Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

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?"