Читаем Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal полностью

He recalled the letter from Fiona Stucker. If VanBrook would chisel a few hundred dollars from the Theatre Club, he might have a history of other misdeeds, great or small: a fling at embezzlement, a witty financial fraud, some successful tax evasion. He had the nerve and the brains to carry off such schemes. The smuggling of Oriental treasures would appeal to him, both intellectually and esthetically. What was in those hundreds of cartons on the second floor of his strangely furnished house?

As Qwilleran approached the barn he could hear the cats' yowling welcome, and that brought to mind another question: On the night of the party, when Koko stared so intently at VanBrook's head, was the cat sensing a questionable operator? A felonious mentality? Farfetched as the idea might seem, it was not beyond the capabilities of that remarkable animal.

On the other hand, Qwilleran had to admit, Koko might have been staring at hair that he recognized as false.

-7-

On Thursday morning Qwilleran emerged sleepily from his bedroom on the balcony and heard a familiar whistle: who-it? who-it? who-it? "Good question," he mumbled as he groped his way down the circular staircase to the computerized coffeemaker. "How about giving us a few answers?" He pressed a button and heard the grinding of the coffee beans, a reassuring sound. It was one of his constant fears that he might stumble down to the kitchen some bleak morning and find the machine out of order.

A feline imperative could be heard, drifting down from the upper reaches of the barn, and he went up the ramp to the top balcony to release the Siamese from their loft apartment. Yum Yum emerged sedately, like the princess that she knew herself to be, but Koko scampered down the ramp to the lower balcony, then flew through space, landing in the cushions of a lounge chair on the main floor. From there he rushed to the window-wall to greet his new-found friend. For a while he sat transfixed, fluttering the tip of his tail as the cardinal turned his head sideways to make eye contact. Shortly, the dump truck arrived to spread crushed stone on the trail, and the cardinal departed for more congenial surroundings.

Qwilleran thawed a Danish for his breakfast, fed the Siamese their roast beef from the deli with a garnish of Roquefort cheese, threw some clothing and towels into the washer, and finally showered and shaved in time to greet Susan Exbridge, who arrived in her long, sleek, top-of-the-line wagon.

"Oh, Qwill! I'm positively destroyed!" she said as she entered the barn and dropped into the nearest chair. "Dennis was such a darling! How could he throw it all away? What was his motive?"

Qwilleran said, "There's more to the story than meets the eye. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Could you add a touch of something comforting?"

"Like... rum?"

She nodded gratefully. "Okay, Susan, tell me how you're going to handle the crowds on Saturday."

After taking a few sips she opened her briefcase and ticked off the arrangements. "The tickets instruct people to use the Main Street parking lots belonging to the theatre, courthouse, and church. We've cleared it with all of them."

"Suppose someone elects to drive up Trevelyan Trail to avoid the traffic jam?"

"The Trail is reserved for guides, and the entrance will be blockaded. Signs will direct visitors through the woods and to the front door of the barn. Indoors there will be plastic runners to protect the floors. Roped stanchions will keep visitors off the rugs. Only a certain number will be admitted at one time."

"Will they go up to the balconies? I wouldn't care to have them snooping in my bedroom."

"Definitely not. The ramps will be roped off. Visitors will simply circle the main floor and exit through the kitchen door. The guides will keep the line moving. No picture taking permitted."

"And for this they're paying five dollars?" he asked in amazement.

"The tickets are sold out, and we could have sold more. There was a sudden demand, you know, after... after Tuesday night. The library will realize twenty-five hundred dollars. Polly is simply ecstatic!"

Qwilleran knew that the chief librarian was never ecstatic. Pleased, or quietly happy, or even mildly overjoyed, but never ecstatic. Susan's mocking emphasis on ecstatic was a subtle reminder that the two women were library associates but not friends.

"You're very well organized, Susan," he complimented her. "Here are the keys for the front and back doors. Hang onto them after the tour, and I'll pick them up at your shop next week."

A handsome and interesting woman, he reflected as she drove away - more fashionable than Polly - but too aggressive and theatrical for his taste, and she never sat down and read a book.

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