Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"I hope you're right, Qwill." He declined her invitation to have a microwaved sub in the staff lounge and left to complete his errands. At the post office he picked up his mail and told them to hold future deliveries until the battered mailbox could be repaired.

"Kids out your way must be bashing mailboxes with ball bats again," the clerk guessed.

"Looks like it," Qwilleran said. Other postal patrons were picking up their mail or buying stamps, and most were standing around in neighborly huddles, discussing the murder. They lowered their voices or changed the subject when they caught sight of Mr. Q.

By the time he arrived home the official cars were thinning out, but the photographer's van was still there. "How's it going?" he asked Bushy.

The photographer was packing up his gear. "Wait'll you hear what happened! Remember how the cats behaved when you brought them to my studio for portraits "last year?"

z"I remember. They wouldn't leave their carrying coop," Qwilleran recalled. "I drove one hundred twenty miles round trip, and we couldn't get them out of their carrier even with a can opener."

"Well, today it was different. They wanted to be in every picture! Every time I set up a shot, one of them was right there! I shot the kitchen, and they were both perched on the circular stairs. Whichever way I aimed the camera, there was a cat sitting on a railing or climbing a ladder."

"I should have locked them up," said Qwilleran. "Cats are perverse. They figure out what you want and then do the opposite."

"What's the difference? These photos are only for insurance purposes, aren't they? It'll look as if you've got twenty cats, that's all."

Qwilleran watched the photographer pack, marveling how much equipment can be fitted into a small case where there is a place for everything.

"Now I'm ready for that coffee," Bushy said.

"Would you like a drink of Scotch and a bowl of chili first?"

"Sure would, but I'd rather have wine if you've got it."

"Name it, and we have it. This is the best bar outside of the Shipwreck Tavern. I have thirsty friends."

"And you never touch a drop," the photographer marveled. "How come?"

"Let's just say that I paid my dues when I was young and reckless, and I dropped out of the club ten years ago."

The two men sank into leather chairs with wide arms, deep seats, and welcoming cushions - near the book-shelves and the printer's typecase.

"You've got a nice setup," Bushy said. "You've really got space. We have, too, but it's all cut up into rooms. I see you collect old printing stuff. I have a friend - the editor of the Lockmaster Logger - who collects typefaces and old advertising posters. He has a playbill from Ford's Theatre dated April 14, 1865 - the night Lincoln was assassinated."

The Siamese, aware that chili was in the offing, made a sudden appearance and settled on the ottoman.

Bushy said, "I'd still like to photograph those two characters in my studio. There's a market for cat photos right now. Now that they know me, perhaps we could try it again. Would you like to bring them down to Lockmaster once more?"

"I'm willing to give it another shot," Qwilleran said. "Have you ever been to our famous steeplechase?"

"No. Horse racing never appealed to me. I'm no gambler. If I put out a dollar I expect a dollar's worth in return."

"This is different. It's like a big picnic, with horses jumping over hedges, and hounds baying, and carriages on parade. Here's what I thought: The September steeplechase is next weekend. Bring the cats down and stay at our house. We have lots of room. The cats can prowl around and get used to the studio."

"I'll have to think about that," Qwilleran said, "but I appreciate the invitation."

"There's a party Saturday night after the races, and on Sunday a lot of us go to brunch at the Palomino Paddock."

"I've heard about the brunch. My friend Polly was there yesterday."

"I know. I saw her there, and she was really enjoying herself. She was at the wedding reception, too - living it up. They had a terrific buffet and an open bar. You should have been there, Qwill." Bushy was talkative by nature, and a glass of burgundy enhanced this propensity. His range of topics covered his new boat, fishing conditions at Purple Point, his wife's disappointment at being childless, and the problems of living in a century-old house. Qwilleran was a good listener; he never knew when he might glean a tidbit for his column.

Just as Bushy was telling about his wife's grandmother, who lived with them, a sudden impulse triggered the Siamese and catapulted them off the ottoman, round and round the fireplace cube, up the ramp, spiraling toward the roof, racing across the beams, leaping from catwalk to balcony, pounding down the ramp with thundering paws, then swooping to the main level, landing on the ottoman, where they came to a sudden stop and licked their fur. Time: thirty-five seconds.

"What was that all about?" asked the stunned photographer.

"I think they're telling me to go to the steeplechase. I accept your invitation."

After the bowls of chili (hot) and coffee (strong), Qwilleran helped carry the photographic equipment to the van, and Bushy asked, "What are you going to do with your orchard? It's pretty well shot."

"I'll clear out the dead trees and plant something else," said Qwilleran.

"You could make it a bird sanctuary. Keep those berry bushes and wild cherries and plant some cedars and maples and things like that. Our yard is a conference center for birdlife. Vicki's grandmother is a nut about birds."

Qwilleran returned indoors to ask the Siamese if they were in favor of a bird sanctuary and was greeted by Koko in his impertinent pose: legs splayed, head cocked, tail crooked.

"You scoundrel!" Qwilleran said as he picked up the printing blocks scattered around the floor. This time he found a squirrel, a rabbit, an eagle, and a seahorse, two of them hidden under rugs, a trick he attributed to Yum Yum. They're both bored, he thought. "Would anyone like to go for an outing?" he asked.

When he produced the harnesses and jingled them invitingly, Yum Yum promptly disappeared, but Koko was ready for action. Harnessed and leashed and perched on Qwilleran's shoulder, he was soon riding toward the mailbox on the highway. Qwilleran avoided the rutted trail and waded through the weeds in the orchard. Small birds landed on the tips of tall grasses and bounced them up and down, and he could feel Koko's body trembling.

Toward the end of the property the cat struggled to get down. Was this the spot where the killer parked his truck or van? More likely, Qwilleran concluded, there was an abandoned bird's nest in the grass. Some nest builders, Polly had told him, are groundlings.

Arriving at the highway, he allowed Koko to walk, and the cat investigated tire tracks on the pavement and pebbles on the shoulder. The crime lab had removed the mailbox for analysis, but Koko found a piece of glass they had overlooked. A fragment of a headlight? Or a shard from a whiskey bottle aimed at the mailbox by a Saturday-night carouser?

Whatever it is, Qwilleran said to himself, we're staying out of this case. Yet, Koko was tugging on the leash urgently. He was tugging toward the south - the direction in which the last vehicle had turned after the fateful party.

-5-

The day after Qwilleran accepted Bushy's invitation to the steeplechase, the sun was shining; the weather prediction was favorable; the Siamese were well and happy. Yet, he greeted the day with a mild depression. The triangular windows in the upper walls of the apple barn were performing their usual magic, throwing geometric patches of sunlight about the interior. As the earth turned, those distorted triangles of warmth and brightness moved from place to place, confusing the Siamese, who were always attracted to cozy spots. Ordinarily, Qwilleran was fascinated by this slow-motion minuet of sunsplashes, but on this day he was nagged by a vague uneasiness.