The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  “Not at all. It sounds charming.”

  “Then I go into the front parlor and sit at the rosewood piano and play a few chords, and I can almost hear my husband’s beautiful tenor voice singing, ‘When you come to the end of a perfect day.’ I can almost see the sheet music with pink roses on the cover. How happy we were! . . . I go into other rooms, too, and give the housekeeper her orders for the day and take a basket of cut flowers from the gardener . . . Sometimes—but not always—I walk into the reception hall and remember reading the telegram about my son in Korea.” She turned to gaze out the window. “After that, nothing was quite the same.”

  “Where are you?” called a voice from the head of the stairs. “Oh, there you are!” Vicki walked toward the alcove with a covered tray.

  “Not a word to Victoria,” Grummy cautioned Qwilleran in a whisper.

  “Grummy dear, it’s time for us to leave for the ’chase, and I’m putting your lunch in the refrigerator. Just warm up the soup, and there’s a muffin and a nice little cup custard.”

  “Thank you, Victoria,” said the old lady. “Have a lovely time. I’ll be with you in memory.”

  Vicki gave her grandmother a hug. “We’ll see you after the fifth race.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Inglehart,” said Qwilleran, bowing over her trembling hand and returning her confidential wink.

  “Please leave the little ones with me,” she said. “I’ll enjoy their company.”

  Vicki said to Qwilleran as they walked downstairs, “She refuses to have a sitter when we go out, but she has a hot line to the hospital. In case of emergency, she only has to press the red button.”

  Bushy had removed the photographic gear from the van, and they packed it with food baskets and coolers, folding chairs, and snack tables. Vicki, wearing a flamboyant creation from the Tacky Tack Shop, said, “How do you like my sweatshirt? Fiona gave it to me for my birthday.”

  When they picked up Fiona at her apartment over a drug store, she too was wearing a shirt stenciled in the rah-rah spirit of the steeplechase—quite unlike her drab attire of the night before. En route, she sat quietly, biting her thumbnail.

  “I suppose you’ve attended many of these events,” Qwilleran remarked.

  “Ummm . . . yes . . . but I’m kind of nervous. It’s Robbie’s first race.”

  The stream of traffic heading for the race course included cars and vans packed to the roof with passengers, the younger ones boisterous with anticipation. South of town the route lay through hunting country, finally turning into a gravel road where race officials in Hunt Club blazers checked tickets and sold souvenir programs of the seventy-fifth annual Lockmaster Steeplechase Race Meeting. After one more hill and a small bridge and a clump of woods, the steeplechase course burst into view—a vast, grassy bowl, a natural stadium, its slopes overlooking the race course, which was defined by portable fencing.

  Bushy backed into the parking slot designated G-12, with the tail of the van down-slope. Chairs and snack tables were set up on the downside, and he went about mixing drinks. “Bloody Mary okay for everybody?” he asked.

  “You know how I want mine,” Qwilleran said.

  “Right. Extra hot, two stalks of celery, and no vodka.”

  Already the hillsides were dotted with hundreds of vehicles and swarming with thousands of fans. Race officials in pink riding coats, mounted on thoroughbreds, patrolled the grassy course, controlling the crowd that crossed over to the refreshment tents in the infield. Near G-12, there was a judges’ tower overlooking the finish line. Across the field a stand of evergreens concealed the backstretch. Three ambulances and a veterinary wagon were lined up in conspicuous readiness.

  An amplified voice from the judges’ tower announced the Trial of Hounds, and soon the baying and trumpeting of the pack could be heard as they came down the slope from the backstretch.

  Bushy said, “That sound is music if you’re a fox hunter.”

  Or blood curdling, Qwilleran thought, if you’re a fox.

  Then the MacDiarmid camper pulled into G-11. The door opened, and a stream of young people poured out. Qwilleran counted three, six, eight, eleven—emerging with exuberance and rushing off to the refreshment tents. Kip and Moira and four other adults stepped out of the camper in their wake.

  Qwilleran asked the editor, “How many of these kids are yours?”

  “Only four, thank God. Did we miss the hounds? We got lost. They sent us to the wrong gate.” He introduced his guests, all connected with the newspaper, and the women busied themselves with the food. Joining with the Bushlands they set up a tailgate spread of ham, potato salad, baked beans, coleslaw, olives, dill pickles, pumpkin tarts, and chocolate cake.

  Again the voice from the tower reverberated around the hillsides, announcing the parade of carriages, and a dozen turn-outs came around the bend: plain and fancy carriages drawn by high-steppers, the drivers and passengers in period costumes.

  There was still a half hour before post time. The high school band was blasting away, with drums and trumpets almost drowned out by the hubbub of the race crowd, all of whom were wildly excited. They were circulating, greeting friends, showing off their festive garb, sharing food and drink, shouting, laughing, screaming. Qwilleran observed them in amazement; they were getting a high-voltage charge from the occasion that totally escaped him.

  “Would you like to stroll around?” he asked Fiona, who had been quiet and introspective.

  She responded eagerly, and as they circled the rim of the bowl she ventured to say, “It’s quite a sight!” Long folding tables were laid with fringed cloths, floral centerpieces, champagne buckets, and whole turkeys on silver platters.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you during the run of the play,” he said, “but you always disappeared right after the curtain.”

  “I had a long drive home,” she explained, “and then . . . ummm . . . I have to keep an eye on Robbie.”

  “Altogether, with rehearsals and performances, you had to do a lot of driving. I hope VanBrook appreciated that.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He sent me money out of his own pocket to pay for my gas.”

  Qwilleran huffed silently into his moustache. “Very thoughtful of him. How did you two meet? In the theatre?”

  “Oh, no! I was . . . uh . . . working in a restaurant . . . and this man used to come in to eat all the time. He was . . . well, not very good-looking, and the other waitresses made fun of him. I liked him, though. He was, you know, different. Then one day he asked me—right out of nowhere—if I’d like a job. He needed a live-in housekeeper. Robbie was eight then, and we both went to live with him. It was, well, like a gift from heaven!” As Fiona talked, the wonder of it overcame her shyness.

  “Was he hard to get along with?” Qwilleran asked. “People in Pickax found him rather crotchety.”

  “Well, he was strange in some ways, but I got used to it. He kept saying I should educate myself, and he gave me books to read. They weren’t . . . uh . . . very interesting.”

  “How did you get involved in Henry VIII?”

  “Well, he was going to do the play—here in Lockmaster, you know—and he said he wanted me to be in it. I almost fell over! I’d never been in a play. He said he’d coach me. I was good at memorizing, and I just did everything the way he told me to.”

  “Would you like to be in another play?”

  “Ummm . . . it would be nice, but I couldn’t do it without him.”

  “How did he and Robin get along?” Qwilleran asked.

  “He treated Robbie like a son—always getting after him to study and get better grades. After he moved to Pickax, he came down to see us once a month. He was always offering to put Robbie through college if he’d study Japanese! He said the future belongs to people who know Japanese.” Fiona uttered a whimsical little laugh. “Robbie thought he was crazy. So did I.”

  The high school band stopped playing, and Qwilleran’s watch told him it was almost post time. “We’ll
talk some more at the party tonight,” he promised. They hurried back to G-12 and arrived just as Kip MacDiarmid was passing a hat.

  “Five dollars, please, if you want to get in the pool,” he said.

  Qwilleran drew Number Five, a four-year-old chestnut gelding named Quantum Leap, according to the program. Following an announcement from the tower, the band played the national anthem. There was a fanfare of trumpets, and a mounted colorguard came around the bend in the course, followed by Hunt Club officials on horseback. The field for the first race was in the paddock, with the riders in their colorful silks. Number Five wore blue and white. Then the officials led the racers to the starting line, and before Qwilleran could focus his binoculars, they were off and taking the first hurdle.

  They disappeared around the bend and behind the trees. In a moment, they came around again. The crowd was cheering. Qwilleran couldn’t even find Quantum Leap. Horses and riders disappeared again and reappeared at the far end of the course, and in a few moments it was all over. Number Five had finished sixth, and one of Kip’s guests won the fifty-dollar kitty. Qwilleran felt cheated—not because of losing but because it had all happened so fast.

  Vicki said, “You’re supposed to cheer your horse on, Qwill. No wonder he came in sixth!”

  By nature Qwilleran was not demonstrative, and the fleeting glimpses of his horse in the next three races failed to arouse him to any vocal enthusiasm. He could wax more excited about a ballgame, and even in the ballpark he seldom shouted.

  Fiona won the pool in the second race, and everyone was pleased. In the third race, Qwilleran’s horse went down on the fourth hurdle, according to an announcement from the tower, and immediately the veterinary wagon and one of the ambulances started for the backstretch.

  One of the MacDiarmid youngsters soon came racing back to the camper. “Hey, Dad, they had to shoot the horse!” he shouted.

  “How about the rider?”

  “I dunno. They took him in the ambulance. Can you let me have five bucks against my allowance?”

  “You’ll have to clear it with your mother.”

  There were only five entries in the last race, in which amateur riders were acceptable, and Kip as official bookmaker suggested going partners on the bets.

  Fiona said, “I can’t bet. I’m rooting for Robbie.”

  “So am I,” said Qwilleran.

  “We will, too,” said the Bushlands.

  The pool was called off, and the Bushland and MacDiarmid crowd swarmed down the hill to the infield fence, the better to cheer for Son of Cardinal. As the horses were led from the paddock, Robin Stucker looked pathetically young and thin in his red and gold silks.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God! Let him win!” Fiona was saying softly.

  They were off! And for the first time Qwilleran felt moved to cheer. They took the first hurdle and thundered up the slope, disappearing behind the distant trees. Before they came into view again, there was a shout of alarm from the spectators on the backstretch.

  “Oh, no!” Fiona whimpered. “Oh, no! Somebody’s down!”

  The emergency vehicles rushed to the scene, and a crackling announcement came from the tower: “Number Four down on the third hurdle!”

  Qwilleran’s group groaned with relief. Robin was Number Three.

  As the four horses finished the first lap, Robin’s rooters were in full voice, cheering him over the next hurdle and up the slope to the hidden backstretch. When the field came into view again, Son of Cardinal was running a close second.

  Other fans were yelling, “Go, Spunky!” or, “Go, Midnight!” But the crew from G-12 and G-11 was howling, “Go, Robbie! . . . Ride ’im, Rob! . . . Keep it up! You’re gaining!” Son of Cardinal took the hurdle smoothly and pelted up the slope. “Attaboy, Rob! Three to go!” There were moments of suspense as the horses covered the backstretch. “Here they come! He’s ahead! . . . Go, Robbie! . . . He’s in! He’s in! . . . A winner!”

  Fiona burst into tears. Vicki hugged her, and the others clustered around with congratulations.

  “Let’s have a drink to celebrate!” Bushy announced. “And it’ll give the traffic time to thin out.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Fiona said, “I’ll just walk over to the stables to see Robbie. Steve can drive me back to town.”

  “Okay,” Vicki said, “but be all dressed and ready to go at seven-thirty. We’ll pick you up.”

  The MacDiarmids collected their horde of youngsters and said goodbye. “When are you coming down again, Qwill?” asked Kip. “I’d like to show you my type collection.”

  On the way home in the van Qwilleran asked, “Does Robin’s win have any importance other than the $5,000 purse?”

  “It should increase the value of the horse and give Robin a boost up the ladder,” Bushy said. “Also it should sweeten the deal for the Ambertons when they sell the farm.”

  “Are they selling? Why are they selling?”

  “The way I hear it, Amberton wants to move to a warmer climate. He’s pushing sixty and has arthritis pretty bad. His wife doesn’t want to sell. She’s the one who edits the Stablechat newsletter.”

  “Lisa is quite a bit younger than her husband,” Vicki put in, “and she’s interested in Steve O’Hare as well as the newsletter.”

  “That’s unfounded gossip, Vicki,” her husband reproved her.

  “Steve is a womanizer,” she explained to Qwilleran. “I hate that word, but that’s what he is.”

  When they reached the turreted mansion on Main Street, Qwilleran could hear Koko howling.

  Bushy said, “I hear the welcoming committee.”

  Qwilleran pounded his moustache with a fist. “That’s not Koko’s usual cry! Something’s wrong!”

  The three of them jumped out of the van, Bushy and Qwilleran dashing up the steps and into the foyer, with Vicki close behind. Koko was in the foyer, howling in that frenzied tone that ended in a falsetto shriek. Yum Yum was not in sight.

  Bushy started up the stairs three at a time. Vicki ran to the intercom. “Grummy!” she shouted. “Are you all right? We’re coming up!” Then she, too, bolted up the stairs.

  Koko bounded to the elevator at the rear of the foyer, and Qwilleran followed. Touching the signal panel, he could hear a mechanical door closing. Then the car started to descend, activating a red light on the panel. Koko was quiet now, watching the elevator door.

  The Bushlands had reached the third floor, and their voices echoed down the open stairwell. “She’s not here!” Vicki screamed in panic.

  Slowly the car descended, and slowly the door opened on the main floor. There they were—both of them: Grummy slumped on the needlepoint bench, and Yum Yum crouched at her feet, looking worried.

  TEN

  VICKI WAS HYSTERICAL. Bushy was yelling into two phones at once. Qwilleran quietly picked up both cats and carried them upstairs. From the window he could see the paramedics arriving, then the doctor’s car, and finally the black wagon from the funeral home. When all was quiet, he went downstairs.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  Vicki was walking back and forth and moaning. “Poor Grummy! The excitement was too much for her.”

  “She lived a long life, enjoying it to the very end,” Qwilleran said, “and she went quickly. That’s a blessing.”

  “Why was she on the elevator? Upstairs she could have pressed the emergency button. They might have saved her. She had no need to come downstairs.”

  Qwilleran knew the answer, but he kept her secret. He suspected she had already been downstairs, reliving her life, and was on her way up again. The memory of the telegram from the war department may have triggered the attack.

  Bushy said, “You’ll have to go to the club without us, Qwill. You can take the tickets and pick up Fiona.”

  “No . . . no!” Qwilleran protested. “Not under the circumstances. I’d better pack up and drive back to Pickax. You’ll be busy for the next few days.”

  “The funeral will probably be Tuesda
y.”

  Vicki said to her husband, “Would you call Fiona and break the news? I can’t talk to anyone about it—yet. Ask her if she wants to use the tickets.”

  Qwilleran went upstairs and packed the dinner jacket he had never worn and the blue cushion the cats had not used. Then he said a somber farewell to his stunned and saddened hosts. “We’ll talk about this another time,” he said, “after the shock has worn off. She was a grand and glorious Grummy.”

  Bushy said forlornly, “Bring the cats again some weekend, Qwill. We’ll give it another try.”

  Qwilleran drove away—up the avenue of giant gingerbread houses—thinking about the last twenty-four hours. The Siamese, knowing they were on the way home, snoozed peacefully in their carrier, leaving him free to think about many things. He had explored a new city, experienced his first steeplechase, met a fellow journalist, witnessed the swan song of a gallant old lady, and discovered the bearded man who had evidently captivated Polly. He stroked his moustache in wonderment as he drove. She had always disliked beards and avoided anyone from the sporting world. It also puzzled him how she had managed to buy that bright blue dress without his knowledge; she usually consulted him on the rare occasions when she went shopping for something to wear.

  Yet, the most amazing discovery of the weekend was the diffident little woman who had been transformed into the regal Katharine on stage. VanBrook had endowed her with a completely new persona for the duration of the play. She moved like a queen; she projected her voice; she actually looked taller. Offstage she reverted to nervous mannerisms, anxious glances, and shy conversation, but for a few hours she had been VanBrook’s creation. His failure to fashion Robin in his own image must have been a vexing disappointment.

  There were other questions Qwilleran wanted to ask Fiona: Did VanBrook ever talk about his past Down Below or in Asia? Was his Lockmaster house furnished in the Japanese style? Did he cultivate an indoor garden, and if so, what did he grow? Why did he wear turtlenecks all the time? Was he hiding something? A scar perhaps. Did he ever unpack all his books? After four years in Pickax the majority were still in cartons. And there were other questions of a more personal nature that might be asked.