The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  Qwilleran sampled a red jelly bean, the only color he considered worth eating, and went downstairs for the cats’ accoutrements. When at last he brought the carrier into the room, its occupants emerged cautiously and slithered under the bed, where they remained.

  “For your future reference,” he said, addressing the bed, “your cushion’s on the chaise; your water dish and commode are in the bathroom; and I’m going for a walk.”

  He went down to the kitchen in search of Vicki, who was cutting Z-shaped vents in the crusts of two apple pies. “May I ask you the significance of the Z?” he asked. “Or is it a horizontal N?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “My mother always did it that way, so I do it that way. How’s everything upstairs?”

  “Everything’s fine. The room looks very comfortable. You have quite a collection of antiques.”

  “It’s all been handed down in the family, with each generation adding its own touch, for better or worse. My great-great-grandfather Inglehart built the house. Grandmother Inglehart lives on the third floor. We call her Grummy. Are you going to drive around town?”

  “I prefer to walk. Which way shall I go?”

  “Well, you might go down the hill to the courthouse and turn right on Fourth Street. That’s where all the stores are. It ends at the river. Originally both banks of the river were crammed with sawmills and shipyards. Now there’s Inglehart Park on one side and condos on the other.”

  “Do you have a bookstore?”

  “Two doors beyond the city hall. It’s a cast-iron storefront where Bushy’s grandfather used to have his watch-the-birdie photo studio before World War I.”

  Qwilleran enjoyed walking and sightseeing, and as he strode down the hill he was amazed at the huge houses, masterpieces of architectural gingerbread, their details accentuated with two or even three colors of paint. They looked festive compared to the stolid stone mansions of Pickax! He found the store with the cast-iron front and bought a book on horsemanship. In the basement there were used books, but City of Brotherly Crime was not among them. At an antique shop he found a collection of printshop mementos and bought a small engraving of a whale.

  Many of the stores capitalized on the horseyness of Lockmaster. Equus was a men’s store. The Tacky Tack Shop displayed gaudy sweatshirts, T-shirts, and posters with a steeplechase theme. In the Foxtrottery everything from paper napkins to fireplace andirons had a horse or fox motif, but nothing appealed to Qwilleran. And then he spotted the public library!

  It was obviously built from the same set of Greek temple blueprints that produced the Pickax library—with the same classical columns, the same seven steps, the same pair of ornamental lampposts. He entered, expecting a Shakespeare quotation on a chalkboard in the vestibule, but there was only a bulletin board announcing new video releases. He asked for the chief librarian whom he knew only as Polly’s friend, Shirley.

  “Mrs. Corcoran is in her office on the mezzanine,” said the clerk.

  The stairway was the same design as in Pickax; the glass-enclosed office occupied the same location; and the woman sitting behind the desk could have been Polly’s sister. She had the graying hair, pleasant face, conservative suit, and size sixteen figure.

  He introduced himself. “Mrs. Corcoran, I’m Bootsie’s godfather.”

  “Oh, you must be Jim Qwilleran,” she cried. “Polly has talked about you so much. Do sit down. How is Bootsie?”

  Qwilleran pulled up a chair, characteristically of varnished oak and hard-seated.

  “He’s a handsome cat with an insatiable appetite. In another few years, I estimate, he’ll be the size of a small pony.”

  “His mother and siblings are the same way, and yet they never put on weight. I wish I knew their secret. Are you down for the ’chase?”

  “Yes, it’s my first venture. I’m staying with the Bushlands.”

  “That should be pleasant. Bushy was the official photographer at my son’s wedding. You should have come down with Polly. Everyone had a wonderful time. I’ve just received the album of wedding pictures. Would you like to see them?”

  “Yes, I would,” he said with convincing sincerity, although wedding pictures were second only to weddings on his list of things to avoid.

  Mrs. Corcoran opened the album to a portrait of the happy couple at the altar, after the vows. “These are the kids, Donald and Heidi. Doesn’t he look handsome? He’s just out of law school and he has a position with Summers, Bent & Frickle. Heidi is a lovely girl, a dietician. Her father is a stockbroker and her mother is a psychiatrist. They go to our church . . . . And here they are with both sets of proud parents . . . And here are the attendants. The maid of honor caught the bouquet . . .”

  Qwilleran murmured appropriate remarks as he politely viewed the candid shots of wedding guests. “Here’s someone I know,” he said, pointing to a man with ashen hair. “He’s a reporter at the Moose County Something.”

  “Yes. Dave Landrum. One of Donald’s golfing friends,” she said.

  And then Qwilleran caught a glimpse of Polly. She was wearing an electric blue dress he had never seen before, and she was dancing with a man who wore a red beard. She was looking entirely too happy. She had probably been imbibing champagne instead of her usual thimbleful of sherry. As the pages of the album turned, he watched with more interest. There she was again! This time she was sitting at a table with the same bearded man and having an animated conversation. He was wearing a green plaid sports coat that seemed inappropriate at a wedding reception.

  “Who is the fellow with the beard?” Qwilleran asked casually, adding untruthfully, “He looks familiar.”

  “Oh, he’s one of Donald’s horsey friends,” the librarian said. “I can’t remember them all. Perhaps you noticed the beautiful horse farms on your way down here.”

  “Did the wedding festivities continue at the Palomino Paddock Sunday noon?” Qwilleran asked innocently.

  “Heavens, no! We were all exhausted. The kids left on their honeymoon at nine o’clock, and the rest of us carried on like blithering fools until the bar closed. I’m glad I have no more offspring to marry off!”

  Qwilleran said, “As a quiet change of pace perhaps you and Mr. Corcoran would drive up to Pickax and have dinner with Polly and me—some weekend when the autumn color is at its height.”

  “We’d be delighted! Polly has told us about your apple barn, and I’d love to see how my little Bootsie has grown. Do you think he’ll remember me?”

  Qwilleran walked back up the hill without noticing the architectural splendors of Main Street. He was thinking about the man with the red beard and plaid coat. Had he also taken Polly to Sunday brunch at the Paddock? Was he the mysterious Monday morning caller who phoned her office and gave her a guilty thrill? It was not that Qwilleran felt any jealousy; he was merely curious. Polly had conservative tastes, and here was the type she would keep at arm’s length: bearded, flashily dressed, and . . . horsey!

  Arriving at the Bushland house he met the photographer coming out of his darkroom.

  “What d’you think of our town?” Bushy asked.

  “Looks like a thriving community.”

  “It’s extra busy today—everybody getting ready for the ’chase.”

  “How much time do I have to clean up? I stopped at Cuttlebrink’s on the way down, and I feel as if the dust of ages has settled on my person.”

  “I know what you mean. No hurry. People aren’t coming till six, and you don’t have to dress up. We’ve asked Kip and Moira MacDiarmid—he’s editor of the Logger—and Vicki invited Fiona Stucker, the one who went up to Pickax to act in your play.”

  Qwilleran’s moustache bristled with interest. “She did an excellent job,” he said, “and I’ll look forward to telling her so.”

  As he walked up the wide staircase to the second floor, he wondered what surprises the Siamese had devised for him. He was sure of one thing: They would have found their blue cushion on the chaise and would be taking their ease like visiti
ng royalty.

  That proved to be not quite true. They had come out of hiding, and their attitude was regal and aloof, but they were lounging in the middle of the canopy bed. It was remarkable how they always took possession of the best chair, the softest cushion, the warmest lap, and the exact center of a bed. Lori Bamba had told him that a person or object has an aura or field of energy, some more and some less. A cat, detecting the difference, moves in to take advantage of the vibrations. Lori had an explanation for everything.

  As Qwilleran walked to the closet, stripping off his sweater, he stepped on something small and hard. Not completely hard. In fact, slightly squashy. He hesitated to look down, fearing what might be under his foot—a reaction based on past experience. Much to his relief it proved to be a jelly bean—a red one. There were fang marks in it. He should have known better than to leave the candy dish uncovered. Koko liked to sink his fangs in anything gummy or chewy. Checking the candy dish Qwilleran found that all the red jelly beans had been eliminated, and he found them scattered about the floor, camouflaged by the red Orientals. Something was at work in Koko’s mind, although his intention was not clear. The Siamese watched from the bed as the man crawled about the room on his hands and knees. They watched the performance as if it were a freak show.

  “You’re the freaks in this family!” he scolded them. “I should have left you at home.”

  After hiding the candy in the top drawer of the highboy, he showered and dressed and spent some time with his new book on horsemanship. Always thirsty for knowledge on any subject, he learned for the first time in his life the location of a horse’s withers. He discovered that a horse has no collarbone, and a “stud” is an establishment where horses are bred. He looked at pictures of the Arabian, the Morgan, the Andalusian, the Pinto, and his favorite, the Clydesdale. Finally, at six o’clock he opened a can of crabmeat for the Siamese and walked downstairs to the foyer that was ablaze with jewel-toned sunlight pouring through stained-glass windows.

  The front parlor with its marble fireplace and sumptuous Victorian furnishings was stiffly formal. Bushy used it as a studio for posing brides and family groups in quaint settings. Now the photographer was in the back parlor preparing to mix drinks, and Vicki was in the adjoining dining room, putting finishing touches on the table.

  “I’d like to ask one question,” Qwilleran asked. “Why did the founding fathers build such large houses?”

  “For one thing,” Bushy said, “lumber was plentiful and labor was cheap.”

  “And they had lots of kids,” Vicki added. “Usually there was at least one unmarried sister or widowed aunt or destitute cousin living with them. Also, when guests came for a visit, they stayed at least a month, because it took a week to get here by stagecoach and sailing ship. There were plenty of servants in those days.”

  “How are the cats doing?” Bushy asked.

  “They’ve commandeered the bed, and I may have to spend the night on the window seat.”

  Vicki said, “Grummy is looking forward so much to meeting you, Qwill. She’s a sweet old lady, just turned eighty-eight. When my parents retired to Arizona for Dad’s health, Grummy deeded this house to Bushy and me, with no strings attached.”

  “How do you take care of such a big place?”

  “I have part-time help. Once upon a time they had a housekeeper, cook, two maids, houseman, gardener, and a driver to take care of the horses and drive the family to church in the carriage.”

  “They didn’t have any riding mowers or leaf-vacuums in those days,” Bushy put in.

  “And no microwaves or food processors,” Vicki added. “Would you like to bring the cats down now, Qwill?”

  “I think they should make their formal debut tomorrow morning,” he said, “when there are no strangers around. You remember their behavior the last time we were here. I don’t want to be embarrassed again.”

  “Whatever you think best. By the way, Grummy won’t join us for cocktails. She’ll come down for dinner at seven and won’t stay long. She tires easily. We installed an elevator for her—velvet walls and a needlepoint bench—tiny, but she loves it.”

  Bushy interrupted. “Vicki, did I tell you that Fiona called?”

  “No. What’s happened this time?” she said with exasperation.

  “She and Steve will be a little late. He got tied up at the track.”

  “Well, I’m serving exactly at seven, regardless. We can’t keep Grummy waiting. It seems to me that Steve is always getting tied up. He’s probably sleeping one off.”

  “Give him a break!” her husband said. “All kinds of emergencies come up before a race.”

  At that point the doorbell rang, and the editor and his wife arrived. They were introduced as Kip and Moira MacDiarmid.

  “Spelled M-a-c-capital D-i-a-r-m-i-d,” said Moira.

  “I know how to spell a good Scottish name like that. My mother was a Mackintosh. The question is: Do you know how to spell Qwilleran?”

  “With a QW!” they said in unison.

  “We always read you in the Something,” the editor explained. “Don’t tell your publisher I said so, but your column’s the best thing in the whole paper! I wish you were writing for us.”

  “Make me an offer,” Qwilleran said genially.

  “I’m sure we couldn’t afford you.”

  “Aren’t you the collector of old typefaces? I picked up a few items at the Goodwinter sale this spring.”

  “So did I. Do you go in for book type or jobbing faces?”

  “Mostly I’m interested in small mounted cuts of animals that will fit into a typecase, but I have a modest assortment of fat-face caps, like Ultra Bodoni. What’s your specialty?”

  “Book faces. I just acquired some 1923 Erasmus, the most beautiful typeface ever designed. I’d like to show you my collection some day.”

  “Be happy to see it.”

  Moira said to Qwilleran, “Bushy tells us you’ve converted a barn.”

  “Yes, an octagonal apple barn, more than a hundred years old. The orchard is defunct, but the barn is in good shape.”

  “We ran a couple of pieces on the Orchard Incident,” said Kip. “What’s happening to the investigation? We have a morbid interest in the victim, you know. All the time VanBrook was principal here he was a thorn in everyone’s side.”

  “That’s a delicate way of putting it,” said Moira with a smirk.

  Kip explained, “My wife was president of the PTA during his reign of terror. Actually, though, he did great things for the school system. He was some kind of genius, but an odd duck.”

  Qwilleran agreed. “I’d like to write a biography of that guy, if I could unearth some of his secrets. The Mystery Man of Moose County, I’d call it.”

  “If you do, come down here and we’ll tell you some tales that will make your blood boil.”

  At that moment the doorbell rang, and the couple who entered gave Qwilleran a mild shock. First to walk into the foyer was Fiona Stucker, who had played the role of Queen Katharine with such regal poise and forceful emotion. She was small; she was mousy; she extended a limp hand and smiled shyly. She had large eyes, but they were filled with anxiety. He remembered her eyes; with stage makeup they had been her most compelling feature.

  Behind her was a man introduced as Steve O’Hare. Qwilleran took one look at him and thought, It’s Redbeard! And he’s still wearing the green plaid coat! So this was the “horsey friend” who had attached himself to Polly at the wedding festivities!

  “Glad to meetcha,” said the man with a hearty handgrip.

  It was too hearty, Qwilleran thought. He disliked him on sight. Nevertheless he said politely, “I hear you’re involved in the ’chase tomorrow. What’s your responsibility?”

  “I’m just a stable bum,” Redbeard replied with a grin.

  “On the contrary,” Bushy said, “Steve’s a very good trainer.”

  Fiona piped up in her small voice, “He trained the horse Robbie’s riding tomorrow. Robbie’s my so
n.”

  “I understand he’s riding Son of Cardinal,” Qwilleran said, glad that he’d done his homework. “Does he have a chance to win?”

  “Absolutely!” said the trainer, and he turned away to sneeze.

  Someone said, “If you sneeze on it, it’s true.”

  Turning to Fiona Qwilleran said, “Let me compliment you, Ms. Stucker, on your dynamic performance in Henry VIII.”

  “Ummm . . . thank you,” she said, somewhat flustered. “I guess you saw the play.”

  “I saw it twice, and I was greatly impressed by your voice quality and the depth of your emotion, especially in your scene with Cardinal Wolsey . . . Did you see the play, Steve?”

  “Naw, I’m not much for that kind of entertainment.”

  “Did your son see it?” Qwilleran asked Fiona.

  “Ummm . . . No, he was working. He . . . uh . . . works with Steve. At the stables, you know. Amberton Farm.”

  “We have twenty horses,” the trainer said. “We’re up at five in the morning—feeding, watering, grooming, mucking, and exercising the nags. And that’s seven days a week! Plus training sessions. No end to it! But I wouldn’t want to do anything else.” He sneezed again, and Fiona handed him a tissue.

  Bushy announced, “Last call for a quickie from the bar. We’re calling Grummy in a few minutes.”

  “Shall I go up and get her?” Moira volunteered.

  “Better not. She likes to feel independent, and she likes to make a grand entrance.”

  “She descends in her electronic chariot like a goddess from Olympus,” said the editor.

  “That’s right!” said Vicki as she moved toward the intercom. “Some old folks resent new technology, but not Grummy! . . . Fiona, would you help me a bit in the kitchen?” She spoke to the box on the wall. “Grummy, dear, dinner is served.”