Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"Have the police knocked on your door?" Qwilleran asked.

"Not yet. Have you talked to anyone?"

"Larry. He worries that someone in the club is guilty, but I think he's wrong." Qwilleran patted his moustache.

"Do you know something that the rest of us don't know?"

"I have a hunch, that's all."

Qwilleran's hunches were always accompanied by a tingling in the roots of his moustache, something he could not explain and refused to discuss. His years on the police beat Down Below, coupled with a natural curiosity, had given him an interest in criminal investigation, and when he was on the right scent there was always that reassuring sensation on his upper lip.

At Tipsy's the food was served by plump, bustling, jolly, gray-haired women who admonished diners to eat everything on their plates.

Qwilleran said to Hixie, "Where do they get all these clones to wait on table? I suppose they advertise: WANTED: Plump, jolly, gray-haired waitpersons with bustling experience. Grandmothers preferred."

They ordered steak - and whatever happened to come with it. Over the bean soup Hixie said, "I have something exciting to discuss."

"Okay. Let's have it." Hixie's ideas were always novel and usually successful, except when they involved Koko; he declined to do TV commercials or endorse a line of frozen gourmet catfoods. It was she, however, who delighted local readers by naming the new newspaper the Moose County Something, and it was Hixie who convinced Dennis Hough to advertise his new construction firm as "Huff & Puff Construction Associates."

"First, have you seen the announcement of my new contest?" she asked.

"Yes. What gave you the idea?"

"Well, you see, Qwill, I drive around the county selling ads, and I see black- and-white cats by the thousand! People seem to think they're all descended from Tipsy. So I thought, Why not a Tipsy Look-Alike Contest? The Kennebeck Chamber of Commerce jumped at the opportunity! They're printing posters and T-shirts."

"And the Something is selling some extra advertising space," Qwilleran added.

"Of course! We have a good slogan. The original Tipsy, you know, was a very sweet cat as well as comic-looking, so our slogan is 'Sweeter and Funnier.' How do you like it?"

"It may be just what this county needs. Are you getting any entries?"

"Hundreds!" The steaks arrived, and the conversation switched to food - also office gossip at the Something and the open house at Qwilleran's barn.

When the waitress served the bread pudding, he said, "One thing puzzles me. How will you judge the Tipsy contest?"

"Glad you asked, Qwill. People are sending in snapshots of their cats, and we'll narrow them down to the fifty best look-alikes. They'll come to Kennebeck for the final judging, and I'm hoping you'll be one of the judges."

"Hold on, Hixie!" he said. "You know I like to cooperate, but I would rather not have to judge fifty live cats."

"Your name on the panel will add a lot of prestige to the contest," she said, "and Lyle Compton has agreed to judge."

"Our school superintendent will do anything for public exposure. He might want to run for governor some day. Who else is on the panel?"

"Mildred Hanstable."

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. Roger MacGillivray's newly widowed mother-in-law was one of his favorite women - and an excellent cook. He said, "All right. It's a foul prospect, but I'll do it."

Over the coffee, Hixie broached the subject of the murder again. "Hilary was infuriatingly uncooperative when I was trying to get publicity for Henry VIII. And everyone I talk to harbors some grudge against the guy."

"He's hurt someone more deeply than we know," Qwilleran said. "There are dark corners of his life that he's kept secret."

"Do you think it could be drug- related?"

"Not likely, although I'm sure the idea of a high school principal as drug dealer appeals to your imagination. Moose County has always been pretty clean; that's one. advantage to living in the boondocks. We have an alcohol problem, but that's all - as yet."

"The sheriff's helicopter is always hovering over those desolate stretches between Chipmunk and Purple Point."

"They're looking for poachers, not marijuana plantings. What does Gary Pratt think about it? Do you still see a lot of Gary?"

"Not lately," Hixie said. "He's such a hairy ape, and since meeting Dennis I realize I go for clean-cut."

Qwilleran assumed his uncle role again. "I hope you know Dennis is happily married, Hixie. Don't walk into any more disappointments. He has a bright two- year-old who looks just like him, and his wife's trying to sell the house in St. Louis so the family can be together up here."

"She's not trying very hard," was Hixie's flippant retort. "Dennis says she doesn't want to live four hundred miles north of everywhere." She turned serious. "I don't know whether this means anything, Qwill, but... I tried to call Dennis this morning after I heard the news on the radio, and he wasn't there. I got a recorded message."

"He was probably sleeping and didn't want to be disturbed," Qwilleran suggested. "None of us got much sleep last night."

"But I looked out the window at the carport, and his assigned parking space was empty."

"He might have gone home with someone. Did that occur to you?"

"I don't think he did. This afternoon, when his van was still missing, I mentioned it to the manager, and this is what she told me: According to the nightman at the gate, Dennis left before daybreak, right after he came in. He didn't say anything, but he looked worried, and he drove away from the gate very fast and turned onto the highway with tires squealing."

-3-

Returning home from Tipsy's restaurant Sunday night, Qwilleran stepped on a small object in the foyer and kicked another one in front of the schrank. A third turned up under a rug. They were metal engravings mounted on wooden blocks - printing memorabilia that he had started to collect. In embarking on a new hobby, he had also provided a pastime for the Siamese: stealing typeblocks from the typecase where they were displayed. This time they had filched small cuts of a fish, a rabbit, and a rooster. Either the subject matter was appealing, or the blocks were the right size for a playful paw.

As Qwilleran entered the barn, the light on his answering machine was flashing, and he pressed the button to hear a brief recorded message from Polly: "Qwill, I arrived home from Lockmaster later than I planned. Don't call me back tonight. I'm very tired, and I'm going to bed early."

There were no intimate expressions of affection included in the message; Polly, he concluded, must be very tired, indeed. After brunch at the Palomino Paddock what else had she been doing?

He himself felt in high gear despite his fifteen minutes of sleep the night before. He was stimulated by the puzzle confronting Chief Brodie, although he had no intention of meddling in the case. His friend would not appreciate suggestions from an amateur investigator. While working the police beat Down Below Qwilleran had written a book on urban crime, now out of print, but it hardly entitled him to advise a pro like Brodie.

He prepared a cup of coffee and carried it to a comfortable chair, propping his feet on an ottoman. Yum Yum promptly took possession of his lap, and Koko assumed an attentive position at his feet. They were ready for some quality time.

"Well," he began, "what we have here is the kind of criminal case that is solved immediately - or never. What's your guess?"

Koko blinked his eyes, a signal that Qwilleran interpreted as "no opinion." Cats, he recalled, were never interested in generalities.

"I don't buy the theory that it was an inside job," he went on, grooming his moustache, "although I don't know why I feel that way. If Brodie expends too much time and effort in hounding the members of the club, he's wasting his time."