Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"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.