The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  The bookseller opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. What could he say? It was a strange request from a good customer.

  In the barnyard Qwilleran greeted Redbeard as he jumped out of his van. “Nice day,” he said.

  “Yeah, this is the last warm weekend coming up. It’s gonna rain, though, sometime. I can always tell by the way the horses act.”

  “I envy someone like you who’s an expert on horseflesh,” Qwilleran said, indulging in gross flattery. He himself was an expert in uttering complimentary untruths.

  “Spent my whole life with the buggers,” said Steve. “Ought to know something by this time.”

  “Come on in and have a drink . . . How long does it take you to drive up here?” Qwilleran asked as they entered the barn.

  “Fifty minutes. Sometimes less. I like to drive fast.”

  “One thing you don’t have to worry about is red lights.”

  “Yeah. Only problem is the old geezers driving trucks and tractors down the middle of the road like they owned it.” Steve was eyeing the pale tweed sofas with uncertainty.

  “Let’s sit over there,” Qwilleran suggested, motioning toward the library area. “It’s closer to the bar.”

  “Man, I’m all for that! It’s been a hard day. I could use a drink.” He dropped his jacket on the floor and sank into a big leather chair with a sigh that was almost a groan. “Shot and a beer, if you’ve got it.”

  Koko had taken up a position on the fireplace cube where he could keep the visitor under surveillance, his haunches coiled, his tail lying flat in a horseshoe curve.

  Without ceremony Qwilleran put a shot glass and a can of beer on a table at Steve’s elbow. His own drink of Squunk water was in a martini glass, straight up, with a twist. “I hear you had an accident at the farm today,” he said casually.

  The trainer tossed off the whiskey. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “On the radio.” Not true, of course.

  “Yeah. Too bad. He was a good horse—great promise—but we hadda put him down.”

  “What about the rider? Did he get up and walk away?”

  “Damn that Robbie! It was his own fault—pushing too hard, taking chances! You know how kids are today—no discipline! Serves him right if he has to quit riding. There’ll be other riders and other horses, I always say. You can’t let yourself get upset about things like that.”

  “You’re remarkably philosophical.”

  “You hafta be in this business. But we got some good news. Wanna hear some good news?”

  “By all means.”

  “Mrs. Amberton is staying on at the farm after it’s sold. She’s a helluva good instructor, and it’d be a crime to lose her. Plus, she has an idea for a tack shop—setting it up right on the farmgrounds. Only top-grade gear—everything from boots and saddles to hats and stock-ties. It’ll be a big investment, but it’ll pay off. The kids around here have a lotta dough to spend, and Lisa—Mrs. Amberton, that is—insists they’ve gotta have the best turnout if they ride under her colors. A good tack shop will be a money-maker!”

  “Who are these kids you talk about?”

  “Local kids, crazy about riding—some talented, some not—but they’re all hell-bent on winning ribbons and working their way up to Madison Square Garden! Lisa—Mrs. Amberton—has as many as fifty in some of her classes. If you like young chicks, we’ve got ’em in all shapes and sizes.”

  “How often do they compete?”

  “Coupla times a month. Lessons three times a week. Costs them plenty, but they’ve got it to spend. There’s all kinds of money in Lockmaster.”

  Qwilleran stood up and headed for the bar. “Do it again?”

  “Sounds good,” said Steve.

  “Same way?”

  The trainer made an okay sign with his fingers.

  Koko was still staring at the visitor. Qwilleran kept the man talking and drinking, and eventually he began to fidget in his chair. “Well, whaddaya think about the farm? How does it sound, price and all?”

  “Sounds tempting,” Qwilleran said, “but first I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why did you land in Lockmaster?”

  “Tried everywhere else. Nice country up here. Good working conditions. Healthy climate. Everybody’ll tell ya that.”

  “Is it true you got into trouble Down Below?” Qwilleran asked the question in an easy conversational tone.

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “I heard some scuttlebutt about . . . illegal drugs at the racetrack.”

  Steve shrugged. “Everybody was doin’ it. I just got caught.”

  “I have a bone to pick with you,” Qwilleran said in a casual way.

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “When you were here yesterday, you shot a bird on the way out.”

  “So? Something wrong with that?”

  “We don’t shoot birds around here.”

  “Hell! You got millions more. One’ll never be missed. I can’t say no to a redbird.”

  “You seem pretty handy with a gun.”

  “Yeah, I’m a good shot, drunk or sober.” He looked up at Koko on the fireplace cube. “Sittin’ right here I could get that cat between the eyes.” He cocked a finger at Koko, who jumped to the floor with a grunt and went up the vertical loft ladder in a blur of fur—straight up to the top catwalk, ending on the railing forty feet above Steve’s head. “What’s with him?” the trainer asked.

  Qwilleran could envision an aerial attack, and he launched an attack of his own. He said calmly,

  “Were you drunk or sober when you killed VanBrook?”

  “What! Are you nuts?”

  “Just kidding,” Qwilleran said. “The police can’t come up with a suspect, and I thought you were here that night.”

  “Hell, no! I was at a wedding in Lockmaster.”

  “The party was over at midnight. You can drive up here in fifty minutes. VanBrook was killed at 3 A.M.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

  “How about another drink?” Qwilleran said amiably, standing up and ambling to the bar area. He made bartending noises with bottles and glasses as he went on talking. “You knew VanBrook was going to be here, didn’t you? You found out somehow.”

  “Me? I never knew the guy!” Now Steve was standing up and facing the bar.

  “You also knew there’d be a lot of other people here to provide a cover-up.” Qwilleran pulled a yellow slip of paper from his pocket. “Does this look familiar? It came out of your pocket, and it has directions for finding this place.”

  “You lie! I was never here before yesterday! I didn’t know the guy you’re talkin’ about.”

  “You don’t need a formal introduction when you’ve got a good motive for murder. And I happen to know your motive. I’ve also got a dead bird in a coffee can, waiting for the crime lab.”

  Hearing that, Steve pulled a gun, and Qwilleran ducked behind the bar.

  “Don’t shoot! I’ve got three witnesses upstairs!”

  There was a motionless moment as a befuddled brain wrestled with the options.

  Then came a muffled whoosh overhead. The man looked up—too late. The apple tree was dropping on him. Steve pulled the trigger, but the bullet went wild as he went down under the weighty tapestry.

  Groans came from beneath the eight-by-ten-foot textile, and a hunched body squirmed to get free. Qwilleran, rushing to the kitchen, grabbed a long, blunt object from the freezer. He gave it a mighty swing above his head and brought it down on the struggling mass. It stopped struggling.

  “Call the police!” he shouted to Eddington on the catwalk. “Call the police! Use the phone in my studio!”

  As Qwilleran guarded the silent mound under the tapestry, the bookseller trotted feebly down the ramps to the second balcony and leaned over the railing to ask in a barely audible voice, “What shall I tell them?”

  Qwilleran enjoyed excellent police protection in Pickax. If
anything were to happen to the Klingenschoen heir, his fortune would go to alternate heirs on the east coast and be lost forever to Moose County. In a matter of three minutes, therefore, two Pickax police cars and the state troopers were on the scene, and Chief Brodie himself was the first to arrive.

  Brodie said to Qwilleran, “Funny thing! Just half an hour ago an informant called us and fingered this guy. We didn’t expect to have him delivered to us . . . at least, not so soon.”

  “Who tipped you off?”

  “Anonymous caller. We gave them a code name so they can collect the reward. What was he doing here, anyway?”

  “Trying to sell me a horse farm. I might have killed him with my club if one of those apples hadn’t cushioned the blow.”

  “Club? Where is it?”

  “I put it back in the freezer.”

  Brodie grunted and gave Qwilleran the same incredulous look he bestowed on fireplaces with white smokestacks.

  “Excuse me,” said Eddington Smith. “Is it all right if I go now?”

  Qwilleran said, “Stick around for a while, Edd, and if Andy doesn’t drive you home, I will. What made you think of releasing the tapestry?”

  “The cats were pulling the corners up off the tacks, so I helped them a bit,” said the bookseller. “Did I do right?”

  “I would say you created a successful diversion.”

  Koko was back on top of the fireplace cube, hunched in his hungry pose, gazing down disapprovingly at the strangers in uniform, and probably wondering, Where’s the red salmon? Yum Yum was absent from the scene, although the two of them usually presented a united front at mealtime. In fact, it was the female—with her new assertiveness—who had recently assumed the role of breadwinner, ordering dinner with a loud “n-n-NOW!”

  As the police scoured the barn for the bullet that went wild, a chill swept over Qwilleran. Where was Yum Yum?

  “My other cat’s missing!” he yelled. “You guys look around down here! I’ll try the balconies!”

  FOURTEEN

  AFTER SEARCHING THE upper reaches of the barn, calling Yum Yum’s name and hearing no answer, Qwilleran finally spotted her on one of the radiating beams just below the roof. The gunshot had frightened her, and she was hiding in one of the angles where all eight beams met, her ears flattened like the wings of an aircraft. No amount of coaxing or endearments would convince her to come forth.

  “What can we do?” Qwilleran asked Koko, who was trotting back and forth on the beam between the cat and the man. They had to leave her huddled in her secluded corner.

  After a while the bullet was discovered in the typecase, lodged between a mouse and an owl. Only when Qwilleran boiled a frozen lobster tail did the prima donna make an appearance, ambling down the ramp with a relaxed gait as if she had spent a week at a spa.

  “Cats!” he muttered.

  He was watching them devour the lobster when the phone rang and he heard an exultant voice. “Qwill, Robbie’s going to be all right! With therapy he’ll be able to walk!”

  “That’s extremely good news, Vicki. Fiona must be greatly relieved. I was unable to reach her at the hospital.”

  “She’s here now, and she wants to talk to you.”

  “Good! Put her on.”

  “Mr. Qwilleran,” came a faltering voice, “you don’t know what I’ve just been through. I still can’t believe the doctors could save him.”

  “We were all pulling for him, Fiona.”

  “I don’t care if he’ll ever . . . ride in competition any more, but he’s promised to go back to school.”

  “That’s a plus,” Qwilleran said, adding lightly, “He may switch his interest from horses to Japanese.”

  “Mr. Qwilleran,” she said hesitantly, and it was clear she had not noticed his quip, “I have something terrible to tell you, and I . . . uh . . . don’t know how to begin.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “Well, it’s something Robbie told me before he went into surgery. The poor boy thought . . . he thought he was going to die . . .” She stopped to stifle a few whimpering sobs. “He told me he knew about . . . Mr. VanBrook’s murder . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Go on, Fiona. I think I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Then let me say it for you. VanBrook had written a will making Robin his heir. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when Robin dropped out of school, VanBrook threatened to cut him off entirely.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Qwilleran passed over her question. This part of the scenario he had only deduced, but he had been right. He went on. “Robin had the bright idea of killing VanBrook before he had a chance to rewrite his will.”

  “No! No! It wasn’t Robbie’s idea!” she cried. “But they talked about it—him and Steve. They thought they could use the money and buy the farm . . . O-h-h-h!” she wailed. “They didn’t tell me! I could have stopped it!”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Not till Robbie was . . . Not till they were wheeling him into the operating room. ‘Mommy, am I gonna die?’ he kept saying.”

  “Was Steve the shooter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Robin ride along in the van?”

  “Oh, no! He was in bed when I got back from the theatre that night. I told him I wouldn’t go to the party. I got home about one o’clock.”

  “Are you sure Robin didn’t sneak out after you returned home?”

  There was a gasp followed by a breathless silence.

  “The police have Steve in custody, Fiona.”

  She groaned. “I turned him in. Robbie begged me to. He said there was a big reward. He thought he was going to die . . .” Her voice dissolved in a torrent of sobs.

  Vicki returned to the line. “What will happen now?”

  “Robin is an accessory, but he can turn state’s evidence,” Qwilleran told her.

  Soon afterward, Arch Riker called the apple barn in high spirit. “It worked! It worked!” he said. “The reward brought in a tip to the police, and they’ve arrested the suspect. He’ll be charged with murder. And Dennis is off the hook. Tell Koko he can stop working on the case.”

  “Good,” was Qwilleran’s quiet reply.

  “It was someone from Lockmaster, just as you said from the beginning. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow. For once, something big happened on our deadline . . . You seem remarkably cool. What’s the matter?”

  “I know the story behind the story, Arch, but it’s not for publication.”

  “You rat!”

  Fran Brodie was the next to call. “Dennis is cleared!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that wonderful? . . . But I hear the apple tree came down! Shawn will rehang it tomorrow.”

  As far as Qwilleran was concerned, the VanBrook case was closed, but the Mystery Man of Moose County would remain a puzzle forever. He spent Friday with Susan and the attorney at the house on Goodwinter Boulevard, slitting red-dot boxes and shaking out the leaves of almost a thousand books.

  On Saturday he wanted Polly to fly to Chicago for a ballgame; she wanted to go birding in the wetlands. They compromised on a picnic lunch—with binoculars—on the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River. When he called for her at her carriage house shortly before noon, he was in a less than amiable mood—after an abortive bubble-blowing session with two unresponsive and ungrateful Siamese, followed by a hair-raising incident involving Yum Yum and her harness.

  On arrival, he handed Polly four clay pipes and a family-size box of soap flakes. “Now you can blow bubbles for Bootsie,” he said grumpily. “Lori Bamba says cats like to chase bubbles.”

  “Well . . . thank you,” she said dubiously. “Do yours chase bubbles?”

  “No. They don’t think they’re cats . . . What do we have to pack in the car?”

  “You take the folding table and chairs, and I’ll carry the picnic basket. Did you remember to bring your binoculars?”


  There was a maudlin scene as Polly said goodbye to Bootsie, causing Qwilleran to grumble into his moustache. Then they headed for the Ittibittiwassee—past the spot where he had fallen from his bicycle three years before, and past the ditch where his car had landed upside down the previous year.

  As they unfolded the table and chairs on a flat, grassy bank at a picturesque bend in the river, Polly said, “Look! There’s a cedar waxwing!”

  “Where?” he asked, picking up the binoculars.

  “Across the river.”

  “I don’t see it. I don’t see anything.”

  “Take the lens covers off, dear. It’s in that big bush.”

  “There are lots of big bushes.”

  “Too late. It flew away.” She was unpacking a paper tablecover and napkins. “It’s breezier than I anticipated. We may have trouble anchoring these . . . Do you like deviled eggs?”

  “With or without mashed eggshells?”

  “Really, Qwill! You’re slightly impossible today. By the way,” she added with raised eyebrows, “I hear you spent the day at the VanBrook house with Susan Exbridge yesterday.”

  “Has Dear Heart been prowling with her telescope?”

  “Quick! There’s a male goldfinch!”

  “Where?” He reached for the glasses again.

  “On that wild cherry branch. He has a lovely song, almost like a canary.”

  “I don’t hear it.”

  “He’s stopped singing.” Polly poured tomato juice into paper cups. “What were you doing at VanBrook’s house?” she persisted. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “I was helping Susan and the attorney from Lockmaster to open sealed boxes said to contain books. She’s been commissioned to liquidate the estate.”

  “And what did you find in the boxes?”

  “Books . . . but there’s also some valuable Oriental art.”

  “We were all delighted to read in the paper that he bequeathed everything to the Pickax schools . . . Help yourself to sandwiches, Qwill.”

  He loaded a limp paper plate with moist tuna sandwiches and hard-cooked eggs with moist stuffing, neither of which was compatible with an oversized moustache. “VanBrook was a complex character,” he said. “I’d like to delve into his past and write a book.”