Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"I've heard about the brunch. My friend Polly was there yesterday."

"I know. I saw her there, and she was really enjoying herself. She was at the wedding reception, too - living it up. They had a terrific buffet and an open bar. You should have been there, Qwill." Bushy was talkative by nature, and a glass of burgundy enhanced this propensity. His range of topics covered his new boat, fishing conditions at Purple Point, his wife's disappointment at being childless, and the problems of living in a century-old house. Qwilleran was a good listener; he never knew when he might glean a tidbit for his column.

Just as Bushy was telling about his wife's grandmother, who lived with them, a sudden impulse triggered the Siamese and catapulted them off the ottoman, round and round the fireplace cube, up the ramp, spiraling toward the roof, racing across the beams, leaping from catwalk to balcony, pounding down the ramp with thundering paws, then swooping to the main level, landing on the ottoman, where they came to a sudden stop and licked their fur. Time: thirty-five seconds.

"What was that all about?" asked the stunned photographer.

"I think they're telling me to go to the steeplechase. I accept your invitation."

After the bowls of chili (hot) and coffee (strong), Qwilleran helped carry the photographic equipment to the van, and Bushy asked, "What are you going to do with your orchard? It's pretty well shot."

"I'll clear out the dead trees and plant something else," said Qwilleran.

"You could make it a bird sanctuary. Keep those berry bushes and wild cherries and plant some cedars and maples and things like that. Our yard is a conference center for birdlife. Vicki's grandmother is a nut about birds."

Qwilleran returned indoors to ask the Siamese if they were in favor of a bird sanctuary and was greeted by Koko in his impertinent pose: legs splayed, head cocked, tail crooked.

"You scoundrel!" Qwilleran said as he picked up the printing blocks scattered around the floor. This time he found a squirrel, a rabbit, an eagle, and a seahorse, two of them hidden under rugs, a trick he attributed to Yum Yum. They're both bored, he thought. "Would anyone like to go for an outing?" he asked.

When he produced the harnesses and jingled them invitingly, Yum Yum promptly disappeared, but Koko was ready for action. Harnessed and leashed and perched on Qwilleran's shoulder, he was soon riding toward the mailbox on the highway. Qwilleran avoided the rutted trail and waded through the weeds in the orchard. Small birds landed on the tips of tall grasses and bounced them up and down, and he could feel Koko's body trembling.

Toward the end of the property the cat struggled to get down. Was this the spot where the killer parked his truck or van? More likely, Qwilleran concluded, there was an abandoned bird's nest in the grass. Some nest builders, Polly had told him, are groundlings.

Arriving at the highway, he allowed Koko to walk, and the cat investigated tire tracks on the pavement and pebbles on the shoulder. The crime lab had removed the mailbox for analysis, but Koko found a piece of glass they had overlooked. A fragment of a headlight? Or a shard from a whiskey bottle aimed at the mailbox by a Saturday-night carouser?

Whatever it is, Qwilleran said to himself, we're staying out of this case. Yet, Koko was tugging on the leash urgently. He was tugging toward the south - the direction in which the last vehicle had turned after the fateful party.

-5-

The day after Qwilleran accepted Bushy's invitation to the steeplechase, the sun was shining; the weather prediction was favorable; the Siamese were well and happy. Yet, he greeted the day with a mild depression. The triangular windows in the upper walls of the apple barn were performing their usual magic, throwing geometric patches of sunlight about the interior. As the earth turned, those distorted triangles of warmth and brightness moved from place to place, confusing the Siamese, who were always attracted to cozy spots. Ordinarily, Qwilleran was fascinated by this slow-motion minuet of sunsplashes, but on this day he was nagged by a vague uneasiness.

The morning started well enough with a phone call from Lockmaster. "Qwill, this is Vicki Bushland. I'm so glad you and the cats will be spending the weekend with us."

"It will be my pleasure," he assured her. "I hope the weather will be fine. It's beautiful today. Is the sun shining up there?"

"It's working overtime," he said, making note of the bright triangles on the floor and walls and the front of the schrank. "Is there anything I may contribute to the weekend?"

"Just bring your binoculars and your camera for the races. The Saturday night party at the Riding and Hunt Club is rather dressy. The women wear long dresses, but black tie is optional for the men. Otherwise, everything's casual. We have a tailgate picnic at the race course on Saturday."