Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

Qwilleran greeted them at the door and invited them into the foyer. They entered slowly, swinging their heads from side to side and up and down in astonishment.

"Oh! I've never seen anything like it!" Fiona cried.

"Hey," said Steve, nudging Robbie, "how about this, kid?"

Robbie nodded, and a half-smile passed between them, which Qwilleran interpreted as: We've got our pigeon; he's loaded; this setup cost a coupla million, easy. Three or four years ago the thought would have annoyed him, but now he was accustomed to the imaginary dollar sign, tattooed on his forehead.

Fiona said, "Mr. Qwilleran, this is - uh - my son Robbie."

"Congratulations, young man. I saw you ride on Saturday. Good show!"

The boy nodded, looking pleased.

Qwilleran ushered them into the lounge area with its luxurious oatmeal-colored seating pieces. "Won't you sit down?"

Robbie looked at the pale upholstery and then at his mother.

"It's all right," she said. "Your pants are clean. I just washed them."

Qwilleran thought, Her son's a mute! No one had ever mentioned that he couldn't speak. "Would anyone like a glass of cider?" he asked.

"Do you happen to have a beer?" Steve replied.

"Robbie and I will have cider," said Fiona. Mother and son were sitting close together on one sofa; Steve sprawled comfortably on the other and had thrown his jacket on the rug.

The Siamese were observing the strangers from the railing of the first balcony, and Steve caught sight of them. "Are those cats?"

"Siamese," Qwilleran said.

"Why are they staring at me?"

"They're not staring; they're just nearsighted."

The trainer jerked his thumb toward the remains of the orchard. "What happened to your trees?"

"They suffered a blight some years ago," Qwilleran explained, "and the storm last week raised havoc, so I thought the time had come to get rid of the dead wood."

"It'd make a good pasture if you wanted to board a couple of horses."

"Unfortunately there's a city ordinance: No horses, cattle, pigs, chickens, or goats within the city limits."

While they drank their refreshments, the visitors ogled the fireplace cube, the loft ladders, the catwalks and massive beams. Steve said, "I read in the Logger that some guy hung himself up there."

"What's the ladder for?" Robbie asked.

He can speak! Qwilleran thought. "Sort of a fire escape," he replied. "Did you bring the information about the farm, Steve?"

"Absolutely!" He fished an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over. "I got these figures from Amberton. He'd like to meet you and show you around when he gets back from Arizona."

"Where does the operation derive its income?"

"Breeding horses. Selling horses. Winning races. Boarding and training horses. Giving riding lessons. There's a lot of wealthy families in Lockmaster, wanting their kids to take lessons and win ribbons."

"Would you manage the operation?"

"Absolutely! That's what I do."

"Do you have a r‚sum‚?" When the stablemaster hesitated, Qwilleran added, "I must explain that I have no money of my own to invest. All business ventures are handled by the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund, and I'll have to discuss the proposition with the trustees. They'll want to know your background, where and for whom you've worked, and for how long. Also why you left each employ, and so forth."

Steve sneezed, and Fiona got up and handed him the tissue box, saying, "I could write it out for you, Steve."

He mopped his brow. "Whew! It's hot in here."

"It's his allergy," Fiona explained. "He gets hot and cold flashes."

Qwilleran turned to Robbie. "And what is your job on the farm?"

"I help Steve," said the youth, with a glance at his mother.

"He's very good with horses," she said with maternal pride. "He's going to ride some big winners when he gets older, isn't he, Steve?"

The trainer sneezed again.

"You should get shots for that allergy," Qwilleran suggested.

"That's what I told him," said Fiona.

At that moment there was a slight commotion on the balcony - some rumbling and a little yipping, after which both cats took off as if shot from a cannon: up the ramps and across the catwalks, circling up to the roof and then racing down again until they reached the first balcony. From there they swooped down like dive-bombers, Koko landing on the back of the sofa behind Steve and Yum Yum landing virtually in his lap. He flinched and Fiona squealed.

"Jeez! What's happening here?" he demanded. "Sorry. You've just attended the seventeenth Weekly Pickax Steeplechase Race Meeting," Qwilleran said.

Koko was still on the sofa back exactly as he had come to rest: legs stiff, back arched, tail crooked like a horseshoe. Then he sneezed: chfff. As sneezes go, it was only a whisper, but a fine spray of vapor was discernible in the sunlight slanting in from the triangular windows.

The trainer mopped his neck with a tissue. "Guess we'd better be getting back to the farm."