The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  “Do you actually live here, Qwill?”

  “I utterly don’t believe it!”

  “Neat! Really neat! Must’ve cost plenty!”

  “Did Dennis do all of this? He’s a genius!”

  “Man, there’s room for three grand pianos and two billiard tables.”

  “Look at the size of those beams! They don’t grow trees like that any more.”

  “Swell place for a hanging.”

  “Qwill, darling, it’s shattering! Would you like to time-share?”

  Qwilleran had met the entire troupe at one time or another, and some of them were his favorite acquaintances in Pickax:

  Larry Lanspeak, owner of the local department store, for one. He had auditioned for Cardinal Wolsey but landed the King Henry role, and his slight build required fifteen pounds of padding to match the girth of the well-fed monarch.

  Fran Brodie, Qwilleran’s interior designer and also daughter of the police chief. She auditioned for Queen Katharine but was ultimately cast as the beauteous Anne Boleyn. Perfect casting, Qwilleran thought. During the coronation scene he had been unable to take his eyes from her, and he was afraid Polly would hear his heavy breathing.

  Carol Lanspeak, president of the club and everyone’s friend. She was another capable aspirant for Queen Katharine and was deeply disappointed when director VanBrook picked her as his assistant and understudy for the queen.

  Susan Exbridge, antique dealer and recent divorcée. She looked younger than her forty years and desperately wanted to play Anne Boleyn. When the director assigned her to do the Old Lady, she was furious but quickly recovered upon learning that the Old Lady had some bawdy lines that might steal the show.

  Derek Cuttlebrink, busboy at the Old Stone Mill. He played five minor roles and was outstanding—not for his acting but for his bean-pole stature. Derek was six feet seven and still growing. Each time he made an entrance as another character, the audience whispered, “Here he comes again.”

  Dennis Hough, building contractor and new man in town. He, too, wanted to play Cardinal Wolsey but had to settle for a lesser role. Nevertheless, as the Duke of Buckingham, unjustly sentenced to death, he made a farewell speech that plunged the audience into tears night after night.

  Eddington Smith, dealer in used books. This shy little old man played Cardinal Campeius, although no one could hear a word he said. It hardly mattered, because Cardinal Wolsey had all the best lines.

  Hixie Rice, advertising manager for the local newspaper. As volunteer publicist for the club, she sold enough ads in the playbill to defray the cost of the sumptuous court costumes.

  Wally Toddwhistle, the talented young taxidermist. He built stage sets for Theatre Club productions, and for Henry VIII he worked miracles with used lumber, spray paint, and bedsheets.

  Also present was the director, Hilary VanBrook, who wandered about by himself and had little or nothing to say. The rest of the company was sky-high after the heady experience of closing night: the standing ovation, the flowers, and the general relief that the whole thing was over. Now they were reacting noisily. The Siamese watched the crowd from a catwalk and twitched noses in recognition of the cheese, pepperoni, and anchovy wafting upward. The troupe appeared to be starved. They wolfed the pizza and washed it down with cold drinks and a strong brew from Qwilleran’s computerized coffeemaker, all the while talking nonstop:

  “Somebody missed the light cue, and I had to say my lines in the dark! I could have killed the jerk at the lightboard!”

  “When Katharine had her vision tonight, the angels dropped the garland on her head. I could hardly keep a straight face.”

  “Everything goes haywire on the last night, but the audience doesn’t know the difference.”

  “I was supposed to carry a gold scepter in the procession, you know, and tonight nobody could find the blasted thing!”

  “At least nobody stepped on my train this time, thank God. For these small mercies we are grateful.”

  “Halfway through the treason trial he went up like a kite, and I had to ad-lib. That’s tough to do in Elizabethan English.”

  “The audience was really with us tonight, weren’t they? The Old Lady even got some belly laughs from the balcony.”

  “Why not? She played it like the side of a barn!”

  Qwilleran moved hospitably through the group, jingling the ice in his glass of Squunk water. (It looked like vodka on the rocks, but everyone knew it was mineral water from a flowing well at Squunk Corners.) He was not surprised to see Dennis Hough surrounded by women. Among them were Susan Exbridge, her dark hair still sleek after wearing the Old Lady’s wig . . . and Hixie Rice, tossing her asymmetrical page-boy cut, which was auburn this week . . . and Fran Brodie, whose soft, strawberry blond curls contrasted surprisingly with her steely gray eyes.

  Carol Lanspeak nudged Qwilleran’s elbow slyly. “Look at Dennis with his groupies. Too bad I’m happily married to Larry; I’d join the pack.”

  Qwilleran said, “Dennis is a good-looking guy.”

  “And he has an interesting quality,” Carol said. “Masculine and yet sensitive. He looks cool, but he’s wired to a very short fuse. There were quite a few blowups during rehearsals.”

  “He’s impulsive, but I overlooked his mood swings when we were working on the barn because he was doing such a great job. He was on his way to be a registered architect, you know, before he went into the construction business. Notice how he incorporated the old loft ladders into the design.” As he spoke, the lanky busboy was halfway up a ladder, waving an arm and leg at those below. “The catwalks are for washing the high windows. We’re going to hang tapestries from the railings.”

  “You could hang quilts,” said Carol, whose taste ran to country coziness.

  “No quilts!” Qwilleran said sternly. “Fran has ordered some contemporary hangings. They should be here any day now.”

  “Everyone in town is aching to see this place, Qwill.”

  “That’s why we’re having a public open house. The admission charge to benefit the library was Polly’s idea.”

  “Serve refreshments and the library will clean up! We have a very hungry population.” Then casually she inquired, with the licensed nosiness of a Pickax native, “Where’s Polly tonight?”

  Everyone knew that the Klingenschoen heir and the chief librarian spent weekends together. During bull sessions at the Dimsdale Diner one of the men usually asked, “Do you think he’ll ever marry her?” And women drinking coffee at Lois’s Luncheonette always brought up the topic: “Wonder why she doesn’t marry him?”

  To answer Carol’s question Qwilleran explained, “Polly’s in Lockmaster, attending a wedding. The librarian down there has a son who’s going off the deep end.”

  “Who’s taking care of Bootsie?” Another well-known fact in Pickax was the librarian’s obsessive concern for her young cat.

  “I went over there tonight to feed him, and I’ll go again tomorrow morning to fill up his four hollow legs and police his commode. I never saw a cat eat so much!”

  “He’s still growing,” Carol said.

  “Polly will be home in the late afternoon to tell me what the bride wore and who caught the bouquet and all that guff. I don’t know why you women are so wild about weddings.”

  “You talk like a grouchy old bachelor, Qwill.”

  “I’d rather go to a ballgame. Do you realize that I haven’t seen a major league game in four years? And I was born a Cub fan in Chicago.”

  ‘It’s your own fault, Qwill. You know very well that Larry would love to fly you down to Chicago or Minneapolis. He’s bought a new four-seater. Polly and I could go along for a shopping binge. Or maybe she’d like to see the game, too.”

  “Polly—does—not—like—baseball!” Qwilleran said with emphasis. Nor shopping, either, he thought, reflecting on her limited wardrobe assembled haphazardly at Lanspeak’s Department Store during sales.

  Carol’s husband joined them. “Did I hear my services being volu
nteered?”

  At first glance the Lanspeaks were a plain-looking middle-aged couple, but they had a youthful source of energy that made them civic leaders and genial company as well as excellent actors. Qwilleran often wondered what they ate for breakfast. He said, “Larry, you were great onstage! The kingliest Henry I’ve ever seen!”

  “Thanks, fella. Let me tell you, it’s good to be thin again. Besides navigating Henry’s belly around the stage, I had to think fat! That’s quite an adjustment! And then there was that damned itchy beard! I shaved it off as soon as the final curtain fell.”

  Carol asked, “How did Polly like the play?”

  “She gave it raves, and we both thought the crowd scenes were tremendously effective. How did you manage all those kids?”

  “It wasn’t easy—getting them into costume, keeping them quiet backstage, pushing them out on cue. They dressed at the school, you know, and we transported them on school buses. Trauma time! Fortunately, Hilary had directed the play before and knew all the tricks. As his assistant I learned a lot; I won’t deny that.” She turned her back to the other guests and lowered her voice. “But as president of the club and wife of the president of the school board, I wish to go on record as saying I can’t stand the man!”

  A large percentage of the Pickax population entertained a loathing for Hilary VanBrook, principal of the high school. At fault was his abrasive personality and unbearable conceit. The public even resented the turtlenecks he wore to school. In Moose County there was something subversive about an administrator who wore black turtlenecks instead of the expected white shirt and quiet tie. But chiefly annoying was his habit of being eminently successful at everything he proposed, no matter how preposterous it appeared to parents, teachers, the superintendent of schools, and the school board.

  Principal-bashing, therefore, was a favorite pastime. He was an unattractive man, and behind his back he was called Horseface. Yet, everyone remained in awe of his capabilities and self-assurance. It was because of his brilliant record as a school administrator and his reputation as a brain that the Theatre Club had allowed him to mount a play that was considered too dull, on a stage that was too small, with a cast that was too large. And now Henry VIII was going into the books as another triumph for Horseface.

  “Yes,” Larry said grudgingly in a low voice, “that scurvy knave has done it again! Ticket sales were so good we actually made a profit. With all those kids in the cast, you know, the hall was filled with their relatives, friends, and classmates.” He glanced to left and right to ascertain the director’s whereabouts and continued in a stage whisper. “He made two political mistakes. He should certainly not have played Cardinal Wolsey himself, and he should definitely not have brought someone from the next county to play Queen Katharine. We have plenty of talent right here in Moose County.”

  Qwilleran scanned the scattered groups of guests. “What happened to the queen? I don’t see her here tonight.”

  Carol said, “She left right after the curtain. Got out of makeup in a hurry and didn’t even say goodbye to the cast.”

  “Well, we weren’t very cordial to her, I’m afraid,” Larry confessed, “although we told her about the party and how to get here, and she wrote it down. I thought she’d show up. Of course, she lives in Lockmaster, and that’s a sixty-mile drive, so I guess she can be excused.”

  Carol squeezed her husband’s arm. “How do you like the barn, honey?”

  “Fantastic! What condition was it in, Qwill, before you started?”

  “Structurally solid, but filthy! For years it had been a motel for birds, cats, bats, and even skunks. Fran hung those German prints as an apology to the dispossessed bats.” He pointed to a group of four framed zoological prints of flying mammals, dated 1824.

  “You should have the barn photographed, Qwill, for a magazine.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see it published—for Dennis’s sake. And Fran did a great job with the furnishings, considering I’m not the easiest client to get along with. John Bushland is coming up from Lockmaster to shoot some pictures for insurance purposes. I’m curious to know how everything looks on film.”

  “Don’t we have a good photographer here?” Larry asked sharply. There had been jealous rivalry between Pickax and Lockmaster for a century or more.

  “No one with Bushy’s talent and experience and equipment.”

  “You’re right. He’s good,” Larry acknowledged.

  Someone shouted “Last call for pizza!” and the crowd swarmed to the kitchen snack bar—all except Hilary VanBrook. While the others had mingled in shifting clusters, the director had stayed on the periphery. In his bottle-green corduroy sports coat and red turtleneck he was clearly the best-dressed individual in the largely raggle-taggle assemblage. With shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, and a saturnine expression on his gaunt and homely face, he appeared to be studying—with a critical eye—the handhewn and woodpegged framework of the building, the design of the fireplace, the zoological prints, and the printer’s typecase half filled with engraved metal plates mounted on wooden blocks.

  He was standing in front of a pine wardrobe, seven feet high, when Qwilleran approached and said, “That’s a Pennsylvania German schrank dating 1850 or earlier.”

  “More likely Austrian,” the director corrected him. “You can see the piece had painted decoration originally. It’s been stripped and refinished, which lessens its value, as you probably know.”

  Qwilleran devoutly wished that Dennis’s mother had been present to refute the man’s pronouncement. VanBrook delivered it without looking at his listener. He had a disconcerting habit of rolling his eyes around the room while discoursing. Exercising admirable restraint, Qwilleran replied, “Be that as it may, let me congratulate you on the success of the play.”

  The director flashed a glance at the frayed lapels of Qwilleran’s old plaid robe. “Its success came as no surprise to me. When I proposed doing the play, the opposition came from persons with little theatre experience or understanding of Shakespeare. A dull play, they labeled it. With competent direction there are no dull plays. Furthermore, Henry VIII addresses problems that are rife in our society today. I insist that our senior students study Henry VIII.”

  Qwilleran said, “I understand there was no Shakespeare taught in Pickax before you took the helm.”

  “Regrettably true. Now our freshmen are exposed to Romeo and Juliet, sophomores read Macbeth, and juniors study Julius Caesar. Not only do they read the plays; they speak the lines. Shakespeare is meant to be spoken.”

  Listening to VanBrook’s theatrical voice and looking past his shoulder, Qwilleran could see the ramp leading down from the balcony. Koko was descending the slope to investigate, walking with a purposeful gait, his eyes fixed on the principal. Effortlessly and silently the cat rose to the top of the schrank and assumed a position above the man’s head, gazing down with a peculiar stare. Qwilleran, hoping that Koko had no intentions that might prove embarrassing, gave the cat a stern glance and cleared his throat pointedly before inquiring of VanBrook, “What do you think of the job Dennis did with this great barn of a place?”

  “Derivative, of course,” VanBrook said with a lofty display of design acumen.

  “According to Dennis, ramps are in keeping with barn vernacular. Any resemblance to the Guggenheim Museum is purely coincidental. Those ladders,” Qwilleran went on, “are the original loft ladders; the rungs are lashed to the siderails with leather thongs.”

  Apparently the director could feel Koko’s stare at the top of his head, and he passed his hand over his hairpiece. (That hairpiece was a topic of much discussion in Pickax, where men were expected to have the real thing or none at all.) Then VanBrook turned abruptly and looked at the top of the schrank.

  Hastily Qwilleran said, “This is our male Siamese, Kao K’o Kung, named after a thirteenth-century Chinese artist.”

  “Yow!” said Koko, who knew his name when he heard it.

  “The Yuan dynasty,” the princip
al said with a superior nod. “He was also a noted poet, although that is not generally known by Westerners. His name means ‘worthy of respect’ or words to that effect. An exact translation is difficult.” He turned his back to the Pennsylvania German schrank, which had suddenly become Austrian, and Qwilleran was glad that the cat staring at the hairpiece was Koko and not his accomplice. Yum Yum the Paw would snatch it with a lightning-fast grab and carry it up the ramp to the bedroom, where she would hide it under the bed or, worse still, slam-dunk it in the toilet.

  VanBrook was saying, “Appreciation of all the arts is something I have introduced into the curriculum here, as I did when I was principal of Lockmaster High School. It is my contention that graduates who play instruments badly or draw still lifes poorly contribute nothing to the cultural climate of the community. The essence of a true education is an appreciation of art, music, literature, and architecture.” He gazed about the barn speculatively. “I should like to bring grades nine to twelve over here, one class at a time, on field trips in the next few weeks.”

  Qwilleran blinked at the man’s audacity, but before he could formulate a reply there was a murmur on top of the schrank, a shifting of paws, and a furry body swooped over the principal’s head and landed on a rug ten feet away, after which Koko yowled loudly and imperiously.

  Larry Lanspeak heard him and interpreted the message. “C’mon, you guys,” he called out. “Chugalug! Qwill’s cats need to get some sleep.”

  Reluctantly the guests started gathering paper plates and napkins, collecting empties, straightening chairs. Gradually they drifted out into the night, clowning and uttering war whoops.

  As Fran gave Qwilleran a theatrical goodnight kiss, he said to her, “Was this party your idea? Did you ring my phone a couple of times and hang up?”