Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"Does he know you're delivering merchandise?"

"No, but Dear Heart will see that he finds out. Actually, Qwill, Dad and I haven't been on good terms since I moved into my apartment."

"Too bad. Sorry to hear it." Fran parked in the rear of the house, and they started to unload. The interior was similar to others on Goodwinter Boulevard: large, square rooms with high ceilings, connected by wide arches; heavy woodwork in a dark varnish; a ponderous staircase lavished with carving and turnings; tall, narrow windows. But instead of the usual heirloom furniture and elaborate wallcoverings, the main rooms were white-walled and sparsely furnished with tatami floor matting, low Oriental tables, and floor cushions. There were a few pieces of porcelain, two Japanese scrolls, and a folding screen decorated with galloping fat-rumped horses. The only false note was the use of heavy draperies smothering the windows.

Fran explained, "Hilary was replacing the draperies with shoji screens so he could have light as well as privacy. He was quite secretive about his life- style."

"How could he live like this?" Qwilleran himself required large, comfortable chairs and a place to put his feet up.

"I believe he slept on a futon down here, but he said he had a study upstairs as well as rooms for books and hobbies."

Hobbies! Qwilleran found himself speculating wildly. "Okay if I look around?"

"Sure, go ahead," she said. "I'll be opening the cartons and putting each screen where it belongs. They were all custom-made, you know. We're talking about ten thousand dollars here, and God knows how long we'll have to wait to collect."

Qwilleran walked slowly up the impressive staircase, thinking about the ninety thousand books Compton had mentioned. He wondered if the collection included City of Brotherly Crime. He wondered if the books were catalogued. When he started opening doors, however, his hopes wilted; the books had never been unpacked. He went from room to room and found hundreds of sealed cartons of books - or so they were labeled.

Only one room was organized enough to have bookshelves, and they covered four walls. This was evidently the principal's study, having a desk, lounge chair, reading lamp, and stereo system. As for the volumes on the shelves, they expressed VanBrook's eclectic tastes: Eastern philosophy, Elizabethan drama, architecture, Oriental art, eighteenth- century costume, Cantonese cookery, botany - but nothing on urban crime.

The desktop in this hideaway had an excessive tidiness reflecting the influence of the Japanese style downstairs. A brass paperknife in the shape of a Chinese dragon was placed precisely parallel to the onyx-base pen set. The telephone was squared off with the lefthand edge of the desk, and a brass-bound box (locked) was squared off with the righthand edge. In between, in dead center, was a clean desk blotter on which lay a neat pile of letters. Apparently they had been received and opened on Saturday, at which time they were read and returned to their envelopes.

There was a muffled quiet in the study. Fran's footsteps could be heard downstairs, and occasionally the ripping of a carton. Casually, with an ear alert to the activity below, Qwilleran examined the mail. There were bills from utility companies, magazine-subscription departments, and an auto-insurance agency. There were no death threats, he was sorry to discover. But one small envelope addressed by hand had a scribble in the upper lefthand corner that piqued his curiosity: F. Stucker, 231 Fourth Street, Lockmaster. After determining that Fran was fully occupied with her screens, he gingerly drew the letter from its envelope and read the following:

Dear Mr. VanBrook - Thanks a lot for the $200. I didn't expect you to pay for my gas. It was nice of you to ask me to be in your play. But I can sure use the money. I had to buy new boots for Robbie. So thanks again. Fiona

"Two hundred bucks!" Qwilleran said softly to the surrounding bookshelves. "That faker was making five hundred on the deal!" Was petty cheating one of his "hobbies"? Qwilleran tried the desk drawers, but they were locked.

Then, as he carefully tucked the note back in its envelope, he heard a humming sound in the insulated silence. He had not heard it before. It seemed to come from the rear of the second floor, and he followed it down the hall. Ahead of him was a rosy light spilling from a doorway. He approached warily and peeked into the room. The humming came from a transformer; the ceiling was covered with a battery of rose-tinted lights, and a timer had just turned them on.

Under the lights were long tables holding trays of plants, greenhouse style, but they were beginning to wilt. Obviously no one had watered them since VanBrook's last day on earth. What were they? Qwilleran was no horticulturist, but he knew this was not Cannabis sativa. There were purple flowers among the greenery. He rubbed a leaf and smelled his fingers; there was no clue. He broke off a sprig and put it in his shirt pocket, thinking he would give Koko a sniff.

"Okay, Quill," Fran called from the foot of the stairs. "I've done all I can do. Let's go."

As they drove away from the house, with the empty cartons loaded in the van, she said, "Well, what did you think of the place?"

"Esoteric, to say the least. If the estate puts his books up for sale, I'd like to know about it. What are the plants he was growing upstairs?"

"I never saw any plants. I was never invited upstairs. When I came to measure for the screens, he gave me a cup of tea, and we sat cross-legged on the floor cushions. I sure hope Amanda can collect for those screens."

"Amanda won't let anyone cheat her, dead or alive."

"Can you stand some good news?" she asked. "Your tapestries have arrived, and we can install them tomorrow - in time for the open house!"

"How do they look?"

"I haven't opened the packages, and the suspense is killing me, but I'll wait till we deliver them."

"Need any help?"

"No, I'll bring Shawn, my installer- more brawn than brain - but what he does, he does well."

"How will you hang them?"

"With carpet tack-strips. Do you mind if we make it around five o'clock?"

Fran always made business calls to Qwilleran's residence in the late afternoon, obligating, him to offer a cocktail, which led to a dinner invitation. How did VanBrook get away with a cup of tea?... Not that Qwilleran objected to dining with his interior designer. She was good company. But Polly disapproved.

Fran dropped him at Scottie's, where he was fitted for a dark blue suit. He was to be a pallbearer at Dennis's funeral, and it occurred to him - too late - that he should have opted for a dark blue suit instead of a dinner jacket for the steeplechase party. He wondered if Scottie would take it back. It irked him to buy two of anything if one would do. Still, he decided not to suggest it. During the fitting, Scottie wanted to talk about the suicide, but Qwilleran turned him off with frowns and curt responses.

His next ,stop was the Moose County Something, and when he walked into Arch Riker's office, the publisher jumped to his feet. "Qwill! Where've you been? I heard it on the air last night and tried to reach you. Why didn't you call back? Today we're running a 'Died Suddenly,' but no one at the police department would talk to us. What happened?"

"I don't know," Qwilleran said. "Does this mean the VanBrook case is wrapped up?"

"No, it doesn't. That's definite."

"What makes you so sure? Are you getting vibrations from Koko?" Riker asked in an attempt at banter.

"The police have evidence to that effect. That's all I can say, and don't ask me how I know. But I'd like to make a suggestion, Arch."

"Let's hear it."

"I think you should run that editorial I suggested: A crime is a crime! Offer a reward of $50,000 for information regarding the shooting. It'll squelch the rumor that Dennis was a suspect, and it may help Brodie. The K Fund will cover it."