The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal
Page 21
“I hear his credentials were falsified.”
“Where did you hear that?”
Polly shrugged. “The story is going around.”
“I suspect he was a self-educated genius,” said Qwilleran. “He had a couple of aliases, and that’s probably why he avoided personal publicity in my column. He was in hiding—or in trouble . . . Hey!” A sudden gust of wind caught his paper plate and conveyed it across the river like a flying carpet, carrying part of a stuffed egg. “VanBrook spoke Japanese and was familiar with Asia. He might have tricked Americans into investing in fictitious enterprises in Japan.”
“Isn’t that rather a bizarre venture for a school principal?”
“Not for VanBrook.” Qwilleran was thinking of some flimsy business agreements he had found in Memoirs of a Merry Milkmaid. He was thinking of the secret of the red dot. He had no intention, however, of telling Polly that books in fifty-two cartons were leaved with paper money—counterfeit paper money.
“Listen to that blue jay,” she said.
“Now there’s a bird with decent visibility and audibility!” he said. “I’m for blue jays and cardinals. Face it, Polly. I can identify a split infinitive or dangling participle or hyphenated neologism, but I’m not equipped to spot a tufted titmouse or yellow-bellied sapsucker.”
“Are you ready for coffee?” she asked, uncorking a Thermos bottle. “And I made chocolate brownies.”
After several brownies Qwilleran was feeling more agreeable. In a mellow mood he murmured, “This is supposed to be our last warm weekend.”
“I’ve enjoyed our picnic,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.”
“So have I. We belong together, Polly.”
“I’m happiest when I’m with you, Qwill.”
“Say something from Shakespeare.”
“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”
Qwilleran reached across the table and grasped her hand—the one with the birthstone ring he had given her. With brooding eyes intent on her face he said, “I want to ask a question, Polly.”
There was a breathy pause as she smiled and waited for the question.
“What did you and Steve talk about at the wedding?”
Up to that moment there had been no reference to Polly’s brief fling with the trainer, nor had the subject of his arrest been mentioned.
Taking a moment to collect herself and rearrange her facial expression, she said, “We talked about horses, and my interest in books, and the Stablechat, and his allergy, but mostly horses. Shirley had told him about you, and I elaborated on the generous things you and the K Fund have done for Moose County. When I heard about his arrest, I wondered if he had been using me for an alibi on the night of the murder.”
“No, the timing was off. More likely he was trying to establish a financial connection. The Amberton Farm is looking for an angel.”
“When did you first suspect him, Qwill?”
“When he came to the barn to talk about the farm last Wednesday. He asked what happened to my trees in the orchard. If he hadn’t been there before, how would he have known the orchard had been cleaned out? Also, it looked as if some work had been done on the righthand side of his van, at the approximate height of my mailbox, but I couldn’t be sure. Nothing really clicked until Koko found a file of VanBrook’s personal papers. There were two wills: one dated recently, naming Pickax as the beneficiary, and a prior will naming Steve’s stableboy as the sole heir.”
Polly frowned. “Stableboy?”
Qwilleran helped himself to another brownie and described the principal’s curious relationship with his housekeeper and her son. “It was Steve’s idea to eliminate VanBrook before he could change his will, but it was too late. When I saw those two wills, I had a hunch that the gun used to kill Koko’s cardinal had also killed Cardinal Wolsey.” He patted his moustache.
“Look!” cried Polly. “I believe that’s a female black-throated green warbler!”
“If you say so, I believe it . . . Would you like to come up and see my tapestries?” he asked as they started packing the picnic things.
Polly said she would be delighted.
“Just don’t sit under the apple tree,” he warned her.
On the way to the apple barn he apologized for his bad humor before lunch. “I’d had a hair-raising experience with Yum Yum,” he explained. “She won’t walk on a leash, the way Koko does. The first time I buckled her harness, she played dead. The second time, she froze. This morning she galloped up the ramp and disappeared. We found her on one of the radiating beams that meet in the center of the barn. She’d been up there before, but this time her harness snagged on a bolt. She couldn’t get loose. I had to go after her.”
“Heavens, Qwill! It’s forty feet above the floor!”
“Yes, Polly, that thought occurred to me. And the beam was only twelve inches wide. I had to crawl out there and dislodge her and then back up all the way to the catwalk, clutching her in one hand. It seemed like half a city block! She enjoyed it! She was purring her head off all the way.”
“And what was Koko doing?”
“Trying to help—by crouching on my back. He thought it was a steeplechase! . . . Why did I ever get involved with cats?”
They had a seven o’clock reservation at the Old Stone Mill, and Qwilleran took Polly home to feed Bootsie, take a nap, and dress for dinner. Back at the apple barn Koko was on the desk, sitting on Watership Down.
“Okay, we have time for one chapter,” Qwilleran said, sinking into his favorite leather chair. Yum Yum settled down on his lap slowly and softly like a hot-air balloon deflating, ending in a flat mound of virtually weightless fur. Koko perched on the arm of the chair, sitting tall with ears alert, whiskers bristling with anticipation, and eyes bright with intelligence.
Qwilleran shook his head in wonder. “I never know what’s going on in that transistorized brain of yours. Did you know VanBrook was going to get it in the back of the head? Did you know Redbeard was the murderer? Did you know something vital was hidden behind the books in VanBrook’s office?”
Koko shifted his feet impatiently and waited for the reading to begin. Qwilleran had to answer his own questions. No, he thought; it’s all coincidence, plus my imagination. He’s only a cat . . . But why did he keep twisting his tail like a horseshoe? Why did he twice tear up Stablechat? Why did he sink his fangs in every one of the red jelly beans?
“Don’t just sit there; say something!” he said to Koko. “Read my mind!”
“Yow!” Koko said, a yowl that ended in a cavernous yawn.
Qwilleran opened the book to page eight. “Chapter two. This is about the Chief Rabbit . . .” He closed the book again. “One more question: Was your sudden interest in rabbits supposed to put the finger on Mr. O’Hare?”
Koko stiffened, turned his head, swiveled his ears, leaped impulsively from the arm of the chair, and bounded to the front windows. And from the berry bushes came a whistle, loud and clear: who-it? who-it? who-it?