Лилиан Браун: The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

Hastily Qwilleran said, "This is our male Siamese, Kao K'o Kung, named after a thirteenth-century Chinese artist."

"Yow!" said Koko, who knew his name when he heard it.

"The Yuan dynasty," the principal said with a superior nod. "He was also a noted poet, although that is not generally known by Westerners. His name means 'worthy of respect' or words to that effect. An exact translation is difficult." He turned his back to the Pennsylvania German schrank, which had suddenly become Austrian, and Qwilleran was glad that the cat staring at the hairpiece was Koko and not his accomplice. Yum Yum the Paw would snatch it with a lightning-fast grab and carry it up the ramp to the bedroom, where she would hide it under the bed or, worse still, slam-dunk it in the toilet.

VanBrook was saying, "Appreciation of all the arts is something I have introduced into the curriculum here, as I did when I was principal of Lockmaster High School. It is my contention that graduates who play instruments badly or draw still lifes poorly contribute nothing to the cultural climate of the community. The essence of a true education is an appreciation of art, music, literature, and architecture." He gazed about the barn speculatively. "I should like to bring grades nine to twelve over here, one class at a time, on field trips in the next few weeks."

Qwilleran blinked at the man's audacity, but before he could formulate a reply there was a murmur on top of the schrank, a shifting of paws, and a furry body swooped over the principal's head and landed on a rug ten feet away, after which Koko yowled loudly and imperiously. Larry Lanspeak heard him and interpreted the message.

"C'mon, you guys," he called out. "Chugalug! Qwill's cats need to get some sleep."

Reluctantly the guests started gathering paper plates and napkins, collecting empties, straightening chairs. Gradually they drifted out into the night, clowning and uttering war whoops.

As Fran gave Qwilleran a theatrical goodnight kiss, he said to her, "Was this party your idea? Did you ring my phone a couple of times and hang up?"

"We had to be sure you were here, Qwill. We thought you might be out with Polly. Where is Polly tonight?"

"In Lockmaster at a wedding."

"Oh, really? Why didn't you go?" she asked slyly. "Afraid you'd catch the bouquet?"

"Don't be cheeky, young lady," he warned her. "I haven't paid your bill yet." He watched her leave - a good designer, easy to like, half his age and refreshingly impudent, stunning even in grubby rehearsal togs. Dennis walked out with Susan, the two of them sharing a secret joke. Eddington Smith tagged along with the Lanspeaks, who were giving him a ride home.

VanBrook lingered long enough to say, "I'll have my assistant contact you about the student tours."

This time Qwilleran was ready with a reply. "An excellent idea," he said, "but I must make one stipulation. I insist that Dennis conduct the tours and explain the design and construction methods. If you will take the initiative and line him up, I'll consent gladly." He knew that the principal and the builder had been at odds during rehearsals.

VanBrook rolled his eyes around the interior once more, said a curt goodnight, and followed the others who were trooping to their parked cars, all of them laughing and. shouting, reliving the play, hitching rides, making dates. Headlights were turned on and motors turned over, some of them purring and others backfiring or roaring like jets. Qwilleran watched the taillights bounce and weave as they followed the rutted lane to the highway.

Closing the door, he turned off the yardlights and most of the interior lights, then gave the Siamese a bedtime treat. "You two characters behaved very well. I'm glad you sent them home, Koko. Do you realize what time, it is?"

The Siamese gloated over their morsel of food as if it were a five-course meal, and as Qwilleran watched them his mind wandered to his recent visitors. He envied them the experience of rehearsing, performing, bowing to applause, grieving over roles that got away, complaining about the director, agonizing over miscues and lost props. For a short time he had been an active member of the club, but Polly had convinced him that learning lines and attending rehearsals would rob him of time better spent on serious writing. Actually, he suspected, the middle-aged librarian who wore size sixteen was jealous of the svelte and exuberant young actresses in the club. Polly was an intelligent woman and a loving companion who shared his interest in literature, but she had one fault. Jealousy caused her to be overpossessive.

The Siamese, having licked their empty plate for several minutes, were now laving their brown masks and white whiskers with moistened brown paws, as well as swiping long pink tongues over their nearly white breasts. Then, in the midst of a swipe, they both stopped and posed like waxworks with tongues extended. Abruptly, Koko broke away and trotted to the front door, where he peered through the side windows into the darkness. Qwilleran followed, and Yum Yum padded along behind. As he stared into the blackness of the orchard he could see the last set of taillights disappearing down the trail and turning into Trevelyan Road.

The spill of light from the barn also picked up a metallic reflection that had no business being in the orchard. A car without lights was still parked among the trees.

He huffed into his moustache. "Can you beat that?" he said aloud. "I'll bet it's Dennis and Susan... Why don't they go to his place or her place?"

"Yow," Koko agreed. Dennis's wife and child were still in St. Louis, and he had not seen them for several months, owing to the barn project and the play rehearsals.

"Oh, well, live and let live," Qwilleran said as he turned out yardlights and remembered his own reckless youth. "Let's screen the fireplace and go to bed."

He turned away from the front door and followed Yum Yum, who was scampering up the ramp, but Koko remained stubbornly at his post, a determined voyeur, his body taut and his tail pointed stiffly. Qwilleran heard a low rumble. Was it a growl?

"Cut that out," he called to him. "Just mind your own business and turn in. It's three o'clock."

Still the cat growled, and the rumble that came from his lower depths ended in a falsetto shriek. It was an ominous pronouncement that Koko never made without reason. Qwilleran picked up a jacket and a flashlight and started out the door, pushing the excited cat aside with a persuasive toe and shouting a stern "No!" when he tried to follow.

"Hey, you down there!" he called out as he crossed the barnyard, swinging the flashlight in arcs. "Any trouble?"

The night was silent. There was no traffic noise from Main Street at that hour. No wind whistled through the dying apple trees. And there was no movement in the vehicle, a well-kept late-model car. No one turned on the ignition or switched on the headlights.

Qwilleran flashed his light on the surrounding ground and between the trees. Then he beamed it into the car at an oblique angle to avoid reflections in the window glass. Only the driver could be seen, and he was slumped over the wheel.

Heart attack, Qwilleran thought in alarm. Only when he hurried to the other side of the car did he see the blood and the bullethole in the back of the head.

-2-

Qwilleran's hand hovered over the phone for an instant before he lifted the handset and reported the homicide. As a hard-headed journalist Down Below he would have notified his newspaper first and then the police, but there was a sense of intimacy in a town the size of Pickax, and his loyalties had changed. He knew the victim, and the police chief was a personal friend. Without further hesitation he called Chief Brodie at home.

"Brodie!" was the gruff answer from a man who was accustomed to being roused from sleep at 3 A.M.