The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

-1-

September promised to be a quiet month in Moose County, that summer vacation paradise 400 miles north of everywhere. After labor Day the tourists returned to urban turmoil in the cities Down Below; the black fly season ended; children went reluctantly back to school; and everyday life cranked down to its normal, sleepy pace. This year the siesta was short- lived, however. Within a week the community was jolted by news of the Orchard Incident, as it was headlined by the local newspaper.

Prior to the Orchard Incident there was only one item of scandal on the gossip circuit in Pickax City, the county seat (population 3,000). Jim Qwilleran, semi-retired journalist and heir to the vast Klingenschoen fortune, was living in a barn! An apple barn! Oh, well, the townfolk conceded with shrugs and wagging heads, Mr. Q was entitled to a few eccentricities, being the richest man in the county and a free-wheeling philanthropist.

"Apple barn's better'n a pig barn," they chortled over coffee mugs in the cafes. After four years they had become accustomed to the sight of Mr. Q's oversize moustache with its melancholy droop. They no longer questioned the unorthodox W in the spelling of Qwilleran. And most of them now accepted the fact that the middle-aged divorced bachelor chose to live alone - with two cat.

Actually the facts were these: After twenty-five years of chasing the news in the capitals of the United States and Europe, Qwilleran had succumbed to the attractions of rural living, and he was captivated by barns, particularly an octagonal structure on the Klingenschoen property. The hundred-year-old fieldstone foundation was still intact, and its shingled siding was weathered to a silvery gray. Rising majestically as high as a four-story building, it overlooked a field of grotesque skeletons - the tortured remains of what was once a thriving apple orchard. Now it was of interest only to birds, including one that whistled an inquisitive who-it? who- it? who-it?

Qwilleran had first discovered the barn during his rambles about the Klingenschoen estate, which extended from the main thoroughfare of Pickax to Trevelyan Road, almost a half mile distant. The mansion of the notorious Klingenschoens, facing Main Street, had been converted into a theatre for stage productions, with the extensive gardens in the rear paved for parking. Beyond was a high, ornamental fence of wrought iron. Then came a dense patch of woods that concealed the barn and the orchard. After that, the lane leading to Trevelyan Road was hardly more than a dirt trail, winding through overgrown pastureland and past the foundations of old cottages once occupied by tenant farmers. If anyone remembered the lane at all, it was known as Trevelyan Trail. At the end of it an outsize, rural mailbox on a post was identified with the letter Q.

Originally the barn had been used for storing apples, pressing cider, and making apple butter. In recent years, all that remained was a wealth of empty space rising cathedral-like to the octagonal roof. Drastic renovation was required to make it habitable, but after Mr. Q moved in he was pleased to learn that the interior - on a warm and humid day - still exuded the aroma of Winesaps and Jonathans.

On a certain warm and humid day in September - the tenth of the month, to be exact - Qwilleran;s housemates continually raised noses to sniff a scent they could not identify. They were a pair of Siamese-strictly indoor cats - and it was partly for their benefit that the barn had been converted to its present design. With ramps and cat-walks spiraling upward around the interior walls, with balconies floating on three levels, and with a system of massive beams radiating under the roof, the design allowed this acrobatic couple to race wildly, leap recklessly, and wrestle precariously on timbers thirty or forty feet overhead. For their quiet moments there were window-walls through which they could watch the flight of a bird, the fall of a leaf, and the ballet of wind-swept grasses in the orchard.

Qwilleran himself, having lived for two years in an apartment above the Klingenschoen garage, was awed by the spatial magnificence of his new residence. He was a big man in his comfort-loving fifties, with wide shoulders and long legs, and nature had not intended him to live in cramped quarters. On that warm and humid Saturday evening he strode about his domain enjoying the feeling of spaciousness and the dramatic perspectives, all the while stroking his bushy salt-and-pepper moustache with satisfaction. The last rays of the sunset slanted into the interior through high triangular windows, so shaped to preserve the symmetry of beams and braces.

"This time we got it right," he said to the cats, who were following him, strutting elegantly on long slender legs. "This is where we belong!" The three of them had lived at several addresses - sometimes happily, sometimes disastrously. "This is the last time we're going to move, you'll be glad to hear."

"Yow!" was the male cat's reply in a minor key; one could almost detect a note of skepticism.

Qwilleran made it a policy to converse with the Siamese, and the male responded as if he understood human speech. "We have Dennis to thank for all of this," he went on. "I only wish Mrs. Cobb could see it."

Chuckling over a private reminiscence, he added, "She'd be tickled pink, wouldn't she?"

"Yow," said Koko in a soft, regretful tone as if he remembered Mrs. Cobb's superlative meatloaf.

The renovation had been designed and engineered by the son of Qwilleran's former housekeeper. Dennis Hough was his name, pronounced Huff, and his arrival in Pickax from St. Louis had created a stir for three reasons: The barn project was a sensation; the young builder had given his construction firm a whimsical name that delighted the locals; and the man himself had a mesmerizing effect on the women of Moose County. It was Qwilleran who had urged Dennis Hough to relocate, giving him the barn as his first commission and arranging Klingenschoen funds to back his new venture.

On this quiet Saturday evening the three barn dwellers were on a lofty catwalk high under the roof, and Qwilleran was reveling in the bird's-eye view of the comfortably furnished main floor when a piercingly loud demand from Yum Yum, the female, told him she cared more about food than architecture.

"Sorry," he apologized with a swift glance at his watch. "We're running a little late. Let's go down and see what we can find in the freezer."

The Siamese turned and scampered down the ramp, shoulder to shoulder, until they reached the lower balcony. From there they swooped down to the main floor like flying squirrels, landing in a deep- cushioned chair with two soft thuds - a shortcut they had been swift to discover. Qwilleran took a more conventional route down a circular metal stairway to the kitchen.

Although he had been a bachelor for many years, he had never learned to cook even the simplest survival food for himself. His culinary skills were limited to thawing and coffeemaking. Now he dropped two frozen Alaska king crablegs into boiling water, then carefully removed the meat from the shells, diced it, and placed a plateful on the floor. The Siamese responded by circling the dish dubiously, first clockwise and then counterclockwise, before consenting to nibble.

"I suppose you'd prefer breast of pheasant tonight," Qwilleran said.

If he indulged them it was because they were an important two-thirds of his life. He had no other family. Yum Yum was a lovable pet who liked to sit on his lap and reach out a paw to touch his moustache wonderingly; Koko was a remarkably intelligent animal in whom the natural feline instincts were developed to a supranormal degree. Yum Yum knew when Qwilleran wore something new or served the food on a different plate, but Koko's twitching nose and bristling whiskers could sense danger and uncover hidden truths. Yum Yum had a larcenous paw that pilfered small objects of significance, but Qwilleran was convinced that Koko craftily planted the idea in her head. Together they were a wily pair of accomplices.

"Those devils!" he had recently remarked to his friend Polly. "I believe they have the Mungojerry-Rumpelteazer franchise for Moose County."

Tonight, as the cats nosed their way through the crab-meat without enthusiasm, the man observed the disapproving posture of the fawn-furred bodies, the critical tilt of the brown ears, and the reproachful contour of the brown tails. He was beginning to read their body language - especially their tail language. His concentration was interrupted when the telephone rang and there was no one on the line. Thinking nothing of it, he proceeded to thaw a pouch of beef stew for his own dinner.

Ordinarily, Saturday evening would have found him dining at the Old Stone Mill with Polly Duncan, the chief librarian in Pickax and the chief woman in his life. She was out of town, however, and he gulped down the beef stew without tasting it, after which he retired to his studio to write his "Straight from the Qwill Pen" column for the local newspaper. His upbeat topic was the success of an unusual experiment in Pickax. On that very evening the Theatre Club was presenting the final performance of The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth. It had been a controversial choice of play. Even devotees of Shakespeare predicted there would be more persons on the stage than in the audience. Yet, the production had achieved the longest run in Pickax theatre history: twelve performances over a period of four weekends, with virtually no empty seats.

Qwilleran had attended opening night in the company of Polly Duncan, fifth row on the aisle, after which he wrote a justifiably favorable review. Now that the final box office results were known, he wrote a wrap-up piece commending the audiences for their discerning appreciation of serious drama and complimenting the small-town performers for their believable portrayals of sixteenth-century English nobility. It was not entirely accidental that he neglected to mention the director until the last paragraph. Hilary Van Brook had offended Qwilleran's journalistic pride by refusing to be profiled in the "Qwill Pen" column - an opportunity that the rest of Pickax equated with winning the lottery. Now the journalist was getting the last word, so to speak, by relegating the director to the last paragraph.

Pleased with his handiwork, he concocted a cup of coffee in a computerized machine, thawed a doughnut, and prepared to relax with a book he had bought secondhand. Qwilleran was thrifty by temperament, and despite his new financial status he retained many of his old habits of frugality. He drove a preowned car, gassed up at the self-serve pump, winced when he looked at pricetags, and always sought out bargains in used books.

After getting into pajamas and his comfortable old threadbare plaid robe, he put a match to some dry twigs and applewood logs in the fireplace and was about to stretch out in an oversized armchair when the telephone rang again. Once more he heard an abrupt click-off followed by a dial tone, and this time he questioned it. In the cities where he had lived and worked Down Below, the incident would suggest a burglar lurking in a phone booth down at the corner. In Moose County, where break-ins were rare, he could suspect only curiosity-seekers. There had been so much gossip about Qwilleran's apple barn (where a fruit grower had hanged himself from the rafters in 1920) that townfolk had been prowling about the premises and peering in the windows.

Putting the phone call out of his mind, he settled down in his big chair with his feet propped on the ottoman. Immediately, the Siamese came running in anticipation of a reading session. He often read aloud to them. They seemed to appreciate the sound of his voice, whether he was reciting from his secondhand Walt Whitman or reading the major league scores in the newspapers from Down Below. He had a richly timbred delivery - the result of his diction classes while dabbling in college drama - and the acoustics of the barn added to its resonance.

As he opened Audubon's Birds of America - the so-called Popular Edition of the nineteenth-century best-seller - his audience arranged themselves in comfortable bundles of attention, Yum Yum on his lap and Koko at his elbow on the arm of the chair. Ornithology was not one of Qwilleran's interests, but Polly had given him binoculars for his birthday and was trying to convert him to bird watching. Moreover, a book with two hundred colorplates was an irresistible bargain at a dollar.

"It's mostly pictures," he explained to the attentive animals as he turned the pages. "Who thinks up these absurd names? Black-bellied plover! Loggerhead shrike! Pied-billed grebe! Don't you think they're absurd?"

"Yow," Koko agreed.

"Here's a handsome one! It's your friend, the cardinal. The book says it resides in thickets, tangles, and gardens as far north as Canada."

Koko, an experienced pigeon watcher from Down Below, now spent hours every day at the windows on the various levels of the barn, sighting myriad small birds in the blighted orchard. Recently he had struck up an acquaintance with a visitor distinguished by red plumage, a royal crown, and a patrician beak, who whistled a continual question: who-it?

As Qwilleran turned the page to the rose-breasted grosbeak, both cats suddenly stretched to attention and craned their necks in the direction of the front door. Qwilleran also sat up and listened. He could hear a menacing rumble in the orchard that sounded alarmingly like army tanks, and he could see lights approaching the barn. He jumped to his feet and switched on the yardlights. Peering down the Trevelyan Trail he could see them coming - a column of headlights, weaving and bouncing as vehicles maneuvered through the ruts of the dirt road.

"What the deuce is this?" he barked, palming his moustache in perplexity. "An invasion?" The alarming tone of his voice sent both cats bounding out of sight; they had no intention of being caught in the line of fire.

One by one the vehicles turned out of the lane and parked in the tall grasses between the old apple trees. Headlights disappeared, and dark figures piled out of dark cars and trucks, converging on the barn. Only when they reached the pool of light in the yard did Qwilleran recognize them as the cast and crew of Henry VIII. They were carrying six-packs, coolers, brown paper bags, and pizza boxes.

His first thought was: Dammit! They've caught me in my pajamas and old robe! His second thought was: They look like hoboes themselves. It was true. The troupe wore backstage attire: tattered jeans, faded sweatshirts, washed out plaids, bedraggled sweaters, and grimy sneakers - a drastic change from the court finery of an hour before.

"Happy barn warming!" they shouted when they saw Qwilleran in the doorway. He reached around the doorjamb and threw a master switch that illuminated the entire interior. Uplights and downlights were concealed artfully in timbers and under balconies. Then he stepped aside and let them file into the barn - all forty of them!

If their eyes popped and their jaws dropped, it was for good reason. The walls of the main floor were the original stone foundation, a random stack of boulders held together by hidden mortar - craggy as a grotto. Overhead were massive pine timbers, some of them twelve inches square. Sandblasted to their original honey color, they contrasted softly with the newly insulated walls, painted white. And in the center of it all stood the contemporary fireplace, a huge white cube with three chubby cylindrical white flues rising to the center of the roof.

For the first time in anyone's memory the members of the Pickax Theatre Club were speechless. They wandered about the main level in a trance, gazing upward at the interlocking braces and beams, then downward at the earthen tile floor where furniture was arranged in conversation groups on Moroccan rugs. Then they collected their wits and all talked at once.

"Do you actually live here, Qwill?"

"I utterly don't believe it!"

"Neat! Really neat! Must've cost plenty!"

"Did Dennis do all of this? He's a genius!"

"Man, there's room for three grand pianos and two billiard tables."

"Look at the size of those beams! They don't grow trees like that any more."

"Swell place for a hanging."

"Qwill, darling, it's shattering! Would you like to time-share?"

Qwilleran had met the entire troupe at one time or another, and some of them were his favorite acquaintances in Pickax:

Larry Lanspeak, owner of the local department store, for one. He had auditioned for Cardinal Wolsey but landed the King Henry role, and his slight build required fifteen pounds of padding to match the girth of the well-fed monarch.

Fran Brodie, Qwilleran's interior designer and also daughter of the police chief. She auditioned for Queen Katharine but was ultimately cast as the beauteous Anne Boleyn. Perfect casting, Qwilleran thought. During the coronation scene he had been unable to take his eyes from her, and he was afraid Polly would hear his heavy breathing.

Carol Lanspeak, president of the club and everyone's friend. She was another capable aspirant for Queen Katharine and was deeply disappointed when director VanBrook picked her as his assistant and understudy for the queen.

Susan Exbridge, antique dealer and recent divorcee. She looked younger than her forty years and desperately wanted to play Anne Boleyn. When the director assigned her to do the Old Lady, she was furious but quickly recovered upon learning that the Old Lady had some bawdy lines that might steal the show.

Derek Cuttlebrink, busboy at the Old Stone Mill. He played five minor roles and was outstanding - not for his acting but for his bean-pole stature. Derek was six feet seven and still growing. Each time he made an entrance as another character, the audience whispered, "Here he comes again."

Dennis Hough, building contractor and new man in town. He, too, wanted to play Cardinal Wolsey but had to settle for a lesser role. Nevertheless, as the Duke of Buckingham, unjustly sentenced to death, he made a farewell speech that plunged the audience into tears night after night.

Eddington Smith, dealer in used books. This shy little old man played Cardinal Campeius, although no one could hear a word he said. It hardly mattered, because Cardinal Wolsey had all the best lines.

Hixie Rice, advertising manager for the local newspaper. As volunteer publicist for the club, she sold enough ads in the playbill to defray the cost of the sumptuous court costumes.

Wally Toddwhistle, the talented young taxidermist. He built stage sets for Theatre Club productions, and for Henry VIII he worked miracles with used lumber, spray paint, and bedsheets.

Also present was the director, Hilary VanBrook, who wandered about by himself and had little or nothing to say. The rest of the company was sky-high after the heady experience of closing night: the standing ovation, the flowers, and the general relief that the whole thing was over. Now they were reacting noisily. The Siamese watched the crowd from a catwalk and twitched noses in recognition of the cheese, pepperoni, and anchovy wafting upward. The troupe appeared to be starved. They wolfed the pizza and washed it down with cold drinks and a strong brew from Qwilleran's computerized coffeemaker, all the while talking nonstop:

"Somebody missed the light cue, and I had to say my lines in the dark! I could have killed the jerk at the lightboard!"

"When Katharine had her vision tonight, the angels dropped the garland on her head. I could hardly keep a straight face."

"Everything goes haywire on the last night, but the audience doesn't know the difference."

"I was supposed to carry a gold scepter in the procession, you know, and tonight nobody could find the blasted thing!"

"At least nobody stepped on my train this time, thank God. For these small mercies we are grateful."

"Halfway through the treason trial he went up like a kite, and I had to ad-lib. That's tough to do in Elizabethan English."

"The audience was really with us tonight, weren't they? The Old Lady even got some belly laughs from the balcony."

"Why not? She played it like the side of a barn!"

Qwilleran moved hospitably through the group, jingling the ice in his glass of Squunk water. (It looked like vodka on the rocks, but everyone knew it was mineral water from a flowing well at Squunk Corners.) He was not surprised to see Dennis Hough surrounded by women. Among them were Susan Exbridge, her dark hair still sleek after wearing the Old Lady's wig... and Hixie Rice, tossing her asymetrical page-boy cut, which was auburn this week... and Fran Brodie, whose soft, strawberry blond curls contrasted surprisingly with her steely gray eyes.

Carol Lanspeak nudged Qwilleran's elbow slyly. "Look at Dennis with his groupies. Too bad I'm happily married to Larry; I'd join the pack."

Qwilleran said, "Dennis is a good- looking guy."

"And he has an interesting quality," Carol said. "Masculine and yet sensitive. He looks cool, but he's wired to a very short fuse. There were quite a few blowups during rehearsals."

"He's impulsive, but I overlooked his mood swings when we were working on the barn because he was doing such a great job. He was on his way to be a registered architect, you know, before he went into the construction business. Notice how he incorporated the old loft ladders into the design." As he spoke, the lanky busboy was halfway up a ladder, waving an arm and leg at those below. "The catwalks are for washing the high windows. We're going to hang tapestries from the railings."

"You could hang quilts," said Carol, whose taste ran to country coziness.

"No quilts!" Qwilleran said sternly. "Fran has ordered some contemporary hangings. They should be here any day now."

"Everyone in town is aching to see this place, Qwill."

"That's why we're having a public open house. The admission charge to benefit the library was Polly's idea."

"Serve refreshments and the library will clean up! We have a very hungry population." Then casually she inquired, with the licensed nosiness of a Pickax native, "Where's Polly tonight?"

Everyone knew that the Klingenschoen heir and the chief librarian spent weekends together. During bull sessions at the Dimsdale Diner one of the men usually asked, "Do you think he'll ever marry her?" And women drinking coffee at Lois's Luncheonette always brought up the topic: "Wonder why she doesn't marry him?"

To answer Carol's question Qwilleran explained, "Polly's in Lockmaster, attending a wedding. The librarian down there has a son who's going off the deep end."

"Who's taking care of Bootsie?" Another well-known fact in Pickax was the librarian's obsessive concern for her young cat.

"I went over there tonight to feed him, and I'll go again tomorrow morning to fill up his four hollow legs and police his commode. I never saw a cat eat so much!"

"He's still growing," Carol said.

"Polly will be home in the late afternoon to tell me what the bride wore and who caught the bouquet and all that guff. I don't know why you women are so wild about weddings."

"You talk like a grouchy old bachelor, Qwill."

"I'd rather go to a ballgame. Do you realize that I haven't seen a major league game in four years? And I was born a Cub fan in Chicago."

"It's your own fault, Qwill. You know very well that Larry would love to fly you down to Chicago or Minneapolis. He's bought a new four-seater. Polly and I could go along for a shopping binge. Or maybe she'd like to see the game, too."

"Polly-does-not-like-baseball!" Qwilleran said with emphasis. Nor shopping, either, he thought, reflecting on her limited wardrobe assembled haphazardly at Lanspeak's Department Store during sales.

Carol's husband joined them. "Did I hear my services being volunteered?"

At first glance the Lanspeaks were a plain-looking middle-aged couple, but they had a youthful source of energy that made them civic leaders and genial company as well as excellent actors. Qwilleran often wondered what they ate for breakfast. He said, "Larry, you were great onstage! The kingliest Henry I've ever seen!"

"Thanks, fella. Let me tell you, it's good to be thin again. Besides navigating Henry's belly around the stage, I had to think fat! That's quite an adjustment! And then there was that damned itchy beard! I shaved it off as soon as the final curtain fell."

Carol asked, "How did Polly like the play?"

"She gave it raves, and we both thought the crowd scenes were tremendously effective. How did you manage all those kids?"

"It wasn't easy-getting them into costume, keeping them quiet backstage, pushing them out on cue. They dressed at the school, you know, and we transported them on school buses. Trauma time! Fortunately, Hilary had directed the play before and knew all the tricks. As his assistant I learned a lot; I won't deny that." She turned her back to the other guests and lowered her voice. "But as president of the club and wife of the president of the school board, I wish to go on record as saying I can't stand the man!"

A large percentage of the Pickax population entertained a loathing for Hilary VanBrook, principal of the high school. At fault was his abrasive personality and unbearable conceit. The public even resented the turtlenecks he wore to school. In Moose County there was something subversive about an administrator who wore black turtlenecks instead of the expected white shirt and quiet tie. But chiefly annoying was his habit of being eminently successful at everything he proposed, no matter how preposterous it appeared to parents, teachers, the superintendent of schools, and the school board.

Principal-bashing, therefore, was a favorite pastime. He was an unattractive man, and behind his back he was called Horseface. Yet, everyone remained in awe of his capabilities and self-assurance. It was because of his brilliant record as a school administrator and his reputation as a brain that the Theatre Club had allowed him to mount a play that was considered too dull, on a stage that was too small, with a cast that was too large. And now Henry VIII was going into the books as another triumph for Horseface.

"Yes," Larry said grudgingly in a low voice, "that scurvy knave has done it again! Ticket sales were so good we actually made a profit. With all those kids in the cast, you know, the hall was filled with their relatives, friends, and classmates." He glanced to left and right to ascertain the director's whereabouts and continued in a stage whisper. "He made two political mistakes. He should certainly not have played Cardinal Wolsey himself, and he should definitely not have brought someone from the next county to play Queen Katharine. We have plenty of talent right here in Moose County."

Qwilleran scanned the scattered groups of guests. "What happened to the queen? I don't see her here tonight."

Carol said, "She left right after the curtain. Got out of makeup in a hurry and didn't even say goodbye to the cast."

"Well, we weren't very cordial to her, I'm afraid," Larry confessed, "although we told her about the party and how to get here, and she wrote it down. I thought she'd show up. Of course, she lives in Lockmaster, and that's a sixty- mile drive, so I guess she can be excused."

Carol squeezed her husband's arm. "How do you like the barn, honey?"

"Fantastic! What condition was it in, Qwill, before you started?"

"Structurally solid, but filthy! For years it had been a motel for birds, cats, bats, and even skunks. Fran hung those German prints as an apology to the dispossessed bats." He pointed to a group of four framed zoological prints of flying mammals, dated 1824.

"You should have the barn photographed, Qwill, for a magazine."

"Yes, I'd like to see it published - for Dennis's sake. And: Fran did a great job with the furnishings, considering I'm not the easiest client to get along with. John Bushland is coming up from Lockmaster to shoot some pictures for insurance purposes. I'm curious to know how everything looks on film."

"Don't we have a good photographer here?" Larry asked sharply. There had been jealous rivalry between Pickax and Lockmaster for a century or more.

"No one with Bushy's talent and experience and equipment."

"You're right. He's good," Larry acknowledged.

Someone shouted "Last call for pizza!" and the crowd swarmed to the kitchen snack bar - all except Hilary VanBrook. While the others had mingled in shifting clusters, the director had stayed on the periphery. In his bottle-green corduroy sports coat and red turtleneck he was clearly the best-dressed individual in the largely raggle-taggle assemblage. With shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, and a saturnine expression on his gaunt and homely face, he appeared to be studying - with a critical eye - the handhewn and woodpegged framewotk of the building, the design of the fireplace, the zoological prints, and the printer's typecase half filled with engraved metal plates mounted on wooden blocks.

He was standing in front of a pine wardrobe, seven feet high, when Qwilleran approached and said, "That's a Pennsylvania German schrank dating 1850 or earlier."

"More likely Austrian," the director corrected him. "You can see the piece had painted decoration originally. It's been stripped and refinished, which lessens its value, as you probably know."

Qwilleran devoutly wished that Dennis's mother had been present to refute the man's pronouncement. VanBrook delivered it without looking at his listener. He had a disconcerting habit of rolling his eyes around the room while discoursing. Exercising admirable restraint, Qwilleran replied, "Be that as it may, let me congratulate you on the success of the play."

The director flashed a glance at the frayed lapels of Qwilleran's old plaid robe. "Its success came as no surprise to me. When I proposed doing the play, the opposition came from persons with little theatre experience or understanding of Shakespeare. A dull play, they labeled it. With competent direction there are no dull plays. Furthermore, Henry VIII addresses problems that are rife in our society today. I insist that our senior students study Henry VIII."

Qwilleran said, "I understand there was no Shakespeare taught in Pickax before you took the helm."

"Regrettably true. Now our freshmen are exposed to Romeo and Juliet, sophomores read Macbeth, and juniors study Julius Caesar. Not only do they read the plays; they speak the lines. Shakespeare is meant to be spoken."

Listening to VanBrook's theatrical voice and looking past his shoulder, Qwilleran could see the ramp leading down from the balcony. Koko was descending the slope to investigate, walking with a purposeful gait, his eyes fixed on the principal. Effortlessly and silently the cat rose to the top of the schrank and assumed a position above the man's head, gazing down with a peculiar stare. Qwilleran, hoping that Koko had no intentions that might prove embarrassing, gave the cat a stern glance and cleared his throat pointedly before inquiring of VanBrook, "What do you think of the job Dennis did with this great barn of a place?"

"Derivative, of course," VanBrook said with a lofty display of design acumen. "According to Dennis, ramps are in keeping with barn vernacular. Any resemblance to the Guggenheim Museum is purely coincidental. Those ladders," Qwilleran went on, are the original loft ladders; the rungs are lashed to the siderails with leather thongs."

Apparently the director could feel Koko's stare at the top of his head, and he passed his hand over his hairpiece. (That hairpiece was a topic of much discussion in Pickax, where men were expected to have the real thing or none at all.) Then VanBrook turned abruptly and looked at the top of the schrank.

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.