Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

Qwilleran devoutly wished that Dennis's mother had been present to refute the man's pronouncement. VanBrook delivered it without looking at his listener. He had a disconcerting habit of rolling his eyes around the room while discoursing. Exercising admirable restraint, Qwilleran replied, "Be that as it may, let me congratulate you on the success of the play."

The director flashed a glance at the frayed lapels of Qwilleran's old plaid robe. "Its success came as no surprise to me. When I proposed doing the play, the opposition came from persons with little theatre experience or understanding of Shakespeare. A dull play, they labeled it. With competent direction there are no dull plays. Furthermore, Henry VIII addresses problems that are rife in our society today. I insist that our senior students study Henry VIII."

Qwilleran said, "I understand there was no Shakespeare taught in Pickax before you took the helm."

"Regrettably true. Now our freshmen are exposed to Romeo and Juliet, sophomores read Macbeth, and juniors study Julius Caesar. Not only do they read the plays; they speak the lines. Shakespeare is meant to be spoken."

Listening to VanBrook's theatrical voice and looking past his shoulder, Qwilleran could see the ramp leading down from the balcony. Koko was descending the slope to investigate, walking with a purposeful gait, his eyes fixed on the principal. Effortlessly and silently the cat rose to the top of the schrank and assumed a position above the man's head, gazing down with a peculiar stare. Qwilleran, hoping that Koko had no intentions that might prove embarrassing, gave the cat a stern glance and cleared his throat pointedly before inquiring of VanBrook, "What do you think of the job Dennis did with this great barn of a place?"

"Derivative, of course," VanBrook said with a lofty display of design acumen. "According to Dennis, ramps are in keeping with barn vernacular. Any resemblance to the Guggenheim Museum is purely coincidental. Those ladders," Qwilleran went on, are the original loft ladders; the rungs are lashed to the siderails with leather thongs."

Apparently the director could feel Koko's stare at the top of his head, and he passed his hand over his hairpiece. (That hairpiece was a topic of much discussion in Pickax, where men were expected to have the real thing or none at all.) Then VanBrook turned abruptly and looked at the top of the schrank.

Hastily Qwilleran said, "This is our male Siamese, Kao K'o Kung, named after a thirteenth-century Chinese artist."

"Yow!" said Koko, who knew his name when he heard it.

"The Yuan dynasty," the principal said with a superior nod. "He was also a noted poet, although that is not generally known by Westerners. His name means 'worthy of respect' or words to that effect. An exact translation is difficult." He turned his back to the Pennsylvania German schrank, which had suddenly become Austrian, and Qwilleran was glad that the cat staring at the hairpiece was Koko and not his accomplice. Yum Yum the Paw would snatch it with a lightning-fast grab and carry it up the ramp to the bedroom, where she would hide it under the bed or, worse still, slam-dunk it in the toilet.

VanBrook was saying, "Appreciation of all the arts is something I have introduced into the curriculum here, as I did when I was principal of Lockmaster High School. It is my contention that graduates who play instruments badly or draw still lifes poorly contribute nothing to the cultural climate of the community. The essence of a true education is an appreciation of art, music, literature, and architecture." He gazed about the barn speculatively. "I should like to bring grades nine to twelve over here, one class at a time, on field trips in the next few weeks."

Qwilleran blinked at the man's audacity, but before he could formulate a reply there was a murmur on top of the schrank, a shifting of paws, and a furry body swooped over the principal's head and landed on a rug ten feet away, after which Koko yowled loudly and imperiously. Larry Lanspeak heard him and interpreted the message.

"C'mon, you guys," he called out. "Chugalug! Qwill's cats need to get some sleep."

Reluctantly the guests started gathering paper plates and napkins, collecting empties, straightening chairs. Gradually they drifted out into the night, clowning and uttering war whoops.

As Fran gave Qwilleran a theatrical goodnight kiss, he said to her, "Was this party your idea? Did you ring my phone a couple of times and hang up?"

"We had to be sure you were here, Qwill. We thought you might be out with Polly. Where is Polly tonight?"

"In Lockmaster at a wedding."

"Oh, really? Why didn't you go?" she asked slyly. "Afraid you'd catch the bouquet?"