Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

Qwilleran knew the answer, but he kept her secret. He suspected she had already been downstairs, reliving her life, and was on her way up again. The memory of the telegram from the war department may have triggered the attack.

Bushy said, "You'll have to go to the club without us, Qwill. You can take the tickets and pick up Fiona."

"No... no!" Qwilleran protested. "Not under the circumstances. I'd better pack up and drive back to Pickax.

You'll be busy for the next few days."

"The funeral will probably be Tuesday."

Vicki said to her husband, "Would you call Fiona and break the news? I can't talk to anyone about it - yet. Ask her if she wants to use the tickets."

Qwilleran went upstairs and packed the dinner jacket he had never worn and the blue cushion the cats had not used. Then he said a somber farewell to his stunned and saddened hosts. "We'll talk about this another time," he said, "after the shock has worn off. She was a grand and glorious Grummy."

Bushy said forlornly, "Bring the cats again some weekend, Qwill. We'll give it another try."

Qwilleran drove away - up the avenue of giant gingerbread houses - thinking about the last twenty-four hours. The Siamese, knowing they were on the way home, snoozed peacefully in their carrier, leaving him free to think about many things. He had explored a new city, experienced his first steeplechase, met a fellow journalist, witnessed the swansong of a gallant old lady, and discovered the bearded man who had evidently captivated Polly. He stroked his moustache in wonderment as he drove. She had always disliked beards and avoided anyone from the sporting world. It also puzzled him how she had managed to buy that bright blue dress without his knowledge; she usually consulted him on the rare occasions when she went shopping for something to wear.

Yet, the most amazing discovery of the weekend was the diffident little woman who had been transformed into the regal Katharine on stage. VanBrook had endowed her with a completely new persona for the duration of the play. She moved like a queen; she projected her voice; she actually looked taller. Offstage she reverted to nervous mannerisms, anxious glances, and shy conversation, but for a few hours she had been VanBrook's creation. His failure to fashion Robin in his own image must have been a vexing disappointment.

There were other questions Qwilleran wanted to ask Fiona: Did VanBrook ever talk about his past Down Below or in Asia? Was his Lockmaster house furnished in the Japanese style? Did he cultivate an indoor garden, and if so, what did he grow? Why did he wear turtlenecks all the time? Was he hiding something? A scar perhaps. Did he ever unpack all his books? After four years in Pickax the majority were still in cartons. And there were other questions of a more personal nature that might be asked.

When Qwilleran reached the Moose County line, his watch said seven o'clock. The Living Barn Tour would be over. He hoped the interior would not look like a bus terminal on Sunday morning. Undoubtedly his answering machine would be jammed with messages, which he would ignore until Monday; there was no reason to explain his premature return to the world at large. His only call would be to Polly. He would tell her about the death in the family, and then he would say, "I stopped in the library and met your friend Shirley. She inquired about Bootsie and showed me the wedding pictures. There were a couple of candids of you in a blue dress that I've never seen." And then he would say, "I met some interesting individuals down there. One was a horse trainer - an amiable fellow with a red beard. His name was Steve something or other." After a moment's pause her reaction would be a nonchalant, "Oh, really?"

This entertaining scenario occupied his attention until he arrived at Trevelyan Trail. Mr. O'Dell had installed a new mailbox. The driveway was graded and graveled. In the orchard the debris left from the storm had been removed. Inside the barn there was no indication that half of Pickax had tramped through the place, but the Siamese knew that five hundred strangers had been there. With inquisitive noses they inspected every inch of the main floor.

Meanwhile, Qwilleran phoned Polly and received no answer. She might be having dinner with her widowed sister-in-law. He called back at nine o'clock and again at eleven. No answer. Most unusual! Polly never stayed out late when she was driving alone. Weary after his eventful visit to Lockmaster, he retired early but was slow in falling asleep. Polly's absence worried him.

On Sunday morning he called her number again. It was the hour when she would be feeding Bootsie and preparing poached eggs for her own breakfast. The phone rang twelve times before he hung up. This was disturbing. He began to fear she had arranged a date with Redbeard. The trainer could have left Lockmaster after the fifth race and reached Pickax in an hour. Qwilleran put on a jacket and went for a brisk walk on the pretext of picking up the Sunday papers. Detouring down Goodwinter Boulevard, he noted that Polly's car was not parked in its accustomed place; she might have driven to meet the man at some out-of-the-way rendezvous.

Polly and Qwilleran had been close friends for two years, sharing confidences, giving each other priority, consulting on every question that arose. And now she had bought a dress of strikingly different style and color without mentioning it. There was a possibility that her good friend Shirley had arranged to pair her with Redbeard at the wedding reception. There was no knowing what those two women talked about when they were together! It seemed significant that Shirley, when asked about the fellow photographed with Polly, had forgotten his name!

Systematically, Qwilleran reviewed the evidence: Polly canceled a dinner date at Tipsy's the day after the wedding, claiming to be tired. She was secretive about the mysterious phone call that came to her office. She had been to the hairdresser twice in less than a week - after a lifetime of washing and setting her own hair. Everything pointed to a rift in their intimate relationship. True, the last two years had seen ups and downs, tiffs and misunderstandings, but only because Polly was inclined to be jealous of the women he met in the course of everyday life.

Feeling frustrated and perhaps a trifle lonely, Qwilleran called Susan Exbridge to inquire about the barn tour.

"Darling, it was magnificent!" she cried. "Everyone loved everything!"

"I called to compliment you on leaving the place in perfect condition, but can you explain why I smelled apple pie when I walked in?"

"Did you like it? We simmered apples and cinnamon on the range all day. The Mayfus Orchard donated seven bushels of apples, and every guest was invited to take one. How was your weekend?"

"Pretty good. Were there any momentous local happenings while I was away?"

"Only an editorial in the Something, offering a huge reward for information on the VanBrook murder. I hope something develops to exonerate Dennis soon. You know, Qwill, I spent a lot of time and pulled a lot of strings in order to introduce that boy to Moose County's finest families - hoping to get him some jobs -and it will reflect on me if he turns out to be a murderer."

His next call was to Arch Riker at the publisher's apartment in Indian Village. "I hear you ran the editorial and offered the reward, Arch. Get any response?"

"Two, only. The city desk got a call from a crackpot who's always calling the paper. They know her voice. They call her Dear Heart. First she accused Lyle Compton. Her second choice was Larry Lanspeak. Take your pick... Then there was a tip that involved a member of our own staff."

"Who?" Qwilleran's mind raced through the roster of employees.

"Dave Landrum."

"Dave! He was in Lockmaster at a wedding Saturday night, I happen to know. That's why Roger took the night shift. How did they try to connect Dave with the case?"