Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"What does Koko think about all of this?" Polly asked.

"He has his own pursuits. Lately he's been chummy with a cardinal in the orchard. They commune through the window glass, and here's the astonishing thing: Last Saturday a horse named Son of Cardinal won the fifth race at the steeplechase. Is that a coincidence or not? Suppose Koko could pick winners! He'd be a very valuable animal... Did I tell you I met the woman who played in Henry VIII? She's a retiring, insecure little creature that VanBrook reshaped in the image of Queen Katharine - a Pygmalion act that must have bolstered his ego."

Qwilleran was unusually talkative, rambling from one subject to another - evidence that he had missed Polly's company more than he realized. She, on the other hand, was unusually quiet, simply asking questions.

At one point she asked, "Did you read the letter that an eleven-year-old girl wrote to the editor of the Something last week?"

"I never read anything written by eleven-year-old girls," he stated in his mock-curmudgeon style.

"There were several replies in Friday's paper. I knew you were out of town, so I photocopied them for you. It's about the Tipsy problem."

"Problem? What kind of problem?"

"Read the original letter, and you'll see what I mean."

The communication from one Debbie Watts of Kennebeck had been printed with all the juvenile errors that made Qwilleran wince.

I am 11 years old in 5th grade. My gramma told me to rite. We have a famly ablum. It has a pitcher of my gramma when she was a girl. She worked at Tipsy's. They took a pitcher of her and Tipsy out in front. She says Tipsy had white feet. Her feet are white in the pitcher.

"Hmmm," Qwilleran said, considering the significance of this revelation. "The portrait in the restaurant has black feet."

"Exactly! If the prize goes to a Tipsy look-alike, does that mean black feet or white feet? Now read the replies."

The first was signed by a Mrs. G. Wilson Goodwinter of West Middle Hummock. That was an old family name of distinction, and the suburb was an affluent one.

Little Debbie Watts is correct. My housekeeper's daughter works in a nursing home Down Below, and one of her patients is an old sailor who knew Tipsy when she lived at Gus's Timberline Bar on the waterfront. Gus was from Moose County, and during the Depression he came back here and opened a restaurant, bringing Tipsy with him and naming the establishment in her honor. The patient describes Tipsy as having white feet. He is quite definite about it.

Qwilleran said, "This looks bad for Hixie Rice and her bright idea."

"Read on," Polly instructed him.

Next was a letter from Margaret DeRoche of Sawdust City:

My husband's cousin was the artist who portrait of Tipsy in the 1930s. He was great integrity and would never paint black feet on a subject if that were not the case. I write because he is not here to defend himself, having passed away three years ago. His name was Boyd Snithers, and he signed the canvas with his initials.

"The plot thickens," Qwilleran said. "from the Kennebeck Chamber of Commerce. I'll bet they're in favor of black feet. This is getting to be a political issue."

For fifty years or more Tipsy with black boots has been the image we connect with the restaurant ant the town of Kennebeck. Two generations of Moose County residents have raised cats with black boots and named them after Tipsy. Why rock the boat now?

Polly said, "Read the one from Samantha Campbell. She's the registrar of the Historical Society.

In reference to the Tipsy debate I wish to note that the Historical Society archives contain a Tipsy file of clippings from the late lamented Pickax Picayune. In 1939 a brief article referred to Tipsy as being "all white with a black hat." An item in the same paper in 1948 refers to Tipsy's "black boots." I mention this to emphasize the necessity of accuracy in public press, since newspaper accounts go into historical records. Thank you.

"And thank you, Ms. Campbell," Qwilleran said. "I should take Koko to the restaurant and let him give the portrait the Siamese Sniff Test. He knows right from wrong."

Polly said, "You're not taking this seriously, Qwill. Read the last one." It was written by Betty Bee Warr of Purple Point.

My grandmother, who is in the Senior Care Facility with arthritis real bad in her hands, remembers that a man named Gus brought Tipsy to Kennebeck in the Depression and had an artist paint her picture. When Gus sold his place in the 1940s the new owners paid my grandmother, who did a little painting as a hobby, to touch up the feet with black. They said it would give the picture "more oomph." Now she realizes she did wrong to paint over it, but she needed the money.

Qwilleran said, "This is the stickiest mess since the fly-paper controversy in the city council meeting, but Hixie and the chamber of commerce will have to cope with it. I'm only a judge, and I have other things on my mind."

"Is the mystery of VanBrook's murder bothering you?" Polly asked, knowing he could be tormented by unanswered questions.

"No. The mystery of his identity. Was he what he claimed to be or was he a phony? I suspect the latter. Koko knew there was something not quite genuine about him from the beginning. That cat knows a fake when he sniffs it, whether it's a hairpiece or imitation turkey."

Polly sighed. "Do you think Bootsie will ever be as smart as Koko?"

"Not with a moniker like that! It lacks dignity. Koko's name is Kao K'o Kung, as you know... Will you have dessert?"

"No, thank you. I'd better not."

"Coffee?"

Polly hesitated, then said sweetly, "Shall we go to my place for coffee?"

Later that evening, when they were saying good night at her carriage house, Polly mentioned casually, "This weekend may be the last chance to go birding in the wetlands. Shall we?"

"Sure," said Qwilleran, after concealing a gulp. "Or we could fly down to Chicago with the Lanspeaks for a ballgame."

"That would be nice," she said.

He arrived home elated and charged with energy, but it was midnight, and his housemates wanted only their bedtime snack and lights-out. Qwilleran retired to his studio to continue reading the biography of Sir Edmund Backhouse. What a difference: The British sinologist had a winning personality and a deferential manner; VanBrook was all contempt and ego.

The next day being Wednesday, he rose early to avoid the garrulous and censorious Mrs. Fulgrove. He avoided her by writing his Friday column at the newspaper office, visiting the bookstore to chat with Edd Smith, and buying a pair of cashmere gloves for Polly at the Lanspeak store - gray to go with her gray winter coat.

While cashing a check, he met Hixie at the bank. He said, "Are you concerned about the controversy over Tipsy's feet?"

She tossed her pageboy defiantly. "No problem, Qwill. It's simply creating more publicity. We'll award two prizes - one for the popular Tipsy with black boots and one for the authentic look-alike. Don't forget, we're expecting you as our dinner guest before the judging... Want to have lunch?"

"Can't," he said. "I'm expecting company at the barn."

Promptly at one-thirty a van made its way up Trevelyan Trail, and the delegation from the Amberton Farm emerged: Fiona carrying a tissue box and wearing nondescript garments that Happed about her thin frame, then the red- bearded stablemaster, walking with a broad-shouldered swagger, and finally the boy, short and thin like his mother, ambling with the loose gait of his generation, his thumbs hooked in his back pockets. The two men wore dark jeans and navy blue nylon jackets with the Amberton insigne - a red cardinal - embroidered on the breast pocket.

Qwilleran greeted them at the door and invited them into the foyer. They entered slowly, swinging their heads from side to side and up and down in astonishment.