The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

-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.

"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?"

"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."

"It was, and I've had about fifteen minutes' sleep."

"Sorry I woke you, Qwill. Go back to sleep. I'm going to call some of the others now."

Qwilleran looked at his bedside clock. In five minutes WPKX would feature the Orchard Incident on the eight o'clock newscast. He steeled himself for another misleading bulletin, WPKX style, with inflated prepositions and pretentious pauses:

"Hilary VanBrook, principal of Pickax High School, was found dead early this morning IN... a parked... car. Police say VanBrook was shot in the head AFTER... an all-night party held AT... a barn... occupied BY... James Qwilleran. Suicide has been ruled out, and robbery was apparently not the motive according TO... Police Chief... Andrew... Brodie. No further details are available AT... this... hour."

Qwilleran muttered, "I could punch that announcer IN... the teeth!" The reference to "a parked car" and "all- night party" would have tongues wagging allover the county, he predicted. It was Sunday. He could imagine the buzzing among church goers. Telephone lines would be jammed; restaurants would be crowded with folks who never dined out as a rule; neighbors who disliked yard-work would be raking leaves and spreading rumors across back fences. Immediately Qwilleran's own phone started to ring.

Larry Lanspeak was the first to call. "Heard any thing more, Qwill?"

"Not a word."

"Okay if I drop in for a few minutes before church?"

"Sure. Come along."

"Carol's on the altar committee, so I'll have to drop her off at ten o'clock with a trunkful of mums."

"Come through the theatre parking lot," Qwilleran instructed him. "The lane's blockaded."

Next Eddington Smith called, speaking in the same trembling voice that had made him inaudible as Cardinal Campeius. "Do you think they'll suspect me?" he asked. "I've got a handgun in my workshop. Do you think I should get rid of it?"

"Has it been fired recently?" Qwilleran asked, knowing that Edd had never bought any ammunition.

"No, but it has my fingerprints. Maybe I should wipe them off."

"Don't do anything, Edd, and don't worry. The police wouldn't suspect you in a million years."

Shortly afterward, Susan Exbridge telephoned, opening with the brazen banter that she had affected since her divorce. "Qwill, darling, why don't you confess? With those sexy eyelid~ and that sinister moustache you look exactly like a killer."

In contrast, the next caller was frantically serious. It was Wally Toddwhistle's mother. "Oh, Mr. Q, I'm worried sick," she cried. "Do you think they'll suspect Wally?"

"Is there any reason why they should?"

"Well, he got into trouble in his last year of high school, and Horseface gave him a rotten deal. Don't you know about it?"

"No. What happened?"

"It was only a prank that the kids dreamed up. It wasn't even Wally's idea, but he took the blame and wouldn't tell on the others, and that damned principal expelled him a few weeks before graduation! I went to school and raised hell, but it didn't do any good. Wally never got his diploma. His dad was ill during all this trouble, and I think that's what killed him."

"Did you or Wally make any threats at that time?"

"Wally wouldn't threaten a fly! I guess I said a few things I shouldn't've, though. I speak my mind, but Wally is a sweet boy. He takes after his dad."

"When did this happen?"

"Two years ago last May."

"If you were going to shoot Mr. VanBrook, Mrs. Toddwhistle, you would have done it before this. Put your mind at ease."

She wanted to talk longer, but Larry Lanspeak arrived, and Qwilleran asked to be excused.

Larry, looking immaculate in his custom-tailored suit and highly polished wingtips, said, "Don't let me stay more than twenty minutes. I'm ushering today." The Lanspeaks attended the Old Stone Church across the park from the Klingenschoen Theatre - the largest, oldest, wealthiest congregation in town. He dropped into a chair in an attitude of dejection, saying, "I worry about this situation."

"Did Hilary attend your church?" Qwilleran asked as he poured coffee.

"I don't think he had church affiliations anywhere, but he seemed to be knowledgeable about Eastern religions."

"From what I observed, he seemed to be knowledgeable about everything."

"You can say that again! I remember seeing his r‚sum‚ when we hired him. He'd spent quite some time in Asia and claimed to read and write Chinese - as well as Japanese, which he claimed to speak fluently. His housekeeper told our housekeeper that he had a lot of Oriental stuff around the house... But that's not all! According to the r‚sum‚, he had studied architecture and horticulture; he had been an Equity actor in New York; and he had assorted degrees in education. I suppose you can do all that if you're not tied down with a family and don't spend any time socializing. He never attended athletic events or any other school function, which is a faux pas in a small community. In fact, he was conspicuously invisible on Saturdays and Sundays, although a couple of persons reported seeing him driving south on Friday nights - toward Lockmaster, you know."

"Where he spent the weekend smoking opium and reading Chinese poetry, no doubt," Qwilleran quipped.

"He was shot in the head, according to the radio," Larry said. "Doesn't that sound like a Chinese execution?"

"Or someone was hiding in the backseat, waiting for him to get behind the wheel. That's how they do it in the movies."

"Don't take this too lightly, Qwill. It certainly looks as if the shooter was one of us."

"Or someone who wanted to make it look like one of us."

"I'll tell you one thing - straight. I've never seen a rehearsal period with so much antagonism... On the other hand, could it be some kind of drug connection?"

"I thought Moose County was free of influences from Down Below," Qwilleran said. "There are no fast-food chains. Not even garage sales!"

"But they're going to creep in," Larry predicted, "now that we've started promoting tourism."

Qwilleran refilled the coffee cups. "Were you able to reach the superintendent?"

"Yes, I woke Lyle around four o'clock this morning and broke the news."

"What was his reaction?"

"Well, you know Lyle Compton! He never minces words! He said he'd often felt like braining Hilary himself. That'll be the general reaction around town, believe me! We'll have enough collective guilt in Pickax to sink a battleship."

Qwilleran said, "I just heard that VanBrook expelled Wally Toddwhistle a few weeks short of graduation because of some schoolboy escapade."

"True. And it was a crime on Hilary's part. Wally is a nice quiet kid, and he was a pretty good student. As for the nature of the prank, most people around town got a kick out of it."

"What was the offense?"

"Well, it was like this. Wally's father was a taxidermist, you know, and Wally brought a stuffed skunk to school. Somehow it turned up on the principal's chair. Wally looked like the obvious culprit, although he swore he didn't do it. The whole school board went to bat for him, but VanBrook threw him out. He told the board he'd run the school his way or tear up his contract. Lyle was afraid to cross him."

"It seems like draconian punishment."

"Wally didn't really suffer, though. He'd been working with his father ever since he was a kid, so he just took over the taxidermy shop, and he's doing okay without a diploma. He's simply talented. Hunters allover the Midwest send him their skins."

"More coffee, Larry?"

"No, thanks. This is potent stuff. I'll be waltzing up the center aisle and spilling the offering plate." He looked at his watch. "I hear church bells. I'll talk to you later." On the way out he stopped to say, "Wait till Lockmaster hears about this! The people down there think we're barbarians, and this will confirm their opinion."

As Larry drove away, answering the summons from the tower of the Old Stone Church, another kind of summons could be heard from the third balcony, where the Siamese had been sleeping off the excitement of the night before. Qwilleran released them from their apartment and was feeding them when Polly Duncan telephoned. He assumed she had heard the shocking news on the air, but her greeting was unexpectedly blithe.

"Dearest," she said, "I'm still in Lockmaster. It was a lovely wedding, and we celebrated into the wee hours. Did you give Bootsie his breakfast this morning?"

"Uh-yes," he said, knowing when it was advisable to bend the truth a little. Under the circumstances he had forgotten Bootsie completely.

"How is my little darling? Did he eat well? Did you talk to him?"

"Yes, indeed. We had a stimulating discussion about American foreign policy and the value of the dollar. When will you be home? Don't forget we have a reservation for dinner at Tipsy's."

"That's why I'm calling, dear. I've been invited to brunch at the Palomino Paddock, and I think I should accept. It's a four-star restaurant, and I've never been there. Do you mind? We can dine at Tipsy's next Sunday." She sounded unusually elated.

"I don't mind at all," Qwilleran said stiffly.

"I'll be home in time to give Bootsie his dinner, and I'll call you then."

"By the way," he said, "obviously you haven't listened to the radio. We've had an unfortunate incident up here."

"No, I haven't heard. What happened?"

"Hilary VanBrook has been murdered."

"Murdered! Incredible! Who did it? Where did it happen?"

"I'll tell you when you return," Qwilleran said. "Enjoy your brunch."

As a point of honor he never broke social engagement, and Polly's defection irked him considerably. She had been partying all night with that Lockmaster crowd; why did she need to stay down there for a mere brunch? If she wanted to eat at a four-star restaurant, he could take her there.

"What do you think of that development?" he asked Koko.

The cat murmured an ambiguous reply, his attention fixed on the berry bushes outside the window, where the cardinal usually made his morning call.

"I'd better hike over to the boulevard and feed the monster," Qwilleran said.

He walked briskly to Goodwinter Boulevard, where Polly's apartment occupied the second floor of a carriage house behind an austere stone mansion. All the houses on the street were built of stone - the coldly impressive castles of nineteenth-century mining tycoons and lumber barons. One such house had been leased by VanBrook, and Qwilleran wondered why the man had needed such grandiose living quarters with fifteen or twenty rooms. As he passed it he noticed that the draperies were drawn on all the windows.

Arriving at Polly's carriage house he unlocked the downstairs door and climbed the stairs to her apartment, where a yearling Siamese was complaining about his tardy breakfast.

"Mea culpa! Mea culpa!" said Qwilleran. "I've been involved in extraordinary circumstances. Here's an extra spoonful." He gave Bootsie fresh water and a quick brushing and then hurried back to the barn in time to catch the phone ringing.

The exuberant voice of Hixie Rice said, "Isn't this exciting, Qwill? We'll all be interrogated! I'm going to invent some lurid details - nothing incriminating - just something to add zest and color to the investigation and attract the media Down Below."

Hixie - a transplant from Down Below, where she worked in advertising and publicity - took pleasure in manipulating the media, both print and electronic.

Qwilleran said sternly, "I suggest you curb your creative impulse in this case, Hixie. We're all faced with a serious situation. Stick to the facts, and don't spread any false rumors to confuse the constabulary or entertain the local residents."

"I love it when you're playing uncle," she laughed. Relenting he said, "Would you like to discuss the matter over dinner? I have a table reserved at Tipsy's."

She made the obvious reply. "Where's Polly?"

"Out of town."

"Good! I'll have you all to myself. Shall I meet you at the restaurant?"

The place called Tipsy's Tavern was located in the town of Kennebeck northeast of Pickax. Driving there to meet his guest, Qwilleran passed through countryside that had seemed wild and mysterious four years before, when he was a transplanted city dweller. Now he felt comfortable with the Moose County scene: stony pastures, potato farms and sheep ranches... dark patches of woods providing habitat for thousands of white- tailed deer... dry autumn cornfields from which clouds of blackbirds rose and swirled in close-order formation as he passed... the rotting shafthouses of abandoned mines, now fenced and posted as dangerous.

The first sign of Kennebeck was a towering grain elevator in the distance, the skyscraper of the north country. Then the watertower came into view, freshly painted with the town symbol. Some enterprising artist, not afraid of heights, had canvassed the county, decorating watertowers. Every community flaunted its symbol: a pickax, a fish, a sailboat, an antlered buck, a happy face, a pine tree. Kennebeck's tower, like the welcome sign at the town limits, bore the silhouette of a cat. It was a prosperous community with a wide main street and curbstones, plus senior housing, condominiums, and other signs of the times. Yet, in the 1930s Kennebeck had been in danger of becoming a ghost town.

Then, providentially, a blind pig operator from Down Below, hurt by the repeal of Prohibition, returned to his hometown of Kennebeck to open a legitimate bar and steakhouse. He brought with him a white cat with a deformed foot (it made her stagger) and a comical black patch on her head, like a hat slipping down over one eye. Appropriately her name was Tipsy. Her boozy antics and agreeable disposition made customers smile and attracted diners from far and wide. Tipsy's personality, along with the good steaks, put Kennebeck back on the map.

The original restaurant in a log cabin had been enlarged many times during the intervening years, but it still offered casual dining in a rustic setting, and Qwilleran's favorite table was in the main dining room within sight of a larger-than-life oil painting of the founding cat.

He arrived before Hixie and sat at the bar, sipping Squunk water with a twist of lemon. He was on his third drink when his guest arrived, looking harried and tossing her pageboy nervously.

"Quick! I need a martini!" she said. "Make it a double. Then I'll apologize for being late."

The bartender looked questioningly at Qwilleran, then at Hixie, then at Qwilleran again, as if to say, "Where's Mrs. Duncan?"

"You'll never believe this, Qwill," she said in her usual tragicomic style, "but I was driving out Ittibittiwassee Road with not a car in sight - anywhere! And I got in a two-car accident!"

"That's not easy to do."

"Let me tell you how it happened. When I reached Mayfus Road, a car came out of nowhere and ran the stop sign! There were only two of us within ten square miles - and we collided! Why do these crazy things happen to me?"

"You're disaster-prone, Hixie," Qwilleran said sympathetically. She had a long history of getting locked in restrooms, setting her hair on fire, picking the wrong men, and more. "It's fortunate you weren't hurt."

"I had my seat belt fastened, but the passenger side was wrecked, and I waited for Gippel's towtruck to come from Pickax."

"How did you get here?"

"The sheriff dropped me off. He was a real sweetheart, and I adore those brimmed hats they wear! After dinner you'll have to drive me to Gippel's, and they'll give me a loaner."

They sat at Qwilleran's table under the friendly eye of Tipsy and ordered from the no-nonsense menu chalked on a blackboard: steak or fish, take it or leave it. The soup of the day was the soup of the year: bean. The vegetable was always boiled carrots, but they were home-grown, small and sweet. The tiny Moose County potatoes, boiled in their skins, had an Irish flavor, and the steak always tasted like honest meat.

"Have the police knocked on your door?" Qwilleran asked.

"Not yet. Have you talked to anyone?"

"Larry. He worries that someone in the club is guilty, but I think he's wrong." Qwilleran patted his moustache.

"Do you know something that the rest of us don't know?"

"I have a hunch, that's all."

Qwilleran's hunches were always accompanied by a tingling in the roots of his moustache, something he could not explain and refused to discuss. His years on the police beat Down Below, coupled with a natural curiosity, had given him an interest in criminal investigation, and when he was on the right scent there was always that reassuring sensation on his upper lip.

At Tipsy's the food was served by plump, bustling, jolly, gray-haired women who admonished diners to eat everything on their plates.

Qwilleran said to Hixie, "Where do they get all these clones to wait on table? I suppose they advertise: WANTED: Plump, jolly, gray-haired waitpersons with bustling experience. Grandmothers preferred."

They ordered steak - and whatever happened to come with it. Over the bean soup Hixie said, "I have something exciting to discuss."

"Okay. Let's have it." Hixie's ideas were always novel and usually successful, except when they involved Koko; he declined to do TV commercials or endorse a line of frozen gourmet catfoods. It was she, however, who delighted local readers by naming the new newspaper the Moose County Something, and it was Hixie who convinced Dennis Hough to advertise his new construction firm as "Huff & Puff Construction Associates."

"First, have you seen the announcement of my new contest?" she asked.

"Yes. What gave you the idea?"

"Well, you see, Qwill, I drive around the county selling ads, and I see black- and-white cats by the thousand! People seem to think they're all descended from Tipsy. So I thought, Why not a Tipsy Look-Alike Contest? The Kennebeck Chamber of Commerce jumped at the opportunity! They're printing posters and T-shirts."

"And the Something is selling some extra advertising space," Qwilleran added.

"Of course! We have a good slogan. The original Tipsy, you know, was a very sweet cat as well as comic-looking, so our slogan is 'Sweeter and Funnier.' How do you like it?"

"It may be just what this county needs. Are you getting any entries?"

"Hundreds!" The steaks arrived, and the conversation switched to food - also office gossip at the Something and the open house at Qwilleran's barn.

When the waitress served the bread pudding, he said, "One thing puzzles me. How will you judge the Tipsy contest?"

"Glad you asked, Qwill. People are sending in snapshots of their cats, and we'll narrow them down to the fifty best look-alikes. They'll come to Kennebeck for the final judging, and I'm hoping you'll be one of the judges."

"Hold on, Hixie!" he said. "You know I like to cooperate, but I would rather not have to judge fifty live cats."

"Your name on the panel will add a lot of prestige to the contest," she said, "and Lyle Compton has agreed to judge."

"Our school superintendent will do anything for public exposure. He might want to run for governor some day. Who else is on the panel?"

"Mildred Hanstable."

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. Roger MacGillivray's newly widowed mother-in-law was one of his favorite women - and an excellent cook. He said, "All right. It's a foul prospect, but I'll do it."

Over the coffee, Hixie broached the subject of the murder again. "Hilary was infuriatingly uncooperative when I was trying to get publicity for Henry VIII. And everyone I talk to harbors some grudge against the guy."

"He's hurt someone more deeply than we know," Qwilleran said. "There are dark corners of his life that he's kept secret."

"Do you think it could be drug- related?"

"Not likely, although I'm sure the idea of a high school principal as drug dealer appeals to your imagination. Moose County has always been pretty clean; that's one. advantage to living in the boondocks. We have an alcohol problem, but that's all - as yet."

"The sheriff's helicopter is always hovering over those desolate stretches between Chipmunk and Purple Point."

"They're looking for poachers, not marijuana plantings. What does Gary Pratt think about it? Do you still see a lot of Gary?"

"Not lately," Hixie said. "He's such a hairy ape, and since meeting Dennis I realize I go for clean-cut."

Qwilleran assumed his uncle role again. "I hope you know Dennis is happily married, Hixie. Don't walk into any more disappointments. He has a bright two- year-old who looks just like him, and his wife's trying to sell the house in St. Louis so the family can be together up here."

"She's not trying very hard," was Hixie's flippant retort. "Dennis says she doesn't want to live four hundred miles north of everywhere." She turned serious. "I don't know whether this means anything, Qwill, but... I tried to call Dennis this morning after I heard the news on the radio, and he wasn't there. I got a recorded message."

"He was probably sleeping and didn't want to be disturbed," Qwilleran suggested. "None of us got much sleep last night."

"But I looked out the window at the carport, and his assigned parking space was empty."

"He might have gone home with someone. Did that occur to you?"

"I don't think he did. This afternoon, when his van was still missing, I mentioned it to the manager, and this is what she told me: According to the nightman at the gate, Dennis left before daybreak, right after he came in. He didn't say anything, but he looked worried, and he drove away from the gate very fast and turned onto the highway with tires squealing."