Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"Not this time. I have confidence in Brodie. He grew up here, and he's a walking file on everyone in the county. It wouldn't surprise me if he knows who pulled the trigger and is setting a trap for him - or her." He started to leave the office.

"Aren't you getting any vibrations from Koko?" Riker asked mockingly.

"He keeps pulling engravings from my typecase, but so far the message is only FOOD. See you later, Arch."

On the way out of the building Qwilleran stuck his head in an office where Hixie Rice was selling a full-page ad to the owner of a food market, exuding charm and enthusiasm into the instrument.

"Any word about Dennis?" he asked after she had hung up triumphantly.

"His parking space is still empty. Why didn't he tell someone - you or me or Susan or Fran? It worries me."

"If you infer that he's a fugitive from justice, get it out of your head, Hixie. We all know he's a decent guy, and I maintain he's on his way home to see his wife and child - possibly because of some sort of family emergency down there, or because his wife found a buyer for their house. She probably called while he was at the theatre and left a message on his answering machine."

"I hope you're right, Qwill." He declined her invitation to have a microwaved sub in the staff lounge and left to complete his errands. At the post office he picked up his mail and told them to hold future deliveries until the battered mailbox could be repaired.

"Kids out your way must be bashing mailboxes with ball bats again," the clerk guessed.

"Looks like it," Qwilleran said. Other postal patrons were picking up their mail or buying stamps, and most were standing around in neighborly huddles, discussing the murder. They lowered their voices or changed the subject when they caught sight of Mr. Q.

By the time he arrived home the official cars were thinning out, but the photographer's van was still there. "How's it going?" he asked Bushy.

The photographer was packing up his gear. "Wait'll you hear what happened! Remember how the cats behaved when you brought them to my studio for portraits "last year?"

z"I remember. They wouldn't leave their carrying coop," Qwilleran recalled. "I drove one hundred twenty miles round trip, and we couldn't get them out of their carrier even with a can opener."

"Well, today it was different. They wanted to be in every picture! Every time I set up a shot, one of them was right there! I shot the kitchen, and they were both perched on the circular stairs. Whichever way I aimed the camera, there was a cat sitting on a railing or climbing a ladder."

"I should have locked them up," said Qwilleran. "Cats are perverse. They figure out what you want and then do the opposite."

"What's the difference? These photos are only for insurance purposes, aren't they? It'll look as if you've got twenty cats, that's all."

Qwilleran watched the photographer pack, marveling how much equipment can be fitted into a small case where there is a place for everything.

"Now I'm ready for that coffee," Bushy said.

"Would you like a drink of Scotch and a bowl of chili first?"

"Sure would, but I'd rather have wine if you've got it."

"Name it, and we have it. This is the best bar outside of the Shipwreck Tavern. I have thirsty friends."

"And you never touch a drop," the photographer marveled. "How come?"

"Let's just say that I paid my dues when I was young and reckless, and I dropped out of the club ten years ago."

The two men sank into leather chairs with wide arms, deep seats, and welcoming cushions - near the book-shelves and the printer's typecase.

"You've got a nice setup," Bushy said. "You've really got space. We have, too, but it's all cut up into rooms. I see you collect old printing stuff. I have a friend - the editor of the Lockmaster Logger - who collects typefaces and old advertising posters. He has a playbill from Ford's Theatre dated April 14, 1865 - the night Lincoln was assassinated."

The Siamese, aware that chili was in the offing, made a sudden appearance and settled on the ottoman.

Bushy said, "I'd still like to photograph those two characters in my studio. There's a market for cat photos right now. Now that they know me, perhaps we could try it again. Would you like to bring them down to Lockmaster once more?"

"I'm willing to give it another shot," Qwilleran said. "Have you ever been to our famous steeplechase?"

"No. Horse racing never appealed to me. I'm no gambler. If I put out a dollar I expect a dollar's worth in return."

"This is different. It's like a big picnic, with horses jumping over hedges, and hounds baying, and carriages on parade. Here's what I thought: The September steeplechase is next weekend. Bring the cats down and stay at our house. We have lots of room. The cats can prowl around and get used to the studio."

"I'll have to think about that," Qwilleran said, "but I appreciate the invitation."

"There's a party Saturday night after the races, and on Sunday a lot of us go to brunch at the Palomino Paddock."