Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"How are the cats doing?" Bushy asked.

"They've commandeered the bed, and I may have to spend the night on the window seat."

Vicki said, "Grummy is looking forward so much to meeting you, Qwill. She's a sweet old lady, just turned eighty-eight. When my parents retired to Arizona for Dad's health, Grummy deeded this house to Bushy and me, with no strings attached."

"How do you take care of such a big place?"

"I have part-time help. Once upon a time they had a housekeeper, cook, two maids, houseman, gardener, and a driver to take care of the horses and drive the family to church in the carriage."

"They didn't have any riding mowers or leaf-vacuums in those days," Bushy put in.

"And no microwaves or food processors," Vicki added. "Would you like to bring the cats down now, Qwill?"

"I think they should make their formal debut tomorrow morning," he said, "when there are no strangers around. You remember their behavior the last time we were here. I don't want to be embarrassed again."

"Whatever you think best. By the way, Grummy won't join us for cocktails. She'll come down for dinner at seven and won't stay long. She tires easily. We installed an elevator for her - velvet walls and a needlepoint bench - tiny, but she loves it."

Bushy interrupted. "Vicki, did I tell you that Fiona called?"

"No. What's happened this time?" she said with exasperation.

"She and Steve will be a little late. He got tied up at the track."

"Well, I'm serving exactly at seven, regardless. We can't keep Grummy waiting. It seems to me that Steve is always getting tied up. He's probably sleeping one off."

"Give him a break!" her husband said. "All kinds of emergencies come up before a race."

At that point the doorbell rang, and the editor and his wife arrived. They were introduced as Kip and Moira MacDiarmid.

"Spelled M-a-c-capital D-i-a-r-m-i-d," said Moira.

"I know how to spell a good Scottish name like that. My mother was a Mackintosh. The question is: Do you know how to spell Qwilleran?"

"With a QW!" they said in unison.

"We always read you in the Something," the editor explained. "Don't tell your publisher I said so, but your column's the best thing in the whole paper! I wish you were writing for us."

"Make me an offer," Qwilleran said genially.

"I'm sure we couldn't afford you."

"Aren't you the collector of old typefaces? I picked up a few items at the Goodwinter sale this spring."

"So did I. Do you go in for book type or jobbing faces?"

"Mostly I'm interested in small mounted cuts of animals that will fit into a typecase, but I have a modest assortment of fat-face caps, like Ultra Bodoni. What's your specialty?"

"Book faces. I just acquired some 1923 Erasmus, the most beautiful typeface ever designed. I'd like to show you my collection some day."

"Be happy to see it." Moira said to Qwilleran, "Bushy tells us you've converted a barn."

"Yes, an octagonal apple barn, more than a hundred years old. The orchard is defunct, but the barn is in good shape."

"We ran a couple of pieces on the Orchard Incident," said Kip. "What's happening to the investigation? We have a morbid interest in the victim, you know. All the time VanBrook was principal here he was a thorn in everyone's side."

"That's a delicate way of putting it," said Moira with a smirk.

Kip explained, "My wife was president of the PTA during his reign of terror. Actually, though, he did great things for the school system. He was some kind of genius, but an odd duck."

Qwilleran agreed. "I'd like to write a biography of that guy, if I could unearth some of his secrets. The Mystery Man of Moose County, I'd call it."

"If you do, come down here and we'll tell you sometales that will make your blood boil."

At that moment the doorbell rang, and the couple who entered gave Qwilleran a mild shock. First to walk into the foyer was Fiona Stucker, who had played the role of Queen Katharine with such regal poise and forceful emotion. She was small; she was mousy; she extended a limp hand and smiled shyly. She had large eyes, but they were filled with anxiety. He remembered her eyes; with stage makeup they had been her most compelling feature.

Behind her was a man introduced as Steve O'Hare. Qwilleran took one look at him and thought, It's Redbeard! And he's still wearing the green plaid coat! So this was the "horsey friend" who had attached himself to Polly at the wedding festivities!

"Glad to meetcha," said the man with a hearty hand-grip.

It was too hearty, Qwilleran thought. He disliked him on sight. Nevertheless he said politely, "I hear you're involved in the 'chase tomorrow. What's your responsibility.

"I'm just a stable bum," Redbeard replied with a grin.

"On the contrary," Bushy said, "Steve's a very good trainer."

Fiona piped up in her small voice, "He trained the horse Robbie's riding tomorrow. Robbie's my son."

"I understand he's riding Son of Cardinal," Qwilleran said, glad that he'd done his homework. "Does he have a chance to win?"

"Absolutely!" said the trainer, and he turned away to sneeze.

Someone said, "If you sneeze on it, it's true."

Turning to Fiona Qwilleran said, "Let me compliment you, Ms. Stucker, on your dynamic performance in Henry VIII."

"Ummm... thank you," she said, somewhat flustered. "I guess you saw the play."

"I saw it twice, and I was greatly impressed by your voice quality and the depth of your emotion, especially in your scene with Cardinal Wolsey... Did you see the play, Steve?"

"Naw, I'm not much for that kind of entertainment."

"Did your son see it?" Qwilleran asked Fiona.

"Ummm... No, he was working. He... uh... works with Steve. At the stables, you know. Amberton Farm.

"We have twenty horses," the trainer said. "We're up at five in the morning- feeding, watering, grooming, mucking, and exercising the nags. And that's seven days a week! Plus training sessions. No end to it! But I wouldn't want to do anything else." He sneezed again, and Fiona handed him a tissue.

Bushy announced, "Last call for a quickie from the bar. We're calling Grummy in a few minutes."

"Shall I go up and get her?" Moira volunteered.

"Better not. She likes to feel independent, and she likes to make a grand entrance."

"She descends in her electronic chariot like a goddess from Olympus," said the editor.

"That's right!" said Vicki as she moved toward the intercom. "Some old folks resent new technology, but not Grummy!... Fiona, would you help me a bit in the kitchen?" She spoke to the box on the wall. "Grummy, dear, dinner is served."

The party swallowed their drinks quickly and sauntered to the far end of the foyer where the elevator was located. A light on the touch plate indicated that the car was in operation. It descended slowly. The door opened sedately. Qwilleran found himself holding his breath in anticipation.

-9-

Qwilleran stood in the foyer of the grand old Inglehart house and waited - along with the other guests - for the elevator door to open. Never having known his own grandparents, he felt drawn to anyone over seventy-five years of age, and in this northern region, where many lived to be a hundred, he had met many memorable oldsters.

The elevator door opened sedately, and a distinguished-looking, white-haired woman in a floor-length hostess gown of wine red velvet stepped from the car, leaning on two ivory-headed canes yellow with age. She moved slowly, but her posture was erect. Seeing the waiting audience, she inclined her head graciously toward each one until she caught sight of Qwilleran in the background.

"And this is Mr. Qwilleran!" she exclaimed in a cultivated voice that had become tremulous with the years. She had a handsome face for a woman nearing ninety, like fine-lined porcelain, with kind, blue eyes and thin lips accustomed to smiling. No eyeglasses, Qwilleran noted. He guessed that Grummy would have the latest in contact lenses.