Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"What kind of refreshments were they serving at that ladies' social? Dennis is driving to St. Louis to see his family for the first time in several months! The gossips want to suspect him because he's an outsider from Down Below. The people around here, if you ask me, are a bunch of xenophobes."

"If you mean they're slow in payin' their bills, you hit the nail on the head, laddie."

Leaving Scottie's store, Qwilleran met Carol Lanspeak going into the family's emporium. "Heard anything?" she asked.

"Not a word," he replied. "How about you?"

"Wait till you hear! We just received a letter that Hilary mailed last Friday, the day before he died, billing us for mileage for that woman from Lockmaster! Eight rehearsals and twelve performances at one hundred forty miles a round trip. Do you realize what that amounts to at twenty-five cents a mile? Seven hundred dollars! I know she used a lot of gas to come up here, but the point is: We didn't need her!"

"Can the club afford it?"

"Well, it'll put us in the red again. It's just another example of Hilary's arrogance. He never gave us a hint that we'd be liable for her travel expenses. Scott Gippel thinks we should just ignore it. We don't know the woman's address, and we don't know who's handling the estate."

"What does Larry say about it?"

"He hasn't seen the letter yet. He'll hit the ceiling!" Her eye caught the yellow poster in the store window. "Your. Living Barn Tour is being well publicized, but isn't a five-dollar admission kind of steep for Pickax pocketbooks?"

"They'll pay five dollars just to see the scene of the crime," he said.

"That's ghoulish, Qwill."

"But true. You wait and see."

Carol went into the store, and Qwilleran went on his way, thinking about the letter posthumously received. Who was VanBrook's executor? What was the extent of his estate? Who would inherit? Only one person in Pickax, he thought, would know anything about the principal's connections. The superintendent of schools would have a file on the man. Qwilleran had a sudden urge to lunch with Lyle Compton, and he knew that Compton always liked an excuse to get out of the office.

Qwilleran phoned the board of education and made a date for noon, then called the Old Stone Mill for a reservation. Thriftily he used the phone in Amanda's Studio of Interior Design.

"Have you heard anything new?" Fran asked him when he hung up the phone. "I haven't been able to pry anything out of Dad. He isn't talking, not even to Mother, but there's an ugly rumor circulating about Dennis."

"How do these baseless rumors get started?" Qwilleran asked irritably.

"He left town suddenly."

"No doubt headed for St. Louis on family business."

"That's what I think, too, although he didn't mention it to anyone... How did the shoot turn out yesterday?"

"Pretty good, I guess. Bushy took a lot of pictures and promised to print a complete set for you. I'll see them this weekend when I go down to Lockmaster. Have you ever been to the steeplechase?"

"No, but I hear it's quite a blast." Qwilleran looked at his watch. "I'm meeting Lyle at noon. See you later."

"Wait a minute, Qwill. Want to help me make that delivery to Hilary's house tomorrow?"

"What time?"

"Is nine o'clock too early? I know you're a slow starter."

"Not on Wednesday mornings! Mrs. Fulgrove comes to dust, and I like any excuse to get out."

"Okay, then. Park behind the studio, and you can help me load the screens in the van. They're in flat cartons, large but not heavy. And," Fran added slyly, "we won't charge you for the two phone calls."

Stroking his moustache with satisfaction, Qwilleran left for lunch with a singularly buoyant step. He was going to see what was behind those drawn draperies on Goodwinter Boulevard.

The Old Stone Mill was a picturesque restaurant converted from a nineteenth- century grist mill, and its outstanding features were a six-foot-seven busboy who talked a lot and an old millwheel that turned and creaked and groaned continuously. The two men were shown to Qwilleran's favorite table: it had the best view and the most privacy and was comfortably removed from the incessant racket of the ancient wheel.

As Derek Cuttlebrink sauntered over with water pitcher and bread basket, the superintendent said with his usual cynical scowl, "Here comes our most distinguished alumnus."

"Hi, Mr. Compton," said the gregarious busboy. "Did you see me in the play?"

"I certainly did, Derek, and you were head and shoulders above all the others."

"Gee!"

"When are you going to complete your education, my boy? Or is your goal to be the oldest busboy in the forty-eight contiguous states?"

"Well, I've got this new girl that kinda likes me, and she doesn't want me to go away to college," Derek explained plausibly. "I see her three times a week. Last night we went roller skating."

The hostess, hurrying past with an armful of menu folders, nudged him. "Setups on tables six and nine, Derek, and table four wants more water."