Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

He prepared a cup of coffee and carried it to a comfortable chair, propping his feet on an ottoman. Yum Yum promptly took possession of his lap, and Koko assumed an attentive position at his feet. They were ready for some quality time.

"Well," he began, "what we have here is the kind of criminal case that is solved immediately - or never. What's your guess?"

Koko blinked his eyes, a signal that Qwilleran interpreted as "no opinion." Cats, he recalled, were never interested in generalities.

"I don't buy the theory that it was an inside job," he went on, grooming his moustache, "although I don't know why I feel that way. If Brodie expends too much time and effort in hounding the members of the club, he's wasting his time."

"Yow," said Koko.

"I'm glad you agree. The one individual he should be investigating is the victim himself. Who was he - really? Where did he get a name like Hilary VanBrook? We know he came here from Lockmaster, but where did he operate before that? He was obviously not a native of the north country, so why did this brilliant man with a cosmopolitan background and impressive credentials choose to live in the outback? Where did he disappear on weekends? Why did he need that large house on Goodwinter Boulevard?"

Qwilleran had forgotten that he himself was indirectly responsible for bringing the principal to Pickax. Four years before - four long and eventful years - Qwilleran had arrived in Moose County as the reluctant heir to the Klingenschoen fortune, reluctant because he had no desire for wealth. He was a dedicated journalist who.enjoyed hacking a living on the crime beat. He was content with a one-room apartment, no car, and a meagre wardrobe that packed in a jiffy when his newspaper sent him off on assignment. Finding himself suddenly encumbered with millions - yet with no interest in financial matters - he solved the problem very simply: He established the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund to give the money away. Immediately a board of trustees started awarding grants, scholarships, and loans to benefit the community.

In direst need, it so happened, was the local school system, known to operate on the lowest per - pupil expenditure in the state. As the Klingenschoen Fund poured money into school facilities and teacher salaries, this cornucopia of largesse gave superintendent Lyle Compton an idea: Money might lure the celebrated Hilary Van Brook away from Lockmaster High School where he had accomplished wonders in a few years. Although Lockmaster considered Moose County a primitive wilderness populated by savages who could not even win a football game, VanBrook accepted the Pickax challenge - and the lucrative contract. Under his leadership the Pickax high school earned accreditation, the curriculum was expanded, and more graduates went on to college. Although the athletic teams did no better, faculty and parents considered the new principal a miracle-worker - while loathing his overweening personality and heartless policies.

A few months before his murder VanBrook wrote a typically curt and scornful letter to the Theatre Club, proposing a Shakespeare production as a change from the light comedies, musicals, and mysteries favored by local audiences. He volunteered to direct it himself. The play he proposed was The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth, and the officers of the Theatre Club uttered a unanimous groan.

Carol Lanspeak called Qwilleran for his opinion. "I'm consulting you," she said, "because the K Fund may have to bail us out if it's a flop. No one likes the idea, and yet Horseface has a reputation as a no-fail genius. We're asking him to meet with our board of directors for further discussion, and we're inviting you to audit the meeting. You can bring your tape recorder if you wish; it might make a subject for the 'Qwill Pen' column - that is, if we decide to cut our throats."

It was a dinner meeting held in a private room at the New Pickax Hotel, built in 1935, the year its predecessor burned down. After a dinner of meatloaf and scalloped potatoes (the hotel was not noted for its imaginative cuisine), the board waited for the guest of honor to arrive. VanBrook had declined to join them for dinner, a pointedly unfriendly gesture. When he finally arrived - late, without apology - Carol called the meeting to order and invited the principal to elucidate on his proposal. As if the board were composed of illiterates, he responded by reading a copy of the same letter he had mailed to them, spitting out the phrases with obvious disdain.

Qwilleran heard someone whisper, "Isn't he a pill?" Yet, the man had a rich, well-modulated voice; it was easy to believe he had been a professional actor. The principal finished reading and rolled his eyes at the walls and ceiling.