Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

Qwilleran phoned the board of education and made a date for noon, then called the Old Stone Mill for a reservation. Thriftily he used the phone in Amanda's Studio of Interior Design.

"Have you heard anything new?" Fran asked him when he hung up the phone. "I haven't been able to pry anything out of Dad. He isn't talking, not even to Mother, but there's an ugly rumor circulating about Dennis."

"How do these baseless rumors get started?" Qwilleran asked irritably.

"He left town suddenly."

"No doubt headed for St. Louis on family business."

"That's what I think, too, although he didn't mention it to anyone... How did the shoot turn out yesterday?"

"Pretty good, I guess. Bushy took a lot of pictures and promised to print a complete set for you. I'll see them this weekend when I go down to Lockmaster. Have you ever been to the steeplechase?"

"No, but I hear it's quite a blast." Qwilleran looked at his watch. "I'm meeting Lyle at noon. See you later."

"Wait a minute, Qwill. Want to help me make that delivery to Hilary's house tomorrow?"

"What time?"

"Is nine o'clock too early? I know you're a slow starter."

"Not on Wednesday mornings! Mrs. Fulgrove comes to dust, and I like any excuse to get out."

"Okay, then. Park behind the studio, and you can help me load the screens in the van. They're in flat cartons, large but not heavy. And," Fran added slyly, "we won't charge you for the two phone calls."

Stroking his moustache with satisfaction, Qwilleran left for lunch with a singularly buoyant step. He was going to see what was behind those drawn draperies on Goodwinter Boulevard.

The Old Stone Mill was a picturesque restaurant converted from a nineteenth- century grist mill, and its outstanding features were a six-foot-seven busboy who talked a lot and an old millwheel that turned and creaked and groaned continuously. The two men were shown to Qwilleran's favorite table: it had the best view and the most privacy and was comfortably removed from the incessant racket of the ancient wheel.

As Derek Cuttlebrink sauntered over with water pitcher and bread basket, the superintendent said with his usual cynical scowl, "Here comes our most distinguished alumnus."

"Hi, Mr. Compton," said the gregarious busboy. "Did you see me in the play?"

"I certainly did, Derek, and you were head and shoulders above all the others."

"Gee!"

"When are you going to complete your education, my boy? Or is your goal to be the oldest busboy in the forty-eight contiguous states?"

"Well, I've got this new girl that kinda likes me, and she doesn't want me to go away to college," Derek explained plausibly. "I see her three times a week. Last night we went roller skating."

The hostess, hurrying past with an armful of menu folders, nudged him. "Setups on tables six and nine, Derek, and table four wants more water."

As the busboy drifted away with his water pitcher, Compton said, "The Cuttlebrinks were the founders of the town of Wildcat, but their pioneer spirit is wearing thin. Every generation gets taller but not brighter... What looks interesting on the menu? I don't want anything nutritious. I get all that at home." The superintendent was a painfully thin man who smoked too many cigars and scoffed at vegetables and salads.

Qwilleran said, "There's a cheese and broccoli soup that's so thick you could use it for mortar. The avocado-stuffed pita is a mess to eat, but delicious. The crab Louis salad is the genuine thing."

"I'll take chili and a hot dog," Compton told the waitress... " So they finally eliminated VanBrook," he said to Qwilleran. "I always knew he'd get it some day. Too bad it happened on our territory. It makes Moose County look bad."

"If you found him so objectionable, why did you keep renewing his contract?"

"He was so damned good that he had us over a barrel.

There are devils you can live with, you know."

"What happens to his estate? Did he have any family elsewhere? "

"The only personal contact listed in his file is an attorney in Lockmaster. When the police notified me, I talked to this man and asked if there was anything we could do. He told me that Hilary had opted for cremation, with his ashes to be sent to Lockmaster. Then he asked for the name of an estate liquidator, and I referred him to Susan Exbridge."

"Hilary was a mystery man, wasn't he? I'm reading the biography of Sir Edmund Backhouse, the British sinologist, and I see a similarity: A brilliant, erudite man of astounding accomplishments but also an eccentric who doesn't fit the social norm."

"Hilary was that, all right," Compton agreed.

"Even his name rouses one's curiosity, if not suspicion."

"Hilary VanBrook was his professional name, assumed when he was acting on the New York stage. It's not the one used for social security, federal withholding, and so forth, but you have to admit it has a touch of class. His real name was William Smurple - not an auspicious name for a Broadway star."

"Or a high school principal," Qwilleran said. "I hear he claimed to speak Japanese fluently. Was that true?"

"To all appearances. We had a Japanese exchange student up here one year, and they seemed to converse glibly. So that checked out. I never had any qualms about his credibility, although I often questioned his judgment. We lost a helluva good custodian because of him, and a good janitor is a pearl beyond price. Pat O'Dell had been in the school system for forty years, and you couldn't find a more conscientious worker or more charismatic personality. He was the unofficial student counselor; the kids flocked to him for advice - a grandfather figure, you might say. Well, Hilary blew the whistle on that unorthodox arrangement! I think he was jealous of the man's popularity. At any rate, he made it so uncomfortable for old Pat O'Dell that he quit."

"What about the Toddwhistle incident?"

"Kids have been putting things on teachers' chairs and in principals' mailboxes for generations! Hilary overreacted. Now that he's gone, we'll probably give Wally a diploma, if he wants it. But I'll bet he earns more money stuffing animals than I do hiring teachers."

They ordered apple pie, and Qwilleran asked, "With all VanBrook's talents and background, why did he choose to live in remote places like Lockmaster and Pickax? Did he ever explain?"

"Yes, he did, when we first interviewed him. He said he had seen the world at its best and at its worst, and now he wanted a quiet place in which to study and meditate."

Qwilleran thought: He could be running from someone or something. He could be an upscale con man on the wanted list. His murderer could be an enemy from Down Below, settling an old score.

Compton was saying, "He claimed to have ninety thousand books in his library. He listed his major interests as architecture, horticulture, Shakespeare, and baroque music. He had three academic degrees."

"Did you verify them before hiring him?"

"Hell, no. We took him on faith, knowing what an outstanding job he'd done as principal of Lockmaster. As a matter of fact, he turned out to be so damned good for Pickax that we never crossed him. We were afraid we'd lose him."

"Well, you've lost him now," Qwilleran said.

"I hear the police are looking for your builder, and he's skipped town."

"Lyle, if I were a doctoral candidate in communications, I'd write my thesis on the Moose County rumor mill. Let me tell you something. Dennis Hough had no more motive than you or I have, and I happen to know he's on his way home to see his family Down Below."

"I hope you're right," said Compton. He lighted a cigar, and that was Qwilleran's cue to excuse himself, grabbing the check and saying he had another appointment. Actually, since giving up pipesmoking, he found tobacco fumes offensive. Yet, in the days when he puffed on a quarter-bend bulldog, he went about perfuming restaurants and offices and cocktail parties with Groat and Boddle Number Five, imported from Scotland, thinking he was.doing surrounding noses a favor.