The next day being Wednesday, he rose early to avoid the garrulous and censorious Mrs. Fulgrove. He avoided her by writing his Friday column at the newspaper office, visiting the bookstore to chat with Edd Smith, and buying a pair of cashmere gloves for Polly at the Lanspeak store—gray to go with her gray winter coat.
While cashing a check, he met Hixie at the bank. He said, “Are you concerned about the controversy over Tipsy’s feet?”
She tossed her pageboy defiantly. “No problem, Qwill. It’s simply creating more publicity. We’ll award two prizes—one for the popular Tipsy with black boots and one for the authentic look-alike. Don’t forget, we’re expecting you as our dinner guest before the judging . . . Want to have lunch?”
“Can’t,” he said. “I’m expecting company at the barn.”
Promptly at one-thirty a van made its way up Trevelyan Trail, and the delegation from the Amberton Farm emerged: Fiona carrying a tissue box and wearing non-descript garments that flapped about her thin frame, then the redbearded stablemaster, walking with a broad-shouldered swagger, and finally the boy, short and thin like his mother, ambling with the loose gait of his generation, his thumbs hooked in his back pockets. The two men wore dark jeans and navy blue nylon jackets with the Amberton insigne—a red cardinal—embroidered on the breast pocket.
Qwilleran greeted them at the door and invited them into the foyer. They entered slowly, swinging their heads from side to side and up and down in astonishment.
“Oh! I’ve never seen anything like it!” Fiona cried.
“Hey,” said Steve, nudging Robbie, “how about this, kid?”
Robbie nodded, and a half-smile passed between them, which Qwilleran interpreted as: We’ve got our pigeon; he’s loaded; this setup cost a coupla million, easy. Three or four years ago the thought would have annoyed him, but now he was accustomed to the imaginary dollar sign tattooed on his forehead.
Fiona said, “Mr. Qwilleran, this is—uh—my son Robbie.”
“Congratulations, young man. I saw you ride on Saturday. Good show!”
The boy nodded, looking pleased.
Qwilleran ushered them into the lounge area with its luxurious oatmeal-colored seating pieces. “Won’t you sit down?”
Robbie looked at the pale upholstery and then at his mother.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Your pants are clean. I just washed them.”
Qwilleran thought, Her son’s a mute! No one had ever mentioned that he couldn’t speak. “Would anyone like a glass of cider?” he asked.
“Do you happen to have a beer?” Steve replied.
“Robbie and I will have cider,” said Fiona. Mother and son were sitting close together on one sofa; Steve sprawled comfortably on the other and had thrown his jacket on the rug.
The Siamese were observing the strangers from the railing of the first balcony, and Steve caught sight of them. “Are those cats?”
“Siamese,” Qwilleran said.
“Why are they staring at me?”
“They’re not staring; they’re just nearsighted.”
The trainer jerked his thumb toward the remains of the orchard. “What happened to your trees?”
“They suffered a blight some years ago,” Qwilleran explained, “and the storm last week raised havoc, so I thought the time had come to get rid of the dead wood.”
“It’d make a good pasture if you wanted to board a couple of horses.”
“Unfortunately there’s a city ordinance: No horses, cattle, pigs, chickens, or goats within the city limits.”
While they drank their refreshments, the visitors ogled the fireplace cube, the loft ladders, the catwalks and massive beams. Steve said, “I read in the Logger that some guy hung himself up there.”
“What’s the ladder for?” Robbie asked.
He can speak! Qwilleran thought. “Sort of a fire escape,” he replied. “Didyou bring the information about the farm, Steve?”
“Absolutely!” He fished an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over. “I got these figures from Amberton. He’d like to meet you and show you around when he gets back from Arizona.”
“Where does the operation derive its income?”
“Breeding horses. Selling horses. Winning races. Boarding and training horses. Giving riding lessons. There’s a lot of wealthy families in Lockmaster, wanting their kids to take lessons and win ribbons.”
“Would you manage the operation?”
“Absolutely! That’s what I do.”
“Do you have a résumé?” When the stablemaster hesitated, Qwilleran added, “I must explain that I have no money of my own to invest. All business ventures are handled by the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund, and I’ll have to discuss the proposition with the trustees. They’ll want to know your background, where and for whom you’ve worked, and for how long. Also why you left each employ, and so forth.”
Steve sneezed, and Fiona got up and handed him the tissue box, saying, “I could write it out for you, Steve.”
He mopped his brow. “Whew! It’s hot in here.”
“It’s his allergy,” Fiona explained. “He gets hot and cold flashes.”
Qwilleran turned to Robbie. “And what is your job on the farm?”
“I help Steve,” said the youth, with a glance at his mother.
“He’s very good with horses,” she said with maternal pride. “He’s going to ride some big winners when he gets older, isn’t he, Steve?”
The trainer sneezed again.
“You should get shots for that allergy,” Qwilleran suggested.
“That’s what I told him,” said Fiona.
At that moment there was a slight commotion on the balcony—some rumbling and a little yipping, after which both cats took off as if shot from a cannon: up the ramps and across the catwalks, circling up to the roof and then racing down again until they reached the first balcony. From there they swooped down like dive-bombers, Koko landing on the back of the sofa behind Steve and Yum Yum landing virtually in his lap. He flinched and Fiona squealed.
“Jeez! What’s happening here?” he demanded.
“Sorry. You’ve just attended the seventeenth Weekly Pickax Steeplechase Race Meeting,” Qwilleran said.
Koko was still on the sofa back exactly as he had come to rest: legs stiff, back arched, tail crooked like a horseshoe. Then he sneezed: chfff. As sneezes go, it was only a whisper, but a fine spray of vapor was discernible in the sunlight slanting in from the triangular windows.
The trainer mopped his neck with a tissue. “Guess we’d better be getting back to the farm.”
“Thanks for bringing this information,” said Qwilleran, waving the sheet of paper. “If you’ll send us that résumé, we’ll go to work on it and hope that the trustees are interested.”
“Come on, Robbie,” said his mother. “Say thank you for the cider.”
The three visitors stood up, and as Steve put on his jacket he noticed something on the floor. He picked it up. “What’s this?” It was a small metal engraving of a horse’s head, mounted on a wooden block.
“That’s an old printing block,” said Qwilleran. “The cats have been batting it around.”
“I could use that on the front page of Stablechat.”
“Take it. You’re welcome to it.”
“Oh! That’s very nice of you,” said Fiona.
“Don’t forget your tissue box.”
“Here’s the latest issue of Stablechat,” Steve said, tossing it on the coffee table. “It has all the race results from the ’chase.”
Qwilleran accompanied the delegation out to their van, making the requisite remarks about the temperature and the possibility of rain. When he returned, Yum Yum was wriggling flatly out from under the sofa, and Koko was busy tearing up the last issue of Stablechat. Holding it down with his forepaws, he grabbed a corner with his fangs and jerked his head. Qwilleran watched the systematic destruction, admiring the cat’s efficiency. Was there something about the smell of the ink or
the quality of the paper that gave him a thrill? This was the second time he had shredded the horsey newsletter.
Abruptly, Koko dropped his task. His head rose on a stretched neck and swiveled like a periscope in the direction of the entrance. The tableau lasted for only a second before he dashed to the window adjoining the door.
At the same moment, Qwilleran heard a gunshot, followed by a triumphant laugh. He made a dash for the door. The van was starting down the lane, and on the ground near the berry bushes lay a small red body.
“My God!” he gasped. “That stupid kid shot the cardinal!”
TWELVE
QWILLERAN DUG A hole near the berry bushes and buried the lordly cardinal in a coffee can to keep marauding animals from desecrating the remains. Raccoons and roving dogs sometimes appeared from nowhere in violation of city ordinance. From a window Koko watched the interment with his ears askew, and when Qwilleran returned indoors he was yowling and pacing the floor.
“Okay, we’ll go out and pay our respects to the deceased,” Qwilleran said calmly, although his teeth were clenched in anger.
He harnessed both cats. Yum Yum rolled over in a leaden lump of uncooperative fur, but Koko was eager to go. As soon as he was outside the door, he walked directly to the spot on the earth where the cardinal had fallen, then sniffed the burial place. Eventually he was persuaded to explore the perimeter of the barn, and after ten minutes—when the telephone summoned them indoors—he had had enough. He toppled over and lay on his side to lick his paws.
The call was from Mildred Hanstable, one of the judges in the Tipsy contest. “You sound angry,” she said after Qwilleran had barked into the mouthpiece.
“Someone shot a cardinal in my barnyard! I’m not angry; I’m mad as hell!”
“Do you know who did it?”
“Yes, and he’s going to get a tongue lashing that he won’t forget! What’s on your mind? Is the contest called off?”
“No, you’ll be sorry to hear. We’re due at Tipsy’s for dinner around six o’clock. I have a hair appointment this afternoon, and then I’ll have some time to kill, in case you want to invite me over. I could use a fortifying drink before having dinner with my boss. Lyle is such a sourpuss!”
“It’s all an act,” Qwilleran reassured her. “Lyle Compton is a pussycat masquerading as an English bull.”
“Anyway, I’m dying to see the barn without five hundred paying guests bumping into me. I was one of the guides, you know.”
“You’re invited,” he said with curt hospitality.
Koko was still licking his paws, and Yum Yum was still in a simulated coma, although she revived promptly as soon as the harness was removed. Qwilleran glanced at his watch. The delegation would have had time to return to Lockmaster, unless Steve stopped on the way for a drink.
He phoned the Bushland house. “This is Qwill. How do I reach Fiona?”
“You sound upset. Is anything wrong?” Vicki asked in alarm. “She was due at your place with Steve and Robbie a couple of hours ago.”
“They were here and they left, and that brat shot a bird in my barnyard—a cardinal! I want to have a few words with his mother before I light into him.”
“I’m so sorry, Qwill. I’ll have her call you,” Vicki said. “She’s due here to help me with a hunt breakfast for tomorrow.”
“Do that. Not later than five o’clock.”
The arrival of Mildred Hanstable was therapy for Qwilleran’s bruised sensibilities. A healthy, happy, outgoing, buxom woman of his own age, she had an aura of generosity that attracted man and beast. The Siamese greeted her with exuberance, sensing there was a packet of homemade crunchies for them in her voluminous handbag.
Seating herself on a sofa, Mildred arranged the folds of the ample garment that camouflaged her avoirdupois. She had given up the battle to lose weight and now concentrated on disguising the excess. “I’m happier,” she confessed to Qwilleran, “now that I’ve decided Nature intended me to be rotund. I’m the prototypical Earth Mother. Why fight it? . . . And, to answer the question you haven’t asked: Yes, I’d like a Scotch . . . . Tell me, Qwill, how does it feel to be wallowing in space?” She waved an arm to indicate the vast interior of the barn.
“Wide open spaces are fine,” he said, “but I’m used to four walls and a door. Instead of rooms I have areas: a foyer area, a library area, a dining area. You’re sitting in the main lounge area. I’m going to do the honors in the bar area adjoining the snack area. It’s all too vague.” He served drinks and a bowl of nuts on a small pewter tray, a barn-warming gift from his designer.
“Your kitchen area is scrumptious,” she said. “Are you going to learn to cook? Or are you thinking of getting married?” she asked mischievously. Mildred taught home economics in the Pickax schools and had offered to give him lessons in egg boiling.
“Neither could be further from my mind,” he said as he picked up a few dark blocks scattered on the pale Moroccan rug.
“What are those things, Qwill?”
“I’ve started collecting antique typeblocks, and the cats keep stealing them out of the typecase that hangs in the library area.”
“Why don’t you move it to an area they can’t reach?”
“There’s no such thing as a place Siamese can’t reach. They’ll swing from a chandelier if necessary.” He showed her a small metal plate mounted on wood. “This is their favorite block, which I take to mean that they’d like an occasional dish of hasenpfeffer. Do you know how to cook rabbit?”
“Of course! It’s just like chicken. When we were first married, Stan did a lot of rabbit hunting, and I made Belgian stew every weekend.”
“Would you be good enough to cook a batch for the cats? I bought a frozen rabbit from Toodle’s.”
“You know I’d be happy to. And may I ask a favor? Now that you’ve moved out of your garage, Qwill, would you allow the hospital auxiliary to use it for a gift shop? We need a central location.”
“I’ll put you on the list,” he said, “but the Arts Council wants it for a gallery, and the Historical Society wants it for an antique shop. Actually, I hesitate to let it go until I’ve spent one winter in this barn. The cost of heating and snow removal may be prohibitive.”
“If you can afford to feed the Siamese lobster tail, you can afford a big heating bill,” she said. As if they understood “lobster tail,” Koko and Yum Yum immediately presented themselves, and Mildred went on: “The father of one of my students runs the animal shelter, and he told me that one mating pair of cats can produce twelve cats in a year and sixty-three in two years. In ten years there will be eighty million direct descendents!”
“Tipsy lived fifty years ago,” Qwilleran said. “No wonder there are so many black-and-white cats around.”
“The animal shelter is swamped with unwanted cats and kittens. Also, hundreds of homeless cats roam the countryside—having litters, starving, freezing, and getting run over.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Mildred?” He knew she was a zealous crusader for causes.
“I think the Klingenschoen Fund should underwrite a campaign for free spaying and neutering. I’ll be glad to present a proposal to the trustees. Hixie Rice could organize it. We’ll need publicity, programs in schools, rescue teams—” She was interrupted by the telephone.
“Excuse me,” Qwilleran said. He took the call in the library area.
“Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!” cried a shaken voice on the line. “I feel terrible about the bird! Robbie didn’t do it. He wanted to use Steve’s gun, but I wouldn’t let him. Steve likes to—uh—take pot shots at—uh—targets, you know.”
“I appreciate your calling,” he said stiffly. “Sorry I accused your son. I’ll have plenty to say to Steve about this thoughtless act!”
When he returned to the lounge area, Mildred was struggling to get out of the deep-cushioned sofa. “I guess it’s time we got on the road,” she said.
“Before we leave, Mildred, I’d like your opinion on a domestic problem
—in the laundry area.” He led her to a partitioned alcove where racks were hung with yellow towels, yellow shirts, and yellow undershorts.
“My favorite color!” she said.
“But not mine.”
“Did you leave something in a pocket when you put it in the washer? What was it? Do you know?”
“It was a sprig of green leaves with a purple flower.”
“Where did you get it? And why was it in your pocket? Or am I being too nosy?”
“It’s a long story,” he said evasively.
She buried her nose in a towel. “It could be saffron. I used to put it in boiled rice, and it turned it a lovely color. Do you know what saffron costs today? Twelve dollars for a measly pinch! The stores up here don’t even carry it any more.”
“Why so expensive?”
“Well, it comes from the inside of a tiny flower. That’s all I know. Have you tried bleach?”
They drove to Kennebeck in Qwilleran’s car, and while Mildred chattered about roadside litter and the high cost of art supplies, he was pondering VanBrook’s indoor garden. If the man had been raising saffron, he had a $20,000 crop in one small room. He would have to export it, of course—to gourmet centers around the country. By using lights he might grow five crops a year—a lucrative hobby for a rural principal . . . And then Qwilleran thought, Did VanBrook know of another use for saffron? Did he learn something in the Orient? Perhaps it could be smoked! In that case, the crop was worth millions! And then he wondered, as he had done earlier, What was in those hundreds of boxes—besides books?
Before he could formulate a satisfying guess, they arrived at Tipsy’s restaurant. Hixie Rice greeted them and conducted them to a table, the one beneath the fraudulent black-booted Tipsy. Lyle Compton was already there, sipping a martini.
Hixie said, “I’ll brief you and then leave you while I marshal the contestants in the lodge hall across the street.” She produced two stacks of snapshots. “These are the finalists in both categories, a total of fifty. Run through them while you’re having your drinks and choose the likeliest candidates, based on markings. Later, when you judge them live, your final selection will be based on the sweetest and funniest . . . See you shortly. The crowd is already lining up on the sidewalk, and the doors don’t open for another hour.” She bounced out of the dining room with the supreme confidence that was her trademark.
The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal Page 17