Лилиан Браун: The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"That information may be crucial to the investigation. I can't discuss it at this time," Qwilleran recited in a monotone.

"Whose side are you on, anyway?"

Before Qwilleran could answer there was an authoritative knock on the door, and Brodie was standing there with orders for Roger to clear out. The reporter made a routine protest but shouldered his cameras and drove away.

"Want a cup of coffee?" Qwilleran asked the chief.

"Hell, I wouldn't take my life in my hands by drinking the stuff you brew!" He strode into the barn with a lumbering swagger. Off duty he was a genial Scot who wore a kilt and played the bagpipe. Tonight he was the gruff, grumbling investigator, taking in the scene with a veteran's eye.

"Any clues out there?" Qwilleran asked. "Any evidence?"

"I'm here to ask questions, friend - not answer them." Brodie scanned the contemporary furniture upholstered in pale tweeds and leathers. "Got anything to sit on? Like kitchen chairs?"

Qwilleran led the way to the snack bar. "I smell pizza," said the chief.

"Actors get hungry. You should know that, You've been feeding one."

"Not any more," said Brodie with a frown. "Fran's moved out. Wanted her own place. Don't know why. She had it comfortable at home." He looked troubled - a north-country father who thought daughters should either marry and settle down or live at home with the folks.

Qwilleran said, "It's normal for a young career woman to want her own apartment, Andy."

Brodie snapped out of his fatherly role. "Who was here tonight?"

"I happen to have a printed guestlist." He handed the chief one of the playbills, listing the cast of characters in order of appearance.

Brodie ran a thumb down the righthand side of the page. "Were all these people here?"

"All except the woman from Lockmaster who played the queen. And of course the spear carriers left on the school bus right after the coronation scene. You saw the show, didn't you?"

Brodie grunted an affirmative. "What were they all doing here besides eating pizza?"

"Drinking beer and soft drinks and coffee... hashing over the run of the play... celebrating its success... making a lot of noise."

"Were they smoking anything they shouldn't?"

"No. Carol puts the clamps on that. She runs a tight ship. Fran can tell you."

"Any arguments? Any brawls?"

"Nothing like that. Everyone was in a good humor."

"Did you see anybody hanging around the orchard that didn't belong?"

"Not tonight, but we've had curiosity- seekers prowling around ever since we moved in."

"How come VanBrook honored the party with his presence? He was an unsociable cuss."

"He had an ulterior motive," said Qwilleran. "He wanted to bring the entire student body tramping through my barn on field trips. He didn't ask me; he told me!"

"That sounds like him, all right. How popular was he in the club?"

"Ask Fran about that. I'm not an active member."

"Did you hear gunfire in the orchard?"

"No, but the cats heard something, and when I looked out the window I saw the taillights of a car pulling onto the highway."

"Which way did it go?"

"Turned right."

"Notice anything about the taillights?"

"Now that you mention it, Andy, they weren't the horizontal ones you see on passenger cars. They were vertical and set wide apart, like those on a van or truck."

"How long has your mailbox been knocked over?"

"It was okay when I picked up my Saturday mail."

"Well, somebody sideswiped it and bent the post."

"That should make your job easier," Qwilleran said, thinking, Somewhere there is a vehicle with a damaged fender over the right front wheel.

Brodie stood up. "No need to keep you up all night. I'll get back to you in the morning."

"Not too early - please!"

The chief walked to the door and turned to give the interior a final scowling appraisal. "I climbed many a ladder like that when I was a kid. What are the three white things that look like smokestacks?"

"Smokestacks. It's a contemporary idea for venting a fireplace. Bring your wife over some evening. She'll enjoy seeing Fran's work."

"Did my daughter pick out all this furniture?" Brodie asked, more in dismay than admiration.

"She gets all the credit. She has a good eye and good taste."

Brodie grunted and turned to leave, but he lingered with his hand on the doorhandle. "This fella that did over your barn - Dennis what's-his-name..."

"H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff. He's Iris Cobb's son."

"I hear Fran is kinda thick with him." He searched Qwilleran's face for verification. "He's married, you know."

"Don't worry," said Qwilleran. "All the women in town go for Dennis, but he dotes on his family, and when they move up here, the fringe element will cool off. Meanwhile, Fran and Dennis have merely collaborated on this project."

"I hope you're right... Well, good night. We've got the driveway blockaded at the far end, and we're leaving a man on duty. The crime lab is coming up from Down Below." Brodie walked away a few steps and added, "Something tells me this'll be an easy case to solve."

Qwilleran turned out the houselights and climbed the ramp to his bedroom, but he was in no mood to sleep. He perused a playbill and tried to imagine each actor with a smoking gun in hand. In each case it looked like bad casting. He wondered how soon Brodie would start ringing doorbells and rousing the party goers from their beds for interrogation. The chief would undoubtedly start with his own daughter, who lived in Indian Village, a popular apartment complex for singles. Susan, Dennis, and Hixie also had apartments there. The Lanspeaks lived farther out in a rambling country house. Poor Eddington Smith holed up downtown in the bookbinding workshop behind his bookstore. Other members of the club came from surrounding towns: bustling Kennebeck, quaint Sawdust City, ramshackle Wildcat, and as far away as the resort town of Mooseville. Only Wildcat lay to the south of Pickax; a driver heading for Wildcat would turn right on Trevelyan Road upon leaving Trevelyan Trail.

Lying there awake he remembered his houseman's prediction when he first saw the renovated barn. The white-haired and highly respected Pat O'Dell had been custodian of the Pickax high school before retiring and starting his own janitorial service. He gazed up at the lofty beams and said in a fearful voice, "Will yourself be livin' here?"

"Yes, I enjoy lots of space, Mr. O'Dell, and I'm counting on you and Mrs. Fulgrove to handle the maintenance as you did in my old apartment."

"The divil himself would be hard up to clean the windows way up there, I'm thinkin', or sweep the cobwebs down."

"That's one reason we built the catwalks. I hope you're not leery about heights."

Mr. O'Dell shook his head with foreboding. "An old farmer, they're tellin', was after puttin' a rope around his neck and swingin' from one of those rafters. It were seventy year since. Sure an' that's when a blight fell on the apple trees. It's troubled I'd be, Mr. Q, to live here."

"But life must go on, Mr. O'Dell. Let me show you where we hide the key, in case you want to work when I'm not here. Mrs. Fulgrove will do the light cleaning on Wednesdays."

"Saints preserve us!" was the janitor's parting remark as he ventured a final apprehensive look at the superstructure. That had been two weeks ago, and now Mr. O'Dell would be saying, "Sure an' I told you so."

When at last Qwilleran managed to doze off on Sunday morning, it seemed a mere fifteen minutes before he was jolted awake by the telephone, its ring sounding more urgent than usual.

Fran Brodie was on the line. "Dad just called and broke the news! This is terrible! What does it mean?"

"It means we'll all be questioned," Qwilleran replied sleepily.

"No one in the club would do such a thing, do you think? Dad refused to tell me if they had a suspect or if they found any evidence. He can be so exasperating when he's playing the cop. It must have been turmoil in your orchard last night."