched a few keys on the computer catalogue before sauntering up the stairs to the mezzanine. Here the daily papers were scattered on tables in the reading room, and here Polly presided over the library operation in a glass-enclosed office. She was seated behind her desk, wearing her usual gray suit and white blouse, but she was looking radiant, and her graying hair still showed the special attention it had received in preparation for the wedding.

  “You are looking . . . especially well!” he greeted her. “Evidently you enjoyed your weekend.” He took a seat in one of the hard oak armchairs that had come with the building in 1904.

  “Thank you, Qwill,” she said. “It was an absolutely wonderful weekend, but strenuous. I’m not conditioned to all that partying. That’s why I left the message not to call me. The wedding ceremony was absolutely beautiful! The bride wore her grandmother’s lace dress with a six-foot train, and everyone was terribly emotional. The reception was held at the Riding and Hunt Club, and I danced with the bridegroom and the bride’s father and—simply everyone!”

  Qwilleran and Polly never danced. The opportunity seldom arose, and he was unaware that she liked to dance. “How many guests were there?” he asked.

  “Three hundred, Shirley said. Her son made a handsome groom. He’s just out of law school and has a job with the best law firm in Lockmaster. You’ve never met Shirley, have you? She’s the one who had the litter of kittens and gave me Bootsie. We’ve been friends for twenty years. Her husband is in real estate. His name is Alan, spelled A-l-a-n.”

  She’s chattering, Qwilleran thought; why is she chattering? Polly’s manner of speech was usually reserved and often pedantic; she made a brief, pithy statement and waited for her listener’s reaction. Today her speech bubbled with the exuberance of a younger woman—one who has been out on the town for the first time. He combed his moustache with his fingers. “So you had brunch at the Paddock! Do you consider it as good as its reputation?”

  “Absolutely!” she said. “It’s a marvelous restaurant, and I stayed longer than I anticipated.”

  He wondered about that “absolutely.” It was not Polly’s kind of word, and yet she had used it three times. Ordinarily she would say “definitely” or “without doubt,” but never “absolutely.”

  “But tell me about Hilary VanBrook,” she was saying. “Everyone is shocked—and worried about what the police will uncover.”

  “May I shut the door?” he asked. There were a few loiterers in the reading room, and everyone in Pickax had big ears.

  “I heard on the radio,” Polly said, “that you gave an all-night party!” She regarded him accusingly.

  “WPKX has a talent for garbling the news to give the wrong impression,” he said. “Actually the entire cast and crew of Henry VIII descended on me around midnight and stayed until 3 A.M. After they had left, Koko started creating a disturbance that aroused my curiosity. I went out and found the body. The shooter had used a silencer, and yet that cat heard the shot. Or perhaps he knew by instinct that something was wrong. During the party he was on top of the schrank, staring down at VanBrook’s head, and I thought Koko recognized a hai
rpiece. He can always tell the difference between real and false. But now I believe he knew something was going to happen to the man—and that he was going to get it in the back of the head!”

  “Oh, Qwill! Isn’t that a trifle extreme? I know cats have a sixth sense, but I can’t believe they’re prescient.”

  “Koko is not your average cat.”

  “Weren’t you surprised that Mr. VanBrook attended the party? He has a reputation for being asocial.”

  “He had an ulterior motive, Polly. He expected to line up a field trip for the entire student body, marching grades nine to twelve through my barn! A lot of nerve, I thought.”

  “He was a very arrogant man. No one liked him, but people don’t kill simply because a person is socially unacceptable.”

  “Don’t be too sure. A man shot his neighbor last month in an argument over dog-doo.”

  “Yes, but that was Down Below. They don’t behave that way up here . . . Excuse me.” Her telephone rang, and she answered briskly. “This is Mrs. Duncan . . . Well, good morning!” she added in a softer tone, her face suddenly aglow with pleasure. She glanced at Qwilleran as she said, “I’m just fine, thank you . . . Absolutely! . . . Well, I’m in a conference at the moment . . . Yes, please do.” She hung up the phone, smiling to herself.

  Who was that? Qwilleran wanted to ask but decided against it. If Polly wanted him to know, she would tell. He said, “I’d better hie myself home. Bushy is taking pictures of the barn this morning.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, straightening papers on her desk. “He was the official photographer at the wedding.” She seemed preoccupied, and Qwilleran left without making any further remarks.

  In walking back to the barn he took the long way around in order to pass the office of the Moose County Something. It occurred to him that their police reporter might have information withheld from the public. The press always had an inside story or was privy to the latest rumor.

  Junior Goodwinter hailed him from the managing editor’s office. “Hey, Qwill! Did they let you out on bail?”

  “If I’m charged, Junior, I’m going to implicate you. Maybe we can be cellmates. What’s the latest?”

  “No one has been charged yet. The police aren’t talking, but we pumped the Dingleberry boys and found out that the cremated remains are supposed to be sent to Lockmaster at the request of VanBrook’s attorney.”

  “No funeral here? That’s his final insult to the public.” The citizens of Pickax dearly loved a celebrity funeral with a marching band playing a dirge and a long procession to the cemetery. It had been a cherished tradition since the nineteenth century.

  “That’s right. No funeral,” said the editor. “We called Lyle Compton about the possibility of a memorial service, and he said no one would attend. He said VanBrook’s assistant will be elevated to the job of principal, at least pro tem. The board will have to vote on it, but the guy’s competent, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t get the job . . . . That’s all the news to this moment, but Arch wants to see you.”

  Arch Riker and Qwilleran had been lifelong friends Down Below, and they had worked together at the Daily Fluxion. During Riker’s twenty-five years as an editor he had never rated more than a desk, a telephone, and a computer terminal. Now, as publisher of a backwoods journal, he sat in a large carpeted office with a desk the size of a Ping-Pong table. What’s more—fellow staffers at the Fluxion would never believe this—he had draperies on the windows, installed by Amanda’s Studio of Interior Design.

  “Sit down,” he said to Qwilleran. “Help yourself to coffee.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve just had three cups at Lois’s.”

  “What’s the scuttlebutt over there?”

  “Everyone’s on edge, fearing that some prominent member of the community is guilty. They overlook the fact that a brilliant man, who has done much for the education system, has been struck down in the prime of life. True, he was an outsider and not well-liked, but a crime is a crime, even if the victim is a pariah or even if the murderer is the publisher of the Something.”

  “While you’re on your soapbox, why don’t you do a column on the subject, Qwill?”

  “No, thanks. It happened in my backyard, and I’m keeping out of it, but I suggest you write an editorial.” His hand went involuntarily to his moustache.

  Riker recognized the gesture. “Are you getting the investigative itch? Do you think you might do some private sleuthing?”

  “Not this time. I have confidence in Brodie. He grew up here, and he’s a walking file on everyone in the county. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knows who pulled the trigger and is setting a trap for him—or her.” He started to leave the office.

  “Aren’t you getting any vibrations from Koko?” Riker asked mockingly.

  “He keeps pulling engravings from my typecase, but so far the message is only FOOD. See you later, Arch.”

  On the way out of the building Qwilleran stuck his head in an office where Hixie Rice was selling a full-page ad to the owner of a food market, exuding charm and enthusiasm into the instrument.

  “Any word about Dennis?” he asked after she had hung up triumphantly.

  “His parking space is still empty. Why didn’t he tell someone—you or me or Susan or Fran? It worries me.”

  “If you infer that he’s a fugitive from justice, get it out of your head, Hixie. We all know he’s a decent guy, and I maintain he’s on his way home to see his wife and child—possibly because of some sort of family emergency down there, or because his wife found a buyer for their house. She probably called while he was at the theatre and left a message on his answering machine.”

  “I hope you’re right, Qwill.”

  He declined her invitation to have a microwaved sub in the staff lounge and left to complete his errands. At the post office he picked up his mail and told them to hold future deliveries until the battered mailbox could be repaired.

  “Kids out your way must be bashing mailboxes with ballbats again,” the clerk guessed.

  “Looks like it,” Qwilleran said.

  Other postal patrons were picking up their mail or buying stamps, and most were standing around in neighborly huddles, discussing the murder. They lowered their voices or changed the subject when they caught sight of Mr. Q.

  By the time he arrived home the official cars were thinning out, but the photographer’s van was still there. “How’s it going?” he asked Bushy.

  The photographer was packing up his gear. “Wait’ll you hear what happened! Remember how the cats behaved when you brought them to my studio for portraits last year?”

  “I remember. They wouldn’t leave their carrying coop,” Qwilleran recalled. “I drove one hundred twenty miles round trip, and we couldn’t get them out of their carrier even with a can opener.”

  “Well, today it was different. They wanted to be in every picture! Every time I set up a shot, one of them was right there! I shot the kitchen, and they were both perched on the circular stairs. Whichever way I aimed the camera, there was a cat sitting on a railing or climbing a ladder.”

  “I should have locked them up,” said Qwilleran. “Cats are perverse. They figure out what you want and then do the opposite.”

  “What’s the difference? These photos are only for insurance purposes, aren’t they? It’ll look as if you’ve got twenty cats, that’s all.”

  Qwilleran watched the photographer pack, marveling how much equipment can be fitted into a small case where there is a place for everything.

  “Now I’m ready for that coffee,” Bushy said.

  “Would you like a drink of Scotch and a bowl of chili first?”

  “Sure would, but I’d rather have wine if you’ve got it.”

  “Name it, and we have it. This is the best bar outside of the Shipwreck Tavern. I have thirsty friends.”

  “And you never touch a drop,” the photographer marveled. “How come?”

  “Let’s just say that I paid my dues when I was young and r
eckless, and I dropped out of the club ten years ago.”

  The two men sank into leather chairs with wide arms, deep seats, and welcoming cushions—near the bookshelves and the printer’s typecase.

  “You’ve got a nice setup,” Bushy said. “You’ve really got space. We have, too, but it’s all cut up into rooms. I see you collect old printing stuff. I have a friend—the editor of the Lockmaster Logger—who collects typefaces and old advertising posters. He has a playbill from Ford’s Theatre dated April 14, 1865—the night Lincoln was assassinated.”

  The Siamese, aware that chili was in the offing, made a sudden appearance and settled on the ottoman.

  Bushy said, “I’d still like to photograph those two characters in my studio. There’s a market for cat photos right now. Now that they know me, perhaps we could try it again. Would you like to bring them down to Lockmaster once more?”

  “I’m willing to give it another shot,” Qwilleran said.

  “Have you ever been to our famous steeplechase?”

  “No. Horse racing never appealed to me. I’m no gambler. If I put out a dollar I expect a dollar’s worth in return.”

  “This is different. It’s like a big picnic, with horses jumping over hedges, and hounds baying, and carriages on parade. Here’s what I thought: The September steeplechase is next weekend. Bring the cats down and stay at our house. We have lots of room. The cats can prowl around and get used to the studio.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Qwilleran said, “but I appreciate the invitation.”

  “There’s a party Saturday night after the races, and on Sunday a lot of us go to brunch at the Palomino Paddock.”

  “I’ve heard about the brunch. My friend Polly was there yesterday.”

  “I know. I saw her there, and she was really enjoying herself. She was at the wedding reception, too—living it up. They had a terrific buffet and an open bar. You should have been there, Qwill.” Bushy was talkative by nature, and a glass of burgundy enhanced this propensity. His range of topics covered his new boat, fishing conditions at Purple Point, his wife’s disappointment at being childless, and the problems of living in a century-old house. Qwilleran was a good listener; he never knew when he might glean a tidbit for his column.