Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"This time we got it right," he said to the cats, who were following him, strutting elegantly on long slender legs. "This is where we belong!" The three of them had lived at several addresses - sometimes happily, sometimes disastrously. "This is the last time we're going to move, you'll be glad to hear."

"Yow!" was the male cat's reply in a minor key; one could almost detect a note of skepticism.

Qwilleran made it a policy to converse with the Siamese, and the male responded as if he understood human speech. "We have Dennis to thank for all of this," he went on. "I only wish Mrs. Cobb could see it."

Chuckling over a private reminiscence, he added, "She'd be tickled pink, wouldn't she?"

"Yow," said Koko in a soft, regretful tone as if he remembered Mrs. Cobb's superlative meatloaf.

The renovation had been designed and engineered by the son of Qwilleran's former housekeeper. Dennis Hough was his name, pronounced Huff, and his arrival in Pickax from St. Louis had created a stir for three reasons: The barn project was a sensation; the young builder had given his construction firm a whimsical name that delighted the locals; and the man himself had a mesmerizing effect on the women of Moose County. It was Qwilleran who had urged Dennis Hough to relocate, giving him the barn as his first commission and arranging Klingenschoen funds to back his new venture.

On this quiet Saturday evening the three barn dwellers were on a lofty catwalk high under the roof, and Qwilleran was reveling in the bird's-eye view of the comfortably furnished main floor when a piercingly loud demand from Yum Yum, the female, told him she cared more about food than architecture.

"Sorry," he apologized with a swift glance at his watch. "We're running a little late. Let's go down and see what we can find in the freezer."

The Siamese turned and scampered down the ramp, shoulder to shoulder, until they reached the lower balcony. From there they swooped down to the main floor like flying squirrels, landing in a deep- cushioned chair with two soft thuds - a shortcut they had been swift to discover. Qwilleran took a more conventional route down a circular metal stairway to the kitchen.

Although he had been a bachelor for many years, he had never learned to cook even the simplest survival food for himself. His culinary skills were limited to thawing and coffeemaking. Now he dropped two frozen Alaska king crablegs into boiling water, then carefully removed the meat from the shells, diced it, and placed a plateful on the floor. The Siamese responded by circling the dish dubiously, first clockwise and then counterclockwise, before consenting to nibble.

"I suppose you'd prefer breast of pheasant tonight," Qwilleran said.

If he indulged them it was because they were an important two-thirds of his life. He had no other family. Yum Yum was a lovable pet who liked to sit on his lap and reach out a paw to touch his moustache wonderingly; Koko was a remarkably intelligent animal in whom the natural feline instincts were developed to a supranormal degree. Yum Yum knew when Qwilleran wore something new or served the food on a different plate, but Koko's twitching nose and bristling whiskers could sense danger and uncover hidden truths. Yum Yum had a larcenous paw that pilfered small objects of significance, but Qwilleran was convinced that Koko craftily planted the idea in her head. Together they were a wily pair of accomplices.

"Those devils!" he had recently remarked to his friend Polly. "I believe they have the Mungojerry-Rumpelteazer franchise for Moose County."

Tonight, as the cats nosed their way through the crab-meat without enthusiasm, the man observed the disapproving posture of the fawn-furred bodies, the critical tilt of the brown ears, and the reproachful contour of the brown tails. He was beginning to read their body language - especially their tail language. His concentration was interrupted when the telephone rang and there was no one on the line. Thinking nothing of it, he proceeded to thaw a pouch of beef stew for his own dinner.

Ordinarily, Saturday evening would have found him dining at the Old Stone Mill with Polly Duncan, the chief librarian in Pickax and the chief woman in his life. She was out of town, however, and he gulped down the beef stew without tasting it, after which he retired to his studio to write his "Straight from the Qwill Pen" column for the local newspaper. His upbeat topic was the success of an unusual experiment in Pickax. On that very evening the Theatre Club was presenting the final performance of The Famous History of the Life of King Henry the Eighth. It had been a controversial choice of play. Even devotees of Shakespeare predicted there would be more persons on the stage than in the audience. Yet, the production had achieved the longest run in Pickax theatre history: twelve performances over a period of four weekends, with virtually no empty seats.