The party swallowed their drinks quickly and sauntered to the far end of the foyer where the elevator was located. A light on the touch plate indicated that the car was in operation. It descended slowly. The door opened sedately. Qwilleran found himself holding his breath in anticipation.
NINE
QWILLERAN STOOD IN the foyer of the grand old Inglehart house and waited—along with the other guests—for the elevator door to open. Never having known his own grandparents, he felt drawn to anyone over seventy-five years of age, and in this northern region, where many lived to be a hundred, he had met many memorable oldsters.
The elevator door opened sedately, and a distinguished-looking, white-haired woman in a floor-length hostess gown of wine red velvet stepped from the car, leaning on two ivory-headed canes yellow with age. She moved slowly, but her posture was erect. Seeing the waiting audience, she inclined her head graciously toward each one until she caught sight of Qwilleran in the background.
“And this is Mr. Qwilleran!” she exclaimed in a cultivated voice that had become tremulous with the years. She had a handsome face for a woman nearing ninety, like fine-lined porcelain, with kind, blue eyes and thin lips accustomed to smiling. No eyeglasses, Qwilleran noted. He guessed that Grummy would have the latest in contact lenses.
As he stepped forward she tucked one cane under the other arm in order to extend a hand. “My pleasure, Mrs. Inglehart,” he murmured, bowing gallantly over her trembling hand. It was a courtly gesture he reserved for women of a certain age.
“I’m thrilled to meet you at last,” she said. “I used to read your column when you were writing for newspapers Down Below. But now you are living among us! How fortunate we are! I not only admire your writing talent, Mr. Qwilleran, and what you have to say, but . . .” she added with a coy smile, “I adore your moustache!”
Fleetingly he wondered if the Inglehart library might contain a copy of City of Brotherly Crime.
“Shall we go into dinner, Grummy?” asked Bushy, offering his arm. The others followed them into the dining room and waited until the elderly woman was seated on her granddaughter’s left. Qwilleran was motioned to sit opposite, next to Moira, and the party waited for Grummy to raise her soup spoon.
Glancing brightly around the table she said, “For what we are about to receive, we give thanks.”
Redbeard, sitting at the other end of the table, next to the host, sneezed loudly.
Fiona said apologetically, “He’s allergic.”
“To everything,” said the man who was blowing his nose. “Including horses.”
“Is that true?” Kip asked.
“Absolutely.”
“You should give up horses and go in for newspapering. You’re doing a good job with Stablechat.”
“Nothing to it,” said Steve. “I’ve got a bunch of kids digging up the stuff, and Mrs. Amberton puts it together.”
“What’s your circulation now?”
“Almost a thousand.”
“Another ten thousand,” said the editor of the Logger, “and we’ll start to worry.”
Grummy leaned toward Qwilleran. “Victoria tells me you’ve brought your cats. I do hope they don’t kill birds.”
“Have no fear,” he replied. “They’re indoor cats, and their interest in birds is purely academic. Koko has a friend who’s a cardinal, and they stare at each other through the window glass and communicate telepathically.”
Steve said, “Take the glass away and it’d be a different story. Cats are cats.”
Vicki said quickly, “Grummy has a feeding station outside her window in the tower, and she records the migration of different species in a note-book . . . Don’t forget your soup, Grummy dear.” With her spoon poised above the soup plate Mrs. Inglehart was gazing at Qwilleran like a starstruck young girl.
Moira said, “One year I decided to feed the birds, but all I attracted were starlings. They came from three counties to my backyard—millions of noisy, messy invaders. That was the end of birding for me!”
“My problem,” Qwilleran said, “is blackbirds. When I bike on country roads, they rise up out of the ditch in a great cloud and dive-bomb me and my bike, screaming chuck chuck chuck.”
“That’s in nesting season,” said Grummy. “They’re protecting their young.”
“Whatever their motive, they’re very unfriendly, and when I talk back to them, they’re really burned up.”
“What do you say to an unfriendly blackbird?” Moira asked.
“Chuck chuck chuck. But the biggest mystery is the behavior of seagulls when a farmer plows a field. Within five minutes after he starts, a hundred seagulls flock in from the lake, thirty miles away, and circle the field like vultures.”
Kip said, “Seagulls have an intelligence network that puts the CIA to shame.”
Vicki removed the soup plates, and Fiona helped serve the main course: pasta shells (easy for Grummy to fork with her trembling hand) with a sauce of finely chopped vegetables in meat juices, plus meatballs for the guests.
As the Parmesan cheese was being passed, Grummy returned to her favorite subject. “When I came to live in this house as a bride, I instructed the gardener to plant everything that would attract birds, and I’ve kept a birdbook for seventy years. Teddy Roosevelt had a birdbook, and he recorded the birds he saw on the White House lawn.”
Occasionally there would be a sneeze from Redbeard; Bushy would ask if anyone wanted more wine; Fiona would cast surreptitious stares in Qwilleran’s direction; Kip would mention the forthcoming millage vote. But always Grummy would bring the conversation back to birds.
The editor said, “One of the fillers that we ran recently stated that a hummingbird has a pulse rate of 615 beats a minute. I hope it wasn’t a typo.”
“Not at all,” said the old lady. “The hummingbird is one of nature’s small miracles.”
Qwilleran confessed, “I can’t tell one bird from another. They don’t stand still long enough for me to look in the field guide.”
“When I had my bird garden,” Grummy said, “I could entice wild birds to eat out of my hand, and once I raised a family of baby robins after their mother was killed by a boy with a gun.”
Steve sneezed again.
“Grummy dear,” said Vicki quietly and gently, “don’t forget to eat your pasta.”
Mrs. Inglehart was having a wonderful time, but when the salad was served she seemed tired and asked to be excused. Bushy escorted her to the elevator.
After the apple pie and coffee, Steve said he had to get back to the farm and be up at five in the morning, and Fiona said she had to go home and make sure Robbie went to bed early on the eve of his first race. As she left she said to Qwilleran in her small voice, “I . . . uh . . . wanted to talk to you . . . about Mr. VanBrook, you know, but I didn’t . . . uh . . . get a chance.”
“Did you know him well?”
She nodded. “Maybe . . . tomorrow? Vicki invited me to the ’chase.”
“We’ll have a talk then,” Qwilleran promised. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
She left, giving him a backward glance. He was watching her go. Despite her self-effacing manner, there was something fascinating about the woman—her large and sorrowful eyes, perfect eyes for Queen Katharine.
Then the MacDiarmids said good night because they had hired a baby-sitter who wanted to be home by ten o’clock. “See you at the ’chase,” they said, explaining to Qwilleran, “Our parking slot is next to Bushy’s, so we do a little friendly betting.”
The host and hostess kicked off their shoes and poured another drink. Qwilleran accepted his third cup of coffee. “Pleasant evening,” he said. “Grummy is a treasure, and I liked Kip and Moira. Fiona came as a surprise; she was so different on stage. This fellow Steve . . . what’s their relationship?”
The Bushlands exchanged glances, and Vicki spoke first. “Well, he’s Robin’s mentor in horsemanship, and Fiona’s very ambitious for her son to succeed at something. He dropped out o
f high school, and his only interest is horses.”
“He’s not alone, I understand. What’s our schedule tomorrow morning?”
“After breakfast,” Vicki said, “you’ll have time to take the cats up to visit Grummy. She’ll be thrilled.”
Her husband said, “We’ll leave about eleven and pick up Fiona, and that will give us time to fight the traffic and get in place for a tailgate picnic before post time, which is two o’clock.”
“Kip mentioned betting. How does that work?”
“It’s more fun if you have a few bucks on a horse, so we usually have a five-dollar pool going with the MacDiarmid crowd.”
“Breakfast at eight-thirty,” Vicki said. “What do you like?”
“Coffee and whatever. And now I think I’ll amble upstairs and see if the cats have adjusted.”
“Would they like a meatball? We have some left over.”
Qwilleran followed her into the kitchen. “How long have you known Fiona?” he asked.
“Ever since junior high. My family used to include her in our picnics and vacation trips because she had no decent homelife of her own. It was the old story: absent father, alcoholic mother. I liked her. She was so eager and appreciative, and she had those heart-breaking eyes!”
“That’s what I remember most about her portrayal of Katharine. What kind of life has she had since schooldays?”
“Rough,” Vicki said. “Her only dream was to have a home and family of her own, so she married right after high school. It was so ironic! Her husband deserted her right after Robin was born.”
“How has she managed financially?”
“She does housekeeping. She helps me two days a week. With some kind of training she could do better, but she lacks confidence. If everything works out, I’d like to start a catering service with Fiona as assistant. We’d specialize in hunt breakfasts. They’re all the rage in Lockmaster.”
“What was her connection with VanBrook?”
Vicki shrugged mysteriously. “Better ask Fiona about that.”
Qwilleran said good night to the Bushlands and started for the second floor. Halfway up the stairs he could hear exultant cries coming from the best guestroom. The Siamese knew he was approaching and bearing meatballs. They met him at the door, Koko prancing and Yum Yum snaking between his ankles. Putting the plate on the bathroom floor, he then gave the bedroom a quick inspection for evidence of mischief. Everything was in order except for shredded paper in the circular window bay, but it was only the copy of Stablechat; they frequently reacted to fresh ink.
After their treat, the two satisfied animals found their blue cushion on the chaise, where they washed up and settled down. Qwilleran read for a while before sinking into his own bed and reviewing his day. He had buried Dennis Hough, bought bubble pipes for the cats, discovered Polly’s strange Lockmaster connection, and met a charming octagenarian. And tomorrow he might learn something about VanBrook from a woman who wanted to talk about him. He turned off the bedlamp, and in a few moments two warm bodies came stealing into the bed, nosing under the blanket, Yum Yum on his left and Koko on his right, snuggling closer and closer until he felt confined in a strait jacket.
“This is ridiculous!” he said aloud. Jumping out of bed he transferred their blue cushion to the bathroom floor, placed them on it with a firm hand, and closed the door. Immediately the yowling and shrieking began, until he feared they would disturb Grummy on the third floor and the Bushlands in the master bedroom below.
He opened the bathroom door, hopped back into bed and waited anxiously in the dark. For a while nothing happened. Then the first body landed lightly on the bed, followed by a second. He turned his back, and they snuggled down behind him. There they stayed for the night, peacefully sleeping, gradually pressing closer as he inched away. By morning he was clinging to the edge of the mattress, and the Siamese were sprawled crosswise over the whole bed.
“How did you guys sleep?” Bushy asked the next morning when the aroma of bacon lured the three of them to the kitchen.
“Fine,” Qwilleran said. “Good bed! They didn’t let me have much of it, but what I had was comfortable.”
“How do you like your eggs?” Vicki asked.
“Over easy.” He looked around the kitchen. “Do I smell coffee?”
“Help yourself, Qwill.”
Nursing a cup of it he trailed after the Siamese as they explored the house, reveling in patches of tinted sunlight thrown on the carpet by the stained-glass windows. He himself checked the library, but there was no sign of City of Brotherly Crime.
By the time breakfast was ready, the two cats were chasing each other gleefully up and down the broad staircase. “They’re making themselves right at home,” he said to the photographer. “You shouldn’t have any trouble getting pictures tomorrow.”
“I have a couple of poses in mind,” Bushy said, “but mostly I’ll let them find their own way. When I took Grummy’s tray upstairs this morning, she said to remind you she’s expecting them after breakfast.”
When the time came for the visit, Vicki called upstairs on the intercom, and Qwilleran collected the Siamese, climbing the stairs to the third floor with one under each arm. Grummy greeted them graciously, wearing a long flowered housecoat and leaning on her two elegant canes.
“Welcome to my eyrie,” she said in a shaky voice. “And these are the two aristocrats I’ve heard about!”
They regarded her with blank stares and wriggled to escape Qwilleran’s clutches. They were acting disappointingly catlike.
“I’ve made some blueberry leaf tea,” she said to him, “and if you’ll carry the tray we’ll sit in the tower alcove.”
The suite of rooms was furnished with heirlooms in profusion, and on every surface there were framed photographs, including one of Theodore Roosevelt, signed. Glass cabinets displayed a valuable collection of porcelain birds, causing Koko to sit up on his haunches and paw the air. One of them was a cardinal. Even Qwilleran knew a cardinal when he saw one.
As Mrs. Inglehart, veteran of thousands of formal teas, poured with graceful gestures, she said, “So this is your first steeplechase, Mr. Qwilleran! Do you know the origin of the name?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She spoke in the precise, carefully worded style of one who has presided at thousands of club meetings. “In early days, horses and their riders raced through the countryside, taking fences and hedges and brooks, racing to the church steeple in the next village. In Lockmaster the sport of riding was unknown until my father-in-law introduced it. Until then there were only workhorses, pulling wagons, and tired old nags used for transportation. Then riding became fashionable. We all took lessons in equitation. I loved the hunt and the music of the hounds. I had my own hunter, of course. His name was Timothy.”
“You have good posture, Mrs. Inglehart. I imagine you looked splendid in the saddle.”
Yum Yum was now in Grummy’s lap, being stroked. “Yes, everyone said I had a good seat and excellent balance and control. To control twelve hundred pounds of animal with one’s hands, legs, voice, and body weight is a thrilling challenge . . . But I am doing all the talking. Forgive me.”
“It’s a pleasure to listen to someone so well-spoken. What provoked your interest in birds?”
“Well, now . . . let me think . . . After I married Mr. Inglehart, I avoided the needlework clubs and boring book clubs that young matrons were expected to join, and I started the Ladies’ Tuesday Afternoon Bird Club. Oh, how the townfolk ridiculed us—for studying birds instead of shooting them! They wrote letters to the newspaper, referring to our idle minds and idle hands.”
“Do you mean it was customary to shoot songbirds?”
“Yes, indeed! A young lad would come home with a string of tiny birds over his shoulder and sell them to the butcher. They were in demand for dinner parties! I’m sorry to say we still have a few sharpshooters who think of a bird as a target. Of course, it all started when the government put a bounty on birds becaus
e they were thought to destroy crops. Then scientists discovered that birds protect fields from rodents, insect pests, and even destructive weeds . . . Now, I’m afraid, the farmers rely on those spraying machines and all kinds of chemicals.”
Koko could be heard chattering at the birds in the feeding station outside the east window as he stood on his hind legs with forepaws on the sill. Yum Yum was purring and kneading Grummy’s lap with her paws.
“I believe she likes me,” said the old lady.
“What kind of birds come to your feeder?” Qwilleran asked.
“Innumerable species! My favorites are the chickadees. They’re so sociable and entertaining, and they stay all winter. Koko will have his friend all winter, too. Cardinals are non-migratory, and don’t they look beautiful against the snow?”
“One wonders how birds survive in this climate.”
“They wear their winter underwear—a nice coat of fat under their feathers,” she explained. “Oh, I could talk forever about my bird friends, but you’ll be leaving soon for the ’chase.”
“I’m in no hurry,” he said. “You must have a wealth of memories, Mrs. Inglehart, in addition to riding and bird watching.”
“May I tell you a secret?” she asked with a conspiratorial smile. “You have honest eyes, and I know you won’t tell on me. Promise you won’t tell Victoria?”
“I promise,” he said with the sincerity that had won confidences throughout his career in journalism.
“Well!” she began with great relish. “When everyone leaves the house, I go downstairs in my elevator—I call it my magic time capsule—and I walk from room to room, reliving my life! I sit at the head of the dining table where I used to pour tea for the Bird Club, and I imagine it laid with Madeira linen and flowers in a cut-glass bowl and silver trays of dainties—and all the ladies wearing hats! . . . Does that sound as if I’ve lost my senses?”
The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal Page 13
