The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

-12-

Qwilleran dug a hole near the berry bushes and buried the lordly cardinal in a coffee can to keep marauding animals from desecrating the remains. Raccoons and roving dogs sometimes appeared from nowhere in violation of city ordinance. From a window Koko watched the interment with his ears askew, and when Qwilleran returned indoors he was yowling and pacing the floor.

"Okay, we'll go out and pay our respects to the deceased," Qwilleran said calmly, although his teeth were clenched in anger.

He harnessed both cats. Yum Yum rolled over in a leaden lump of uncooperative fur, but Koko was eager to go. As soon as he was outside the door, he walked directly to the spot on the earth where the cardinal had fallen, then sniffed the burial place. Eventually he was persuaded to explore the perimeter of the barn, and after ten minutes - when the telephone summoned them indoors - he had had enough. He toppled over and lay on his side to lick his paws.

The call was from Mildred Hanstable, one of the judges in the Tipsy contest. "You sound angry," she said after Qwilleran had barked into the mouthpiece.

"Someone shot a cardinal in my barnyard! I'm not angry; I'm mad as hell!"

"Do you know who did it?"

"Yes, and he's going to get a tongue lashing that he won't forget! What's on your mind? Is the contest called off?"

"No, you'll be sorry to hear. We're due at Tipsy's for dinner around six o'clock. I have a hair appointment this afternoon, and then I'll have some time to kill, in case you want to invite me over. I could use a fortifying drink before having dinner with my boss. Lyle is such a sourpuss!"

"It's all an act," Qwilleran reassured her. "Lyle Compton is a pussycat masquerading as an English bull."

"Anyway, I'm dying to see the barn without five hundred paying guests bumping into me. I was one of the guides, you know."

"You're invited," he said with curt hospitality. Koko was still licking his paws, and Yum Yum was still in a simulated coma, although she revived promptly as soon as the harness was removed. Qwilleran glanced at his watch. The delegation would have had time to return to Lockmaster, unless Steve stopped on the way for a drink.

He phoned the Bushland house. "This is Qwill. How do I reach Fiona?"

"You sound upset. Is anything wrong?" Vicki asked in alarm. "She was due at your place with Steve and Robbie a couple of hours ago."

"They were here and they left, and that brat shot a bird in my barnyard - a cardinal! I want to have a few words with his mother before I light into him."

"I'm so sorry, Qwill. I'll have her call you," Vicki said. "She's due here to help me with a hunt breakfast for tomorrow."

"Do that. Not later than five o'clock."

The arrival of Mildred Hanstable was therapy for Qwilleran's bruised sensibilities. A healthy, happy, outgoing, buxom woman of his own age, she had an aura of generosity that attracted man and beast. The Siamese greeted her with exuberance, sensing there was a packet of homemade crunchies for them in her voluminous handbag.

Seating herself on a sofa, Mildred arranged the folds of the ample garment that camouflaged her avoirdupois. She had given up the battle to lose weight and now concentrated on disguising the excess. "I'm happier," she confessed to Qwilleran, "now that I've decided Nature intended me to be rotund. I'm the prototypical Earth Mother. Why fight it?... And, to answer the question you haven't asked: Yes, I'd like a Scotch.... Tell me, Qwill, how does it feel to be wallowing in space?" She waved an arm to indicate the vast interior of the barn.

"Wide open spaces are fine," he said, "but I'm used to four walls and a door. Instead of rooms I have areas: a foyer area, a library area, a dining area. You're sitting in the main lounge area. I'm going to do the honors in the bar area adjoining the snack area. It's all too vague." He served drinks and a bowl of nuts on a small pewter tray, a barn- warming gift from his designer.

"Your kitchen area is scrumptious," she said. "Are you going to learn to cook? Or are you thinking of getting married?" she asked mischievously. Mildred taught home economics in the Pickax schools and had offered to give him lessons in egg boiling.

"Neither could be further from my mind," he said as he picked up a few dark blocks scattered on the pale Moroccan rug.

"What are those things, Qwill?"

"I've started collecting antique typeblocks, and the cats keep stealing them out of the typecase that hangs in the library area."

"Why don't you move it to an area they can't reach?"

"There's no such thing as a place Siamese can't reach. They'll swing from a chandelier if necessary." He showed her a small metal plate mounted on wood. "This is their favorite block, which I take to mean that they'd like an occasional dish of hasenpfeffer. Do you know how to cook rabbit?"

"Of course! It's just like chicken. When we were first married, Stan did a lot of rabbit hunting, and I made Belgian stew every weekend."

"Would you be good enough to cook a batch for the cats? I bought a frozen rabbit from Toodle's."

"You know I'd be happy to. And may I ask a favor? Now that you've moved out of your garage, Qwill, would you allow the hospital auxiliary to use it for a gift shop? We need a central location."

"I'll put you on the list," he said, "but the Arts Council wants it for a gallery, and the Historical Society wants it for an antique shop. Actually, I hesitate to let it go until I've spent one winter in this barn. The cost of heating and snow removal may be prohibitive."

"If you can afford to feed the Siamese lobster tail, you can afford a big heating bill," she said. As if they understood "lobster tail," Koko and Yum Yum immediately presented themselves, and Mildred went on: "The father of one of my students runs the animal shelter, and he told me that one mating pair of cats can produce twelve cats in a year and sixty- three in two years. In ten years there will be eighty million direct descendents!"

"Tipsy lived fifty years ago," Qwilleran said. "No wonder there are so many black-and-white cats around."

"The animal shelter is swamped with unwanted cats and kittens. Also, hundreds of homeless cats roam the countryside - having litters, starving, freezing, and getting run over."

"What are you trying to tell me, Mildred?" He knew she was a zealous crusader for causes.

"I think the Klingenschoen Fund should underwrite a campaign for free spaying and neutering. I'll be glad to present a proposal to the trustees. Hixie Rice could organize it. We'll need publicity, programs in schools, rescue teams - " She was interrupted by the telephone.

"Excuse me," Qwilleran said. He took the call in the library area.

"Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!" cried a shaken voice on the line. "I feel terrible about the bird! Robbie didn't do it. He wanted to use Steve's gun, but I wouldn't let him. Steve likes to - uh - take pot shots at - uh - targets, you know."

"I appreciate your calling," he said stiffly. "Sorry I accused your son. I'll have plenty to say to Steve about this thoughtless act!"

When he returned to the lounge area, Mildred was struggling to get out of the deep-cushioned sofa. "I guess it's time we got on the road," she said.

"Before we leave, Mildred, I'd like your opinion on a domestic problem - in the laundry area." He led her to a partitioned alcove where racks were hung with yellow towels, yellow shirts, and yellow undershorts.

"My favorite color!" she said. "But not mine."

"Did you leave something in a pocket when you put it in the washer? What was it? Do you know?"

"It was a sprig of green leaves with a purple Bower."

"Where did you get it? And why was it in your pocket? Or am I being too nosey?"

"It's a long story," he said evasively.

She buried her nose in a towel. "It could be saffron. I used to put it in boiled rice, and it turned it a lovely color. Do you know what saffron costs today? Twelve dollars for a measly pinch! The stores up here don't even carry it any more."

"Why so expensive?"

"Well, it comes from the inside of a tiny flower. That's all I know. Have you tried bleach?"

They drove to Kennebeck in Qwilleran's car, and while Mildred chattered about roadside litter and the high cost of art supplies, he was pondering VanBrook's indoor garden. If the man had been raising saffron, he had a $20,000 crop in one small room. He would have to export it, of course - to gourmet centers around the country. By using lights he might grow five crops a year - a lucrative hobby for a rural principal... And then Qwilleran thought, Did VanBrook know of another use for saffron? Did he learn something in the Orient? Perhaps it could be smoked! In that case, the crop was worth millions! And then he wondered, as he had done earlier, What was in those hundreds of boxes - besides books?

Before he could formulate a satisfying guess, they arrived at Tipsy's restaurant. Hixie Rice greeted them and conducted them to a table, the one beneath the fraudulent black-booted Tipsy. Lyle Compton was already there, sipping a martini.

Hixie said, "I'll brief you and then leave you while I marshal the contestants in the lodge hall across the street." She produced two stacks of snapshots. "These are the finalists in both categories, a total of fifty. Run through them while you're having your drinks and choose the likeliest candidates, based on markings. Later, when you judge them live, your final selection will be based on the sweetest and funniest... See you shortly. The crowd is already lining up on the sidewalk, and the doors don't open for another hour." She bounced out of the dining room with the supreme confidence that was her trademark.

"I'm having another drink," Compton announced, bestowing his grouchy grimace on the other two judges.

Mildred said, "I'm not sure I approve of a duplicate prize based on a forgery. What kind of values are we presenting to our young people?"

Qwilleran said, "No one ever told me what the prize is going to be."

"Don't you read your own newspaper?" she scolded. "It's a case of catfood, fifty pounds of kitty gravel, and an all- expense weekend for two in Minneapolis."

"Let's go through this bunch of fakes first," said the superintendent, picking up the black-booted entries. He was accustomed to taking charge of a meeting. "The definitive marking, as we all know, is the so-called hat - the black patch over one ear and eye. That'll eliminate most of them."

Qwilleran said, "I see black collars, black earmuffs, black moustaches, black sunglasses, black epaulets, and black cummerbunds, but no hats."

Mildred spotted a hat with a chin- strap.

"Hang onto it. You may have a winner," said Compton.

"Are all these finalists going to be present in person?" Qwilleran asked.

"That's the idea. With fifty live cats in one room, there won't be much sweetness of expression," the superintendent predicted.

The white-footed entries were in the minority, and there were only three with hats, as opposed to seven hatted contestants in the other category.

"Having any luck?" asked Hixie when she breezed back into the dining room.

"Here's the best we can do." Mildred spread the ten snapshots on the table.

"Good! Turn them over, and you'll see a code number on the back: W-2, B-6, B- 12, and so forth. Okay? When the cats parade in front of you, each will be accompanied by a chaperon wearing the assigned code number. When you spot the ten preselected numbers, direct them to the runner-up platform. Then put your heads together and make the final decision. Take your time. Delay will add to the suspense... Now, is everything clear? I'll be back to get you in an hour. Enjoy your dinner. Be sure to have the bread pudding for dessert; it's super!... And wait till you see the enthusiastic crowd! This is the greatest thing that ever happened to Kennebeck! By the way, we have sweeter-and-funnier T- shirts for you if you care to wear them."

"Are you kidding?" Mildred asked.

The judges watched Hixie stride from the dining room. Every time the restaurant door opened, the hubbub across the street could be heard, and Compton said, "Sounds more like a riot to me!" They ordered steaks, and he turned to Qwilleran. "My wife says your barn tour was a big success."

"So I hear. I was glad to be out of town."

"It's true," said Mildred. "The visitors loved it, and they were simply floored by the apple tree tapestry. They objected to the zoological prints, though. Why do people have such an antipathy to bats? They're such cute little things, and they eat tons of mosquitoes."

"They're disgusting," Compton said.

"Not so!" Mildred was always ready to defend the underdog. "When I was in the second grade at Black Creek Elementary, our teacher had a bat in a cage, and we fed him bits of our lunch on the point of a pencil."

"They're filthy little monsters."

She flashed an indignant rebuttal at her boss. "We called him Boppo. He was very clean - always washing himself like a cat. I remember his bright eyes and perky ears, and he had a little pink mouth with sharp little teeth - "

" - which can start a rabies epidemic."

Mildred ignored the remark. "He'd hang upside down from his little hooks, and then he'd walk on his elbows. Such a clown! And I'm sure that both of you educated gentlemen know that a bat's wing structure is a lesson in aerodynamic design."

"I only know," Compton said with a scowl, "that there are other topics I'd rather discuss with my steak."

They talked about the steeplechase, the questionable merits of tourism, the success of Henry VIII, and the VanBrook case. After coffee, when Mildred excused herself briefly, the superintendent hunched his shoulders and leaned across the table toward Qwilleran.

"While she's out of hearing," he said, "I have something confidential to report. You questioned Hilary's credentials the other day, so I did a little checking on the three colleges that supposedly granted his degrees. One institution doesn't exist and never did, and the other two have no record of the guy - by either of his names."

Qwilleran said in a low voice, "There's evidence that he was deceitful in petty ways, so I'm not surprised."

"This is off the record, of course. I see no need of announcing it, now that he's gone. He did a helluva good job for us, even though he was a miserable tyrant."

"The amazing thing is that he had such a fund of erudition, or so it seemed: Did you check Equity?"

"Yes, and I drew another blank - no evidence that he'd ever been a professional actor. But he wasn't all bad." Compton glanced around. "Here she comes. There's more to the story. I'll tell you later."

Mildred announced, "The crowd is fighting to get into the lodge hall. I hope they can control them during the judging."

At that moment Hixie arrived, flushed and breathless. "We have more people than we expected," she said. "A troop of Cub Scouts came just to see the show, and the first three rows are filled with seniors from the retirement village. Every cat has from five to a dozen supporters. We didn't count on that. The fire department may stop people from entering the building. All the chairs are taken, and yet most of those outside are contestants. We can't start until they're all in the hall, and we can't throw the first-comers out."

"Turn on the fire hose," Compton grumbled.

"Is there anything we can do?" Mildred asked.

"Just put on your judges' badges and take your places on the platform. I'll take you in the back door."

"Do I have to wear a badge?" Qwilleran asked. "I'd rather be anonymous when the shooting starts."

Hixie smuggled them into the lodge hall, and their appearance on the platform was greeted by cheers and whistles. They seated themselves at a long table covered with black felt, on which was a bushel basket of catnip toys thoughtfully provided by the promoters - one toy for each contestant whether a winner or not.

The rows of folding chairs were already filled, and an overflow crowd was standing in the aisles. At the rear of the hall, members of the chamber of commerce, wearing sweeter-and-funnier T- shirts, were trying to reason with the horde that demanded admittance. Those carrying feline finalists were loudly vocal in their indignation. Overpowering the official attendants, they pressed into the hall, and soon the room was filled with squabbling families and caterwauling cats. Some were in arms and some were in carrying coops, but all were black-and-white and all were unhappy.

"Something tells me," Compton said drily, "that this whole thing is not going to work."

In an effort to restore order and explain the unexpected situation, the president of the chamber of commerce appeared on the platform. He was greeted by a round of booing and catcalls. Raising his hand and shouting into the microphone, he tried to get the attention of the noisy audience, but the public address system was useless. Nothing could be heard above the din, and the feedback added ear-shattering electronic screeches to the pandemonium. Cat chaperons were shaking their fists at the stage. Mothers shrieked that their children were being trampled. Two black-and-white cats-in- arms flew at each other and engaged in a bloody battle. At the height of the confusion, a giant black-and-white tomcat broke away from his chaperon and bounded to the platform and the basket of catnip toys. Instantly, every cat who could break loose followed the leader, leaping across the white heads of screaming seniors in the front rows, until the judges' table was alive with fighting animals and the air was thick with flying fur. The judges ducked under the table just as the police appeared on the platform with bullhorns and, mysteriously, the sprinkler system went into operation.

Under the table Compton yelled, "For God's sake, let's get out of here!" The three of them crawled backstage on hands and knees and escaped out the back door. For a moment they stood and looked at each other as they caught their breath.

Mildred was the first to speak. "I move that we go back to Tipsy's for a drink."

"I second the motion," said her boss.

"Too bad there's no TV coverage in Moose County," Qwilleran observed. "The crews would have a field day with this one. It has everything: kids, cats, old folks, even blood!"

Main Street was choked with police cars and emergency vehicles, their red and blue lights flashing, as sheriff's deputies and state police tried to control the mob. Ambulances were standing by, and fire trucks were primed for action. The only prudent way for the judges to reach the restaurant was to circle the block and enter through the kitchen door.

In the relative quiet of Tipsy's bar they collapsed into chairs. They saw no more of Hixie that evening, and as soon as it was deemed safe, they were glad to leave.

Qwilleran pulled Lyle Compton aside. "What else were you going to tell me about VanBrook? You said there was more to the story."

"It hasn't been officially announced," the superintendent said in confidential tones, "and haven't even told the school board yet, but his attorney notified me today that VanBrook left his entire estate to the Pickax school system. I believe we've earned it, to be perfectly frank."

Qwilleran heard the news with skepticism. "What's the catch? Do you have to rename it VanBrook High School?"

"Nothing like that, although we might name the library after him. His book collection is supposed to number ninety thousand volumes."

Later that evening Qwilleran made a call to Susan Exbridge. "What time tomorrow are we unpacking books?"

"How about nine o'clock? It's a big job - and probably a dirty Job. Wear old clothes," she advised.

"Would you object if I brought Koko along? He has a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out rare books."

"Darling... do whatever makes you happy."

Qwilleran was exhilarated, the VanBrook revelation having canceled out the Tipsy fiasco. He said to the Siamese, "How would you guys like a little sport? Something new!" He produced a bubble pipe and whipped up a bowl of suds in the kitchen, watched by two bemused cats who were baffled by a bowl of anything that was inedible and unpotable.

"You stay down here," he said as he carried the equipment to the first balcony. They followed him up the ramp.

He dipped the pipe in the suds and put it to his lips, making one mistake. His pipe-smoking days had accustomed him to drawing on a pipe; bubble blowing was different. He spat it out and tried again. This time he produced one beautiful bubble - iridescent in the barn's galaxy of uplights and down lights - until it burst in his face. He tried again, gradually mastering the technique.

"Okay. Go downstairs," he commanded the cats, adding a tap on the rump. "Down! Down!" They wanted to go up! It was past their bedtime. They stayed on the balcony.

To tantalize them he blew a series of bubbles and bubble clusters and bubbles within bubbles, wafting them into space, watching them float lazily in the air currents until they spontaneously disappeared. The Siamese were unimpressed. They watched this absurd specimen of homo sapiens blowing a pipe, waving his arm, and peering over the railing. Bored, they ambled up the ramp to their loft.

"Cats-s-s!" Qwilleran hissed.