The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

-9-

Qwilleran stood in the foyer of the grand old Inglehart house and waited - along with the other guests - for the elevator door to open. Never having known his own grandparents, he felt drawn to anyone over seventy-five years of age, and in this northern region, where many lived to be a hundred, he had met many memorable oldsters.

The elevator door opened sedately, and a distinguished-looking, white-haired woman in a floor-length hostess gown of wine red velvet stepped from the car, leaning on two ivory-headed canes yellow with age. She moved slowly, but her posture was erect. Seeing the waiting audience, she inclined her head graciously toward each one until she caught sight of Qwilleran in the background.

"And this is Mr. Qwilleran!" she exclaimed in a cultivated voice that had become tremulous with the years. She had a handsome face for a woman nearing ninety, like fine-lined porcelain, with kind, blue eyes and thin lips accustomed to smiling. No eyeglasses, Qwilleran noted. He guessed that Grummy would have the latest in contact lenses.

As he stepped forward she tucked one cane under the other arm in order to extend a hand. "My pleasure, Mrs. Inglehart," he murmured, bowing gallantly over her trembling hand. It was a courtly gesture he reserved for women of a certain age.

"I'm thrilled to meet you at last," she said. "I used to read your column when you were writing for newspapers Down Below. But now you are living among us! How fortunate we are! I not only admire your writing talent Mr. Qwilleran, and what you have to say, but..." she added with a coy smile, "I adore your moustache!"

Fleetingly he wondered if the Inglehart library might contain a copy of City of Brotherly Crime.

"Shall we go into dinner, Grummy?" asked Bushy, offering his arm. The others followed them into the dining room and waited until the elderly woman was seated on her granddaughter's left. Qwilleran was motioned to sit opposite, next to Moira, and the party waited for Grummy to raise her soup spoon.

Glancing brightly around the table she said, "For what we are about to receive, we give thanks."

Redbeard, sitting at the other end of the table, next to the host, sneezed loudly.

Fiona said apologetically, "He's allergic."

"To everything," said the man who was blowing his nose. "Including horses."

"Is that true?" Kip asked.

"Absolutely."

"You should give up horses and go in for newspapering. You're doing a good job with Stablechat."

"Nothing to it," said Steve. "I've got a bunch of kids digging up the stuff, and Mrs. Amberton puts it together."

"What's your circulation now?"

"Almost a thousand."

"Another ten thousand," said the editor of the Logger, "and we'll start to worry."

Grummy leaned toward Qwilleran. "Victoria tells me you've brought your cats. I do hope they don't kill birds."

"Have no fear," he replied. "They're indoor cats, and their interest in birds is purely academic. Koko has a friend who's a cardinal, and they stare at each other through the window glass and communicate telepathically."

Steve said, "Take the glass away and it'd be a different story. Cats are cats."

Vicki said quickly, "Grummy has a feeding station outside her window in the tower, and she records the migration of different species in a notebook... Don't forget your soup, Grummy dear." With her spoon poised above the soup plate Mrs. Inglehart was gazing at Qwilleran like a starstruck young girl.

Moira said, "One year I decided to feed the birds, but all I attracted were starlings. They came from three counties to my backyard - millions of noisy, messy invaders. That was the end of birding for me!"

"My problem," Qwilleran said, "is blackbirds. When I bike on country roads, they rise up out of the ditch in a great cloud and dive-bomb me and my bike, screaming chuck chuck chuck."

"That's in nesting season," said Grummy. "They're protecting their young."

"Whatever their motive, they're very unfriendly, and when I talk back to them, they're really burned up."

"What do you say to an unfriendly blackbird?" Moira asked.

"Chuck chuck chuck. But the biggest mystery is the behavior of seagulls when a farmer plows a field. Within five minutes after he starts, a hundred seagulls flock in from the lake, thirty miles away, and circle the field like vultures."

Kip said, "Seagulls have an intelligence network that puts the CIA to shame."

Vicki removed the soup plates, and Fiona helped serve the main course: pasta shells (easy for Grummy to fork with her trembling hand) with a sauce of finely chopped vegetables in meat juices, plus meatballs for the guests.

As the Parmesan cheese was being passed, Grummy returned to her favorite subject. "When I came to live in this house as a bride, I instructed the gardener to plant everything that would attract birds, and I've kept a birdbook for seventy years. Teddy Roosevelt had a birdbook, and he recorded the birds he saw on the White House lawn."

Occasionally there would be a sneeze from Redbeard; Bushy would ask if anyone wanted more wine; Fiona would cast surreptitious stares in Qwilleran's direction; Kip would mention the forthcoming millage vote. But always Grummy would bring the conversation back to birds.

The editor said, "One of the fillers that we ran recently stated that a hummingbird has a pulse rate of 615 beats a minute. I hope it wasn't a typo."

"Not at all," said the old lady. "The hummingbird is one of nature's small miracles."

Qwilleran confessed, "I can't tell one bird from another. They don't stand still long enough for me to look in the field guide."

"When I had my bird garden," Grummy said, "I could entice wild birds to eat out of my hand, and once I raised a family of baby robins after their mother was killed by a boy with a gun."

Steve sneezed again. "Grummy dear," said Vicki quietly and gently, "don't forget to eat your pasta."

Mrs. Inglehart was having a wonderful time, but when the salad was served she seemed tired and asked to be excused. Bushy escorted her to the eievator.

After the apple pie and coffee, Steve said he had to get back to the farm and be up at five in the morning, and Fiona said she had to go home and make sure Robbie went to bed early on the eve of his first race. As she left she said to Qwilleran in her small voice, "I... uh...wanted to talk to you... about Mr. VanBrook, you know, but didn't... uh. I.. get a chance."

"Did you know him well?"

She nodded. "Maybe... tomorrow? Vicki invited me to the 'chase."

"We'll have a talk then," Qwilleran promised. "It's been a pleasure meeting you."

She left, giving him a backward glance. He was watching her go. Despite her self-effacing manner, there was something fascinating about the woman - her large and sorrowful eyes, perfect eyes for Queen Katharine.

Then the MacDiarmids said good night because they had hired a baby-sitter who wanted to be home by ten o'clock. "See you at the 'chase," they said, explaining to Qwilleran, "Our parking slot is next to Bushy's, so we do a little friendly betting."

The host and hostess kicked off their shoes and poured another drink. Qwilleran accepted his third cup of coffee. "Pleasant evening," he said. "Grummy is a treasure, and I liked Kip and Moira. Fiona came as a surprise; she was so different on stage. This fellow Steve... what's their relationship?"

The Bushlands exchanged glances, and Vicki spoke first. "Well, he's Robin's mentor in horsemanship, and Fiona's very ambitious for her son to succeed at something. He dropped out of high school, and his only interest is horses."

"He's not alone, I understand. What's our schedule tomorrow morning?"

"After breakfast," Vicki said, "you'll have time to take the cats up to visit Grummy. She'll be thrilled."

Her husband said, "We'll leave about eleven and pick up Fiona, and that will give us time to fight the traffic and get in place for a tailgate picnic before post time, which is two o'clock."

"Kip mentioned betting. How does that work?"

"It's more fun if you have a few bucks on a horse, so we usually have a five- dollar pool going with the MacDiarmid crowd."

"Breakfast at eight-thirty," Vicki said. "What do you like?"

"Coffee and whatever. And now I think I'll amble upstairs and see if the cats have adjusted."

"Would they like a meatball? We have some left over."

Qwilleran followed her into the kitchen. "How long have you known Fiona?" he asked.

"Ever since junior high. My family used to include her in our picnics and vacation trips because she had no decent homelife of her own. It was the old story: absent father, alcoholic mother. I liked her. She was so eager and appreciative, and she had those heart- breaking eyes!"

"That's what I remember most about her portrayal of Katharine. What kind of life has she had since school-days?"

"Rough," Vicki said. "Her only dream was to have a home and family of her own, so she married right after high school. It was so ironic! Her husband deserted her right after Robin was born."

"How has she managed financially?"

"She does housekeeping. She helps me two days a week. With some kind of training she could do better, but she lacks confidence. If everything works out, I'd like to start a catering service with Fiona as assistant. We'd specialize in hunt breakfasts. They're all the rage in Lockmaster."

"What was her connection with VanBrook?"

Vicki shrugged mysteriously. "Better ask Fiona about that."

Qwilleran said good night to the Bushlands and started for the second floor. Halfway up the stairs he could hear exultant cries coming from the best guestroom. The Siamese knew he was approaching and bearing meatballs. They met him at the door, Koko prancing and Yum Yum snaking between his ankles. Putting the plate on the bathroom floor, he then gave the bedroom a quick inspection for evidence of mischief. Everything was in order except for shredded paper in the circular window bay, but it was only the copy of Stablechat; they frequently reacted to fresh ink.

After their treat, the two satisfied animals found their blue cushion on the chaise, where they washed up and settled down. Qwilleran read for a while before sinking into his own bed and reviewing his day. He had buried Dennis Hough, bought bubble pipes for the cats, discovered Polly's strange Lockmaster connection, and met a charming octagenarian. And tomorrow he might learn something about VanBrook from a woman who wanted to talk about him. He turned off the bedlamp, and in a few moments two warm bodies came stealing into the bed, nosing under the blanket, Yum Yum on his left and Koko on his right, snuggling closer and closer until he felt confined in a strait jacket.

"This is ridiculous!" he said aloud. jumping out of bed he transferred their blue cushion to the bathroom floor, placed them on it with a firm hand, and closed the door. Immediately the yowling and shrieking began, until he feared they would disturb Grummy on the third Boor and the Bushlands in the master bedroom below.

He opened the bathroom door, hopped back into bed and waited anxiously in the dark. For a while nothing happened. Then the first body landed lightly on the bed, followed by a second. He turned his back, and they snuggled down behind him. There they stayed for the night, peacefully sleeping, gradually pressing closer as he inched away. By morning he was clinging to the edge of the mattress, and the Siamese were sprawled crosswise over the whole bed.

"How did you guys sleep?" Bushy asked the next morning when the aroma of bacon lured the three of them to the kitchen.

"Fine," Qwilleran said. "Good bed! They didn't let me have much of it, but what I had was comfortable."

"How do you like your eggs?" Vicki asked.

"Over easy." He looked around the kitchen. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Help yourself, Qwill."

Nursing a cup of it he trailed after the Siamese as they explored the house, reveling in patches of tinted sunlight thrown on the carpet by the stained-glass windows. He himself checked the library, but there was no sign of City of Brotherly Crime.

By the time breakfast was ready, the two cats were chasing each other gleefully up and down the broad staircase. "They're making themselves right at home," he said to the photographer. "You shouldn't have any trouble getting pictures tomorrow."

"I have: a couple of poses in mind," Bushy said, "but mostly I'll let them find their own way. When I took Grummy's tray upstairs this morning, she said to remind you she's expecting them after breakfast."

When the time came for the visit, Vicki called upstairs on the intercom, and Qwilleran collected the Siamese, climbing the stairs to the third floor with one under each arm. Grummy greeted them graciously, wearing a long flowered housecoat and leaning on her two elegant canes.

"Welcome to my eyrie," she said in a shaky voice. "And these are the two aristocrats I've heard about!"

They regarded her with blank stares and wriggled to escape Qwilleran's clutches. They were acting disappointingly catlike.

"I've made some blueberry leaf tea," she said to him, "and if you'll carry the tray we'll sit in the tower alcove." The suite of rooms was furnished with heirlooms in profusion, and on every surface there were framed photographs, including one of Theodore Roosevelt, signed. Glass cabinets displayed a valuable collection of porcelain birds, causing Koko to sit up on his haunches and paw the air. One of them was a cardinal. Even Qwilleran knew a cardinal when he saw one. As Mrs. Inglehart, veteran of thousands of formal teas, poured with graceful gestures, she said, "So this is your first steeplechase, Mr. Qwilleran! Do you know the origin of the name?"

"I'm afraid not."

She spoke in the precise, carefully worded style of one who has presided at thousands of club meetings. "In early days, horses and their riders raced through the countryside, taking fences and hedges and brooks, racing to the church steeple in the next village. In Lockmaster the sport of riding was unknown until my father-in-law introduced it. Until then there were only workhorses, pulling wagons, and tired old nags used for transportation. Then riding became fashionable. We all took lessons in equitation. I loved the hunt and the music of the hounds. I had my own hunter, of course. His name was Timothy."

"You have good posture, Mrs. Inglehart. I imagine you looked splendid in the saddle."

Yum Yum was now in Grummy's lap, being stroked. "Yes, everyone said I had a good seat and excellent balance and control. To control twelve hundred pounds of animal with one's hands, legs, voice, and body weight is a thrilling challenge... But I am doing all the talking. Forgive me."

"It's a pleasure to listen to someone so well-spoken.

"What provoked your interest in birds?"

"Well, now... let me think... After I married Mr. Inglehart, I avoided the needlework clubs and boring book clubs that young matrons were expected to join, and I started the ladies' Tuesday Afternoon Bird Club. Oh, how the townfolk ridiculed us - for studying birds instead of shooting them! They wrote letters to the newspaper, referring to our idle minds and idle hands."

"Do you mean it was customary to shoot songbirds?"

"Yes, indeed! A young lad would come home with a string of tiny birds over his shoulder and sell them to the butcher. They were in demand for dinner parties! I'm sorry to say we still have a few sharpshooters who think of a bird as a target. Of course, it all started when the government put a bounty on birds because they were thought to destroy crops. Then scientists discovered that birds protect fields from rodents, insect, pests, and even destructive weeds... Now, I'm afraid, the farmers rely on those spraying machines and all kinds of chemicals."

Koko could be heard chattering at the birds in the feeding station outside the east window as he stood on his hind legs with forepaws on the sill. Yum Yum was purring and kneading Grummy's lap with her paws.

"I believe she likes me," said the old lady.

"What kind of birds come to your feeder?" Qwilleran asked.

"Innumerable species! My favorites are the chickadees. They're so sociable and entertaining, and they stay all winter. Koko will have his friend all winter, too. Cardinals are non-migratory, and don't they look beautiful against the snow?"

"One wonders how birds survive in this climate."

"They wear their winter underwear - a nice coat of fat under their feathers," she explained. "Oh, I could talk forever about my bird friends, but you'll be leaving soon for the 'chase."

"I'm in no hurry," he said. "You must have a wealth of memories, Mrs. Inglehart, in addition to riding and bird watching."

"May I tell you a secret?" she asked with a conspiratorial smile. "You have honest eyes, and I know you won't tell on me. Promise you won't tell Victoria?"

"I promise," he said with the sincerity that had won confidences throughout his career in journalism.

"Well!" she began with great relish. "When everyone leaves the house, I go downstairs in my elevator - I call it my magic time capsule - and I walk from room to room, reliving my life! I sit at the head of the dining table where I used to pour tea for the Bird Club, and I imagine it laid with Madeira linen and flowers in a cut-glass bowl and silver trays of dainties - and all the ladies wearing hats!... Does that sound as if I've lost my senses?"

"Not at all. It sounds charming."

"Then I go into the front parlor and sit at the rosewood piano and play a few chords, and I can almost hear my husband's beautiful tenor voice singing, 'When you come to the end of a perfect day.' I can almost see the sheet music with pink roses on the cover. How happy we were!... I go into other rooms, too, and give the housekeeper her orders for the day and take a basket of cut flowers from the gardener... Sometimes - but not always - I walk into the reception hall and remember reading the telegram about my son in Korea." She turned to gaze out the window. "After that, nothing was quite the same."

"Where are you?" called a voice from the head of the stairs. "Oh, there you are!" Vicki walked toward the alcove with a covered tray.

"Not a word to Victoria," Grummy cautioned Qwilleran in a whisper.

"Grummy dear, it's time for us to leave for the 'chase, and I'm putting your lunch in the refrigerator. Just warm up the soup, and there's a muffin and a nice little cup custard."

"Thank you, Victoria," said the old lady. "Have a lovely time. I'll be with you in memory."

Vicki gave her grandmother a hug. "We'll see you after the fifth race."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Inglehart," said Qwilleran, bowing over her trembling hand and returning her confidential wink.

"Please leave the little ones with me," she said: "I'll enjoy their company."

Vicki said to Qwilleran as they walked downstairs, "She refuses to have a sitter when we go out, but she has a hot line to the hospital. In case of emergency, she only has to press the red button."

Bushy had removed the photographic gear from the van, and they packed it with food baskets and coolers, folding chairs, and snack tables. Vicki, wearing a flamboyant creation from the Tacky Tack Shop, said, "How do you like my sweatshirt? Fiona gave it to me for my birthday."

When they picked up Fiona at her apartment over a drug store, she too was wearing a shirt stenciled in the rah-rah spirit of the steeplechase - quite unlike her drab attire of the night before. En route, she sat quietly, biting her thumbnail.

"I suppose you've attended many of these events," Qwilleran remarked.

"Ummm... yes... but I'm kind of nervous. It's Robbie's first race."

The stream of traffic heading for the race course included cars and vans packed to the roof with passengers, the younger ones boisterous with anticipation. South of town the route lay through hunting country, finally turning into a gravel road where race officials in Hunt Club blazers checked tickets and sold souvenir programs of the seventy-fifth annual Lockmaster Steeplechase Race Meeting. After one more hill and a small bridge and a clump of woods, the steeplechase course burst into view - a vast, grassy bowl, a natural stadium, its slopes overlooking the race course, which was defined by portable fencing.

Bushy backed into the parking slot designated G-12, with the tail of the van down-slope. Chairs and snack tables were set up on the downside, and he went about mixing drinks. "Bloody Mary okay for everybody?" he asked.

"You know how I want mine," Qwilleran said.

"Right. Extra hot, two stalks of celery, and no vodka."

Already the hillsides were dotted with hundreds of vehicles and swarming with thousands of fans. Race officials in pink riding coats, mounted on thoroughbreds, patrolled the grassy course, controlling the crowd that crossed over to the refreshment tents in the infield. Near G- 12, there was a judges' tower overlooking the finish line. Across the field a stand of evergreens concealed the backstretch. Three ambulances and a veterinary wagon were lined up in conspicuous readiness.

An amplified voice from the judges' tower announced the Trial of Hounds, and soon the baying and trumpeting of the pack could be heard as they came down the slope from the backstretch.

Bushy said, "That sound is music if you're a fox hunter."

Or blood curdling, Qwilleran thought, if you're a fox. Then the MacDiarmid camper pulled into G-ll. The door opened, and a stream of young people poured out. Qwilleran counted three, six, eight, eleven - emerging with exuberance and rushing off to the refreshment tents. Kip and Moira and four other adults stepped out of the camper in their wake.

Qwilleran asked the editor, "How many of these kids are yours?"

"Only four, thank God. Did we miss the hounds? We got lost. They sent us to the wrong gate." He introduced his guests, all connected with the newspaper, and the women busied themselves with the food. Joining with the Bushlands they set up a tailgate spread of ham, potato salad, baked beans, coleslaw, olives, dill pickles, pumpkin tarts, and chocolate cake. Again the voice from the tower reverberated around the hillsides, announcing the parade of carriages, and a dozen turn-outs came around the bend: plain and fancy carriages drawn by high- steppers, the drivers and passengers in period costumes.

There was still a half hour before post time. The high school band was blasting away, with drums and trumpets almost drowned out by the hubbub of the race crowd, all of whom were wildly excited. They were circulating, greeting friends, showing off their festive garb, sharing food and drink, shouting, laughing, screaming. Qwilleran observed them in amazement; they were getting a high-voltage charge from the occasion that totally escaped him.

"Would you like to stroll around?" he asked Fiona, who had been quiet and introspective.

She responded eagerly, and as they circled the rim of the bowl she ventured to say, "It's quite a sight!" Long folding tables were laid with fringed cloths, floral centerpieces, champagne buckets, and whole turkeys on silver platters.

"I'm sorry I didn't meet you during the run of the play," he said, "but you always disappeared right after the curtain."

"I had a long drive home," she explained, "and then... ummm... I have to keep an eye on Robbie." "Altogether, with rehearsals and performances, you had to do a lot of driving. I hope VanBrook appreciated that."

"Oh, yes," she said. "He sent me money out of his own pocket to pay for my gas."

Qwilleran huffed silently into his moustache. "Very thoughtful of him. How did you two meet? In the theatre?"

"Oh, no! I was.... uh... working in a restaurant... and this man used to come in to eat all the time. He was... well, not very good-looking, and the other waitresses made fun of him. I liked him, though. He was, you know, different. Then one day he asked me - right out of nowhere - if I'd like a job. He needed a live-in housekeeper. Robbie was eight then, and we both went to live with him. It was, well, like a gift from heaven!" As Fiona talked, the wonder of it overcame her shyness.

"Was he hard to get along with?" Qwilleran asked. "People in Pickax found him rather crotchety."

"Well, he was strange in some ways, but I got used to it. He kept saying I should educate myself, and he gave me books to read. They weren't... uh... very interesting."

"How did you get involved in Henry VIII?"

"Well, he was going to do the play - here in Lockmaster, you know - and he said he wanted me to be in it. I almost fell over! I'd never been in a play. He said he'd coach me. I was good at memorizing, and I just did everything the way he told me to."

"Would you like to be in another play?"

"Ummm... it would be nice, but I couldn't do it without him."

"How did he and Robin get along?" Qwilleran asked.

"He treated Robbie like a son - always getting after him to study and get better grades. After he moved to Pickax, he came down to see us once a month. He was always offering to put Robbie through college if he'd study Japanese! He said the future belongs to people who know Japanese." Fiona uttered a whimsical little laugh. "Robbie thought he was crazy. So did I."

The high school band stopped playing, and Qwilleran's watch told him it was almost post time. "We'll talk some more at the party tonight," he promised. They hurried back to G-12 and arrived just as Kip MacDiarmid was passing a hat.

"Five dollars, please, if you want to get in the pool," he said.

Qwilleran drew Number Five, a four- year-old chestnut gelding named Quantum Leap, according to the program. Following an announcement from the tower, the band played the national anthem. There was a fanfare of trumpets, and a mounted colorguard came around the bend in the course, followed by Hunt Club officials on horseback. The field for the first race was in the paddock, with the riders in their colorful silks. Number Five wore blue and white. Then the officials led the racers to the starting line, and before Qwilleran could focus his binoculars, they were off and taking the first hurdle.

They disappeared around the bend and behind the trees.

In a moment, they came around again. The crowd was cheering. Qwilleran couldn't even find Quantum Leap. Horses and riders disappeared again and reappeared at the far end of the course, and in a few moments it was all over. Number Five had finished sixth, and one of Kip's guests won the fifty-dollar kitty. Qwilleran felt cheated - not because of losing but because it had all happened so fast.

Vicki said, "You're supposed to cheer your horse on, Qwill. No wonder he came in sixth!"

By nature Qwilleran was not demonstrative, and the fleeting glimpses of his horse in the next three races failed to arouse him to any vocal enthusiasm. He could wax more excited about a ballgame, and even in the ballpark he seldom shouted.

Fiona won the pool in the second race, and everyone was pleased. In the third race, Qwilleran's horse went down on the fourth hurdle, according to an announcement from the tower, and immediately the veterinary wagon and one of the ambulances started for the backstretch.

One of the MacDiarmid youngsters soon came racing back to the camper. "Hey, Dad, they had to shoot the horse!" he shouted.

"How about the rider?"

"I dunno. They took him in the ambulance. Can you let me have five bucks against my allowance?"

"You'll have to clear it with your mother."

There were only five entries in the last race, in which amateur riders were acceptable, and Kip as official bookmaker suggested going partners on the bets.

zFiona said, "I can't bet. I'm rooting for Robbie."

"So am I," said Qwilleran.

"We will, too," said the Bushlands.

The pool was called off, and the Bushland and MacDiarmid crowd swarmed down the hill to the infield fence, the better to cheer for Son of Cardinal. As the horses were led from the paddock, Robin Stucker looked pathetically young and thin in his red and gold silks.

"Oh, God! Oh, God! Let him win!" Fiona was saying softly.

They were off! And for the first time Qwilleran felt moved to cheer. They took the first hurdle and thundered up the slope, disappearing behind the distant trees. Before they came into view again, there was a shout of alarm from the spectators on the backstretch.

"Oh, no!" Fiona whimpered. "Oh, no! Somebody's down!"

The emergency vehicles rushed to the scene, and a crackling announcement came from the tower: "Number Four down on the third hurdle!"

Qwilleran's group groaned with relief. Robin was Number Three.

As the four horses finished the first lap, Robin's rooters were in full voice, cheering him over the next hurdle and up the slope to the hidden backstretch. When the field came into view again, Son of Cardinal was running a close second.

Other fans were. yelling, "Go, Spunky!" or, "Go Midnight!" But the crew from G-12 and G-ll was howling, "Go, Robbie!....Ride `im, Rob!... Keep it up! You're gaining!" Son of Cardinal took the hurdle smoothly and pelted up the slope. "Attaboy, Rob! Three to go!" There were moments of suspense as the horses covered the backstretch. "Here they come! He's ahead!... Go, Robbie!...

Fiona burst into tears. Vicki hugged her, and the others clustered around with congratulations.

"Let's have a drink to celebrate!" Bushy announced. "And it'll give the traffic time to thin out."

"If you don't mind," Fiona said, "I'll just walk over to the stables to see Robbie. Steve can drive me back to town."

"Okay," Vicki said, "but be all dressed and ready to go at seven-thirty. We'll pick you up."

The MacDiarmids collected their horde of youngsters and said goodbye. "When are you coming down again, Qwill?" asked Kip. "I'd like to show you my type collection."

On the way home in the van Qwilleran asked, "Does Robin's win have any importance other than the $5,000 purse?"

"It should increase the value of the horse and give Robin a boost up the ladder," Bushy said. "Also it should sweeten the deal for the Ambertons when they sell the farm."

"Are they selling? Why are they selling?"

"The way I hear it, Amberton wants to move to a warmer climate. He's pushing sixty and has arthritis pretty bad. His wife doesn't want to sell. She's the one who edits the Stablechat newsletter."

"Lisa is quite a bit younger than her husband," Vicki put in, "and she's interested in Steve O'Hare as well as the newsletter."

"That's unfounded gossip, Vicki," her husband reproved her.

"Steve is a womanizer," she explained to Qwilleran. "I hate that word, but that's what he is."

When they reached the turreted mansion on Main Street, Qwilleran could hear Koko howling.

Bushy said, "I hear the welcoming committee."

Qwilleran pounded his moustache with a fist. "That's not Koko's usual cry! Something's wrong!"

The three of them jumped out of the van, Bushy and Qwilleran dashing up the steps and into the foyer, with Vicki close behind. Koko was in the foyer, howling in that frenzied tone that ended in a falsetto shriek. Yum Yum was not in sight.

Bushy started up the stairs three at a time. Vicki ran to the intercom. "Grummy!" she shouted. "Are you all right? We're coming up!" Then she, too, bolted up the stairs.

Koko bounded to the elevator at the rear of the foyer, and Qwilleran followed. Touching the signal panel, he could hear a mechanical door closing. Then the car started to descend, activating a red light on the panel. Koko was quiet now, watching the elevator door.

The Bushlands had reached the third floor, and their voices echoed down the open stairwell. "She's not here!" Vicki screamed in panic.

Slowly the car descended, and slowly the door opened on the main floor. There they were - both of them: Grummy slumped on the needlepoint bench, and Yum Yum crouched at her feet, looking worried.