Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

The storekeeper hoisted himself off the barrel and hobbled to the rear of the store, where he climbed a shaky ladder, one unsure step at a time. On the top shelf he found a cardboard box in the last stages of decay and brought it down, one unsure step at a time.

"You amaze me," Qwilleran said with admiration. "How do you manage to find things?"

"They ain't lost."

The box held half a dozen clay pipes that had once been white but were now gray with dust.

"Good! I believe I'll take them all."

"Won't be none left to sell," Cuttlebrink objected. "How about five?" "Sell ya four."

Qwilleran paid for the four pipes, the sponge, and a dill pickle, and the sale was rung up on an old brass cash register on which was taped a crayoned sign: BROWNING GUNS WANTED. The storekeeper hobbled back to his barrel, and the three travelers went on their way.

At the county line the terrain changed from rocky pastureland to rolling green hills. This was Lockmaster's famous hunting country, where miles of fences dipped and curved across the landscape, and here and there an opulent farmhouse with barns and stables crowned a hill. Then came the restaurant known as the Palomino Paddock, with luxury cars in the parking lot, after which the highway became Main Street.

In the nineteenth century wealthy shipbuilders and lumber barons chose to build their residences fronting on the chief thoroughfare, to be admired and envied by all. With affluent families striving to outdo each other, houses as large as resort hotels were lavished with turrets, balconies, verandahs, bowed windows, bracketed roofs, decorative gables, and stained glass.

Zoning had changed with the times, however. Now they were upscale rooming houses, gourmet bed-and-breakfast establishments, law offices, insurance agencies. One imposing structure was a funeral home, another a museum, another the Bushlands' photographic studio. Having inherited it from Vicki's side of the family, they combined business with living quarters. It was a massive three- story frame building with a circular tower bulging from the southwest corner.

Qwilleran drove under the porte cochere that sheltered the side door, saying to his passengers, "We're here! I expect you to be.on your best behavior for the next forty-eight hours. If you cooperate, you may wind up on the cover of a slick magazine." There was no reply. Were they asleep? He turned to see two pairs of blue eyes staring at him with inscrutable intensity as if they knew something that he did not know.

Leaving the Siamese and their gear in the car, Qwilleran lugged his own traveling bag to the carriage door and rang the bell. He was greeted by Vicki in a chef's apron.

"Excuse me for arriving early," he said. "I thought I might explore the town."

"Good idea!" exclaimed his hostess. "Come on in.

Bushy's in his darkroom and can't be disturbed, and I'm wrestling with pie crust, but your room's ready and you can go straight up. We're giving you our really grand guestroom in the southwest corner. You can put the cats in the connecting room; I know they're used to having their own pad."

"Truthfully I'd prefer to have them with me," he said. "In a new environment I like to keep a fatherly eye on them."

"Whatever makes you comfortable, Qwill. Make yourself at home."

He walked slowly and wonderingly across the broad foyer and up the wide staircase, observing the carved woodwork, gaslight fixtures converted for electricity, velvety walls hung with ancestral portraits in oval frames, and the jewel-like stained glass in the windows. The choice guestroom was in the front of the house, a large, square space ballooning into a circular bay - actually the base of the tower. Furnished with canopy bed, writing desk, chaise, wingback chairs, dresser, highboy, blanket chest, and scattering of ruby-red Oriental rugs, it was homey enough for a week's stay. Nothing matched, but family heirlooms gave it a hospitable togetherness. In the circular bay, rimmed with window seats, there was a round table holding a bowl of polished apples, a dish of jelly beans, and magazines devoted to photography and equestrian arts. There was also a four-page newsletter titled Stable-chat - a collection of steeplechase news and horsey gossip listing S. W. O'Hare as publisher and Lisa Amberton as editor.

Qwilleran sampled a red jelly bean, the only color he considered worth eating, and went downstairs for the cats' accoutrements. When at last he brought the carrier into the room, its occupants emerged cautiously and slithered under the bed, where they remained.

"For your future reference," he said, addressing the bed, "your cushion's on the chaise; your water dish and commode are in the bathroom; and I'm going for a walk."

He went down to the kitchen in search of Vicki, who was cutting Z-shaped vents in the crusts of two apple pies. "May I ask you the significance of the Z?" he asked. "Or is it a horizontal N?"