Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

-6-

Dennis Hough - creator of the spectacular barn renovation and darling of the Theatre Club - had let himself into the apple barn Tuesday afternoon, using the hidden key. Then he climbed to the upper balcony, threw a rope over a beam, and jumped from the railing.

Brodie himself responded when Qwilleran made his grisly discovery and called the police. The chief strode into the barn saying, "What did I tell you? What did I tell you? This is the man who killed VanBrook. He couldn't live with himself!"

"You've got it wrong," Qwilleran said. "Let me play you a tape. Dennis arrived at his apartment early Sunday morning, following the party, and checked his answering machine for messages. This is what he heard."

There followed a woman's voice, bitter and vindictive. "Don't come home, Dennis! Not ever! I've filed for divorce. I've found someone who'll be a good daddy for Denny and a real husband for me. Denny doesn't even know you any more. There's nothing you can say or do, so don't call me. Just stay up north and have your jollies."

Qwilleran said, "Do you want to hear it again?"

"No," Brodie said. "How did you get this?"

"I had access to his apartment, just as he had access to this barn. I found the message this afternoon and taped it to disprove your theory. Dennis didn't know he was under suspicion - or even that VanBrook had been killed, probably. He was overwhelmed by his own private tragedy."

Brodie grunted and massaged his chin. "We'll have to notify that woman as next of kin."

"I'll be willing to do it," said Qwilleran, who prided himself on his comforting and understanding manner in notifying the bereaved. He punched a number supplied by directory assistance, and when a woman's voice answered he said in his practiced tone of sincerity and concern, "Is this Mrs. Hough?" The fact that he pronounced it correctly was in his favor.

"Yes?" she replied.

"This is Jim Qwilleran, a friend of your husband, calling from Pickax - "

"I don't want to talk to any friend of that skunk!" she screamed into the phone and banged down the receiver.

Qwilleran winced. "Did you hear that, Andy?"

"Gimme the phone." Brodie punched the same number, and when she answered he said in his official monotone, "This is the police calling. Your husband is dead, Mrs. Hough. Suicide. Request directions for disposition of the: body... Thank you, ma'am."

He turned to Qwilleran. "I won't repeat what she said. The gist of it is - we can do what we please. She wants no part of her husband, dead or alive."

Qwilleran said, "His friends in the Theatre Club will handle everything. I'll call Larry Lanspeak."

"I'll take the tape," Brodie said. "Just keep it quiet. He was never declared a suspect, so there's no need to deny the rumor. Let the public think what they want; we'll continue the investigation."

While the emergency crew and medical examiner went about their work, Qwilleran notified one person about the suicide, and that was Hixie. "You'll hear it on the six o'clock news," he said. "Dennis has taken his life." He waited for her hysterical outburst to subside and then said, "Don't mention the message from his wife to anyone, Hixie. Those are Brodie's orders. When he finds the real killer, Dennis will be cleared."

At six o'clock a brief announcement on WPKX stated: "A building contractor - Dennis Hough, thirty, of St. Louis, Missouri - died suddenly today IN... a Pickax barn... he had recently... remodeled. No details... are... available." The name of the deceased was pronounced Huck. "Died suddenly" was a euphemism for suicide in the north country.

Qwilleran was loathe to imagine the anguish of his friend's private moments preceding his desperate act. He thought: If I had been here, I could have prevented it. Qwilleran's own life had once been in ruins. He knew the shock of a suddenly failed marriage, the pain of rejection, the guilt, the sense of failure, the hopelessness. He skipped dinner, finding the thought of food nauseating, and fed the Siamese in their loft apartment. Koko, who knew something extraordinary had been happening, was determined to escape and investigate, but Qwilleran brought him down with a lunging tackle.

Down on the main level he turned on the answering machine; he wished no idle gossip, no prying questions. Then he shut himself in his studio, away from the sight of those overhead beams, that fireplace cube, and those triangular windows. He tried to lose himself in the pages of a book. As he delved farther and farther into the Backhouse biography, it occurred to him that the life of the mysterious VanBrook would be equally fascinating. The mystery of the man's personality and background, whether resolved or not, would be intensified by his violent death. The search for the killer, sidetracked by false suspicions, would add another dimension of suspense.

There was a violent storm that night. Gale winds from Canada swept across the big lake and joined with heavy rain to lash the rotting apple trees. By morning, the orchard was a wreck, and Trevelyan Trail was a ribbon of mud. Qwilleran called the landscape service, requesting a clean-up crew and truckloads of crushed stone.

Then he showered and shaved in a hurry and fed the cats without ceremony. It was Wednesday, and he hoped to escape before the vigorous Mrs. Fulgrove arrived to dust, vacuum, polish, and deliver her weekly lecture. This week her topics would undoubtedly be murder and suicide, in addition to her usual tirade about the abundance of cat hair. He succeeded in avoiding her and even had time for coffee and a roll at Lois's Luncheonette before reporting to the back door of Amanda's Studio of Interior Design.

He was met by a distraught young woman. "Dad told me about it!" Fran cried. "He wouldn't discuss motive, but everyone says it means that Dennis killed VanBrook."

Irritably Qwilleran said, "What everyone in Pickax says, thinks, feels, knows, or believes is of no concern to me, Fran."

"I know how you must feel about it, Qwill. I'm distressed, too. Dennis and I worked so compatibly on the barn. I'll miss him."

"Larry is arranging the funeral. There'll be a private service in the Dingleberry chapel for a few friends, then burial next to his mother."

Fran asked, "How is Polly reacting?"

"We haven't discussed it," he said.

"Are you two getting along all right?" she asked with concern.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked sharply.

"Well, you know... she wasn't there at the barn Saturday night... and then someone saw you at Tipsy's on Sunday - with another woman, they said."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache angrily. "Okay, where are the cartons? How many do you have to deliver? Let's get the van loaded!"

On the short drive to Goodwinter Boulevard the designer said, "Hilary's neighbors will have their telescopes out. They'll be sure I'm looting a dead man's house."

"I gather that snooping is a major pastime in Pickax."

"You don't know the half of it! There are two busy-bodies who make it their lifework to spy and pry and spread rumors. But if you meet them on the post office steps, they're so sweet!"

"Who are they?"

"I'll give you a couple of clues," Fran said teasingly. "One wears a plastic rainhat even when the sun is shining, and the other calls everyone Dear Heart."

"Thanks for warning me," Qwilleran said. "Was Hilary a good customer of yours?"

"He didn't buy much, but he liked to come in to the studio and look around and tell us things that we already knew. He considered himself an authority on everything. He bought a lamp once, and we upholstered a chair for him last year, but the screens are the first big order I wrote up. And then this had to happen!"

"I suppose your father got a search warrant and went into the house."

"I don't know," she said coolly.