Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"Andy, this is Qwill, reporting a homicide in your precinct."

"Where?"

"In my orchard."

"Who?"

"Hilary VanBrook."

There was a momentary pause. "What was he doing in your orchard?"

"There was a party here for the Theatre Club, and he was the last to leave. He was shot before he had a chance to start his car."

Brodie shifted from gruff lawman to concerned parent. "Was Fran there?"

"The whole club was here."

"Be right over."

"Hold it, Andy! The driveway is probably full of tire tracks and footprints, if that concerns you. Come in the other way, through the theatre parking lot. I'll meet you there and unlock the gate."

Brodie grunted and hung up. Qwilleran pulled pants and a sweater over his pajamas, picked up the flashlight once more, and headed at a run toward Main Street. The road through the woods had been freshly graded and graveled, and it was only a few hundred yards to the fence. Even so, when he arrived at the gate headlights were already illuminating the theatre parking lot. In a town the size of Pickax, everything was five minutes away from everything else.

He jumped into Chief Brodie's car and pointed the way through the woods, while other vehicles with flashing lights followed. He explained, "We've had trespassers lately, so I lock the gate at night."

"How'd you find out about VanBrook?" Brodie snapped.

"After everyone left the orchard, there was still one car parked among the trees. Then that cat of mine started howling suspiciously. I went out to investigate and found VanBrook slumped over the steering wheel."

"He wasn't a happy individual. No wife. No family. Could be suicide."

"Not with a bullethole in the back of his head," Qwilleran said. "It blew his hairpiece off." They had reached the rear of the barn. "Park here. All the activity was on the other side."

A Pickax prowl car and a state police vehicle pulled alongside, leaving room for the ambulance, which arrived immediately, and the medical examiner.

"Anything I can do?" Qwilleran asked.

"Stay indoors till we need you," Brodie ordered. "Leave the house lights on."

Qwilleran threw the master switch once more, and the entire barn glowed like a beacon, the light spilling out to illuminate the surrounding grounds.

The Siamese were nervous. They knew something was wrong. Strangers were milling about the yard, and police spotlights were turning the misshapen trees into frightening giants. Qwilleran picked up the cats and climbed the ramp with one squirming animal under each arm. In their own apartment on the top balcony there were comforting carpets and cushions, useful baskets and perches, a scratching post, and TV. Slipping a video of birdlife into the VCR to calm them, he returned to the main level, feeling mildly guilty; he had not yet called the newspaper.

He notified the night desk, asking if they had a reporter available. Yes, they said, Roger was subbing for Dave.

"Tell him to use the Main Street entrance," Qwilleran said.

Then he tried to reach Larry Lanspeak; as president of the school board Larry deserved to be notified immediately. It appeared, however, that the Lanspeaks had not yet arrived home. They lived in the country; Larry was a cautious driver; and they always drove Eddington Smith home first. Qwilleran gave them another fifteen minutes to reach the affluent suburb of West Middle Hummock before he punched their number again.

Larry answered on the tenth ring. "Just walked in the door, Qwill. What's up?"

"I have bad news for you, Larry. You'll have to shop around for another high school principal."

"What do you mean?"

"VanBrook has been killed."

"What happened? Car accident?"

"You won't believe this, Larry, but someone put a bullet through his skull. The police are here, combing the orchard with their spotlights."

"How did you find out? Did you hear the shot?"

"Didn't hear a thing, except someone's jalopy backfiring. After the gang pulled out, there was one car left. I went out to check it."

"This is a mess, Qwill. The police will assume it was one of us."

"I don't know what they'll assume, but we'd better be prepared to answer questions tomorrow."

Larry volunteered to call the superintendent of schools and alert him. "Otherwise he'll hear it on the radio, or the cops will bang on his door. I can't believe this is happening!"

A chugging motor in the yard caught Qwilleran's ear.

"Excuse me, Larry. Another car just drove in. I think it's a reporter. I'll talk with you later."

The car parked alongside the police vehicles, and Qwilleran recognized Roger MacGillivray's ten-year-old bone-shaker. He went out to meet the bearded young man who had given up teaching history in order to report living history for the local paper.

"What happened?" asked the reporter, slinging two cameras over his shoulder.

"We had a Theatre Club party here after the final performance, and at three o'clock everyone drove away except the director. That's all I know. If you want details, you'll have to get them from Brodie. He's down there where it happened."

Qwilleran watched the scene as Roger approached the chief and said a few words. Brodie turned and threw a scowl at the barn, then answered some questions tersely before jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Roger snapped a couple of quick shots before retreating to the barn.

"How come you're working tonight?" Qwilleran asked as he opened the door.

"Dave had to go to a wedding in Lockmaster, so I switched with him," Roger explained. "Hey, this place is fabulous! Sharon would love to see it!"

"Bring her down here for a drink some evening. Bring Mildred, too."

"One of us will have to baby-sit, so I'll send the girls alone. Don't let my mother-in-law drink too much. She's been hitting the bottle since Stan died. I don't know why. She's one hundred percent better off without him, but... you know how women are!"

"How will Sharon and Mildred react when they hear about their principal's sudden demise?"

"They'll go into shock, but they won't be sorry. VanBrook did some good things for the curriculum and the school's academic standing, and they admired him in a grudging way, but none of the teachers liked the guy, and that included me. He treated us like kids. And then there were his meetings! Teachers don't like meetings anyway - they're nonproductive - and Horseface chaired meetings that were just boring ego trips. That's the chief reason I quit and went to work for the paper. After that, whenever I went to the school to cover a story, VanBrook made me feel like the plumber who'd come to fix the latrines... Any idea who shot him? It had to be one of your guests. Right?"

"I'm not hazarding any guesses, Roger, and certainly not for the rapacious press. Would you like a beer?"

"Might as well. Okay if I look around?"

"Go ahead. On the first balcony I have a sleeping room and writing studio. You can open the door and look in, but don't expect it to be tidy. On the second balcony is the guestroom. The cats have the third level. Don't disturb them; they've had a harrowing night."

"Don't worry. You know me and cats! Sharon says I'm an ailurophobe."

The phone rang, and it was Qwilleran's old friend on the line. Arch Riker, fellow journalist from Down Below, was now editor and publisher of the local newspaper. "What's going on there?" he demanded. "The night desk tipped me off. Why didn't you let me know?"

"There's nothing you can do, Arch. Go back to bed. Roger's here. You'll read about it on your front page Monday."

"Any suspects?"

"You can ask Roger."

"Put him on."

The reporter's remarks on the phone revealed that he had learned nothing from Brodie. After hanging up he said to Qwilleran, "How about telling me who was here at the party?"