Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"But you solved the Fitch murders when the police were stymied. And you identified the killer at the museum before anyone knew there was a murder!"

Qwilleran massaged his moustache thoughtfully: He was reluctant to reveal that it was Koko's inquisitive sniffing and catly instincts that had turned up the clues. Only his closest friends and a few journalists Down Below knew about the cat's aptitudes, and it was better to leave it that way. "I'll think about it," he told Hixie.

He thought about it as he packed his binoculars and dinner jacket for the weekend at the races. Getting away from Pickax, he hoped, would restore his perspective. For the cats he packed some canned delicacies and vitamin drops, their favorite plate and water dish, the turkey roaster that served as their commode, and a supply of kitty gravel. This was to be their first experience as house guests. Qwilleran was nervous about the prospect, but Koko hopped into the travel coop eagerly - a good omen - and scolded Yum Yum until she followed suit.

When they pulled away from the barn, the route took them south past the potato farms and sheep ranches - and the usual dead skunk on the highway, which caused a flurry of complaints from the backseat. As they neared the county line, Qwilleran began to notice the name Cuttlebrink on rural mailboxes and then suddenly a roadside sign:

WELCOME TO WILDCAT POP. 95

A few hundred feet beyond, another sign suggested that the Cuttlebrinks had a sense of humor:

YOU JUST PASSED WILDCAT

Qwilleran eased on the brakes and made a U turn slowly and carefully. Any sudden stop or start, or any turn in excess of twelve degrees, upset Yum Yum's gastrointestinal apparatus and caused a shrill protest - or worse. Returning to the crossroads that constituted downtown Wildcat, he counted a total of four structures: a dilapidated bar, an abandoned gas station, the remains of an old barn, and a weathered wood building with a faded sign:

CUTTLEBRINK'S HDWE. & GENL. MDSE. ESTAB. 1862

The windows, he guessed, had last been cleaned for the centenary of the store in 1962. The frame building itself had last been painted at the turn of the century. As for the items faintly visible through the dirty glass (dusty horse harness, fan belts, rusty cans of roof cement), they had evidently been dropped there at some point in history, and no one had ever happened to buy them.

The interior was dimly lighted by low- watt lightbulbs hanging from the stamped metal ceiling, and the floorboards - rough and gray with age - were worn down into shallow concavities in front of the cash register and the tobacco case. In the shadows a man could be seen sitting on a barrel - a man with a bush of yellowish-white whiskers and strands of matching hair protruding beneath his feed cap.

"Nice day," he said in a high-pitched, reedy voice.

"Indeed it is," said Qwilleran. "We're having beautiful weather for September, although the weatherman says we can expect rain in a couple of days." He had learned that discussion of the weather was one of the social niceties in Moose County.

"Won't rain," the old man declared. While speaking, Qwilleran had been perusing the merchandise on shelves, counters, and floor: kerosene lanterns, farm buckets, fish scalers, flashlights, rolls of wire fencing, light bulbs, milk filters, corncob pipes... but no clay pipes.

"He'p ya?" asked the old man without mpving.

"Just looking around, thank you."

"No law 'gainst that!"

"You have a remarkable assortment of merchandise."

"Yep."

There were nails by the pound, chains by the foot, rat traps, wooden matches, wire coat hangers, some things called hog rings, button hooks, work gloves, and alarm clocks. "I've seen some interesting stores, but this tops them all," said Qwilleran sociably. "How long has it been here?"

"Longer'n me!"

"Are you a Cuttlebrink?"

"All of us be Cuttlebrinks."

Qwilleran continued his search, trying to appear like a casual browser. He found rubber boots, steel springs, plungers, tarpaulins, more fan belts, fifty-pound salt blocks, gnaw bones for rabbits, dill pickles, ammunition... but still no bubble pipes. Examining a cellulose sponge - which, according to the label, would clean, sanitize, and remove manure - he asked, "Is this a good sponge?"

"You got a cow?" Cuttlebrink asked. "That be an udder sponge."

"It would be good for washing the car ," Qwilleran said, although he intended it for cleaning and sanitizing the cats' turkey roaster.

The old man shrugged and wagged his head at the eccentricity of cityfolk. "You from Pickax?"

"I've lived there for a while."

"Thought so."

Paint thinner. Goat feed. Fuses. Axle grease. Razor blades. Red bandannas. Pitch forks. Swine dust. Another kind of work glove.

"You seem to have just about everything," Qwilleran remarked.

"Yep. What folks want. No fancy stuff."

"Do you happen to have any clay bubble pipes? I'd like to get some for my young ones."