The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  Fran explained, “Hilary was replacing the draperies with shoji screens so he could have light as well as privacy. He was quite secretive about his life-style.”

  “How could he live like this?” Qwilleran himself required large, comfortable chairs and a place to put his feet up.

  “I believe he slept on a futon down here, but he said he had a study upstairs as well as rooms for books and hobbies.”

  Hobbies! Qwilleran found himself speculating wildly. “Okay if I look around?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be opening the cartons and putting each screen where it belongs. They were all custom-made, you know. We’re talking about ten thousand dollars here, and God knows how long we’ll have to wait to collect.”

  Qwilleran walked slowly up the impressive staircase, thinking about the ninety thousand books Compton had mentioned. He wondered if the collection included City of Brotherly Crime. He wondered if the books were catalogued. When he started opening doors, however, his hopes wilted; the books had never been unpacked. He went from room to room and found hundreds of sealed cartons of books—or so they were labeled.

  Only one room was organized enough to have bookshelves, and they covered four walls. This was evidently the principal’s study, having a desk, lounge chair, reading lamp, and stereo system. As for the volumes on the shelves, they expressed VanBrook’s eclectic tastes: Eastern philosophy, Elizabethan drama, architecture, Oriental art, eighteenth-century costume, Cantonese cookery, botany—but nothing on urban crime.

  The desktop in this hideaway had an excessive tidiness reflecting the influence of the Japanese style downstairs. A brass paperknife in the shape of a Chinese dragon was placed precisely parallel to the onyx-base pen set. The telephone was squared off with the lefthand edge of the desk, and a brass-bound box (locked) was squared off with the righthand edge. In between, in dead center, was a clean desk blotter on which lay a neat pile of letters. Apparently they had been received and opened on Saturday, at which time they were read and returned to their envelopes.

  There was a muffled quiet in the study. Fran’s footsteps could be heard downstairs, and occasionally the ripping of a carton. Casually, with an ear alert to the activity below, Qwilleran examined the mail. There were bills from utility companies, magazine-subscription departments, and an auto-insurance agency. There were no death threats, he was sorry to discover. But one small envelope addressed by hand had a scribble in the upper lefthand corner that piqued his curiosity: F. Stucker, 231 Fourth Street, Lockmaster. After determining that Fran was fully occupied with her screens, he gingerly drew the letter from its envelope and read the following:

  Dear Mr. VanBrook—Thanks a lot for the $200. I didn’t expect you to pay for my gas. It was nice of you to ask me to be in your play. But I can sure use the money. I had to buy new boots for Robbie. So thanks again.

  Fiona

  “Two hundred bucks!” Qwilleran said softly to the surrounding bookshelves. “That faker was making five hundred on the deal!” Was petty cheating one of his “hobbies”? Qwilleran tried the desk drawers, but they were locked.

  Then, as he carefully tucked the note back in its envelope, he heard a humming sound in the insulated silence. He had not heard it before. It seemed to come from the rear of the second floor, and he followed it down the hall. Ahead of him was a rosy light spilling from a doorway. He approached warily and peeked into the room. The humming came from a transformer; the ceiling was covered with a battery of rose-tinted lights, and a timer had just turned them on.

  Under the lights were long tables holding trays of plants, greenhouse style, but they were beginning to wilt. Obviously no one had watered them since VanBrook’s last day on earth. What were they? Qwilleran was no horticulturist, but he knew this was not Cannabis sativa. There were purple flowers among the greenery. He rubbed a leaf and smelled his fingers; there was no clue. He broke off a sprig and put it in his shirt pocket, thinking he would give Koko a sniff.

  “Okay, Quill,” Fran called from the foot of the stairs. “I’ve done all I can do. Let’s go.”

  As they drove away from the house, with the empty cartons loaded in the van, she said, “Well, what did you think of the place?”

  “Esoteric, to say the least. If the estate puts his books up for sale, I’d like to know about it. What are the plants he was growing upstairs?”

  “I never saw any plants. I was never invited upstairs. When I came to measure for the screens, he gave me a cup of tea, and we sat cross-legged on the floor cushions. I sure hope Amanda can collect for those screens.”

  “Amanda won’t let anyone cheat her, dead or alive.”

  “Can you stand some good news?” she asked. “Your tapestries have arrived, and we can install them tomorrow—in time for the open house!”

  “How do they look?”

  “I haven’t opened the packages, and the suspense is killing me, but I’ll wait till we deliver them.”

  “Need any help?”

  “No, I’ll bring Shawn, my installer—more brawn than brain—but what he does, he does well.”

  “How will you hang them?”

  “With carpet tack-strips. Do you mind if we make it around five o’clock?”

  Fran always made business calls to Qwilleran’s residence in the late afternoon, obligating him to offer a cocktail, which led to a dinner invitation. How did VanBrook get away with a cup of tea? . . . Not that Qwilleran objected to dining with his interior designer. She was good company. But Polly disapproved.

  Fran dropped him at Scottie’s, where he was fitted for a dark blue suit. He was to be a pallbearer at Dennis’s funeral, and it occurred to him—too late—that he should have opted for a dark blue suit instead of a dinner jacket for the steeplechase party. He wondered if Scottie would take it back. It irked him to buy two of anything if one would do. Still, he decided not to suggest it. During the fitting, Scottie wanted to talk about the suicide, but Qwilleran turned him off with frowns and curt responses.

  His next stop was the Moose County Something, and when he walked into Arch Riker’s office, the publisher jumped to his feet. “Qwill! Where’ve you been? I heard it on the air last night and tried to reach you. Why didn’t you call back? Today we’re running a ‘Died Suddenly,’ but no one at the police department would talk to us. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Qwilleran said.

  “Does this mean the VanBrook case is wrapped up?”

  “No, it doesn’t. That’s definite.”

  “What makes you so sure? Are you getting vibrations from Koko?” Riker asked in an attempt at banter.

  “The police have evidence to that effect. That’s all I can say, and don’t ask me how I know. But I’d like to make a suggestion, Arch.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I think you should run that editorial I suggested: A crime is a crime! Offer a reward of $50,000 for information regarding the shooting. It’ll squelch the rumor that Dennis was a suspect, and it may help Brodie. The K Fund will cover it.”

  “Do we identify the benefactor?”

  “No. Keep it anonymous. How soon can you run it?”

  “Friday.”

  “Good. I won’t be here. I’m going to Lockmaster for a steeplechase weekend.”

  “You lucky dog! I hear it’s a gas!”

  It was too early for Qwilleran to go home; Mrs. Fulgrove would still be there, furiously mopping and cleaning and polishing. He went instead to the library—to tell Polly about his plans for the weekend. He had neither seen her nor talked with her for two days, not since the unexplained phone call that made her cheeks redden and her eyes sparkle.

  In the vestibule of the library the daily quotation was: The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. The greetings from the clerks were appropriately solemn. As he headed for the stairs to the mezzanine, one of them called out, “She’s not in, Mr. Q.”

  “She’s having her hair done,” the other explained.
<
br />   “I’m just going up to read the papers,” he said.

  On the table in the reading room was a copy of the Lockmaster Logger, a publication established during lumbering days, more than a century before. Circulation: 11,500. Editor: Kipling MacDiarmid.

  The first page of the Logger was devoted to steeplechase news: Five races with a combined purse of $75,000, preceded by the Trial of Hounds, the parade of carriages, and a concert by the Lockmaster High School band. A few parking spaces overlooking the course were still available for $100, but that would admit as many persons as could fit into the vehicle. There were sidebars listing the horses, owners, trainers, and riders who would participate in the event, and there were instructive features on what to wear to the races and what to pack in the picnic basket.

  When Qwilleran heard Polly’s sensible library shoes on the stairs, he put down his newspaper, and their eyes met. She was looking well-groomed but not as girlishly radiant as she had been on the day following the long brunch at the Palomino Paddock.

  She walked immediately to his table. “Qwill, I’m so sorry about Dennis,” she said softly. “You must be grieving.”

  “A lot of people are grieving, Polly.”

  “I suppose we can assume that Dennis . . . that the VanBrook case is closed now,” she said, sitting down at the table.

  “I don’t assume anything, but I know that Moose County has lost a good builder and a talented actor.”

  “To some persons in Pickax the principal was such a villain that Dennis is now a candidate for a folk hero . . . Is that the Lockmaster Logger you’re reading? What do you think of it?” Her face lighted up when she spoke the name of the town.

  “It’s more conservative than the Something in makeup, but it has a friendly slant. I hear Lockmaster is a friendly town. Did you find it friendly?” He gazed at her pointedly as he repeated the word.

  Polly’s eyes wavered for a fraction of a second. “I found everyone very cordial and hospitable.” Then she added brightly, “Would you like to do something exciting this weekend? Would you like to go birdwatching in the wetlands near Purple Point?”

  This was Qwilleran’s moment. “I’d like to, but I’ll be horse watching in Lockmaster. That’s what I came to tell you. The Bushlands have invited me for the races. I’ll be gone for three days.”

  “Oh, really?” she said with half-concealed disappointment. “You never told me you were interested in horses.”

  “Chiefly I’m interested in horse people. I may find some stuff for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”

  “Shall I feed Koko and Yum Yum while you’re away?”

  “Their royal highnesses are invited to go along—and have their portraits taken by a master photographer.”

  “How grand!” she said archly. “When do you leave?”

  “Friday. After the funeral.”

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I could prepare chicken divan.”

  “I wish I could, but Fran is hanging the new tapestries at five o’clock, and I don’t know how long the operation will take or how many problems we’ll encounter.”

  Polly straightened her shoulders and drew a deep breath as she always did when confronted by her personal demon: Jealousy. She stood up. “Then I’ll see you when you return.”

  Qwilleran walked slowly back to the apple barn. The events of the morning had fired his determination to write a biography of the Mystery Man of Moose County. It would require prodigious research. First he would want to see Lyle Compton’s file on the late principal. Teachers and parents in Pickax and Lockmaster would be glad to cooperate. VanBrook’s attorney would no doubt grant an interview, and there would be Fiona Stucker, of course, whose connection with VanBrook might be a story in itself. The colleges that granted the man’s degrees and the Equity records in New York would have to be researched. Qwilleran relished the challenge. He had a propensity for snooping and a talent for drawing information from shy or reluctant subjects.

  He recalled the letter from Fiona Stucker. If VanBrook would chisel a few hundred dollars from the Theatre Club, he might have a history of other misdeeds, great or small: a fling at embezzlement, a witty financial fraud, some successful tax evasion. He had the nerve and the brains to carry off such schemes. The smuggling of Oriental treasures would appeal to him, both intellectually and esthetically. What was in those hundreds of cartons on the second floor of his strangely furnished house?

  As Qwilleran approached the barn he could hear the cats’ yowling welcome, and that brought to mind another question: On the night of the party, when Koko stared so intently at VanBrook’s head, was the cat sensing a questionable operator? A felonious mentality? Farfetched as the idea might seem, it was not beyond the capabilities of that remarkable animal.

  On the other hand, Qwilleran had to admit, Koko might have been staring at hair that he recognized as false.

  SEVEN

  ON THURSDAY MORNING Qwilleran emerged sleepily from his bedroom on the balcony and heard a familiar whistle: who-it? who-it? who-it? “Good question,” he mumbled as he groped his way down the circular staircase to the computerized coffeemaker. “How about giving us a few answers?” He pressed a button and heard the grinding of the coffee beans, a reassuring sound. It was one of his constant fears that he might stumble down to the kitchen some bleak morning and find the machine out of order.

  A feline imperative could be heard, drifting down from the upper reaches of the barn, and he went up the ramp to the top balcony to release the Siamese from their loft apartment. Yum Yum emerged sedately, like the princess that she knew herself to be, but Koko scampered down the ramp to the lower balcony, then flew through space, landing in the cushions of a lounge chair on the main floor. From there he rushed to the window-wall to greet his new-found friend. For a while he sat transfixed, fluttering the tip of his tail as the cardinal turned his head sideways to make eye contact. Shortly, the dump truck arrived to spread crushed stone on the trail, and the cardinal departed for more congenial surroundings.

  Qwilleran thawed a Danish for his breakfast, fed the Siamese their roast beef from the deli with a garnish of Roquefort cheese, threw some clothing and towels into the washer, and finally showered and shaved in time to greet Susan Exbridge, who arrived in her long, sleek, top-of-the-line wagon.

  “Oh, Qwill! I’m positively destroyed!” she said as she entered the barn and dropped into the nearest chair. “Dennis was such a darling! How could he throw it all away? What was his motive?”

  Qwilleran said, “There’s more to the story than meets the eye. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Could you add a touch of something comforting?”

  “Like . . . rum?”

  She nodded gratefully.

  “Okay, Susan, tell me how you’re going to handle the crowds on Saturday.”

  After taking a few sips she opened her briefcase and ticked off the arrangements. “The tickets instruct people to use the Main Street parking lots belonging to the theatre, courthouse, and church. We’ve cleared it with all of them.”

  “Suppose someone elects to drive up Trevelyan Trail to avoid the traffic jam?”

  “The Trail is reserved for guides, and the entrance will be blockaded. Signs will direct visitors through the woods and to the front door of the barn. Indoors there will be plastic runners to protect the floors. Roped stanchions will keep visitors off the rugs. Only a certain number will be admitted at one time.”

  “Will they go up to the balconies? I wouldn’t care to have them snooping in my bedroom.”

  “Definitely not. The ramps will be roped off. Visitors will simply circle the main floor and exit through the kitchen door. The guides will keep the line moving. No picture taking permitted.”

  “And for this they’re paying five dollars?” he asked in amazement.

  “The tickets are sold out, and we could have sold more. There was a sudden demand, you know, after . . . after Tuesday night. The library will realize twenty-five hundred doll
ars. Polly is simply ecstatic!”

  Qwilleran knew that the chief librarian was never ecstatic. Pleased, or quietly happy, or even mildly overjoyed, but never ecstatic. Susan’s mocking emphasis on ecstatic was a subtle reminder that the two women were library associates but not friends.

  “You’re very well organized, Susan,” he complimented her. “Here are the keys for the front and back doors. Hang onto them after the tour, and I’ll pick them up at your shop next week.”

  A handsome and interesting woman, he reflected as she drove away—more fashionable than Polly—but too aggressive and theatrical for his taste, and she never sat down and read a book.

  Another woman visitor arrived in the afternoon while he was regaling the Siamese with the devious exploits of Sir Edmund Backhouse. Lulled by his mellifluous voice, they were lounging dreamily in relaxed postures when a sound inaudible to human ears suddenly alerted them. Ears perked, heads lifted, necks craned, bodies raised on forelegs, hindquarters prepared to spring, they raced to the front door as if to greet a shipment of fresh lobster. Moments later, Qwilleran heard what they heard: the rumble of a car that had not recently had a tune-up.

  It was Lori Bamba’s vintage vehicle—Lori, his part-time secretary and adviser on all matters pertaining to cats. She had long golden hair, which she braided and tied with ribbons, and these tempting appendages held a hypnotic fascination for the Siamese, who greeted her with enthusiastic prowling and ankle rubbing.

  “A pleasant surprise, Lori,” said Qwilleran as he admitted her to the barn. Her husband usually delivered her finished work and picked up the week’s correspondence.