Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"I have a dinner meeting with the library board," she said with obvious regret. "Tomorrow night... perhaps?"

"There's a funeral in Lockmaster tomorrow, so I'd better not count on dinner. The editor down there has a type collection he wants me to see."

"How about Wednesday?"

"That's the judging of the Tipsy contest. But we'll get together soon." He stood up. "I've got to get this thing home before it starts leaking."

"What is it?"

"A frozen rabbit from Toodle's. For the Siamese."

"Really? Are they eating wild game now?"

"Well, they like venison and pheasant, and when they started knocking the rabbit out of my typecase, I assumed they were trying to tell me something."

"Perhaps they want you to read Watership Down," she said, and it was not clear whether she was teasing or being helpful.

After two years of intimacy, during which Qwilleran had confided in Polly about Koko's uncanny modes of communication, he was still unsure whether she really believed. He sometimes suspected she humored him - going along with the gag, so to speak. Nevertheless, he took her suggestion and checked out Watership Down from the library's fiction room. He had read it before, and it merited being read aloud.

At the apple barn he was greeted vociferously by his housemates, who showed no interest in the package from the butcher but plenty of interest in the library book. Either they knew it was all about rabbits, or they knew it had been previously borrowed by subscribers who lived with pets. He tossed the frozen rabbit into the freezer and invited the Siamese to join him for a read in the library area. Here were deep-cushioned lounge chairs in pale taupe leather, arranged around one wall of the fireplace cube. White lacquered shelves were loaded with old books. Over the white lacquered desk hung the printer's typecase, its eighty-nine compartments half-filled with old type-blocks.

"Is everyone comfortable?" Qwilleran asked as he opened the book. His feet were on the ottoman, Yum Yum was on his lap, and Koko made a comfortable bundle at his elbow. No sooner had he read the first sentence, which consisted of only four words, than the telephone rang. Grumbling mildly, he disturbed his listeners and went to the desk to take the call.

"Hello... Is this... uh, Mr. Qwilleran?" asked a.. wavering voice.

"Yes."

"This is Fiona in Lockmaster - Fiona Stucker."

"Of course. I recognized your voice," he said. "I'm sorry about Saturday night, but we were all upset about Mrs. Inglehart, and it was hardly an occasion for celebration."

"Ummm... yes, it's too bad. She was a nice old lady."

"Are you going to the funeral tomorrow?"

"I don't think so. I have to work."

There was an awkward pause during which Qwilleran heard voices in the background. He said, "How does Robin feel about being a winner?"

"He's all excited. He's only seventeen, you know."

There was another pause, and Qwilleran filled in with the usual pleasantry. "How's the weather down there? It's a beautiful day in Pickax."

"It's nice here, too."

Employing his professional escape clause he said, "I'm sorry our conversation will have to be brief, but I have a newspaper deadline."

"Oh. I'm sorry," she said. "Steve wanted me to call you about something."

"In connection with what?"

"Ummm... would you like to... buy a horse farm?"

"A horse farm!"

"There's one for sale. He says it's a good bet."

"I'm afraid that's not my kind of venture, Fiona."

"It's the Amberton farm. Steve is stablemaster, you know, and Robbie works there."

"I know, but - "

"He gave me a list of things to tell you. Want me to read them?"

"Go ahead."

Koko was on the desk, standing on his hind legs and reaching for the typecase. Qwilleran pushed him away, at the same time listening attentively as Fiona read:

"Sixty-eight acres, one-third wooded. All pastures fenced. Eight horses, including Son of Cardinal. Stables for twenty. Twelve horses now being boarded. Restored seventy-year-old farmhouse with all improvements, worth four hundred thousand. Swimming pool. Guest house. Historic barn on property."

Somewhat awed by this recital, Qwilleran failed to notice Koko's stealthy return to the desk until a typeblock was spirited out of its niche, landing on the telephone book and bouncing to the floor. Mention of the historic barn prompted him to ask, "Is the farm a going business or just a hobby for the owners?"

"Steve says it makes money. They breed horses and train them, and board horses for people, and give riding lessons."

Wild fantasies were racing through Qwilleran's head. "Is it on the market yet? Is it listed with a broker?"

"Not yet. Mr. Amberton wants to try selling it first. Steve says he has a couple of leads."

"I'd like to speak with Amberton."

"He's in Arizona. Steve drove him to the airport yesterday, but he has all the information - Steve, I mean - if you want to talk to him."

"Is he there? Let me speak with him."

"He's... no, he's at the farm, but - uh - he'd be glad to come up and see you. Wednesday is his day off."

"Okay. Wednesday afternoon," Qwilleran said. "Tell him to come equipped with facts and figures."

"Ummm... could I come with him and bring Robbie? I'd like you to meet Robbie."

"All right. Make it about one-thirty." Qwilleran hung up the phone slowly and thoughtfully, telling himself, This is insane! And yet... he had lived in Pickax for four years, and he was becoming restless. As a journalist Down Below he had lived the life of a gypsy, switching newspapers, moving from city to city, seeking challenges, accepting new assignments. His present circumstances required him to live in Moose County for five years or forfeit the Klingenschoen inheritance. He had one more year to go...

"What do you think about this, Koko?" he asked the cat, who was sitting nearby with his ears cocked and his tail flat out on the floor.

"Yow!" said Koko.

Absentmindedly, automatically, Qwilleran picked up the scattered typeblocks. There were now three on the floor. One was the rabbit. One was a skunk. The other was a horse's head.

-11-

Driving south to Lockmaster for Grummy's funeral on Tuesday morning, Qwilleran crossed the county line into horse country with its hilly pastureland, picturesque fences, and well-kept stables. Horses were being exercised. Riders were practicing jumps. A large recreation vehicle was pulling away from a posh farmhouse, drawing a horse trailer. One could adapt to that kind of life, he thought: horse shows, equitation events, steeplechasing, show jumping, carriage driving.

The funeral services were held in an impressive brick church overlooking Inglehart Park on the riverbank, after which Qwilleran drove to the cemetery with the MacDiarmids.

"Grummy was the last Inglehart around here," said Kip. "The others are scattered allover the country. We seem to have a big population turnover - old families moving out, new ones moving in. The equestrian environment attracts them."

"Do you consider Lockmaster a good place to live?" Qwilleran asked.

"Are you thinking of moving down here?" the editor countered. "If so, we've got a place for you at the paper. We'll put your column on page one."

The cemetery was an old one located on a wooded hill, and Grummy was laid to rest in a large family plot dominated by an Inglehart monument befitting a founder of the town. At the instant of interment her Bird Club associates released Bights of doves, and the mourners raised their heads and watched them disappear into the sky.

"I'm sorry I knew her such a short time," Qwilleran said. "She might have converted me to birding. No one else has succeeded."

On the way back to town, Kip pointed out big-name horse farms, the Riding and Hunt Club, kennels of the Lockmaster Hounds, the Foxhunters' Club, and other points of interest related to the local passion. Moira sat quietly alongside him in a pensive mood.