THE CAT WHO KNEW A CARDINAL

LILIAN JACKSON BRAUN

-1-
   September promised to be a quiet month 
in Moose County, that summer vacation 
paradise 400 miles north of everywhere. 
After labor Day the tourists returned to 
urban turmoil in the cities Down Below; 
the black fly season ended; children went 
reluctantly back to school; and everyday 
life cranked down to its normal, sleepy 
pace. This year the siesta was short-
lived, however. Within a week the 
community was jolted by news of the 
Orchard Incident, as it was headlined by 
the local newspaper.

   Prior to the Orchard Incident there 
was only one item of scandal on the 
gossip circuit in Pickax City, the county 
seat (population 3,000). Jim Qwilleran, 
semi-retired journalist and heir to the 
vast Klingenschoen fortune, was living in 
a barn! An apple barn! Oh, well, the 
townfolk conceded with shrugs and wagging 
heads, Mr. Q was entitled to a few 
eccentricities, being the richest man in 
the county and a free-wheeling 
philanthropist.

   "Apple barn's better'n a pig barn," 
they chortled over coffee mugs in the 
cafes. After four years they had become 
accustomed to the sight of Mr. Q's 
oversize moustache with its melancholy 
droop. They no longer questioned the 
unorthodox W in the spelling of 
Qwilleran. And most of them now accepted 
the fact that the middle-aged divorced 
bachelor chose to live alone - with two 
cat.

   Actually the facts were these: After 
twenty-five years of chasing the news in 
the capitals of the United States and 
Europe, Qwilleran had succumbed to the 
attractions of rural living, and he was 
captivated by barns, particularly an 
octagonal structure on the Klingenschoen 
property. The hundred-year-old fieldstone 
foundation was still intact, and its 
shingled siding was weathered to a 
silvery gray. Rising majestically as high 
as a four-story building, it overlooked a 
field of grotesque skeletons - the 
tortured remains of what was once a 
thriving apple orchard. Now it was of 
interest only to birds, including one 
that whistled an inquisitive who-it? who-
it? who-it?

   Qwilleran had first discovered the 
barn during his rambles about the 
Klingenschoen estate, which extended from 
the main thoroughfare of Pickax to 
Trevelyan Road, almost a half mile 
distant. The mansion of the notorious 
Klingenschoens, facing Main Street, had 
been converted into a theatre for stage 
productions, with the extensive gardens 
in the rear paved for parking. Beyond was 
a high, ornamental fence of wrought iron. 
Then came a dense patch of woods that 
concealed the barn and the orchard. After 
that, the lane leading to Trevelyan Road 
was hardly more than a dirt trail, 
winding through overgrown pastureland and 
past the foundations of old cottages once 
occupied by tenant farmers. If anyone 
remembered the lane at all, it was known 
as Trevelyan Trail. At the end of it an 
outsize, rural mailbox on a post was 
identified with the letter Q.

   Originally the barn had been used for 
storing apples, pressing cider, and 
making apple butter. In recent years, all 
that remained was a wealth of empty space 
rising cathedral-like to the octagonal 
roof. Drastic renovation was required to 
make it habitable, but after Mr. Q moved 
in he was pleased to learn that the 
interior - on a warm and humid day - 
still exuded the aroma of Winesaps and 
Jonathans.

   On a certain warm and humid day in 
September - the tenth of the month, to be 
exact - Qwilleran;s housemates 
continually raised noses to sniff a scent 
they could not identify. They were a pair 
of Siamese-strictly indoor cats - and it 
was partly for their benefit that the 
barn had been converted to its present 
design. With ramps and cat-walks 
spiraling upward around the interior 
walls, with balconies floating on three 
levels, and with a system of massive 
beams radiating under the roof, the 
design allowed this acrobatic couple to 
race wildly, leap recklessly, and wrestle 
precariously on timbers thirty or forty 
feet overhead. For their quiet moments 
there were window-walls through which 
they could watch the flight of a bird, 
the fall of a leaf, and the ballet of 
wind-swept grasses in the orchard.

   Qwilleran himself, having lived for 
two years in an apartment above the 
Klingenschoen garage, was awed by the 
spatial magnificence of his new 
residence. He was a big man in his 
comfort-loving fifties, with wide 
shoulders and long legs, and nature had 
not intended him to live in cramped 
quarters. On that warm and humid Saturday 
evening he strode about his domain 
enjoying the feeling of spaciousness and 
the dramatic perspectives, all the while 
stroking his bushy salt-and-pepper 
moustache with satisfaction. The last 
rays of the sunset slanted into the 
interior through high triangular windows, 
so shaped to preserve the symmetry of 
beams and braces.

   "This time we got it right," he said 
to the cats, who were following him, 
strutting elegantly on long slender legs. 
"This is where we belong!" The three of 
them had lived at several addresses - 
sometimes happily, sometimes 
disastrously. "This is the last time 
we're going to move, you'll be glad to 
hear."

   "Yow!" was the male cat's reply in a 
minor key; one could almost detect a note 
of skepticism.

   Qwilleran made it a policy to converse 
with the Siamese, and the male responded 
as if he understood human speech. "We 
have Dennis to thank for all of this," he 
went on. "I only wish Mrs. Cobb could see 
it."

   Chuckling over a private reminiscence, 
he added, "She'd be tickled pink, 
wouldn't she?"

   "Yow," said Koko in a soft, regretful 
tone as if he remembered Mrs. Cobb's 
superlative meatloaf.

   The renovation had been designed and 
engineered by the son of Qwilleran's 
former housekeeper. Dennis Hough was his 
name, pronounced Huff, and his arrival in 
Pickax from St. Louis had created a stir 
for three reasons: The barn project was a 
sensation; the young builder had given 
his construction firm a whimsical name 
that delighted the locals; and the man 
himself had a mesmerizing effect on the 
women of Moose County. It was Qwilleran 
who had urged Dennis Hough to relocate, 
giving him the barn as his first 
commission and arranging Klingenschoen 
funds to back his new venture.

   On this quiet Saturday evening the 
three barn dwellers were on a lofty 
catwalk high under the roof, and 
Qwilleran was reveling in the bird's-eye 
view of the comfortably furnished main 
floor when a piercingly loud demand from 
Yum Yum, the female, told him she cared 
more about food than architecture.

   "Sorry," he apologized with a swift 
glance at his watch. "We're running a 
little late. Let's go down and see what 
we can find in the freezer."

   The Siamese turned and scampered down 
the ramp, shoulder to shoulder, until 
they reached the lower balcony. From 
there they swooped down to the main floor 
like flying squirrels, landing in a deep-
cushioned chair with two soft thuds - a 
shortcut they had been swift to discover. 
Qwilleran took a more conventional route 
down a circular metal stairway to the 
kitchen.

   Although he had been a bachelor for 
many years, he had never learned to cook 
even the simplest survival food for 
himself. His culinary skills were limited 
to thawing and coffeemaking. Now he 
dropped two frozen Alaska king crablegs 
into boiling water, then carefully 
removed the meat from the shells, diced 
it, and placed a plateful on the floor. 
The Siamese responded by circling the 
dish dubiously, first clockwise and then 
counterclockwise, before consenting to 
nibble.

   "I suppose you'd prefer breast of 
pheasant tonight," Qwilleran said.

   If he indulged them it was because 
they were an important two-thirds of his 
life. He had no other family. Yum Yum was 
a lovable pet who liked to sit on his lap 
and reach out a paw to touch his 
moustache wonderingly; Koko was a 
remarkably intelligent animal in whom the 
natural feline instincts were developed 
to a supranormal degree. Yum Yum knew 
when Qwilleran wore something new or 
served the food on a different plate, but 
Koko's twitching nose and bristling 
whiskers could sense danger and uncover 
hidden truths. Yum Yum had a larcenous 
paw that pilfered small objects of 
significance, but Qwilleran was convinced 
that Koko craftily planted the idea in 
her head. Together they were a wily pair 
of accomplices.

   "Those devils!" he had recently 
remarked to his friend Polly. "I believe 
they have the Mungojerry-Rumpelteazer 
franchise for Moose County."

   Tonight, as the cats nosed their way 
through the crab-meat without enthusiasm, 
the man observed the disapproving posture 
of the fawn-furred bodies, the critical 
tilt of the brown ears, and the 
reproachful contour of the brown tails. 
He was beginning to read their body 
language - especially their tail 
language. His concentration was 
interrupted when the telephone rang and 
there was no one on the line. Thinking 
nothing of it, he proceeded to thaw a 
pouch of beef stew for his own dinner.

   Ordinarily, Saturday evening would 
have found him dining at the Old Stone 
Mill with Polly Duncan, the chief 
librarian in Pickax and the chief woman 
in his life. She was out of town, 
however, and he gulped down the beef stew 
without tasting it, after which he 
retired to his studio to write his 
"Straight from the Qwill Pen" column for 
the local newspaper. His upbeat topic was 
the success of an unusual experiment in 
Pickax. On that very evening the Theatre 
Club was presenting the final performance 
of The Famous History of the Life of King 
Henry the Eighth. It had been a 
controversial choice of play. Even 
devotees of Shakespeare predicted there 
would be more persons on the stage than 
in the audience. Yet, the production had 
achieved the longest run in Pickax 
theatre history: twelve performances over 
a period of four weekends, with virtually 
no empty seats.

   Qwilleran had attended opening night 
in the company of Polly Duncan, fifth row 
on the aisle, after which he wrote a 
justifiably favorable review. Now that 
the final box office results were known, 
he wrote a wrap-up piece commending the 
audiences for their discerning 
appreciation of serious drama and 
complimenting the small-town performers 
for their believable portrayals of 
sixteenth-century English nobility. It 
was not entirely accidental that he 
neglected to mention the director until 
the last paragraph. Hilary Van Brook had 
offended Qwilleran's journalistic pride 
by refusing to be profiled in the "Qwill 
Pen" column - an opportunity that the 
rest of Pickax equated with winning the 
lottery. Now the journalist was getting 
the last word, so to speak, by relegating 
the director to the last paragraph.

   Pleased with his handiwork, he 
concocted a cup of coffee in a 
computerized machine, thawed a doughnut, 
and prepared to relax with a book he had 
bought secondhand. Qwilleran was thrifty 
by temperament, and despite his new 
financial status he retained many of his 
old habits of frugality. He drove a 
preowned car, gassed up at the self-serve 
pump, winced when he looked at pricetags, 
and always sought out bargains in used 
books.

   After getting into pajamas and his 
comfortable old threadbare plaid robe, he 
put a match to some dry twigs and 
applewood logs in the fireplace and was 
about to stretch out in an oversized 
armchair when the telephone rang again. 
Once more he heard an abrupt click-off 
followed by a dial tone, and this time he 
questioned it. In the cities where he had 
lived and worked Down Below, the incident 
would suggest a burglar lurking in a 
phone booth down at the corner. In Moose 
County, where break-ins were rare, he 
could suspect only curiosity-seekers. 
There had been so much gossip about 
Qwilleran's apple barn (where a fruit 
grower had hanged himself from the 
rafters in 1920) that townfolk had been 
prowling about the premises and peering 
in the windows.

   Putting the phone call out of his 
mind, he settled down in his big chair 
with his feet propped on the ottoman. 
Immediately, the Siamese came running in 
anticipation of a reading session. He 
often read aloud to them. They seemed to 
appreciate the sound of his voice, 
whether he was reciting from his 
secondhand Walt Whitman or reading the 
major league scores in the newspapers 
from Down Below. He had a richly timbred 
delivery - the result of his diction 
classes while dabbling in college drama - 
and the acoustics of the barn added to 
its resonance.

   As he opened Audubon's Birds of 
America - the so-called Popular Edition 
of the nineteenth-century best-seller - 
his audience arranged themselves in 
comfortable bundles of attention, Yum Yum 
on his lap and Koko at his elbow on the 
arm of the chair. Ornithology was not one 
of Qwilleran's interests, but Polly had 
given him binoculars for his birthday and 
was trying to convert him to bird 
watching. Moreover, a book with two 
hundred colorplates was an irresistible 
bargain at a dollar.

   "It's mostly pictures," he explained 
to the attentive animals as he turned the 
pages. "Who thinks up these absurd names? 
Black-bellied plover! Loggerhead shrike! 
Pied-billed grebe! Don't you think 
they're absurd?"

   "Yow," Koko agreed.

   "Here's a handsome one! It's your 
friend, the cardinal. The book says it 
resides in thickets, tangles, and gardens 
as far north as Canada."

   Koko, an experienced pigeon watcher 
from Down Below, now spent hours every 
day at the windows on the various levels 
of the barn, sighting myriad small birds 
in the blighted orchard. Recently he had 
struck up an acquaintance with a visitor 
distinguished by red plumage, a royal 
crown, and a patrician beak, who whistled 
a continual question: who-it?

   As Qwilleran turned the page to the 
rose-breasted grosbeak, both cats 
suddenly stretched to attention and 
craned their necks in the direction of 
the front door. Qwilleran also sat up and 
listened. He could hear a menacing rumble 
in the orchard that sounded alarmingly 
like army tanks, and he could see lights 
approaching the barn. He jumped to his 
feet and switched on the yardlights. 
Peering down the Trevelyan Trail he could 
see them coming - a column of headlights, 
weaving and bouncing as vehicles 
maneuvered through the ruts of the dirt 
road.

   "What the deuce is this?" he barked, 
palming his moustache in perplexity. "An 
invasion?" The alarming tone of his voice 
sent both cats bounding out of sight; 
they had no intention of being caught in 
the line of fire.

   One by one the vehicles turned out of 
the lane and parked in the tall grasses 
between the old apple trees. Headlights 
disappeared, and dark figures piled out 
of dark cars and trucks, converging on 
the barn. Only when they reached the pool 
of light in the yard did Qwilleran 
recognize them as the cast and crew of 
Henry VIII. They were carrying six-packs, 
coolers, brown paper bags, and pizza 
boxes.

   His first thought was: Dammit! They've 
caught me in my pajamas and old robe! His 
second thought was: They look like hoboes 
themselves. It was true. The troupe wore 
backstage attire: tattered jeans, faded 
sweatshirts, washed out plaids, 
bedraggled sweaters, and grimy sneakers - 
a drastic change from the court finery of 
an hour before.

   "Happy barn warming!" they shouted 
when they saw Qwilleran in the doorway. 
He reached around the doorjamb and threw 
a master switch that illuminated the 
entire interior. Uplights and downlights 
were concealed artfully in timbers and 
under balconies. Then he stepped aside 
and let them file into the barn - all 
forty of them!

   If their eyes popped and their jaws 
dropped, it was for good reason. The 
walls of the main floor were the original 
stone foundation, a random stack of 
boulders held together by hidden mortar - 
craggy as a grotto. Overhead were massive 
pine timbers, some of them twelve inches 
square. Sandblasted to their original 
honey color, they contrasted softly with 
the newly insulated walls, painted white. 
And in the center of it all stood the 
contemporary fireplace, a huge white cube 
with three chubby cylindrical white flues 
rising to the center of the roof.

   For the first time in anyone's memory 
the members of the Pickax Theatre Club 
were speechless. They wandered about the 
main level in a trance, gazing upward at 
the interlocking braces and beams, then 
downward at the earthen tile floor where 
furniture was arranged in conversation 
groups on Moroccan rugs. Then they 
collected their wits and all talked at 
once.

   "Do you actually live here, Qwill?"

   "I utterly don't believe it!"

   "Neat! Really neat! Must've cost 
plenty!"

   "Did Dennis do all of this? He's a 
genius!"

   "Man, there's room for three grand 
pianos and two billiard tables."

   "Look at the size of those beams! They 
don't grow trees like that any more."

   "Swell place for a hanging."

   "Qwill, darling, it's shattering! 
Would you like to time-share?"

   Qwilleran had met the entire troupe at 
one time or another, and some of them 
were his favorite acquaintances in 
Pickax:

   Larry Lanspeak, owner of the local 
department store, for one. He had 
auditioned for Cardinal Wolsey but landed 
the King Henry role, and his slight build 
required fifteen pounds of padding to 
match the girth of the well-fed monarch.

   Fran Brodie, Qwilleran's interior 
designer and also daughter of the police 
chief. She auditioned for Queen Katharine 
but was ultimately cast as the beauteous 
Anne Boleyn. Perfect casting, Qwilleran 
thought. During the coronation scene he 
had been unable to take his eyes from 
her, and he was afraid Polly would hear 
his heavy breathing.

   Carol Lanspeak, president of the club 
and everyone's friend. She was another 
capable aspirant for Queen Katharine and 
was deeply disappointed when director 
VanBrook picked her as his assistant and 
understudy for the queen.

   Susan Exbridge, antique dealer and 
recent divorcee. She looked younger than 
her forty years and desperately wanted to 
play Anne Boleyn. When the director 
assigned her to do the Old Lady, she was 
furious but quickly recovered upon 
learning that the Old Lady had some bawdy 
lines that might steal the show.

   Derek Cuttlebrink, busboy at the Old 
Stone Mill. He played five minor roles 
and was outstanding - not for his acting 
but for his bean-pole stature. Derek was 
six feet seven and still growing. Each 
time he made an entrance as another 
character, the audience whispered, "Here 
he comes again."

   Dennis Hough, building contractor and 
new man in town. He, too, wanted to play 
Cardinal Wolsey but had to settle for a 
lesser role. Nevertheless, as the Duke of 
Buckingham, unjustly sentenced to death, 
he made a farewell speech that plunged 
the audience into tears night after 
night.

   Eddington Smith, dealer in used books. 
This shy little old man played Cardinal 
Campeius, although no one could hear a 
word he said. It hardly mattered, because 
Cardinal Wolsey had all the best lines.

   Hixie Rice, advertising manager for 
the local newspaper. As volunteer 
publicist for the club, she sold enough 
ads in the playbill to defray the cost of 
the sumptuous court costumes.

   Wally Toddwhistle, the talented young 
taxidermist. He built stage sets for 
Theatre Club productions, and for Henry 
VIII he worked miracles with used lumber, 
spray paint, and bedsheets.

   Also present was the director, Hilary 
VanBrook, who wandered about by himself 
and had little or nothing to say. The 
rest of the company was sky-high after 
the heady experience of closing night: 
the standing ovation, the flowers, and 
the general relief that the whole thing 
was over. Now they were reacting noisily. 
The Siamese watched the crowd from a 
catwalk and twitched noses in recognition 
of the cheese, pepperoni, and anchovy 
wafting upward. The troupe appeared to be 
starved. They wolfed the pizza and washed 
it down with cold drinks and a strong 
brew from Qwilleran's computerized 
coffeemaker, all the while talking 
nonstop:

   "Somebody missed the light cue, and I 
had to say my lines in the dark! I could 
have killed the jerk at the lightboard!"

   "When Katharine had her vision 
tonight, the angels dropped the garland 
on her head. I could hardly keep a 
straight face."

   "Everything goes haywire on the last 
night, but the audience doesn't know the 
difference."

   "I was supposed to carry a gold 
scepter in the procession, you know, and 
tonight nobody could find the blasted 
thing!"

   "At least nobody stepped on my train 
this time, thank God. For these small 
mercies we are grateful."

   "Halfway through the treason trial he 
went up like a kite, and I had to ad-lib. 
That's tough to do in Elizabethan 
English."

   "The audience was really with us 
tonight, weren't they? The Old Lady even 
got some belly laughs from the balcony."

   "Why not? She played it like the side 
of a barn!"

   Qwilleran moved hospitably through the 
group, jingling the ice in his glass of 
Squunk water. (It looked like vodka on 
the rocks, but everyone knew it was 
mineral water from a flowing well at 
Squunk Corners.) He was not surprised to 
see Dennis Hough surrounded by women. 
Among them were Susan Exbridge, her dark 
hair still sleek after wearing the Old 
Lady's wig. . . and Hixie Rice, tossing 
her asymetrical page-boy cut, which was 
auburn this week. . . and Fran Brodie, 
whose soft, strawberry blond curls 
contrasted surprisingly with her steely 
gray eyes.

   Carol Lanspeak nudged Qwilleran's 
elbow slyly. "Look at Dennis with his 
groupies. Too bad I'm happily married to 
Larry; I'd join the pack."

   Qwilleran said, "Dennis is a good-
looking guy."

   "And he has an interesting quality," 
Carol said. "Masculine and yet sensitive. 
He looks cool, but he's wired to a very 
short fuse. There were quite a few 
blowups during rehearsals."

   "He's impulsive, but I overlooked his 
mood swings when we were working on the 
barn because he was doing such a great 
job. He was on his way to be a registered 
architect, you know, before he went into 
the construction business. Notice how he 
incorporated the old loft ladders into 
the design." As he spoke, the lanky 
busboy was halfway up a ladder, waving an 
arm and leg at those below. "The catwalks 
are for washing the high windows. We're 
going to hang tapestries from the 
railings."

   "You could hang quilts," said Carol, 
whose taste ran to country coziness.

   "No quilts!" Qwilleran said sternly. 
"Fran has ordered some contemporary 
hangings. They should be here any day 
now."

   "Everyone in town is aching to see 
this place, Qwill."

   "That's why we're having a public open 
house. The admission charge to benefit 
the library was Polly's idea."

   "Serve refreshments and the library 
will clean up! We have a very hungry 
population." Then casually she inquired, 
with the licensed nosiness of a Pickax 
native, "Where's Polly tonight?"

   Everyone knew that the Klingenschoen 
heir and the chief librarian spent 
weekends together. During bull sessions 
at the Dimsdale Diner one of the men 
usually asked, "Do you think he'll ever 
marry her?" And women drinking coffee at 
Lois's Luncheonette always brought up the 
topic: "Wonder why she doesn't marry 
him?"

   To answer Carol's question Qwilleran 
explained, "Polly's in Lockmaster, 
attending a wedding. The librarian down 
there has a son who's going off the deep 
end."

   "Who's taking care of Bootsie?" 
Another well-known fact in Pickax was the 
librarian's obsessive concern for her 
young cat.

   "I went over there tonight to feed 
him, and I'll go again tomorrow morning 
to fill up his four hollow legs and 
police his commode. I never saw a cat eat 
so much!"

   "He's still growing," Carol said.

   "Polly will be home in the late 
afternoon to tell me what the bride wore 
and who caught the bouquet and all that 
guff. I don't know why you women are so 
wild about weddings."

   "You talk like a grouchy old bachelor, 
Qwill."

   "I'd rather go to a ballgame. Do you 
realize that I haven't seen a major 
league game in four years? And I was born 
a Cub fan in Chicago."

   "It's your own fault, Qwill. You know 
very well that Larry would love to fly 
you down to Chicago or Minneapolis. He's 
bought a new four-seater. Polly and I 
could go along for a shopping binge. Or 
maybe she'd like to see the game, too."

   "Polly-does-not-like-baseball!" 
Qwilleran said with emphasis. Nor 
shopping, either, he thought, reflecting 
on her limited wardrobe assembled 
haphazardly at Lanspeak's Department 
Store during sales.

   Carol's husband joined them. "Did I 
hear my services being volunteered?"

   At first glance the Lanspeaks were a 
plain-looking middle-aged couple, but 
they had a youthful source of energy that 
made them civic leaders and genial 
company as well as excellent actors. 
Qwilleran often wondered what they ate 
for breakfast. He said, "Larry, you were 
great onstage! The kingliest Henry I've 
ever seen!"

   "Thanks, fella. Let me tell you, it's 
good to be thin again. Besides navigating 
Henry's belly around the stage, I had to 
think fat! That's quite an adjustment! 
And then there was that damned itchy 
beard! I shaved it off as soon as the 
final curtain fell."

   Carol asked, "How did Polly like the 
play?"

   "She gave it raves, and we both 
thought the crowd scenes were 
tremendously effective. How did you 
manage all those kids?"

   "It wasn't easy-getting them into 
costume, keeping them quiet backstage, 
pushing them out on cue. They dressed at 
the school, you know, and we transported 
them on school buses. Trauma time! 
Fortunately, Hilary had directed the play 
before and knew all the tricks. As his 
assistant I learned a lot; I won't deny 
that." She turned her back to the other 
guests and lowered her voice. "But as 
president of the club and wife of the 
president of the school board, I wish to 
go on record as saying I can't stand the 
man!"

   A large percentage of the Pickax 
population entertained a loathing for 
Hilary VanBrook, principal of the high 
school. At fault was his abrasive 
personality and unbearable conceit. The 
public even resented the turtlenecks he 
wore to school. In Moose County there was 
something subversive about an 
administrator who wore black turtlenecks 
instead of the expected white shirt and 
quiet tie. But chiefly annoying was his 
habit of being eminently successful at 
everything he proposed, no matter how 
preposterous it appeared to parents, 
teachers, the superintendent of schools, 
and the school board.

   Principal-bashing, therefore, was a 
favorite pastime. He was an unattractive 
man, and behind his back he was called 
Horseface. Yet, everyone remained in awe 
of his capabilities and self-assurance. 
It was because of his brilliant record as 
a school administrator and his reputation 
as a brain that the Theatre Club had 
allowed him to mount a play that was 
considered too dull, on a stage that was 
too small, with a cast that was too 
large. And now Henry VIII was going into 
the books as another triumph for 
Horseface.

   "Yes," Larry said grudgingly in a low 
voice, "that scurvy knave has done it 
again! Ticket sales were so good we 
actually made a profit. With all those 
kids in the cast, you know, the hall was 
filled with their relatives, friends, and 
classmates." He glanced to left and right 
to ascertain the director's whereabouts 
and continued in a stage whisper. "He 
made two political mistakes. He should 
certainly not have played Cardinal Wolsey 
himself, and he should definitely not 
have brought someone from the next county 
to play Queen Katharine. We have plenty 
of talent right here in Moose County."

   Qwilleran scanned the scattered groups 
of guests. "What happened to the queen? I 
don't see her here tonight."

   Carol said, "She left right after the 
curtain. Got out of makeup in a hurry and 
didn't even say goodbye to the cast."

   "Well, we weren't very cordial to her, 
I'm afraid," Larry confessed, "although 
we told her about the party and how to 
get here, and she wrote it down. I 
thought she'd show up. Of course, she 
lives in Lockmaster, and that's a sixty-
mile drive, so I guess she can be 
excused."

   Carol squeezed her husband's arm. "How 
do you like the barn, honey?"

   "Fantastic! What condition was it in, 
Qwill, before you started?"

   "Structurally solid, but filthy! For 
years it had been a motel for birds, 
cats, bats, and even skunks. Fran hung 
those German prints as an apology to the 
dispossessed bats." He pointed to a group 
of four framed zoological prints of 
flying mammals, dated 1824.

   "You should have the barn 
photographed, Qwill, for a magazine."

   "Yes, I'd like to see it published - 
for Dennis's sake. And: Fran did a great 
job with the furnishings, considering I'm 
not the easiest client to get along with. 
John Bushland is coming up from 
Lockmaster to shoot some pictures for 
insurance purposes. I'm curious to know 
how everything looks on film."

   "Don't we have a good photographer 
here?" Larry asked sharply. There had 
been jealous rivalry between Pickax and 
Lockmaster for a century or more.

   "No one with Bushy's talent and 
experience and equipment."

   "You're right. He's good," Larry 
acknowledged.

   Someone shouted "Last call for pizza!" 
and the crowd swarmed to the kitchen 
snack bar - all except Hilary VanBrook. 
While the others had mingled in shifting 
clusters, the director had stayed on the 
periphery. In his bottle-green corduroy 
sports coat and red turtleneck he was 
clearly the best-dressed individual in 
the largely raggle-taggle assemblage. 
With shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, 
and a saturnine expression on his gaunt 
and homely face, he appeared to be 
studying - with a critical eye - the 
handhewn and woodpegged framewotk of the 
building, the design of the fireplace, 
the zoological prints, and the printer's 
typecase half filled with engraved metal 
plates mounted on wooden blocks.

   He was standing in front of a pine 
wardrobe, seven feet high, when Qwilleran 
approached and said, "That's a 
Pennsylvania German schrank dating 1850 
or earlier."

   "More likely Austrian," the director 
corrected him. "You can see the piece had 
painted decoration originally. It's been 
stripped and refinished, which lessens 
its value, as you probably know."

   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?"

   "Don't be cheeky, young lady," he 
warned her. "I haven't paid your bill 
yet." He watched her leave - a good 
designer, easy to like, half his age and 
refreshingly impudent, stunning even in 
grubby rehearsal togs. Dennis walked out 
with Susan, the two of them sharing a 
secret joke. Eddington Smith tagged along 
with the Lanspeaks, who were giving him a 
ride home.

   VanBrook lingered long enough to say, 
"I'll have my assistant contact you about 
the student tours."

   This time Qwilleran was ready with a 
reply. "An excellent idea," he said, "but 
I must make one stipulation. I insist 
that Dennis conduct the tours and explain 
the design and construction methods. If 
you will take the initiative and line him 
up, I'll consent gladly." He knew that 
the principal and the builder had been at 
odds during rehearsals.

   VanBrook rolled his eyes around the 
interior once more, said a curt 
goodnight, and followed the others who 
were trooping to their parked cars, all 
of them laughing and. shouting, reliving 
the play, hitching rides, making dates. 
Headlights were turned on and motors 
turned over, some of them purring and 
others backfiring or roaring like jets. 
Qwilleran watched the taillights bounce 
and weave as they followed the rutted 
lane to the highway.

   Closing the door, he turned off the 
yardlights and most of the interior 
lights, then gave the Siamese a bedtime 
treat. "You two characters behaved very 
well. I'm glad you sent them home, Koko. 
Do you realize what time, it is?"

   The Siamese gloated over their morsel 
of food as if it were a five-course meal, 
and as Qwilleran watched them his mind 
wandered to his recent visitors. He 
envied them the experience of rehearsing, 
performing, bowing to applause, grieving 
over roles that got away, complaining 
about the director, agonizing over 
miscues and lost props. For a short time 
he had been an active member of the club, 
but Polly had convinced him that learning 
lines and attending rehearsals would rob 
him of time better spent on serious 
writing. Actually, he suspected, the 
middle-aged librarian who wore size 
sixteen was jealous of the svelte and 
exuberant young actresses in the club. 
Polly was an intelligent woman and a 
loving companion who shared his interest 
in literature, but she had one fault. 
Jealousy caused her to be overpossessive.

   The Siamese, having licked their empty 
plate for several minutes, were now 
laving their brown masks and white 
whiskers with moistened brown paws, as 
well as swiping long pink tongues over 
their nearly white breasts. Then, in the 
midst of a swipe, they both stopped and 
posed like waxworks with tongues 
extended. Abruptly, Koko broke away and 
trotted to the front door, where he 
peered through the side windows into the 
darkness. Qwilleran followed, and Yum Yum 
padded along behind. As he stared into 
the blackness of the orchard he could see 
the last set of taillights disappearing 
down the trail and turning into Trevelyan 
Road.

   The spill of light from the barn also 
picked up a metallic reflection that had 
no business being in the orchard. A car 
without lights was still parked among the 
trees.

   He huffed into his moustache. "Can you 
beat that?" he said aloud. "I'll bet it's 
Dennis and Susan. . . Why don't they go 
to his place or her place?"

   "Yow," Koko agreed. Dennis's wife and 
child were still in St. Louis, and he had 
not seen them for several months, owing 
to the barn project and the play 
rehearsals.

   "Oh, well, live and let live," 
Qwilleran said as he turned out 
yardlights and remembered his own 
reckless youth. "Let's screen the 
fireplace and go to bed."

   He turned away from the front door and 
followed Yum Yum, who was scampering up 
the ramp, but Koko remained stubbornly at 
his post, a determined voyeur, his body 
taut and his tail pointed stiffly. 
Qwilleran heard a low rumble. Was it a 
growl?

   "Cut that out," he called to him. 
"Just mind your own business and turn in. 
It's three o'clock."

   Still the cat growled, and the rumble 
that came from his lower depths ended in 
a falsetto shriek. It was an ominous 
pronouncement that Koko never made 
without reason. Qwilleran picked up a 
jacket and a flashlight and started out 
the door, pushing the excited cat aside 
with a persuasive toe and shouting a 
stern "No!" when he tried to follow.

   "Hey, you down there!" he called out 
as he crossed the barnyard, swinging the 
flashlight in arcs. "Any trouble?"

   The night was silent. There was no 
traffic noise from Main Street at that 
hour. No wind whistled through the dying 
apple trees. And there was no movement in 
the vehicle, a well-kept late-model car. 
No one turned on the ignition or switched 
on the headlights.

   Qwilleran flashed his light on the 
surrounding ground and between the trees. 
Then he beamed it into the car at an 
oblique angle to avoid reflections in the 
window glass. Only the driver could be 
seen, and he was slumped over the wheel.

   Heart attack, Qwilleran thought in 
alarm. Only when he hurried to the other 
side of the car did he see the blood and 
the bullethole in the back of the head.

-2-
   Qwilleran's hand hovered over the 
phone for an instant before he lifted the 
handset and reported the homicide. As a 
hard-headed journalist Down Below he 
would have notified his newspaper first 
and then the police, but there was a 
sense of intimacy in a town the size of 
Pickax, and his loyalties had changed. He 
knew the victim, and the police chief was 
a personal friend. Without further 
hesitation he called Chief Brodie at 
home.

   "Brodie!" was the gruff answer from a 
man who was accustomed to being roused 
from sleep at 3 A.M.

   "Andy, this is Qwill, reporting a 
homicide in your precinct."

   "Where?"

   "In my orchard."

   "Who?"

   "Hilary VanBrook."

   There was a momentary pause. "What was 
he doing in your orchard?"

   "There was a party here for the 
Theatre Club, and he was the last to 
leave. He was shot before he had a chance 
to start his car."

   Brodie shifted from gruff lawman to 
concerned parent. "Was Fran there?"

   "The whole club was here."

   "Be right over."

   "Hold it, Andy! The driveway is 
probably full of tire tracks and 
footprints, if that concerns you. Come in 
the other way, through the theatre 
parking lot. I'll meet you there and 
unlock the gate."

   Brodie grunted and hung up. Qwilleran 
pulled pants and a sweater over his 
pajamas, picked up the flashlight once 
more, and headed at a run toward Main 
Street. The road through the woods had 
been freshly graded and graveled, and it 
was only a few hundred yards to the 
fence. Even so, when he arrived at the 
gate headlights were already illuminating 
the theatre parking lot. In a town the 
size of Pickax, everything was five 
minutes away from everything else.

   He jumped into Chief Brodie's car and 
pointed the way through the woods, while 
other vehicles with flashing lights 
followed. He explained, "We've had 
trespassers lately, so I lock the gate at 
night."

   "How'd you find out about VanBrook?" 
Brodie snapped.

   "After everyone left the orchard, 
there was still one car parked among the 
trees. Then that cat of mine started 
howling suspiciously. I went out to 
investigate and found VanBrook slumped 
over the steering wheel."

   "He wasn't a happy individual. No 
wife. No family. Could be suicide."

   "Not with a bullethole in the back of 
his head," Qwilleran said. "It blew his 
hairpiece off." They had reached the rear 
of the barn. "Park here. All the activity 
was on the other side."

   A Pickax prowl car and a state police 
vehicle pulled alongside, leaving room 
for the ambulance, which arrived 
immediately, and the medical examiner.

   "Anything I can do?" Qwilleran asked.

   "Stay indoors till we need you," 
Brodie ordered. "Leave the house lights 
on."

   Qwilleran threw the master switch once 
more, and the entire barn glowed like a 
beacon, the light spilling out to 
illuminate the surrounding grounds.

   The Siamese were nervous. They knew 
something was wrong. Strangers were 
milling about the yard, and police 
spotlights were turning the misshapen 
trees into frightening giants. Qwilleran 
picked up the cats and climbed the ramp 
with one squirming animal under each arm. 
In their own apartment on the top balcony 
there were comforting carpets and 
cushions, useful baskets and perches, a 
scratching post, and TV. Slipping a video 
of birdlife into the VCR to calm them, he 
returned to the main level, feeling 
mildly guilty; he had not yet called the 
newspaper.

   He notified the night desk, asking if 
they had a reporter available. Yes, they 
said, Roger was subbing for Dave.

   "Tell him to use the Main Street 
entrance," Qwilleran said.

   Then he tried to reach Larry Lanspeak; 
as president of the school board Larry 
deserved to be notified immediately. It 
appeared, however, that the Lanspeaks had 
not yet arrived home. They lived in the 
country; Larry was a cautious driver; and 
they always drove Eddington Smith home 
first. Qwilleran gave them another 
fifteen minutes to reach the affluent 
suburb of West Middle Hummock before he 
punched their number again.

   Larry answered on the tenth ring. 
"Just walked in the door, Qwill. What's 
up?"

   "I have bad news for you, Larry. 
You'll have to shop around for another 
high school principal."

   "What do you mean?"

   "VanBrook has been killed."

   "What happened? Car accident?"

   "You won't believe this, Larry, but 
someone put a bullet through his skull. 
The police are here, combing the orchard 
with their spotlights."

   "How did you find out? Did you hear 
the shot?"

   "Didn't hear a thing, except someone's 
jalopy backfiring. After the gang pulled 
out, there was one car left. I went out 
to check it."

   "This is a mess, Qwill. The police 
will assume it was one of us."

   "I don't know what they'll assume, but 
we'd better be prepared to answer 
questions tomorrow."

   Larry volunteered to call the 
superintendent of schools and alert him. 
"Otherwise he'll hear it on the radio, or 
the cops will bang on his door. I can't 
believe this is happening!"

   A chugging motor in the yard caught 
Qwilleran's ear.

   "Excuse me, Larry. Another car just 
drove in. I think it's a reporter. I'll 
talk with you later."

   The car parked alongside the police 
vehicles, and Qwilleran recognized Roger 
MacGillivray's ten-year-old bone-shaker. 
He went out to meet the bearded young man 
who had given up teaching history in 
order to report living history for the 
local paper.

   "What happened?" asked the reporter, 
slinging two cameras over his shoulder.

   "We had a Theatre Club party here 
after the final performance, and at three 
o'clock everyone drove away except the 
director. That's all I know. If you want 
details, you'll have to get them from 
Brodie. He's down there where it 
happened."

   Qwilleran watched the scene as Roger 
approached the chief and said a few 
words. Brodie turned and threw a scowl at 
the barn, then answered some questions 
tersely before jerking his thumb over his 
shoulder. Roger snapped a couple of quick 
shots before retreating to the barn.

   "How come you're working tonight?" 
Qwilleran asked as he opened the door.

   "Dave had to go to a wedding in 
Lockmaster, so I switched with him," 
Roger explained. "Hey, this place is 
fabulous! Sharon would love to see it!"

   "Bring her down here for a drink some 
evening. Bring Mildred, too."

   "One of us will have to baby-sit, so 
I'll send the girls alone. Don't let my 
mother-in-law drink too much. She's been 
hitting the bottle since Stan died. I 
don't know why. She's one hundred percent 
better off without him, but. . . you know 
how women are!"

   "How will Sharon and Mildred react 
when they hear about their principal's 
sudden demise?"

   "They'll go into shock, but they won't 
be sorry. VanBrook did some good things 
for the curriculum and the school's 
academic standing, and they admired him 
in a grudging way, but none of the 
teachers liked the guy, and that included 
me. He treated us like kids. And then 
there were his meetings! Teachers don't 
like meetings anyway - they're 
nonproductive - and Horseface chaired 
meetings that were just boring ego trips. 
That's the chief reason I quit and went 
to work for the paper. After that, 
whenever I went to the school to cover a 
story, VanBrook made me feel like the 
plumber who'd come to fix the latrines. . 
. Any idea who shot him? It had to be one 
of your guests. Right?"

   "I'm not hazarding any guesses, Roger, 
and certainly not for the rapacious 
press. Would you like a beer?"

   "Might as well. Okay if I look 
around?"

   "Go ahead. On the first balcony I have 
a sleeping room and writing studio. You 
can open the door and look in, but don't 
expect it to be tidy. On the second 
balcony is the guestroom. The cats have 
the third level. Don't disturb them; 
they've had a harrowing night."

   "Don't worry. You know me and cats! 
Sharon says I'm an ailurophobe."

   The phone rang, and it was Qwilleran's 
old friend on the line. Arch Riker, 
fellow journalist from Down Below, was 
now editor and publisher of the local 
newspaper. "What's going on there?" he 
demanded. "The night desk tipped me off. 
Why didn't you let me know?"

   "There's nothing you can do, Arch. Go 
back to bed. Roger's here. You'll read 
about it on your front page Monday."

   "Any suspects?"

   "You can ask Roger."

   "Put him on."

   The reporter's remarks on the phone 
revealed that he had learned nothing from 
Brodie. After hanging up he said to 
Qwilleran, "How about telling me who was 
here at the party?"

   "That information may be crucial to 
the investigation. I can't discuss it at 
this time," Qwilleran recited in a 
monotone.

   "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

   Before Qwilleran could answer there 
was an authoritative knock on the door, 
and Brodie was standing there with orders 
for Roger to clear out. The reporter made 
a routine protest but shouldered his 
cameras and drove away.

   "Want a cup of coffee?" Qwilleran 
asked the chief.

   "Hell, I wouldn't take my life in my 
hands by drinking the stuff you brew!" He 
strode into the barn with a lumbering 
swagger. Off duty he was a genial Scot 
who wore a kilt and played the bagpipe. 
Tonight he was the gruff, grumbling 
investigator, taking in the scene with a 
veteran's eye.

   "Any clues out there?" Qwilleran 
asked. "Any evidence?"

   "I'm here to ask questions, friend - 
not answer them." Brodie scanned the 
contemporary furniture upholstered in 
pale tweeds and leathers. "Got anything 
to sit on? Like kitchen chairs?"

   Qwilleran led the way to the snack 
bar. "I smell pizza,” said the chief.

   "Actors get hungry. You should know 
that, You've been feeding one."

   "Not any more," said Brodie with a 
frown. "Fran's moved out. Wanted her own 
place. Don't know why. She had it 
comfortable at home." He looked troubled 
- a north-country father who thought 
daughters should either marry and settle 
down or live at home with the folks.

   Qwilleran said, "It's normal for a 
young career woman to want her own 
apartment, Andy."

   Brodie snapped out of his fatherly 
role. "Who was here tonight?"

   "I happen to have a printed 
guestlist." He handed the chief one of 
the playbills, listing the cast of 
characters in order of appearance.

   Brodie ran a thumb down the righthand 
side of the page. "Were all these people 
here?"

   "All except the woman from Lockmaster 
who played the queen. And of course the 
spear carriers left on the school bus 
right after the coronation scene. You saw 
the show, didn't you?"

   Brodie grunted an affirmative. "What 
were they all doing here besides eating 
pizza?"

   "Drinking beer and soft drinks and 
coffee. . . hashing over the run of the 
play. . . celebrating its success. . . 
making a lot of noise."

   "Were they smoking anything they 
shouldn't?"

   "No. Carol puts the clamps on that. 
She runs a tight ship. Fran can tell 
you."

   "Any arguments? Any brawls?"

   "Nothing like that. Everyone was in a 
good humor."

   "Did you see anybody hanging around 
the orchard that didn't belong?"

   "Not tonight, but we've had curiosity-
seekers prowling around ever since we 
moved in."

   "How come VanBrook honored the party 
with his presence? He was an unsociable 
cuss."

   "He had an ulterior motive," said 
Qwilleran. "He wanted to bring the entire 
student body tramping through my barn on 
field trips. He didn't ask me; he told 
me!"

   "That sounds like him, all right. How 
popular was he in the club?"

   "Ask Fran about that. I'm not an 
active member."

   "Did you hear gunfire in the orchard?"

   "No, but the cats heard something, and 
when I looked out the window I saw the 
taillights of a car pulling onto the 
highway."

   "Which way did it go?"

   "Turned right."

   "Notice anything about the 
taillights?"

   "Now that you mention it, Andy, they 
weren't the horizontal ones you see on 
passenger cars. They were vertical and 
set wide apart, like those on a van or 
truck."

   "How long has your mailbox been 
knocked over?"

   "It was okay when I picked up my 
Saturday mail."

   "Well, somebody sideswiped it and bent 
the post."

   "That should make your job easier," 
Qwilleran said, thinking, Somewhere there 
is a vehicle with a damaged fender over 
the right front wheel.

   Brodie stood up. "No need to keep you 
up all night. I'll get back to you in the 
morning."

   "Not too early - please!"

   The chief walked to the door and 
turned to give the interior a final 
scowling appraisal. "I climbed many a 
ladder like that when I was a kid. What 
are the three white things that look like 
smokestacks?"

   "Smokestacks. It's a contemporary idea 
for venting a fireplace. Bring your wife 
over some evening. She'll enjoy seeing 
Fran's work."

   "Did my daughter pick out all this 
furniture?" Brodie asked, more in dismay 
than admiration.

   "She gets all the credit. She has a 
good eye and good taste."

   Brodie grunted and turned to leave, 
but he lingered with his hand on the 
doorhandle. "This fella that did over 
your barn - Dennis what's-his-name . . ."

   "H-o-u-g-h, pronounced Huff. He's Iris 
Cobb's son."

   "I hear Fran is kinda thick with him." 
He searched Qwilleran's face for 
verification. "He's married, you know."

   "Don't worry," said Qwilleran. "All 
the women in town go for Dennis, but he 
dotes on his family, and when they move 
up here, the fringe element will cool 
off. Meanwhile, Fran and Dennis have 
merely collaborated on this project."

   "I hope you're right. . . Well, good 
night. We've got the driveway blockaded 
at the far end, and we're leaving a man 
on duty. The crime lab is coming up from 
Down Below." Brodie walked away a few 
steps and added, "Something tells me 
this'll be an easy case to solve."

   Qwilleran turned out the houselights 
and climbed the ramp to his bedroom, but 
he was in no mood to sleep. He perused a 
playbill and tried to imagine each actor 
with a smoking gun in hand. In each case 
it looked like bad casting. He wondered 
how soon Brodie would start ringing 
doorbells and rousing the party goers 
from their beds for interrogation. The 
chief would undoubtedly start with his 
own daughter, who lived in Indian 
Village, a popular apartment complex for 
singles. Susan, Dennis, and Hixie also 
had apartments there. The Lanspeaks lived 
farther out in a rambling country house. 
Poor Eddington Smith holed up downtown in 
the bookbinding workshop behind his 
bookstore. Other members of the club came 
from surrounding towns: bustling 
Kennebeck, quaint Sawdust City, 
ramshackle Wildcat, and as far away as 
the resort town of Mooseville. Only 
Wildcat lay to the south of Pickax; a 
driver heading for Wildcat would turn 
right on Trevelyan Road upon leaving 
Trevelyan Trail.

   Lying there awake he remembered his 
houseman's prediction when he first saw 
the renovated barn. The white-haired and 
highly respected Pat O'Dell had been 
custodian of the Pickax high school 
before retiring and starting his own 
janitorial service. He gazed up at the 
lofty beams and said in a fearful voice, 
"Will yourself be livin' here?"

   "Yes, I enjoy lots of space, Mr. 
O'Dell, and I'm counting on you and Mrs. 
Fulgrove to handle the maintenance as you 
did in my old apartment."

   "The divil himself would be hard up to 
clean the windows way up there, I'm 
thinkin', or sweep the cobwebs down."

   "That's one reason we built the 
catwalks. I hope you're not leery about 
heights."

   Mr. O'Dell shook his head with 
foreboding. "An old farmer, they're 
tellin', was after puttin' a rope around 
his neck and swingin' from one of those 
rafters. It were seventy year since. Sure 
an' that's when a blight fell on the 
apple trees. It's troubled I'd be, Mr. Q, 
to live here."

   "But life must go on, Mr. O'Dell. Let 
me show you where we hide the key, in 
case you want to work when I'm not here. 
Mrs. Fulgrove will do the light cleaning 
on Wednesdays."

   "Saints preserve us!" was the 
janitor's parting remark as he ventured a 
final apprehensive look at the 
superstructure. That had been two weeks 
ago, and now Mr. O'Dell would be saying, 
"Sure an' I told you so."

   When at last Qwilleran managed to doze 
off on Sunday morning, it seemed a mere 
fifteen minutes before he was jolted 
awake by the telephone, its ring sounding 
more urgent than usual.

   Fran Brodie was on the line. "Dad just 
called and broke the news! This is 
terrible! What does it mean?"

   "It means we'll all be questioned," 
Qwilleran replied sleepily.

   "No one in the club would do such a 
thing, do you think? Dad refused to tell 
me if they had a suspect or if they found 
any evidence. He can be so exasperating 
when he's playing the cop. It must have 
been turmoil in your orchard last night."

   "It was, and I've had about fifteen 
minutes' sleep."

   "Sorry I woke you, Qwill. Go back to 
sleep. I'm going to call some of the 
others now."

   Qwilleran looked at his bedside clock. 
In five minutes WPKX would feature the 
Orchard Incident on the eight o'clock 
newscast. He steeled himself for another 
misleading bulletin, WPKX style, with 
inflated prepositions and pretentious 
pauses:

   "Hilary VanBrook, principal of Pickax 
High School, was found dead early this 
morning IN . . . a parked. . . car. 
Police say VanBrook was shot in the head 
AFTER . . . an all-night party held AT . 
. . a barn. . . occupied BY . . . James 
Qwilleran. Suicide has been ruled out, 
and robbery was apparently not the motive 
according TO . . . Police Chief. . . 
Andrew. . . Brodie. No further details 
are available AT . . . this. . . hour."

   Qwilleran muttered, "I could punch 
that announcer IN . . . the teeth!" The 
reference to "a parked car" and "all-
night party" would have tongues wagging 
allover the county, he predicted. It was 
Sunday. He could imagine the buzzing 
among church goers. Telephone lines would 
be jammed; restaurants would be crowded 
with folks who never dined out as a rule; 
neighbors who disliked yard-work would be 
raking leaves and spreading rumors across 
back fences. Immediately Qwilleran's own 
phone started to ring.

   Larry Lanspeak was the first to call. 
"Heard any thing more, Qwill?"

   "Not a word."

   "Okay if I drop in for a few minutes 
before church?"

   "Sure. Come along."

   "Carol's on the altar committee, so 
I'll have to drop her off at ten o'clock 
with a trunkful of mums."

   "Come through the theatre parking 
lot," Qwilleran instructed him. "The 
lane's blockaded."

   Next Eddington Smith called, speaking 
in the same trembling voice that had made 
him inaudible as Cardinal Campeius. "Do 
you think they'll suspect me?" he asked. 
"I've got a handgun in my workshop. Do 
you think I should get rid of it?"

   "Has it been fired recently?" 
Qwilleran asked, knowing that Edd had 
never bought any ammunition.

   "No, but it has my fingerprints. Maybe 
I should wipe them off."

   "Don't do anything, Edd, and don't 
worry. The police wouldn't suspect you in 
a million years."

   Shortly afterward, Susan Exbridge 
telephoned, opening with the brazen 
banter that she had affected since her 
divorce. "Qwill, darling, why don't you 
confess? With those sexy eyelid~ and that 
sinister moustache you look exactly like 
a killer."

   In contrast, the next caller was 
frantically serious. It was Wally 
Toddwhistle's mother. "Oh, Mr. Q, I'm 
worried sick," she cried. "Do you think 
they'll suspect Wally?"

   "Is there any reason why they should?"

   "Well, he got into trouble in his last 
year of high school, and Horseface gave 
him a rotten deal. Don't you know about 
it?"

   "No. What happened?"

   "It was only a prank that the kids 
dreamed up. It wasn't even Wally's idea, 
but he took the blame and wouldn't tell 
on the others, and that damned principal 
expelled him a few weeks before 
graduation! I went to school and raised 
hell, but it didn't do any good. Wally 
never got his diploma. His dad was ill 
during all this trouble, and I think 
that's what killed him."

   "Did you or Wally make any threats at 
that time?"

   "Wally wouldn't threaten a fly! I 
guess I said a few things I shouldn't've, 
though. I speak my mind, but Wally is a 
sweet boy. He takes after his dad."

   "When did this happen?"

   "Two years ago last May."

   "If you were going to shoot Mr. 
VanBrook, Mrs. Toddwhistle, you would 
have done it before this. Put your mind 
at ease."

   She wanted to talk longer, but Larry 
Lanspeak arrived, and Qwilleran asked to 
be excused.

   Larry, looking immaculate in his 
custom-tailored suit and highly polished 
wingtips, said, "Don't let me stay more 
than twenty minutes. I'm ushering today." 
The Lanspeaks attended the Old Stone 
Church across the park from the 
Klingenschoen Theatre - the largest, 
oldest, wealthiest congregation in town. 
He dropped into a chair in an attitude of 
dejection, saying, "I worry about this 
situation.”

   "Did Hilary attend your church?" 
Qwilleran asked as he poured coffee.

   "I don't think he had church 
affiliations anywhere, but he seemed to 
be knowledgeable about Eastern 
religions."

   "From what I observed, he seemed to be 
knowledgeable about everything."

   "You can say that again! I remember 
seeing his résumé when we hired him. He'd 
spent quite some time in Asia and claimed 
to read and write Chinese - as well as 
Japanese, which he claimed to speak 
fluently. His housekeeper told our 
housekeeper that he had a lot of Oriental 
stuff around the house. . . But that's 
not all! According to the résumé, he had 
studied architecture and horticulture; he 
had been an Equity actor in New York; and 
he had assorted degrees in education. I 
suppose you can do all that if you're not 
tied down with a family and don't spend 
any time socializing. He never attended 
athletic events or any other school 
function, which is a faux pas in a small 
community. In fact, he was conspicuously 
invisible on Saturdays and Sundays, 
although a couple of persons reported 
seeing him driving south on Friday nights 
- toward Lockmaster, you know."

   "Where he spent the weekend smoking 
opium and reading Chinese poetry, no 
doubt," Qwilleran quipped.

   "He was shot in the head, according to 
the radio," Larry said. "Doesn't that 
sound like a Chinese execution?"

   "Or someone was hiding in the 
backseat, waiting for him to get behind 
the wheel. That's how they do it in the 
movies."

   "Don't take this too lightly, Qwill. 
It certainly looks as if the shooter was 
one of us."

   "Or someone who wanted to make it look 
like one of us."

   "I'll tell you one thing - straight. 
I've never seen a rehearsal period with 
so much antagonism. . . On the other 
hand, could it be some kind of drug 
connection?"

   "I thought Moose County was free of 
influences from Down Below," Qwilleran 
said. "There are no fast-food chains. Not 
even garage sales!"

   "But they're going to creep in," Larry 
predicted, "now that we've started 
promoting tourism."

   Qwilleran refilled the coffee cups. 
"Were you able to reach the 
superintendent?"

   "Yes, I woke Lyle around four o'clock 
this morning and broke the news."

   "What was his reaction?"

   "Well, you know Lyle Compton! He never 
minces words! He said he'd often felt 
like braining Hilary himself. That'll be 
the general reaction around town, believe 
me! We'll have enough collective guilt in 
Pickax to sink a battleship."

   Qwilleran said, "I just heard that 
VanBrook expelled Wally Toddwhistle a few 
weeks short of graduation because of some 
schoolboy escapade."

   "True. And it was a crime on Hilary's 
part. Wally is a nice quiet kid, and he 
was a pretty good student. As for the 
nature of the prank, most people around 
town got a kick out of it."

   "What was the offense?"

   "Well, it was like this. Wally's 
father was a taxidermist, you know, and 
Wally brought a stuffed skunk to school. 
Somehow it turned up on the principal's 
chair. Wally looked like the obvious 
culprit, although he swore he didn't do 
it. The whole school board went to bat 
for him, but VanBrook threw him out. He 
told the board he'd run the school his 
way or tear up his contract. Lyle was 
afraid to cross him."

   "It seems like draconian punishment."

   "Wally didn't really suffer, though. 
He'd been working with his father ever 
since he was a kid, so he just took over 
the taxidermy shop, and he's doing okay 
without a diploma. He's simply talented. 
Hunters allover the Midwest send him 
their skins."

   "More coffee, Larry?"

   "No, thanks. This is potent stuff. 
I'll be waltzing up the center aisle and 
spilling the offering plate." He looked 
at his watch. "I hear church bells. I'll 
talk to you later." On the way out he 
stopped to say, "Wait till Lockmaster 
hears about this! The people down there 
think we're barbarians, and this will 
confirm their opinion."

   As Larry drove away, answering the 
summons from the tower of the Old Stone 
Church, another kind of summons could be 
heard from the third balcony, where the 
Siamese had been sleeping off the 
excitement of the night before. Qwilleran 
released them from their apartment and 
was feeding them when Polly Duncan 
telephoned. He assumed she had heard the 
shocking news on the air, but her 
greeting was unexpectedly blithe.

   "Dearest," she said, "I'm still in 
Lockmaster. It was a lovely wedding, and 
we celebrated into the wee hours. Did you 
give Bootsie his breakfast this morning?"

   "Uh-yes," he said, knowing when it was 
advisable to bend the truth a little. 
Under the circumstances he had forgotten 
Bootsie completely.

   "How is my little darling? Did he eat 
well? Did you talk to him?"

   "Yes, indeed. We had a stimulating 
discussion about American foreign policy 
and the value of the dollar. When will 
you be home? Don't forget we have a 
reservation for dinner at Tipsy's."

   "That's why I'm calling, dear. I've 
been invited to brunch at the Palomino 
Paddock, and I think I should accept. 
It's a four-star restaurant, and I've 
never been there. Do you mind? We can 
dine at Tipsy's next Sunday." She sounded 
unusually elated.

   "I don't mind at all," Qwilleran said 
stiffly.

   "I'll be home in time to give Bootsie 
his dinner, and I'll call you then."

   "By the way," he said, "obviously you 
haven't listened to the radio. We've had 
an unfortunate incident up here."

   "No, I haven't heard. What happened?"

   "Hilary VanBrook has been murdered."

   "Murdered! Incredible! Who did it? 
Where did it happen?"

   "I'll tell you when you return," 
Qwilleran said. "Enjoy your brunch."

   As a point of honor he never broke 
social engagement, and Polly's defection 
irked him considerably. She had been 
partying all night with that Lockmaster 
crowd; why did she need to stay down 
there for a mere brunch? If she wanted to 
eat at a four-star restaurant, he could 
take her there.

   "What do you think of that 
development?" he asked Koko.

   The cat murmured an ambiguous reply, 
his attention fixed on the berry bushes 
outside the window, where the cardinal 
usually made his morning call.

   "I'd better hike over to the boulevard 
and feed the monster,” Qwilleran said.

   He walked briskly to Goodwinter 
Boulevard, where Polly's apartment 
occupied the second floor of a carriage 
house behind an austere stone mansion. 
All the houses on the street were built 
of stone - the coldly impressive castles 
of nineteenth-century mining tycoons and 
lumber barons. One such house had been 
leased by VanBrook, and Qwilleran 
wondered why the man had needed such 
grandiose living quarters with fifteen or 
twenty rooms. As he passed it he noticed 
that the draperies were drawn on all the 
windows.

   Arriving at Polly's carriage house he 
unlocked the downstairs door and climbed 
the stairs to her apartment, where a 
yearling Siamese was complaining about 
his tardy breakfast.

   "Mea culpa! Mea culpa!" said 
Qwilleran. "I've been involved in 
extraordinary circumstances. Here's an 
extra spoonful." He gave Bootsie fresh 
water and a quick brushing and then 
hurried back to the barn in time to catch 
the phone ringing.

   The exuberant voice of Hixie Rice 
said, "Isn't this exciting, Qwill? We'll 
all be interrogated! I'm going to invent 
some lurid details - nothing 
incriminating - just something to add 
zest and color to the investigation and 
attract the media Down Below."

   Hixie - a transplant from Down Below, 
where she worked in advertising and 
publicity - took pleasure in manipulating 
the media, both print and electronic.

   Qwilleran said sternly, "I suggest you 
curb your creative impulse in this case, 
Hixie. We're all faced with a serious 
situation. Stick to the facts, and don't 
spread any false rumors to confuse the 
constabulary or entertain the local 
residents."

   "I love it when you're playing uncle," 
she laughed. Relenting he said, "Would 
you like to discuss the matter over 
dinner? I have a table reserved at 
Tipsy's."

   She made the obvious reply. "Where's 
Polly?"

   "Out of town."

   "Good! I'll have you all to myself. 
Shall I meet you at the restaurant?"

   The place called Tipsy's Tavern was 
located in the town of Kennebeck 
northeast of Pickax. Driving there to 
meet his guest, Qwilleran passed through 
countryside that had seemed wild and 
mysterious four years before, when he was 
a transplanted city dweller. Now he felt 
comfortable with the Moose County scene: 
stony pastures, potato farms and sheep 
ranches. . . dark patches of woods 
providing habitat for thousands of white-
tailed deer. . . dry autumn cornfields 
from which clouds of blackbirds rose and 
swirled in close-order formation as he 
passed. . . the rotting shafthouses of 
abandoned mines, now fenced and posted as 
dangerous.

   The first sign of Kennebeck was a 
towering grain elevator in the distance, 
the skyscraper of the north country. Then 
the watertower came into view, freshly 
painted with the town symbol. Some 
enterprising artist, not afraid of 
heights, had canvassed the county, 
decorating watertowers. Every community 
flaunted its symbol: a pickax, a fish, a 
sailboat, an antlered buck, a happy face, 
a pine tree. Kennebeck's tower, like the 
welcome sign at the town limits, bore the 
silhouette of a cat. It was a prosperous 
community with a wide main street and 
curbstones, plus senior housing, 
condominiums, and other signs of the 
times. Yet, in the 1930s Kennebeck had 
been in danger of becoming a ghost town.

   Then, providentially, a blind pig 
operator from Down Below, hurt by the 
repeal of Prohibition, returned to his 
hometown of Kennebeck to open a 
legitimate bar and steakhouse. He brought 
with him a white cat with a deformed foot 
(it made her stagger) and a comical black 
patch on her head, like a hat slipping 
down over one eye. Appropriately her name 
was Tipsy. Her boozy antics and agreeable 
disposition made customers smile and 
attracted diners from far and wide. 
Tipsy's personality, along with the good 
steaks, put Kennebeck back on the map.

   The original restaurant in a log cabin 
had been enlarged many times during the 
intervening years, but it still offered 
casual dining in a rustic setting, and 
Qwilleran's favorite table was in the 
main dining room within sight of a 
larger-than-life oil painting of the 
founding cat.

   He arrived before Hixie and sat at the 
bar, sipping Squunk water with a twist of 
lemon. He was on his third drink when his 
guest arrived, looking harried and 
tossing her pageboy nervously.

   "Quick! I need a martini!" she said. 
"Make it a double. Then I'll apologize 
for being late."

   The bartender looked questioningly at 
Qwilleran, then at Hixie, then at 
Qwilleran again, as if to say, "Where's 
Mrs. Duncan?"

   "You'll never believe this, Qwill," 
she said in her usual tragicomic style, 
"but I was driving out Ittibittiwassee 
Road with not a car in sight - anywhere! 
And I got in a two-car accident!"

   "That's not easy to do."

   "Let me tell you how it happened. When 
I reached Mayfus Road, a car came out of 
nowhere and ran the stop sign! There were 
only two of us within ten square miles - 
and we collided! Why do these crazy 
things happen to me?"

   "You're disaster-prone, Hixie," 
Qwilleran said sympathetically. She had a 
long history of getting locked in 
restrooms, setting her hair on fire, 
picking the wrong men, and more. "It's 
fortunate you weren't hurt."

   "I had my seat belt fastened, but the 
passenger side was wrecked, and I waited 
for Gippel's towtruck to come from 
Pickax."

   "How did you get here?"

   "The sheriff dropped me off. He was a 
real sweetheart, and I adore those 
brimmed hats they wear! After dinner 
you'll have to drive me to Gippel's, and 
they'll give me a loaner."

   They sat at Qwilleran's table under 
the friendly eye of Tipsy and ordered 
from the no-nonsense menu chalked on a 
blackboard: steak or fish, take it or 
leave it. The soup of the day was the 
soup of the year: bean. The vegetable was 
always boiled carrots, but they were 
home-grown, small and sweet. The tiny 
Moose County potatoes, boiled in their 
skins, had an Irish flavor, and the steak 
always tasted like honest meat.

   "Have the police knocked on your 
door?" Qwilleran asked.

   "Not yet. Have you talked to anyone?"

   "Larry. He worries that someone in the 
club is guilty, but I think he's wrong." 
Qwilleran patted his moustache.

   "Do you know something that the rest 
of us don't know?"

   "I have a hunch, that's all."

   Qwilleran's hunches were always 
accompanied by a tingling in the roots of 
his moustache, something he could not 
explain and refused to discuss. His years 
on the police beat Down Below, coupled 
with a natural curiosity, had given him 
an interest in criminal investigation, 
and when he was on the right scent there 
was always that reassuring sensation on 
his upper lip.

   At Tipsy's the food was served by 
plump, bustling, jolly, gray-haired women 
who admonished diners to eat everything 
on their plates.

   Qwilleran said to Hixie, "Where do 
they get all these clones to wait on 
table? I suppose they advertise: WANTED: 
Plump, jolly, gray-haired waitpersons 
with bustling experience. Grandmothers 
preferred."

   They ordered steak – and whatever 
happened to come with it. Over the bean 
soup Hixie said, "I have something 
exciting to discuss."

   "Okay. Let's have it." Hixie's ideas 
were always novel and usually successful, 
except when they involved Koko; he 
declined to do TV commercials or endorse 
a line of frozen gourmet catfoods. It was 
she, however, who delighted local readers 
by naming the new newspaper the Moose 
County Something, and it was Hixie who 
convinced Dennis Hough to advertise his 
new construction firm as "Huff & Puff 
Construction Associates."

   "First, have you seen the announcement 
of my new contest?" she asked.

   "Yes. What gave you the idea?"

   "Well, you see, Qwill, I drive around 
the county selling ads, and I see black-
and-white cats by the thousand! People 
seem to think they're all descended from 
Tipsy. So I thought, Why not a Tipsy 
Look-Alike Contest? The Kennebeck Chamber 
of Commerce jumped at the opportunity! 
They're printing posters and T-shirts."

   "And the Something is selling some 
extra advertising space," Qwilleran 
added.

   "Of course! We have a good slogan. The 
original Tipsy, you know, was a very 
sweet cat as well as comic-looking, so 
our slogan is 'Sweeter and Funnier.' How 
do you like it?"

   "It may be just what this county 
needs. Are you getting any entries?"

   "Hundreds!" The steaks arrived, and 
the conversation switched to food - also 
office gossip at the Something and the 
open house at Qwilleran's barn.

   When the waitress served the bread 
pudding, he said, "One thing puzzles me. 
How will you judge the Tipsy contest?"


   "Glad you asked, Qwill. People are 
sending in snapshots of their cats, and 
we'll narrow them down to the fifty best 
look-alikes. They'll come to Kennebeck 
for the final judging, and I'm hoping 
you'll be one of the judges."

   "Hold on, Hixie!" he said. "You know I 
like to cooperate, but I would rather not 
have to judge fifty live cats."

   "Your name on the panel will add a lot 
of prestige to the contest," she said, 
"and Lyle Compton has agreed to judge."

   "Our school superintendent will do 
anything for public exposure. He might 
want to run for governor some day. Who 
else is on the panel?"

   "Mildred Hanstable."

   Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. 
Roger MacGillivray's newly widowed 
mother-in-law was one of his favorite 
women - and an excellent cook. He said, 
"All right. It's a foul prospect, but 
I'll do it."

   Over the coffee, Hixie broached the 
subject of the murder again. "Hilary was 
infuriatingly uncooperative when I was 
trying to get publicity for Henry VIII. 
And everyone I talk to harbors some 
grudge against the guy."

   "He's hurt someone more deeply than we 
know," Qwilleran said. "There are dark 
corners of his life that he's kept 
secret."

   "Do you think it could be drug-
related?"

   "Not likely, although I'm sure the 
idea of a high school principal as drug 
dealer appeals to your imagination. Moose 
County has always been pretty clean; 
that's one. advantage to living in the 
boondocks. We have an alcohol problem, 
but that's all - as yet."

   "The sheriff's helicopter is always 
hovering over those desolate stretches 
between Chipmunk and Purple Point."

   "They're looking for poachers, not 
marijuana plantings. What does Gary Pratt 
think about it? Do you still see a lot of 
Gary?"

   "Not lately," Hixie said. "He's such a 
hairy ape, and since meeting Dennis I 
realize I go for clean-cut."

   Qwilleran assumed his uncle role 
again. "I hope you know Dennis is happily 
married, Hixie. Don't walk into any more 
disappointments. He has a bright two-
year-old who looks just like him, and his 
wife's trying to sell the house in St. 
Louis so the family can be together up 
here."

   "She's not trying very hard," was 
Hixie's flippant retort. "Dennis says she 
doesn't want to live four hundred miles 
north of everywhere." She turned serious. 
"I don't know whether this means 
anything, Qwill, but. . . I tried to call 
Dennis this morning after I heard the 
news on the radio, and he wasn't there. I 
got a recorded message."

   "He was probably sleeping and didn't 
want to be disturbed," Qwilleran 
suggested. "None of us got much sleep 
last night."

   "But I looked out the window at the 
carport, and his assigned parking space 
was empty."

   "He might have gone home with someone. 
Did that occur to you?"

   "I don't think he did. This afternoon, 
when his van was still missing, I 
mentioned it to the manager, and this is 
what she told me: According to the 
nightman at the gate, Dennis left before 
daybreak, right after he came in. He 
didn't say anything, but he looked 
worried, and he drove away from the gate 
very fast and turned onto the highway 
with tires squealing."

-3-
   Returning home from Tipsy's restaurant 
Sunday night, Qwilleran stepped on a 
small object in the foyer and kicked 
another one in front of the schrank. A 
third turned up under a rug. They were 
metal engravings mounted on wooden blocks 
- printing memorabilia that he had 
started to collect. In embarking on a new 
hobby, he had also provided a pastime for 
the Siamese: stealing typeblocks from the 
typecase where they were displayed. This 
time they had filched small cuts of a 
fish, a rabbit, and a rooster. Either the 
subject matter was appealing, or the 
blocks were the right size for a playful 
paw.

   As Qwilleran entered the barn, the 
light on his answering machine was 
flashing, and he pressed the button to 
hear a brief recorded message from Polly: 
"Qwill, I arrived home from Lockmaster 
later than I planned. Don't call me back 
tonight. I'm very tired, and I'm going to 
bed early."

   There were no intimate expressions of 
affection included in the message; Polly, 
he concluded, must be very tired, indeed. 
After brunch at the Palomino Paddock what 
else had she been doing?

   He himself felt in high gear despite 
his fifteen minutes of sleep the night 
before. He was stimulated by the puzzle 
confronting Chief Brodie, although he had 
no intention of meddling in the case. His 
friend would not appreciate suggestions 
from an amateur investigator. While 
working the police beat Down Below 
Qwilleran had written a book on urban 
crime, now out of print, but it hardly 
entitled him to advise a pro like Brodie.

   He prepared a cup of coffee and 
carried it to a comfortable chair, 
propping his feet on an ottoman. Yum Yum 
promptly took possession of his lap, and 
Koko assumed an attentive position at his 
feet. They were ready for some quality 
time.

   "Well," he began, "what we have here 
is the kind of criminal case that is 
solved immediately - or never. What's 
your guess?"

   Koko blinked his eyes, a signal that 
Qwilleran interpreted as "no opinion." 
Cats, he recalled, were never interested 
in generalities.

   "I don't buy the theory that it was an 
inside job," he went on, grooming his 
moustache, "although I don't know why I 
feel that way. If Brodie expends too much 
time and effort in hounding the members 
of the club, he's wasting his time."

   "Yow," said Koko.

   "I'm glad you agree. The one 
individual he should be investigating is 
the victim himself. Who was he - really? 
Where did he get a name like Hilary 
VanBrook? We know he came here from 
Lockmaster, but where did he operate 
before that? He was obviously not a 
native of the north country, so why did 
this brilliant man with a cosmopolitan 
background and impressive credentials 
choose to live in the outback? Where did 
he disappear on weekends? Why did he need 
that large house on Goodwinter 
Boulevard?"

   Qwilleran had forgotten that he 
himself was indirectly responsible for 
bringing the principal to Pickax. Four 
years before - four long and eventful 
years - Qwilleran had arrived in Moose 
County as the reluctant heir to the 
Klingenschoen fortune, reluctant because 
he had no desire for wealth. He was a 
dedicated journalist who .enjoyed hacking 
a living on the crime beat. He was 
content with a one-room apartment, no 
car, and a meagre wardrobe that packed in 
a jiffy when his newspaper sent him off 
on assignment. Finding himself suddenly 
encumbered with millions - yet with no 
interest in financial matters - he solved 
the problem very simply: He established 
the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund to give 
the money away. Immediately a board of 
trustees started awarding grants, 
scholarships, and loans to benefit the 
community.

   In direst need, it so happened, was 
the local school system, known to operate 
on the lowest per - pupil expenditure in 
the state. As the Klingenschoen Fund 
poured money into school facilities and 
teacher salaries, this cornucopia of 
largesse gave superintendent Lyle Compton 
an idea: Money might lure the celebrated 
Hilary Van Brook away from Lockmaster 
High School where he had accomplished 
wonders in a few years. Although 
Lockmaster considered Moose County a 
primitive wilderness populated by savages 
who could not even win a football game, 
VanBrook accepted the Pickax challenge - 
and the lucrative contract. Under his 
leadership the Pickax high school earned 
accreditation, the curriculum was 
expanded, and more graduates went on to 
college. Although the athletic teams did 
no better, faculty and parents considered 
the new principal a miracle-worker - 
while loathing his overweening 
personality and heartless policies.

   A few months before his murder 
VanBrook wrote a typically curt and 
scornful letter to the Theatre Club, 
proposing a Shakespeare production as a 
change from the light comedies, musicals, 
and mysteries favored by local audiences. 
He volunteered to direct it himself. The 
play he proposed was The Famous History 
of the Life of King Henry the Eighth, and 
the officers of the Theatre Club uttered 
a unanimous groan.

   Carol Lanspeak called Qwilleran for 
his opinion. "I'm consulting you," she 
said, "because the K Fund may have to 
bail us out if it's a flop. No one likes 
the idea, and yet Horseface has a 
reputation as a no-fail genius. We're 
asking him to meet with our board of 
directors for further discussion, and 
we're inviting you to audit the meeting. 
You can bring your tape recorder if you 
wish; it might make a subject for the 
'Qwill Pen' column - that is, if we 
decide to cut our throats."

   It was a dinner meeting held in a 
private room at the New Pickax Hotel, 
built in 1935, the year its predecessor 
burned down. After a dinner of meatloaf 
and scalloped potatoes (the hotel was not 
noted for its imaginative cuisine), the 
board waited for the guest of honor to 
arrive. VanBrook had declined to join 
them for dinner, a pointedly unfriendly 
gesture. When he finally arrived - late, 
without apology - Carol called the 
meeting to order and invited the 
principal to elucidate on his proposal. 
As if the board were composed of 
illiterates, he responded by reading a 
copy of the same letter he had mailed to 
them, spitting out the phrases with 
obvious disdain.

   Qwilleran heard someone whisper, 
"Isn't he a pill?" Yet, the man had a 
rich, well-modulated voice; it was easy 
to believe he had been a professional 
actor. The principal finished reading and 
rolled his eyes at the walls and ceiling.

   Officers and board members exchanged 
looks of dismay. The first to find nerve 
enough to speak was Scott Gippel, car 
dealer and treasurer of the club, whose 
girth was so enormous that he required 
two chairs. "The public won't go for that 
heavy stuff," he said.

   Carol Lanspeak spoke up. "Since 
receiving Mr. VanBrook's letter I've read 
the play twice, and I regret to say that 
I. can't find a single memorable or 
quotable line except the first one: I 
come no more to make you laugh."

   "That's when half the audience gets up 
and walks out," said Gippel good-
naturedly, his not-too-solid flesh 
quivering with mirth over his own quip.

   The chairman of the play - reading 
committee, a retired teacher of English, 
commented, "Mr. VanBrook has a point; 
it's time we attempted Shakespeare, but 
is this the right play for us? There is 
even some doubt that Shakespeare wrote 
Henry VIII. It reads - if you will pardon 
my candor - as if it were written by a 
committee."

   Qwilleran stole a look at VanBrook, 
who was listening in supercilious 
silence, gazing at the ceiling and 
rolling his eyes as if searching for 
cracks in the plaster.

   Fran Brodie said, "I'd like to make 
another objection. Henry VIII calls for a 
large cast, and we have limited space 
backstage and very few dressing rooms. 
The theatre was not designed for large 
productions."

   "The cost of all those costumes will 
be prohibitive," Gippel added.

   "And there are so few roles for 
women," Carol objected.

   "If you ask me, it's too dull and too 
long," said Junior Goodwinter, the young 
managing editor of the Moose County 
Something. "And the last scene is a let-
down, like the last half of the ninth in 
a 14-0 ballgame."

   VanBrook rose to his feet. "May I 
speak?"

   "Of course. Please do," said Carol 
with an artificial smile. She frowned at 
her husband, who had not opened his mouth 
during the objections. As president of 
the board of education he had helped 
convince VanBrook to leave Lockmaster, 
and he joined Lyle Compton in humoring 
the principal - who was doing so much 
good, and who was known to be 
temperamental, and whose contract was 
coming up for renewal. If Van Brook 
failed to sign again, he would 
undoubtedly return to the Lockmaster 
school system, and the good folk of 
Pickax would be left drowning in chagrin.

   In a condescending manner VanBrook 
began. "Henry VIII is no longer than 
Romeo and Juliet, and it is shorter by 
far than Hamlet and Richard III. So much 
for too long." He darted a contemptuous 
glance at the editor. "As for too dull, 
the play has been captivating audiences 
for three centuries with its color and 
pageantry. Furthermore, it addresses such 
contemporary concerns as corruption, 
greed, power politics, and the abuse of 
women. As a morality play it deplores the 
vain pomp and glory of this world. . . Is 
everyone still with me?" His listeners 
wriggled uncomfortably, and he went on. 
"You say there are too few roles for 
women, and yet one of the strongest roles 
Shakespeare ever wrote for a woman is 
Katharine of Aragon, Queen of England. 
Anne Boleyn is another coveted role, and 
even the Old Lady is a small gem of a 
part. For those who fancy themselves in 
period costumes there are plenty of 
ladies-in-waiting sweeping on and off the 
stage. And if you think Henry VIII lacks 
great scenes, let me draw your attention 
to Buckingham's arrest, his unjust 
condemnation as a traitor, the roisterous 
party that King Henry crashes in 
disguise, the queen's court trial, her 
later confrontation with Cardinal Wolsey, 
Wolsey's repentant leave-taking, the 
coronation of Queen Anne, and the. heart-
rending death of Katharine."

   He flashed a triumphant glance around 
the conference room and continued. "It so 
happens that I have staged this play 
before, and there are certain techniques 
that can be employed - notably the use of 
students as supernumeraries, to be 
costumed at the school and transported to 
the theatre in school buses. The 
Klingenschoen garage at the rear of the 
theatre can provide dressing rooms for 
actors playing small roles and making 
infrequent entrances."

   Qwilleran thought, Wait a minute, bub! 
I'm still living in the garage!

   "As for the final scene," VanBrook 
said, "this purely political indulgence 
was tacked on to Hatter the monarchy, and 
let me assure you that it will be 
omitted. Henry VIII will end with 
Katharine's death scene, which has been 
called the glory of the play."

   Everyone was silent until Carol said, 
"Thank you, Mr. VanBrook, for your 
enlightening explanation. . . Shall we 
make a decision now?" she asked the 
board. "Or do we need time to mull it 
over?"

   Larry spoke up for the first time. "I 
move that we mount Henry VIII as our 
first fall show."

   Fran Brodie seconded the motion. 
"Let's take a gamble on it," she said, 
and Qwilleran could imagine visions of 
Queen Katharine dancing in her steely 
gray eyes.

   "Okay, I'll go along," said Gippel, 
"and hope to God we sell some tickets. 
There'll be more flesh on the stage than 
in the audience - that's my guess."

   Hixie Rice said, "It has great 
publicity possibilities, with all those 
high school kids carrying spears."

   Junior Goodwinter capitulated. "Count 
me in, so long as you lop off the last 
scene."

   And so The Famous History of the Life 
of King Henry the Eighth went into 
production. Qwilleran was not further 
involved, although he knew that Carol and 
Fran were auditioning for Queen 
Katharine, and Larry and Dennis wanted to 
read for Cardinal Wolsey. Everyone 
assumed that Larry would get the choice 
role.

   On the evening following the last 
audition, Qwilleran was going to a late 
dinner at the Old Stone Mill as the 
Lanspeaks were leaving. He intercepted 
them in the restaurant parking lot, 
saying to Larry, "I suppose I'm expected 
to kiss your ring."

   "Oh, hell! I missed out on Wolsey," 
the actor said with a disappointed smirk. 
"Hilary wants me to play King Henry. 
Isn't that a bummer? I'll have to grow a 
beard if I don't want to use spirit gum. 
Scott should be doing Henry; he wouldn't 
need any padding."

   Carol said, "Scott could never learn 
the lines. The only line he ever 
remembers is at the bottom of the page."

   "So I suppose Dennis is doing Wolsey?" 
Qwilleran asked.

   "NO!" Larry thundered in disgust. 
"Hilary's doing it himself! Of course, 
it's expedient, because he's done it 
before. He's also bringing a woman from 
Lockmaster to play Katharine. He directed 
her in the production down there a few 
years ago."

   "When do rehearsals start? I might 
drop in some evening."

   "Next Monday," Carol said. "Five 
nights a week, starting at six-thirty. 
We've always started at seven to give 
working people time to eat a decent meal, 
but Horseface has decreed six-thirty. He 
wants me as assistant director and 
understudy for Katharine. Since she lives 
sixty miles away, she'll come up only two 
nights a week, so I'll have to read her 
lines the rest of the time." She raised 
her eyebrows in a gesture of resignation. 
"I don't expect to enjoy it, but if I 
learn something, it won't be a total 
loss."

   Qwilleran said, "I wanted to do a 
profile on VanBrook for my column, but he 
refused flatly. Wouldn't give a reason."

   "Typical," said Larry with a shrug. 
"Where's Polly tonight?"

   "Hosting a dinner meeting of the 
library board. What did you have to eat?"

   "Red snapper - very good! And try the 
blue plum buckle - if they have any left. 
It's going fast."

   The Lanspeaks went to their car, and 
Qwilleran entered the restaurant that had 
been converted from an old stone grist 
mill. The hostess seated him at his 
favorite table, and Derek Cuttlebrink 
filled his water glass and delivered the 
bread basket with a flourish. Although 
Derek was the busboy, his six-foot-seven 
stature and sociable manner caused new 
customers to mistake him for the owner.

   "I'm playing five parts," he 
announced. "I get my name in the program 
five times - for Wolsey's servant, the 
court crier, the executioner, the mayor 
of London, and a messenger. I like the 
executioner best; I get to carry the axe 
and wear a hood."

   "You're going to be a busy boy with 
all those costume changes," Qwilleran 
said.

   "I figure I can wear the same pants 
and just change the coat and hat."

   "In Shakespeare they're called 
breeches, Derek."

   "I've been thinking it over," said the 
busboy. "I've decided I'd like to be an 
actor instead of a cop. It would be more 
fun. You stay up all night and sleep 
late."

   The waitress appeared, and Derek 
drifted away to clear some tables. 
Qwilleran ordered the red snapper. "And 
save me a piece of plum buckle if you 
have any left."

   During the following week the number 
of cars in the theatre parking lot every 
evening indicated that rehearsals were in 
full swing, and one evening Qwilleran 
slipped into the auditorium to observe, 
thinking he might pick up some material 
for a "Qwill Pen" column. It was six-
thirty when he took an aisle seat at the 
rear. The entire cast was on hand, except 
for the woman from Lockmaster; it was her 
off-night. The director had not yet made 
an appearance.

   At six forty-five Carol said, "No 
point in wasting valuable time. Let's go 
over the scenes that Hilary blocked last 
night. We'll skip the prologue and start 
with the first scene as far as the dirty-
look episode. Let's have the Duke of 
Buckingham, the Duke of Norfolk, and Lord 
Abergavenny on stage. Norfolk enters 
first, stage left. The others, stage 
right."

   Three actors, carrying scripts and 
looking far from aristocratic in their 
rehearsal clothes, made their entrance.

   Carol called out from the third row, 
"Norfolk, take a longer, more deliberate 
stride. You're a duke! . . . That's 
better! And Abergav'ny, show respect for 
your father-in-law but don't hide behind 
him. Let's do that entrance again and 
take it from Good morrow and well met." 
As the scene progressed, Carol made notes 
and occasionally interrupted. "Norfolk, 
don't just look at the speaker, listen to 
what he's saying. It'll show in your 
face. . . And Abergavenny, keep your chin 
up . . . Buckingham, take a couple of 
steps downstage when you say O you go 
far."

   When Dennis reached Buckingham's 
clever line - No man's pie is freed from 
his ambitious finger - he stopped, and 
laughed. "That's my favorite line."

   " There was a ripple of amusement as 
the actors in the front rows looked at 
each other with understanding.

   Carol said, "Okay, take it again. And 
Norfolk, use your upstage hand so you 
don't hide your face."

   When they reached the dirty-look 
episode and VanBrook had not yet arrived, 
Carol read Cardinal Wolsey's lines and 
walked through the scene with the others. 
Suddenly the doors at the rear of the 
auditorium burst open."

   "What's going on here?" came the 
director's stentorian demand. Starting 
down the aisle in his green turtleneck 
jersey, he caught sight of Qwilleran. 
"What are you doing here?"

   "Waiting for the six-thirty rehearsal 
to begin," said Qwilleran with a pointed 
look at his wristwatch.

   "Out! Out!" VanBrook pointed to the 
door. Dennis Hough walked to the stage 
apron and boomed, "He can stay, for God's 
sake! He owns the damned theatre!"

   "Out! Out!" Qwilleran obligingly left 
the auditorium, walked upstairs, and 
slipped into the dark balcony, while 
VanBrook proceeded without apology or 
explanation. Whatever had delayed him had 
also annoyed him, and he was impatient 
with everyone.

   Brusquely he said, "Archbishop, stop 
looking at your wristwatch! This is the 
sixteenth century. . . You - he Old Lady 
- we're doing Henry VIII, not Uncle 
Wiggley! You're carrying your hands like 
a rabbit. . . Who's giggling backstage? 
Keep quiet or go home! . . . Suffolk, 
there are four syllables in 'coronation.' 
It's the crowning of a monarch, not 
something from the florist." None of this 
was said in good-natured jest; it was 
pure acrimony. "Campeius, can you act 
more like a Roman cardinal and less like 
a mouse?"

   The actors waiting for their scenes 
glanced at each other uneasily. Eddington 
Smith, playing Cardinal Campeius, was a 
shy little old fellow who was always 
treated gently by members of the club, no 
matter how inadequate his performance.

   When Van Brook told Anne Boleyn to 
stop simpering like an idiot, the 
flashing of Fran's steely gray eyes could 
be seen even from the balcony. As for 
Dennis, his square jaw was clenched most 
of the time. At one point Dave Landrum, 
who was playing Suffolk, threw his script 
at the director and walked out. Qwilleran 
doubted that anyone would return for 
rehearsal the following night. He 
doubted, moreover, that Henry VIII would 
ever open.

   Nevertheless, the rehearsals stumbled 
along with a new Suffolk, and Qwilleran 
received reports on the play's progress 
from Larry, with whom he had coffee at 
the Dimsdale Diner twice a week.

   Larry, whose royal beard was growing 
nicely, said, "Hilary's always picking on 
poor Edd Smith, who wouldn't be in the 
club at all if Dr. Halifax hadn't ordered 
it as therapy. Edd still doesn't project, 
even though Carol coaches him. He shouts 
the first two words, then trails off into 
a whisper. Dennis has come to his defense 
a couple of times. There's a real 
personality clash flaring up between 
Dennis and Hilary."

   "How is Carol taking it?"

   "She's being a saint! She puts up with 
Hilary because she hopes to learn 
something. If you ask me, she's learning 
what not to do while directing a group of 
amateurs. He works hard with some and 
ignores others. He butters up the woman 
from Lockmaster and insults everyone 
else."

   "Is she good?"

   "Sure, she's good, but Carol or Fran 
could have done as well."

   "Who is she, anyway?" Qwilleran asked.

   "Her name is Fiona Stucker. I don't 
know anything about her except that she 
played Katharine in the Lockmaster 
production of Henry five years ago."

   "How are the student extras coming 
along?"

   "Carol is working hard with the kids, 
getting them to walk like sixteenth-
century nobles instead of couch potatoes. 
I think Derek, with his five roles and 
great height, is going to provide the 
comic relief in this play. He's so 
conspicuous that the audience will 
recognize him as the executioner even 
with a black hood over his head. And I'm 
afraid he's going to get a laugh during 
Katharine's death scene. When he enters 
as a messenger toward the end of the play 
- his fifth role, bear in mind - 
Katharine's line is This fellow, let me 
ne'er see again. We all have to struggle 
to keep a straight face, and the audience 
is going to crack up!"

   "The play can use some comic relief," 
Qwilleran said.

   "Yes, but not during Katharine's death 
scene."

   On opening night the audience made all 
the right responses. They wept over 
Buckingham's noble farewell, gasped at 
the magnificence of the coronation, and 
suppressed their tittering over Derek's 
frequent entrances. There was a rumble of 
excitement during the crowd scenes, when 
their teenage sons and daughters paraded 
down the center aisle as guards with 
halberds, standard bearers with banners, 
officers with tipstaffs, noblemen with 
swords, countesses with coronets, and 
vergers with silver wands.

   Onstage there were only two miscues 
and one fluff - not bad for opening 
night. Qwilleran, fifth row on the aisle 
with Polly Duncan as his guest, cheered 
inwardly when Dennis delivered his 
poignant speech, cringed when Eddington 
mouthed words that could not be heard, 
felt his blood pressure rising when Fran 
appeared as the beauteous Anne, and 
waited fearfully for Derek to ruin 
Katharine's death scene. Fortunately the 
director had deleted the lines that would 
get an inappropriate guffaw.

   The next time Qwilleran met Larry for 
coffee, the actor said, "I have to admit 
that Hilary's good as the cardinal. 
Despite his built-in arrogance he manages 
to make Wolsey's repentance convincing. 
But I have a feeling that he resents the 
public's adoration of Buckingham. When 
they flock backstage after the show, it's 
Dennis they want to see. And when Dennis 
makes his first entrance and says Good 
morning and well met, you can hear the 
hearts palpitating in the auditorium."

   Qwilleran said, "Your Henry is 
perfect, Larry - straight out of the 
Holbein portrait."

   "That's what Hilary wanted." He rubbed 
his chin. "I'll tell you one thing: I'll 
be glad when I can shave off this beard."

   Three weeks later he had shaved off 
the beard, VanBrook was dead, and Dennis 
had disappeared without explanation.

-4-
   The Monday following the Orchard 
Incident, as it came to be labeled by the 
Moose County Something, was a gloomy day 
suitable for the grim police business 
taking place in the barnyard. The comings 
and goings of officialdom ruined Koko's 
morning bird watch. He liked to take his 
post at the window-wall overlooking the 
orchard, from which he could see red, 
yellow, gray, blue, and brown birds 
flitting in the branches of the old trees 
and scrubby berry bushes, once cultivated 
but now growing wild.

   Koko's particular favorite was the 
male cardinal who called every morning 
and evening in company with his soberly 
dressed mate. With his red plumage, 
kingly crown, and black face patch 
emphasizing his patrician beak, he 
conducted himself like a monarch of 
birds. There appeared to be mutual 
appreciation between the cardinal and the 
aristocratic cat. Koko sat almost 
motionless, with the last three inches of 
his tail fluttering to match the 
fluttering of the bird's tail feathers.

   At one point during the overcast 
morning a van pulled into the yard, and a 
photographer unloading camera cases, 
lights, and tripods was challenged by the 
police. Qwilleran assured them that this 
was john Bushland, commercial 
photographer from Lockmaster, who had an 
appointment to shoot the interior of the 
barn.

   Bushy, as he was called, was an agile, 
enthusiastic, out-going young man who 
joked about losing his hair early. "Hair 
Today; Gone Tomorrow" was the slogan on 
his sweatshirt. Seriously he said to 
Qwilleran, "I heard about the trouble. 
What's the latest?"

   "Police are investigating. That's all 
I know. What's the reaction in 
Lockmaster?"

   "To tell the truth, everyone's 
relieved. They were afraid he'd get tired 
of Pickax, and they'd get him back again. 
Got any idea who shot him?"

   "I suspect it was someone from 
Lockmaster trying to make it look like 
someone from Pickax. Did you know 
VanBrook when he was principal down 
there?"

   "Not personally. Not having kids, 
Vicki and I weren't involved in that 
scene."

   Bushy regarded the octagonal mass of 
stone and silvery shingles with awe. "I 
like those triangular windows around the 
top. We should do some exteriors, but not 
while the police cars are here."

   "Sorry it's not a sunny day," 
Qwilleran said.

   "All the better for interiors. We 
won't have to contend with the glare."

   "Come on in. Ready for a cup of 
coffee?"

   "Not right now. I want to work first." 
When they carried the gear indoors, Bushy 
was amazed by the lightness of the 
interior. "I expected it to be dark. All 
these white walls, all this light-colored 
wood - it makes my job a lot easier."

   "That's what I wanted - a minimum of 
dark corners and shadows. It's too easy 
for cats to make themselves invisible in 
a dark environment, and I like to know 
where they are at all times. Otherwise I 
worry." He handed Bushy the binoculars. 
"Up there on one of those radiating beams 
you can see the mark of the original 
builder: J. Mayfus & Son, 1881. I'd like 
you to get a close-up of that if 
possible. Shall I lock the cats up in 
their loft?"

   "It won't be necessary. Who did the 
furnishings?"

   "Fran Brodie. I didn't want anything 
rustic, and she said that contemporary 
furniture would accentuate the antiquity 
of the structure."

   In the lounge there were two sofas and 
an oversized chair upholstered in oatmeal 
tweed - all boldly designed, square-cut 
pieces. The tables were off-white 
lacquered cubes.

   "You don't see anything like this in 
Lockmaster," Bushy said.

   Qwilleran pointed out certain items 
that he wanted included in the pictures: 
the pine wardrobe, the bat prints, the 
printer's typecase, and the Mackintosh 
coat of arms. "My mother was a 
Mackintosh," he remarked.

   "Sure. No problem. Anything you want." 
Bushy was wandering about, checking 
camera angles. "Everywhere you look, it's 
a picture! And there are lots of places 
to spot a light under a balcony or behind 
a beam if I want to light a corner."

   "What can I do to help?"

   "Nothing. You've got plenty of 
electric outlets, I see. I might have to 
move some of the furniture slightly."

   "So if you don't need me, Bushy, I'll 
go out and do a few errands. Help 
yourself to cold drinks in the fridge. 
For coffee just press the Brew button. 
See you later! If the phone rings, my 
answering machine will pick it up. Be 
sure the cats don't run outdoors."

   Leaving the barn, Qwilleran was 
intercepted by Brodie. "Where's Dennis 
Hough?" he demanded. He pronounced it 
Howe.

   "I don't know," Qwilleran said. "I 
haven't been in touch with him since 
Saturday. Now that the barn's finished he 
won't be coming around any more."

   "He hasn't been home since the party."

   "Probably drove to St. Louis to see 
his family. Doesn't Fran know where he 
went?"

   Brodie grunted unintelligibly. "This 
company called Huff & Puff doesn't even 
have an office."

   Qwilleran explained patiently, "My 
barn was his first job. All he needed was 
a phone for lining up workmen and 
supplies, so he worked out of his 
apartment."

   "Do you know how to reach him in St. 
Louis?"

   "No, but I'm sure directory assistance 
can tell you. His name is pronounced 
Huff, but it's spelled H-o-u-g-h. Give 
him time to get down there; it's a long 
drive."

   Qwilleran walked downtown. Most of 
Pickax was within walking distance, and 
he was accustomed to using his legs, 
being a former pavement pounder from the 
Concrete Belt. The rest of Pickax 
depended on wheels.

   En route to Lois's Luncheonette for 
breakfast he stopped at the used 
bookstore, an establishment he could 
never pass without entering. This time he 
had a mission. Eddington Smith had 
recently acquired a large library from an 
estate, and Qwilleran was hoping to find 
a copy of his own best-selling book 
written eighteen years before. During the 
ups and downs of his life following those 
halcyon days he had not salvaged a single 
copy, but now that his fortunes had 
changed, he was always on the lookout for 
City of Brotherly Crime by James M. 
Qwilleran. He had used a middle initial 
in those days. Professional book 
detectives had been unable to unearth the 
book; public libraries no longer had the 
title in the stacks or in the catalogue. 
Yet, doggedly he continued the hopeless 
hunt, like a parent searching for a lost 
child.

   The store called Edd's Editions was a 
gloomy cave filled with gray, dusty, 
musty hardcover books as well as 
paperbacks with torn covers and yellowed 
edges. Eddington materialized from the 
shadows at the rear of the store.

   "Find my book?" Qwilleran asked.

   "Not so far, but I haven't unpacked 
everything yet," said the conscientious 
old bookseller. "Did the police find any 
evidence?"

   "You know as much as I do, Edd."

   "I couldn't sleep last night. 'Other 
sins only speak; murder shrieks out.' " 
Eddington amazed his customers by having 
a quotation for every occasion.

   "Who said that?"

   "Webster, I think."

   "Which one?"

   "I don't know. How many are there?"

   At that moment a smoky Persian, whose 
voluminous tail dusted the books, walked 
sedately toward Qwilleran and sat down on 
a biography of Sir Edmund Backhouse.

   "Am I to consider that a 
recommendation?" Qwilleran asked. "Or is 
Winston just resting?"

   "It looks like an interesting book," 
said the bookseller. "He was a British 
orientalist and sort of a mystery man."

   "I'll take it," said Qwilleran, who 
could never walk out of a bookstore 
without making a purchase.

   At Lois's Luncheonette he sat at the 
counter and ordered eggs over lightly, 
country fries extra crisp, rye toast dry, 
and coffee right away; no cream.

   "Whatcha think of the murder, Mr. Q?" 
asked the waitress, whose nametag read 
Alvola.

   " 'Other sins only speak; murder 
shrieks out,' " he recited with 
declamatory effect.

   "Is that Shakespeare?" she asked. 
Thanks to Henry VIII, the Bard was the 
fad of the month among young people in 
Pickax. In October it would be a rock 
star or comic strip hero. "It sounds like 
Shakespeare," said Alvola knowledgeably.

   "No, it was some other dude," 
Qwilleran said as he buried his nose in 
his book. Actually he was listening to 
the conversation at nearby tables. No one 
was mourning the principal; all were 
fearful that the killer might prove to be 
a well-known citizen, or a student, or a 
friend, or a neighbor. It was fear mixed 
with excitement, expressed with a certain 
amount of relish. Qwilleran thought, This 
case will never be solved; no one in 
Moose County wants it to be solved.

   His next stop was Amanda's Design 
Studio, where he dropped in to see Fran 
Brodie. On the job she wore three-inch 
heels, and her skirts rose higher than 
most Pickax hemlines - facts that were 
not lost on her client. "Where's your 
boss?" he asked.

   "Amanda's gone to a design center Down 
Below. Is anything happening at the 
barn?"

   "Various authorities are there, doing 
their duty. No one is talking, of course. 
I keep my nose out of it."

   "Dad told Mother that they found 
traces of foam rubber in the car, meaning 
it had been used as a silencer."

   "But the cats heard it. They can hear 
a leaf fall."

   "Want to hear something ironic?" the 
designer asked. "Hilary ordered custom-
made treatments for twenty windows - the 
whole main floor - and they arrived by 
motor freight this morning. This morning! 
I called Amanda, and she had a fit."

   "What does his house look like?"

   "It's one of those stone houses on 
Goodwinter Boulevard, you know. The main 
floor is done in Japanese; he did it 
himself. The window treatments we ordered 
for him last month are shoji screens. 
I've never been upstairs, but he told me 
the bedrooms are filled with books."

   Thinking of City of Brotherly Crime 
Qwilleran said, "I wouldn't mind seeing 
that place."

   "I have the key, and Amanda wants the 
screens to be on the premises when we 
file our claim on the estate. Would you 
like to help me deliver them?"

   "When?" he asked with unusual 
eagerness.

   "I'll have to let you know, but it'll 
be soon."

   As he was leaving the studio he said, 
"We've got to do something about the 
fish-bowl effect at the barn. The Peeping 
Toms are having a field day." What had 
once been the huge barn door was now a 
huge wall of glass.

   "Mini-blinds would solve the problem," 
the designer said. "I'll drop in and 
measure the windows. I still have your 
key."

   Qwilleran's planned destination was 
the public library, a building that 
looked like a Greek temple except for the 
bicycle rack and the book-drop receptacle 
near the front steps. As he walked 
through the vestibule he automatically 
turned his head to the left, where a 
chalkboard displayed the Shakespeare 
quotation of the day - one of Polly's pet 
ideas. He expected to see Murder most 
foul. Instead, he read: Love is a smoke 
raised with the fume of sighs. The 
wedding in Lockmaster had put her in a 
romantic mood.

   In the main hall the clerks gave him 
the bright greeting due the richest man 
in the county who was also their 
supervisor's companion of choice. To 
delude them he first browsed through the 
new-book shelves and punched a few keys 
on the computer catalogue before 
sauntering up the stairs to the 
mezzanine. Here the daily papers were 
scattered on tables in the reading room, 
and here Polly presided over the library 
operation in a glass-enclosed office. She 
was seated behind her desk, wearing her 
usual gray suit and white blouse, but she 
was looking radiant, and her graying hair 
still showed the special attention it had 
received in preparation for the wedding.

   "You are looking. . . especially 
well!" he greeted her. "Evidently you 
enjoyed your weekend." He took a seat in 
one of the hard oak armchairs that had 
come with the building in 1904.

   "Thank you, Qwill," she said. "It was 
an absolutely wonderful weekend, but 
strenuous. I'm not conditioned to all. 
that partying. That's why I left the 
message not to call me. The wedding 
ceremony was absolutely beautiful! The 
bride wore her grandmother's lace dress 
with a six-foot train, and everyone was 
terribly emotional. The reception was 
held at the Riding and Hunt Club, and I 
danced with the bridegroom and the 
bride's father and - simply everyone!"

   Qwilleran and Polly never danced. The 
opportunity seldom arose, and he was 
unaware that she liked to dance. "How 
many guests were there?" he asked.

   "Three hundred, Shirley said. Her son 
made a handsome groom. He's just out of 
law school and has a job with the best 
law firm in Lockmaster. You've never met 
Shirley, have you? She's the one who had 
the litter of kittens and gave me 
Bootsie. We've been friends for twenty 
years. Her husband is in real estate. His 
name is Alan, spelled A-l-a-n."

   She's chattering, Qwilleran thought; 
why is she chattering? Polly's manner of 
speech was usually reserved and often 
pedantic; she made a brief, pithy 
statement and waited for her listener's 
reaction. Today her speech bubbled with 
the exuberance of a younger woman - one 
who has been out on the town for the 
first time. He combed his moustache with 
his fingers. "So you had brunch at the 
Paddock! Do you consider it as good as 
its reputation?"

   "Absolutely!" she said. "It's a 
marvelous restaurant, and I stayed longer 
than I anticipated."

   He wondered about that "absolutely." 
It was not Polly's kind of word, and yet 
she had used it three times. Ordinarily 
she would say "definitely" or "without 
doubt," but never "absolutely."

   "But tell me about Hilary VanBrook," 
she was saying. "Everyone is shocked - 
and worried about what the police will 
uncover."

   "May I shut the door?" he asked. There 
were a few loiterers in the reading room, 
and everyone in Pickax had big ears.

   "I heard on the radio," Polly said, 
"that you gave an all-night party!" She 
regarded him accusingly.

   "WPKX has a talent for garbling the 
news to give the wrong impression," he 
said. "Actually the entire cast and crew 
of Henry VIII descended on me around 
midnight and stayed until 3 A.M. After 
they had left, Koko started creating a 
disturbance that aroused my curiosity. I 
went out and found the body. The shooter 
had used a silencer, and yet that cat 
heard the shot. Or perhaps he knew by 
instinct that something was wrong. During 
the party he was on top of the schrank, 
staring down at VanBrook's head, and I 
thought Koko recognized a hairpiece. He 
can always tell the difference between 
real and false. But now I believe he knew 
something was going to happen to the man 
- and that he was going to get it in the 
back of the head!"

   "Oh, Qwill! Isn't that a trifle 
extreme? I know cats have a sixth sense, 
but I can't believe they're prescient."

   "Koko is not your average cat."

   "Weren't you surprised that Mr. 
VanBrook attended the party? He has a 
reputation for being asocial."

   "He had an ulterior motive, Polly. He 
expected to line up a field trip for the 
entire student body, marching grades nine 
to twelve through my barn! A lot of 
nerve, I thought."

   "He was a very arrogant man. No one 
liked him, but people don't kill simply 
because a person is socially 
unacceptable."

   "Don't be too sure. A man shot his 
neighbor last month in an argument over 
dog-doo."

   "Yes, but that was Down Below. They 
don't behave that way up here. . . Excuse 
me." Her telephone rang, and she answered 
briskly. "This is Mrs. Duncan. . . Well, 
good morning!" she added in a softer 
tone, her face suddenly aglow with 
pleasure. She glanced at Qwilleran as she 
said, "I'm just fine, thank you. . . 
Absolutely! . . .

   Well, I'm in a conference at the 
moment. . . Yes, please do." She hung up 
the phone, smiling to herself.

   Who was that? Qwilleran wanted to ask 
but decided against it. If Polly wanted 
him to know, she would tell. He said, 
"I'd better hie myself home. Bushy is 
taking pictures of the barn this 
morning."

   "That's nice," she said, straightening 
papers on her desk. "He was the official 
photographer at the wedding." She seemed 
preoccupied, and Qwilleran left without 
making any further remarks.

   In walking back to the barn he took 
the long way around in order to pass the 
office of the Moose County Something. It 
occurred to him that their police 
reporter might have information withheld 
from the public. The press always had an 
inside story or was privy to the latest 
rumor.

   Junior Goodwinter hailed him from the 
managing editor's office. "Hey, Qwill! 
Did they let you out on bail?"

   "If I'm charged, Junior, I'm going to 
implicate you. Maybe we can be cellmates. 
What's the latest?"

   "No one has been charged yet. The 
police aren't talking, but we pumped the 
Dingleberry boys and found out that the 
cremated remains are supposed to be sent 
to Lockmaster at the request of 
VanBrook's attorney."

   "No funeral here? That's his final 
insult to the public." The citizens of 
Pickax dearly loved a celebrity funeral 
with a marching band playing a dirge and 
a long procession to the cemetery. It had 
been a cherished tradition since the 
nineteenth century.

   "That's right. No funeral," said the 
editor. "We called Lyle Compton about the 
possibility of a memorial service, and he 
said no one would attend. He said Van 
Brook's assistant will be elevated to the 
job of principal, at least protem. The 
board will have to vote on it, but the 
guy's competent, and there's no reason 
why he shouldn't get the job. . . . 
That's all the news to this moment, but 
Arch wants to see you."

   Arch Riker and Qwilleran had been 
lifelong friends Down Below, and they had 
worked together at the Daily Fluxion. 
During Riker's twenty-five years as an 
editor he had never rated more than a 
desk, a telephone, and a computer 
terminal. Now, as publisher of a 
backwoods journal, he sat in a large 
carpeted office with a desk the size of a 
Ping-Pong table. What's more - fellow 
staffers at the Fluxion would never 
believe this - he had draperies on the 
windows, installed by Amanda's Studio of 
Interior Design.

   "Sit down," he said to Qwilleran. 
"Help yourself to coffee."

   "Thanks, but I've just had three cups 
at Lois's."

   "What's the scuttlebutt over there?"

   "Everyone's on edge, fearing that some 
prominent member of the community is 
guilty. They overlook the fact that a 
brilliant man, who has done much for the 
education system, has been struck down in 
the prime of life.

   True, he was an outsider and not well-
liked, but a crime is a crime, even if 
the victim is a pariah or even if the 
murderer is the publisher of the 
Something."

   "While you're on your soapbox, why 
don't you do a column on the subject, 
Qwill?"

   "No, thanks. It happened in my 
backyard, and I'm keeping out of it, but 
I suggest you write an editorial." His 
hand went involuntarily to his moustache.

   Riker recognized the gesture. "Are you 
getting the investigative itch? Do you 
think you might do some private 
sleuthing?"

   "Not this time. I have confidence in 
Brodie. He grew up here, and he's a 
walking file on everyone in the county. 
It wouldn't surprise me if he knows who 
pulled the trigger and is setting a trap 
for him - or her." He started to leave 
the office.

   "Aren't you getting any vibrations 
from Koko?" Riker asked mockingly.

   "He keeps pulling engravings from my 
typecase, but so far the message is only 
FOOD. See you later, Arch."

   On the way out of the building 
Qwilleran stuck his head in an office 
where Hixie Rice was selling a full-page 
ad to the owner of a food market, exuding 
charm and enthusiasm into the instrument.

   "Any word about Dennis?" he asked 
after she had hung up triumphantly.

   "His parking space is still empty. Why 
didn't he tell someone - you or me or 
Susan or Fran? It worries me."

   "If you infer that he's a fugitive 
from justice, get it out of your head, 
Hixie. We all know he's a decent guy, and 
I maintain he's on his way home to see 
his wife and child - possibly because of 
some sort of family emergency down there, 
or because his wife found a buyer for 
their house. She probably called while he 
was at the theatre and left a message on 
his answering machine."

   "I hope you're right, Qwill." He 
declined her invitation to have a 
microwaved sub in the staff lounge and 
left to complete his errands. At the post 
office he picked up his mail and told 
them to hold future deliveries until the 
battered mailbox could be repaired.

   "Kids out your way must be bashing 
mailboxes with ball bats again," the 
clerk guessed.

   "Looks like it," Qwilleran said. Other 
postal patrons were picking up their mail 
or buying stamps, and most were standing 
around in neighborly huddles, discussing 
the murder. They lowered their voices or 
changed the subject when they caught 
sight of Mr. Q.

   By the time he arrived home the 
official cars were thinning out, but the 
photographer's van was still there. 
"How's it going?" he asked Bushy.

   The photographer was packing up his 
gear. "Wait'll you hear what happened! 
Remember how the cats behaved when you 
brought them to my studio for portraits 
"last year?"

z"I remember. They wouldn't leave their 
carrying coop," Qwilleran recalled. "I 
drove one hundred twenty miles round 
trip, and we couldn't get them out of 
their carrier even with a can opener."

   "Well, today it was different. They 
wanted to be in every picture! Every time 
I set up a shot, one of them was right 
there! I shot the kitchen, and they were 
both perched on the circular stairs. 
Whichever way I aimed the camera, there 
was a cat sitting on a railing or 
climbing a ladder."

   "I should have locked them up," said 
Qwilleran. "Cats are perverse. They 
figure out what you want and then do the 
opposite."

   "What's the difference? These photos 
are only for insurance purposes, aren't 
they? It'll look as if you've got twenty 
cats, that's all."

   Qwilleran watched the photographer 
pack, marveling how much equipment can be 
fitted into a small case where there is a 
place for everything.

   "Now I'm ready for that coffee," Bushy 
said.

   "Would you like a drink of Scotch and 
a bowl of chili first?"

   "Sure would, but I'd rather have wine 
if you've got it."

   "Name it, and we have it. This is the 
best bar outside of the Shipwreck Tavern. 
I have thirsty friends."

   "And you never touch a drop," the 
photographer marveled. "How come?"

   "Let's just say that I paid my dues 
when I was young and reckless, and I 
dropped out of the club ten years ago."

   The two men sank into leather chairs 
with wide arms, deep seats, and welcoming 
cushions - near the book-shelves and the 
printer's typecase.

   "You've got a nice setup," Bushy said. 
"You've really got space. We have, too, 
but it's all cut up into rooms. I see you 
collect old printing stuff. I have a 
friend - the editor of the Lockmaster 
Logger - who collects typefaces and old 
advertising posters. He has a playbill 
from Ford's Theatre dated April 14, 1865 
- the night Lincoln was assassinated."

   The Siamese, aware that chili was in 
the offing, made a sudden appearance and 
settled on the ottoman.

   Bushy said, "I'd still like to 
photograph those two characters in my 
studio. There's a market for cat photos 
right now. Now that they know me, perhaps 
we could try it again. Would you like to 
bring them down to Lockmaster once more?"

   "I'm willing to give it another shot," 
Qwilleran said. "Have you ever been to 
our famous steeplechase?"

   "No. Horse racing never appealed to 
me. I'm no gambler. If I put out a dollar 
I expect a dollar's worth in return."

   "This is different. It's like a big 
picnic, with horses jumping over hedges, 
and hounds baying, and carriages on 
parade. Here's what I thought: The 
September steeplechase is next weekend. 
Bring the cats down and stay at our 
house. We have lots of room. The cats can 
prowl around and get used to the studio."

   "I'll have to think about that," 
Qwilleran said, "but I appreciate the 
invitation."

   "There's a party Saturday night after 
the races, and on Sunday a lot of us go 
to brunch at the Palomino Paddock."

   "I've heard about the brunch. My 
friend Polly was there yesterday."

   "I know. I saw her there, and she was 
really enjoying herself. She was at the 
wedding reception, too - living it up. 
They had a terrific buffet and an open 
bar. You should have been there, Qwill." 
Bushy was talkative by nature, and a 
glass of burgundy enhanced this 
propensity. His range of topics covered 
his new boat, fishing conditions at 
Purple Point, his wife's disappointment 
at being childless, and the problems of 
living in a century-old house. Qwilleran 
was a good listener; he never knew when 
he might glean a tidbit for his column.

   Just as Bushy was telling about his 
wife's grandmother, who lived with them, 
a sudden impulse triggered the Siamese 
and catapulted them off the ottoman, 
round and round the fireplace cube, up 
the ramp, spiraling toward the roof, 
racing across the beams, leaping from 
catwalk to balcony, pounding down the 
ramp with thundering paws, then swooping 
to the main level, landing on the 
ottoman, where they came to a sudden stop 
and licked their fur. Time: thirty-five 
seconds.

   "What was that all about?" asked the 
stunned photographer.

   “I think they're telling me to go to 
the steeplechase. I accept your 
invitation."

   After the bowls of chili (hot) and 
coffee (strong), Qwilleran helped carry 
the photographic equipment to the van, 
and Bushy asked, "What are you going to 
do with your orchard? It's pretty well 
shot."

   "I'll clear out the dead trees and 
plant something else," said Qwilleran.

   "You could make it a bird sanctuary. 
Keep those berry bushes and wild cherries 
and plant some cedars and maples and 
things like that. Our yard is a 
conference center for birdlife. Vicki's 
grandmother is a nut about birds."

   Qwilleran returned indoors to ask the 
Siamese if they were in favor of a bird 
sanctuary and was greeted by Koko in his 
impertinent pose: legs splayed, head 
cocked, tail crooked.

   "You scoundrel!" Qwilleran said as he 
picked up the printing blocks scattered 
around the floor. This time he found a 
squirrel, a rabbit, an eagle, and a 
seahorse, two of them hidden under rugs, 
a trick he attributed to Yum Yum. They're 
both bored, he thought. "Would anyone 
like to go for an outing?" he asked.

   When he produced the harnesses and 
jingled them invitingly, Yum Yum promptly 
disappeared, but Koko was ready for 
action. Harnessed and leashed and perched 
on Qwilleran's shoulder, he was soon 
riding toward the mailbox on the highway. 
Qwilleran avoided the rutted trail and 
waded through the weeds in the orchard. 
Small birds landed on the tips of tall 
grasses and bounced them up and down, and 
he could feel Koko's body trembling.

   Toward the end of the property the cat 
struggled to get down. Was this the spot 
where the killer parked his truck or van? 
More likely, Qwilleran concluded, there 
was an abandoned bird's nest in the 
grass. Some nest builders, Polly had told 
him, are groundlings.

   Arriving at the highway, he allowed 
Koko to walk, and the cat investigated 
tire tracks on the pavement and pebbles 
on the shoulder. The crime lab had 
removed the mailbox for analysis, but 
Koko found a piece of glass they had 
overlooked. A fragment of a headlight? Or 
a shard from a whiskey bottle aimed at 
the mailbox by a Saturday-night carouser?

   Whatever it is, Qwilleran said to 
himself, we're staying out of this case. 
Yet, Koko was tugging on the leash 
urgently. He was tugging toward the south 
- the direction in which the last vehicle 
had turned after the fateful party.

-5-
   The day after Qwilleran accepted 
Bushy's invitation to the steeplechase, 
the sun was shining; the weather 
prediction was favorable; the Siamese 
were well and happy. Yet, he greeted the 
day with a mild depression. The 
triangular windows in the upper walls of 
the apple barn were performing their 
usual magic, throwing geometric patches 
of sunlight about the interior. As the 
earth turned, those distorted triangles 
of warmth and brightness moved from place 
to place, confusing the Siamese, who were 
always attracted to cozy spots. 
Ordinarily, Qwilleran was fascinated by 
this slow-motion minuet of sunsplashes, 
but on this day he was nagged by a vague 
uneasiness.

   The morning started well enough with a 
phone call from Lockmaster. "Qwill, this 
is Vicki Bushland. I'm so glad you and 
the cats will be spending the weekend 
with us."

   "It will be my pleasure," he assured 
her. "I hope the weather will be fine. 
It's beautiful today. Is the sun shining 
up there?"

   "It's working overtime," he said, 
making note of the bright triangles on 
the floor and walls and the front of the 
schrank. "Is there anything I may 
contribute to the weekend?"

   "Just bring your binoculars and your 
camera for the races. The Saturday night 
party at the Riding and Hunt Club is 
rather dressy. The women wear long 
dresses, but black tie is optional for 
the men. Otherwise, everything's casual. 
We have a tailgate picnic at the race 
course on Saturday."

   "Sounds good," he said, more politely 
than truthfully. Meals alfresco had never 
appealed to him. The prospect entailed 
limp paper plates, plastic forks, stuffed 
eggs with fragments of eggshell mashed 
into the stuffing, tuna sandwiches gritty 
with sand, and ants in the chocolate 
cake. Nevertheless, the experience might 
produce worthwhile material for the 
"Qwill Pen," and he would have an excuse 
to absent himself from the apple barn 
during the public open house. On Saturday 
half of Moose County, at five dollars a 
head, would be tramping up and down the 
ramps, no doubt making disparaging 
remarks about the fireplace design and 
the contemporary furniture. But his 
underlying reason for accepting the 
Bushlands' invitation may have been his 
curiosity about the person who had 
brunched with Polly at the Palomino 
Paddock, sending her home late, tired, 
and starry-eyed. No doubt this was the 
caller with whom she had that brief and 
guarded conversation while Qwilleran 
squirmed in a hard oak chair.

   "I'm looking forward to the whole 
weekend," he told Vicki.

   "Could you arrive in time for dinner 
on Friday?" she asked. "We'd have 
cocktails at six. I'd like to give a 
little dinner party because my 
grandmother is dying to meet you. She 
adored your column when you were writing 
for the Daily Fluxion, and now we buy the 
Moose County paper every Tuesday and 
Friday so she can read 'Straight from the 
Qwill Pen.' Sometimes you switch days, 
and then the dear lady has a fit!"

   "I'm sure I'll like your grandmother 
immensely," Qwilleran said.

   "We'll invite a few others you might 
enjoy meeting. Everyone knows who you 
are, and all our friends have heard about 
the time you and Bushy were marooned on 
the island during a storm. So we'll all 
be looking forward to your visit."

   "None more than I," he said in the 
graciously formal style he adopted on 
such occasions.

   "Do you like pasta? We have to serve 
something my grandmother can swallow 
easily."

   "I consider myself omnivorous - with 
the small exception of turnips and 
parsnips."

   "How about the cats? What do they 
eat?"

   "Don't worry about them. I'll take 
along some canned stuff."

   Canned stuff to the Siamese meant red 
salmon, boned chicken, solid-pack white 
tuna, crabmeat, and lobster.

   Although feeding the cats would be a 
simple matter, dressing for dinner at the 
Riding and Hunt Club would pose a 
problem. The navy blue suit that 
Qwilleran reserved for funerals had been 
lost in a fire. Furthermore, a dinner 
jacket would be preferable if only to 
dispel the Lockmaster notion that Moose 
County was populated with aborigines. He 
had never owned a dinner jacket. He had 
rented one for Arch Riker's wedding 
twenty-odd years before, and he assumed 
that the practice was still customary. He 
assumed that the young potato farmers and 
sheep ranchers whose wedding photos 
appeared in the Something were able to 
rent their dinner jackets and tailcoats 
from Scottie's Men's Shop.

   Time was short. He headed downtown at 
a pace faster than usual, turning his 
head only to count the yellow posters in 
store windows - posters made brighter by 
the relentless September sun:


LIVING BARN TOUR
SAT., SEPT. 17, 10 A.M. to 5 P.M.
TICKETS $5


   Scottie greeted him at the door. 
"Weel, laddie, you've done it again!" he 
said, putting on the brogue that pleased 
his Scottish and part-Scottish customers. 
(Qwilleran's mother, everyone knew, had 
been a Mackintosh.)

   "Meaning what?" Qwilleran asked.

   "You found another dead body! Canna 
remember any dead bodies before you moved 
to town."

   Qwilleran huffed into his moustache as 
dismissal of the remark. "I want to rent 
a dinner jacket and everything that goes 
with it."

   "Och! You want to rent? Is the 
Klingenschoen heir too hard up to buy 
one?"

   "Look, Scottie, I've lived here for 
four years with no need for formal 
clothing, and I may never need it again. 
Waste not, want not."

   "Spoken like a true Mackintosh! Or was 
your mother a Mackenzie?"

   "Mackintosh," Qwilleran growled.

   " 'Twill make a juicy bit of gossip 
when the word gets around that the 
richest man in Moose County is rentin' a 
dinner jacket. Every man in your 
position, laddie, should own a dinner 
jacket."

   Reluctantly Qwilleran allowed himself 
to be sold, and as he was being fitted, 
the storekeeper brought up the subject of 
the murder again. "Let them say what they 
will about VanBrook, it were too bad. 
Aye, it were too bad."

   "Was he a good customer of yours?" 
Qwilleran asked, assuming that Scottie's 
reactions would be related to the cash 
register.

   "Not good, but frequent. He come in 
here reg'lar to look for turtlenecks in 
colors they don't make. . . The police 
have a suspect, I hear."

   "I was not aware of that, Scottie. Who 
is it?" Qwilleran asked innocently.

   "There's a rumor that Dennis Hough is 
in hidin'." He pronounced it Hoe. "The 
mayor's wife were in Mooseville to a 
ladies' social, and she saw the laddie 
comin' out of the Shipwreck Tavern, 
lookin' furtive and in want of a shave."

   "What kind of refreshments were they 
serving at that ladies' social? Dennis is 
driving to St. Louis to see his family 
for the first time in several months! The 
gossips want to suspect him because he's 
an outsider from Down Below. The people 
around here, if you ask me, are a bunch 
of xenophobes."

   "If you mean they're slow in payin' 
their bills, you hit the nail on the 
head, laddie."

   Leaving Scottie's store, Qwilleran met 
Carol Lanspeak going into the family's 
emporium. "Heard anything?" she asked.

   "Not a word," he replied. "How about 
you?"

   "Wait till you hear! We just received 
a letter that Hilary mailed last Friday, 
the day before he died, billing us for 
mileage for that woman from Lockmaster! 
Eight rehearsals and twelve performances 
at one hundred forty miles a round trip. 
Do you realize what that amounts to at 
twenty-five cents a mile? Seven hundred 
dollars! I know she used a lot of gas to 
come up here, but the point is: We didn't 
need her!"

   "Can the club afford it?"

   "Well, it'll put us in the red again. 
It's just another example of Hilary's 
arrogance. He never gave us a hint that 
we'd be liable for her travel expenses. 
Scott Gippel thinks we should just ignore 
it. We don't know the woman's address, 
and we don't know who's handling the 
estate."

   "What does Larry say about it?"

   "He hasn't seen the letter yet. He'll 
hit the ceiling!" Her eye caught the 
yellow poster in the store window. "Your. 
Living Barn Tour is being well 
publicized, but isn't a five-dollar 
admission kind of steep for Pickax 
pocketbooks?"

   "They'll pay five dollars just to see 
the scene of the crime," he said.

   "That's ghoulish, Qwill."

   "But true. You wait and see."

   Carol went into the store, and 
Qwilleran went on his way, thinking about 
the letter posthumously received. Who was 
VanBrook's executor? What was the extent 
of his estate? Who would inherit? Only 
one person in Pickax, he thought, would 
know anything about the principal's 
connections. The superintendent of 
schools would have a file on the man. 
Qwilleran had a sudden urge to lunch with 
Lyle Compton, and he knew that Compton 
always liked an excuse to get out of the 
office.

   Qwilleran phoned the board of 
education and made a date for noon, then 
called the Old Stone Mill for a 
reservation. Thriftily he used the phone 
in Amanda's Studio of Interior Design.

   "Have you heard anything new?" Fran 
asked him when he hung up the phone. "I 
haven't been able to pry anything out of 
Dad. He isn't talking, not even to 
Mother, but there's an ugly rumor 
circulating about Dennis."

   "How do these baseless rumors get 
started?" Qwilleran asked irritably.

   "He left town suddenly."

   "No doubt headed for St. Louis on 
family business."

   "That's what I think, too, although he 
didn't mention it to anyone. . . How did 
the shoot turn out yesterday?"

   "Pretty good, I guess. Bushy took a 
lot of pictures and promised to print a 
complete set for you. I'll see them this 
weekend when I go down to Lockmaster. 
Have you ever been to the steeplechase?"

   "No, but I hear it's quite a blast." 
Qwilleran looked at his watch. "I'm 
meeting Lyle at noon. See you later."

   "Wait a minute, Qwill. Want to help me 
make that delivery to Hilary's house 
tomorrow?"

   "What time?"

   "Is nine o'clock too early? I know 
you're a slow starter."

   "Not on Wednesday mornings! Mrs. 
Fulgrove comes to dust, and I like any 
excuse to get out."

   "Okay, then. Park behind the studio, 
and you can help me load the screens in 
the van. They're in flat cartons, large 
but not heavy. And," Fran added slyly, 
"we won't charge you for the two phone 
calls."

   Stroking his moustache with 
satisfaction, Qwilleran left for lunch 
with a singularly buoyant step. He was 
going to see what was behind those drawn 
draperies on Goodwinter Boulevard.

   The Old Stone Mill was a picturesque 
restaurant converted from a nineteenth-
century grist mill, and its outstanding 
features were a six-foot-seven busboy who 
talked a lot and an old millwheel that 
turned and creaked and groaned 
continuously. The two men were shown to 
Qwilleran's favorite table: it had the 
best view and the most privacy and was 
comfortably removed from the incessant 
racket of the ancient wheel.

   As Derek Cuttlebrink sauntered over 
with water pitcher and bread basket, the 
superintendent said with his usual 
cynical scowl, "Here comes our most 
distinguished alumnus."

   "Hi, Mr. Compton," said the gregarious 
busboy. "Did you see me in the play?"

   "I certainly did, Derek, and you were 
head and shoulders above all the others."

   "Gee!"

   "When are you going to complete your 
education, my boy? Or is your goal to be 
the oldest busboy in the forty-eight 
contiguous states?"

   "Well, I've got this new girl that 
kinda likes me, and she doesn't want me 
to go away to college," Derek explained 
plausibly. "I see her three times a week. 
Last night we went roller skating."

   The hostess, hurrying past with an 
armful of menu folders, nudged him. 
"Setups on tables six and nine, Derek, 
and table four wants more water."

   As the busboy drifted away with his 
water pitcher, Compton said, "The 
Cuttlebrinks were the founders of the 
town of Wildcat, but their pioneer spirit 
is wearing thin. Every generation gets 
taller but not brighter. . . What looks 
interesting on the menu? I don't want 
anything nutritious. I get all that at 
home." The superintendent was a painfully 
thin man who smoked too many cigars and 
scoffed at vegetables and salads.

   Qwilleran said, "There's a cheese and 
broccoli soup that's so thick you could 
use it for mortar. The avocado-stuffed 
pita is a mess to eat, but delicious. The 
crab Louis salad is the genuine thing."

   "I'll take chili and a hot dog," 
Compton told the waitress . . . " So they 
finally eliminated VanBrook," he said to 
Qwilleran. "I always knew he'd get it 
some day. Too bad it happened on our 
territory. It makes Moose County look 
bad."

   "If you found him so objectionable, 
why did you keep renewing his contract?"

   "He was so damned good that he had us 
over a barrel.

   There are devils you can live with, 
you know."

   "What happens to his estate? Did he 
have any family elsewhere? "

   "The only personal contact listed in 
his file is an attorney in Lockmaster. 
When the police notified me, I talked to 
this man and asked if there was anything 
we could do. He told me that Hilary had 
opted for cremation, with his ashes to be 
sent to Lockmaster. Then he asked for the 
name of an estate liquidator, and I 
referred him to Susan Exbridge."

   "Hilary was a mystery man, wasn't he? 
I'm reading the biography of Sir Edmund 
Backhouse, the British sinologist, and I 
see a similarity: A brilliant, erudite 
man of astounding accomplishments but 
also an eccentric who doesn't fit the 
social norm."

   "Hilary was that, all right," Compton 
agreed.

   "Even his name rouses one's curiosity, 
if not suspicion."

   "Hilary VanBrook was his professional 
name, assumed when he was acting on the 
New York stage. It's not the one used for 
social security, federal withholding, and 
so forth, but you have to admit it has a 
touch of class. His real name was William 
Smurple - not an auspicious name for a 
Broadway star."

   "Or a high school principal," 
Qwilleran said. "I hear he claimed to 
speak Japanese fluently. Was that true?"

   "To all appearances. We had a Japanese 
exchange student up here one year, and 
they seemed to converse glibly. So that 
checked out. I never had any qualms about 
his credibility, although I often 
questioned his judgment. We lost a 
helluva good custodian because of him, 
and a good janitor is a pearl beyond 
price. Pat O'Dell had been in the school 
system for forty years, and you couldn't 
find a more conscientious worker or more 
charismatic personality. He was the 
unofficial student counselor; the kids 
flocked to him for advice - a grandfather 
figure, you might say. Well, Hilary blew 
the whistle on that unorthodox 
arrangement! I think he was jealous of 
the man's popularity. At any rate, he 
made it so uncomfortable for old Pat 
O'Dell that he quit."

   "What about the Toddwhistle incident?"

   "Kids have been putting things on 
teachers' chairs and in principals' 
mailboxes for generations! Hilary 
overreacted. Now that he's gone, we'll 
probably give Wally a diploma, if he 
wants it. But I'll bet he earns more 
money stuffing animals than I do hiring 
teachers."

   They ordered apple pie, and Qwilleran 
asked, "With all VanBrook's talents and 
background, why did he choose to live in 
remote places like Lockmaster and Pickax? 
Did he ever explain?"

   "Yes, he did, when we first 
interviewed him. He said he had seen the 
world at its best and at its worst, and 
now he wanted a quiet place in which to 
study and meditate."

   Qwilleran thought: He could be running 
from someone or something. He could be an 
upscale con man on the wanted list. His 
murderer could be an enemy from Down 
Below, settling an old score.

   Compton was saying, "He claimed to 
have ninety thousand books in his 
library. He listed his major interests as 
architecture, horticulture, Shakespeare, 
and baroque music. He had three academic 
degrees."

   "Did you verify them before hiring 
him?"

   "Hell, no. We took him on faith, 
knowing what an outstanding job he'd done 
as principal of Lockmaster. As a matter 
of fact, he turned out to be so damned 
good for Pickax that we never crossed 
him. We were afraid we'd lose him."

   "Well, you've lost him now," Qwilleran 
said.

   "I hear the police are looking for 
your builder, and he's skipped town."

   "Lyle, if I were a doctoral candidate 
in communications, I'd write my thesis on 
the Moose County rumor mill. Let me tell 
you something. Dennis Hough had no more 
motive than you or I have, and I happen 
to know he's on his way home to see his 
family Down Below."

   "I hope you're right," said Compton. 
He lighted a cigar, and that was 
Qwilleran's cue to excuse himself, 
grabbing the check and saying he had 
another appointment. Actually, since 
giving up pipesmoking, he found tobacco 
fumes offensive. Yet, in the days when he 
puffed on a quarter-bend bulldog, he went 
about perfuming restaurants and offices 
and cocktail parties with Groat and 
Boddle Number Five, imported from 
Scotland, thinking he was .doing 
surrounding noses a favor.

   Qwilleran did indeed have another 
appointment - with Susan Exbridge - who 
was chairing the library committee in 
charge of the barn tour. As he headed for 
her antique shop, he was struck by a 
chilling thought. Suppose Dennis did not 
go to St. Louis! Suppose he drove to some 
out-of-county collision shop to have the 
damage repaired on his van! Suppose the 
mayor's wife really did see him coming 
out of the Shipwreck Tavern! He dismissed 
the thought with a mental shudder.

   The Exbridge & Cobb antique shop on 
Main Street was a class act. The clean 
windows, the gold lettering on the glass, 
the polished mahogany and brass on 
display - all sparkled in the afternoon 
sun, thanks to the ministrations of Mr. 
O'Dell and Mrs. Fulgrove.

   When Qwilleran walked in, Susan 
turned, expecting a customer, but the 
proprietorial smile turned to dismay when 
she saw him. "Oh, Qwill!" she agonized. 
"Have you heard the news? They're hunting 
for Dennis, and he's gone!"

   "Don't be alarmed," he said with 
diminished confidence. "He's on his way 
Down Below to see his family. I saw you 
two leaving the party together. What 
happened after that, if you don't mind my 
asking?"

   "He walked me to my car, which was at 
the far end of the lane, and then 
returned to his van. He didn't say a word 
about going to St. Louis."

   "Will you take offense if I ask you 
something personal?"

   "We-e-ell . . ." she hesitated.

   "What were you and Dennis giggling 
about when you left the barn?"

   "Giggling?"

   "You were enjoying some private joke. 
I'm not prying into your affairs, but it 
might give a clue to his next move."

   "Oh," she said, recollecting the 
episode. "It was nothing. It was about 
one of the Old Lady's lines to Anne 
Boleyn. She says, And you, a very fresh 
fish, have your mouth filled before you 
open it. On the last night, I said it 
with a certain significant emphasis. 
Someone in the audience guffawed, and 
Fran glared at me murderously. I'd give 
anything to know who laughed."

   "Hmff," Qwilleran said. "I didn't come 
here to quiz you, Susan. I came to ask 
about the Barn Tour. Is everything under 
control?"

   "There's one problem, Qwill. Dennis 
was going to give me some facts about the 
remodeling, to help the guides answer 
questions. What shall we do?"

   "I'll type something out for you. Who 
are the guides?"

   "Members of the library board and a 
few volunteers."

   "How many visitors do you expect?"

   "We've printed five hundred tickets, 
and they're selling well. The ad runs 
tomorrow, and we're taking a few radio 
spots."

   "I'm leaving town Friday for the 
weekend. Why don't you come over Thursday 
morning before you open your shop? You 
can pick up the key to the barn and see 
that everything's in order. And don't 
worry about Dennis, Susan. I'm confident 
that it'll straighten out alright."

   Qwilleran believed what he was saying, 
more or less, until he later met Hixie 
Rice coming out of the bank. "I've been 
trying to reach you, Qwill!" she cried. 
"I was in Mooseville this morning, 
calling on customers, and I saw Dennis's 
van! I was driving east on the lakeshore 
road. He was just ahead of me, and he 
turned into your property. “Don't you 
have a letter K on a post at the entrance 
to your log cabin?"

   Qwilleran nodded solemnly. "When he 
made the left turn, I saw him clearly, 
hunched over the steering wheel. He 
looked ghastly! Does he have a key to 
your cabin?"

   "No, he returned it. I let him use the 
cabin last month when he was rehearsing. 
He wanted to learn his lines while 
walking on the secluded beach."

   "What should we do?"

   "I'll drive out there to see what's 
happening."

   "Be careful, Qwill," she warned. "If 
he's cracked up - and if he has a gun - 
and if he's killed once - "

   "Dennis doesn't own a gun, Hixie. In 
fact, he's anti-gun. But something's 
happened to him. I'll get my car and 
drive out to Mooseville."

   "I'll drive you. My car's right here. 
I hope you don't mind riding in a piece 
of junk; it's a loaner."

   The route to Mooseville, thirty miles 
away, was fairly straight, and they far 
exceeded the speed limit. There was 
little traffic at this time of year - 
after the tourist season and before the 
hunting season. The highway passed 
through a desolate landscape ravaged by 
early lumbering and mining operations. 
Although the sun was shining, the scene 
was bleak, and so was the conversation.

   Qwilleran said, "If he's in trouble, 
why didn't he confide in me? I thought we 
were good friends."

   "Me too. I was thinking of quitting 
the Something and going into partnership 
with him. I could line up contracts and 
get publicity."

   When they reached the lakeshore, the 
vacation cottages on the beach had an air 
of desertion. Qwilleran said, "It's 
around the next curve. Slow down."

   "I'm getting nervous," said Hixie.

   The letter K on a post marked the 
entrance to the Klingenschoen property, 
and the private drive led through patches 
of woods and over a succession of dunes 
until it emerged in a clearing.

   "There's no one here!" Qwilleran said. 
"This is where he'd have to park."

   They found tire tracks in the soft 
earth, however, and on the beach at the 
foot of the dune there were footprints. 
Sand and surf had not yet disguised the 
traces. The cabin itself, closed for the 
season, was undisturbed.

   "If he's been on the run, he's been 
sleeping in his van," Qwilleran said. 
"How well do you know the manager at 
Indian Village?"

   "We have a good rapport, and she's 
high on my Christmas list."

   "Could you get the key to Dennis's 
apartment?"

   "I could think of something. . . I 
could say that he's out of town and 
called me to send him papers from his 
desk."

   "Good enough."

   In Indian Village there were eight 
apartments in each two-story building, 
with a central hall serving them all. 
Hixie admitted Qwilleran into her own 
apartment and then went to see the 
manager. She returned with the key.

   "It's my contention," Qwilleran told 
her, "that Dennis returned from the party 
early Sunday morning and either found a 
message on his answering machine or found 
something in his Saturday mail that 
caused him to take off in a hurry. It 
would have to be serious business to make 
him hide out in his van - a threat 
perhaps."

   Entering Dennis's apartment with 
caution and stealth, they went directly 
to the desk. It was cluttered with papers 
in connection with the barn remodeling. 
There was a pink or yellow order form for 
every can of paint and every pound of 
nails that went into the job. The only 
sign of recent mail delivery was an 
unopened telephone bill. Then Qwilleran 
pressed the button of the answering 
machine.

   When he heard the first message, he 
reached for the pocket-size recorder that 
was always in his jacket along with his 
keys.

   "We've got to tape this," he said. "I 
want to play it for Brodie. But don't say 
a word about this to anyone, Hixie. Let's 
get back to town."

   Hixie drove to the theatre parking 
lot, and Qwilleran walked the rest of the 
way home - through the iron gate, through 
the woods. Approaching the barn, he could 
see a van parked at the back door-
Dennis's van - and he quickened his step, 
torn between relief and apprehension.

   The back door was unlocked, as he 
expected; Dennis knew where to find the 
key. Walking into the kitchen Qwilleran 
shouted a cheerful, "Hello! Anybody 
here?" The only response was a wild 
shrieking and gutteral howling from the 
top balcony. He had locked the Siamese in 
their loft that morning, troubled as he 
was by his gnawing sense of foreboding. 
The cacophony from the loft made his 
blood run cold, and an awareness of death 
made him catch his breath. He moved 
toward the center of the building and 
slowly, systematically, surveyed the 
cavernous interior.

   The afternoon sun was slanting through 
the high windows on the west, making 
triangles on the rugs, walls, and white 
fireplace cube, and across one triangle 
of sunlight there was a vertical shadow - 
the shadow of a body hanging from a beam 
overhead.

-6-
   Dennis Hough - creator of the 
spectacular barn renovation and darling 
of the Theatre Club - had let himself 
into the apple barn Tuesday afternoon, 
using the hidden key. Then he climbed to 
the upper balcony, threw a rope over a 
beam, and jumped from the railing.

   Brodie himself responded when 
Qwilleran made his grisly discovery and 
called the police. The chief strode into 
the barn saying, "What did I tell you? 
What did I tell you? This is the man who 
killed VanBrook. He couldn't live with 
himself!"

   "You've got it wrong," Qwilleran said. 
"Let me play you a tape. Dennis arrived 
at his apartment early Sunday morning, 
following the party, and checked his 
answering machine for messages. This is 
what he heard."

   There followed a woman's voice, bitter 
and vindictive. "Don't come home, Dennis! 
Not ever! I've filed for divorce. I've 
found someone who'll be a good daddy for 
Denny and a real husband for me. Denny 
doesn't even know you any more. There's 
nothing you can say or do, so don't call 
me. Just stay up north and have your 
jollies."

   Qwilleran said, "Do you want to hear 
it again?"

   "No," Brodie said. "How did you get 
this?"

   "I had access to his apartment, just 
as he had access to this barn. I found 
the message this afternoon and taped it 
to disprove your theory. Dennis didn't 
know he was under suspicion - or even 
that VanBrook had been killed, probably. 
He was overwhelmed by his own private 
tragedy."

   Brodie grunted and massaged his chin. 
"We'll have to notify that woman as next 
of kin."

   "I'll be willing to do it," said 
Qwilleran, who prided himself on his 
comforting and understanding manner in 
notifying the bereaved. He punched a 
number supplied by directory assistance, 
and when a woman's voice answered he said 
in his practiced tone of sincerity and 
concern, "Is this Mrs. Hough?" The fact 
that he pronounced it correctly was in 
his favor.

   "Yes?" she replied.

   "This is Jim Qwilleran, a friend of 
your husband, calling from Pickax - "

   "I don't want to talk to any friend of 
that skunk!" she screamed into the phone 
and banged down the receiver.

   Qwilleran winced. "Did you hear that, 
Andy?"

   "Gimme the phone." Brodie punched the 
same number, and when she answered he 
said in his official monotone, "This is 
the police calling. Your husband is dead, 
Mrs. Hough. Suicide. Request directions 
for disposition of the: body. . . Thank 
you, ma'am."

   He turned to Qwilleran. "I won't 
repeat what she said. The gist of it is - 
we can do what we please. She wants no 
part of her husband, dead or alive."

   Qwilleran said, "His friends in the 
Theatre Club will handle everything. I'll 
call Larry Lanspeak."

   "I'll take the tape," Brodie said. 
"Just keep it quiet. He was never 
declared a suspect, so there's no need to 
deny the rumor. Let the public think what 
they want; we'll continue the 
investigation."

   While the emergency crew and medical 
examiner went about their work, Qwilleran 
notified one person about the suicide, 
and that was Hixie. "You'll hear it on 
the six o'clock news," he said. "Dennis 
has taken his life." He waited for her 
hysterical outburst to subside and then 
said, "Don't mention the message from his 
wife to anyone, Hixie. Those are Brodie's 
orders. When he finds the real killer, 
Dennis will be cleared."

   At six o'clock a brief announcement on 
WPKX stated: "A building contractor - 
Dennis Hough, thirty, of St. Louis, 
Missouri - died suddenly today IN . . . a 
Pickax barn. . . he had recently. . . 
remodeled. No details. . . are. . . 
available." The name of the deceased was 
pronounced Huck. "Died suddenly" was a 
euphemism for suicide in the north 
country.

   Qwilleran was loathe to imagine the 
anguish of his friend's private moments 
preceding his desperate act. He thought: 
If I had been here, I could have 
prevented it. Qwilleran's own life had 
once been in ruins. He knew the shock of 
a suddenly failed marriage, the pain of 
rejection, the guilt, the sense of 
failure, the hopelessness. He skipped 
dinner, finding the thought of food 
nauseating, and fed the Siamese in their 
loft apartment. Koko, who knew something 
extraordinary had been happening, was 
determined to escape and investigate, but 
Qwilleran brought him down with a lunging 
tackle.

   Down on the main level he turned on 
the answering machine; he wished no idle 
gossip, no prying questions. Then he shut 
himself in his studio, away from the 
sight of those overhead beams, that 
fireplace cube, and those triangular 
windows. He tried to lose himself in the 
pages of a book. As he delved farther and 
farther into the Backhouse biography, it 
occurred to him that the life of the 
mysterious VanBrook would be equally 
fascinating. The mystery of the man's 
personality and background, whether 
resolved or not, would be intensified by 
his violent death. The search for the 
killer, sidetracked by false suspicions, 
would add another dimension of suspense.

   There was a violent storm that night. 
Gale winds from Canada swept across the 
big lake and joined with heavy rain to 
lash the rotting apple trees. By morning, 
the orchard was a wreck, and Trevelyan 
Trail was a ribbon of mud. Qwilleran 
called the landscape service, requesting 
a clean-up crew and truckloads of crushed 
stone.

   Then he showered and shaved in a hurry 
and fed the cats without ceremony. It was 
Wednesday, and he hoped to escape before 
the vigorous Mrs. Fulgrove arrived to 
dust, vacuum, polish, and deliver her 
weekly lecture. This week her topics 
would undoubtedly be murder and suicide, 
in addition to her usual tirade about the 
abundance of cat hair. He succeeded in 
avoiding her and even had time for coffee 
and a roll at Lois's Luncheonette before 
reporting to the back door of Amanda's 
Studio of Interior Design.

   He was met by a distraught young 
woman. "Dad told me about it!" Fran 
cried. "He wouldn't discuss motive, but 
everyone says it means that Dennis killed 
VanBrook."

   Irritably Qwilleran said, "What 
everyone in Pickax says, thinks, feels, 
knows, or believes is of no concern to 
me, Fran."

   "I know how you must feel about it, 
Qwill. I'm distressed, too. Dennis and I 
worked so compatibly on the barn. I'll 
miss him."

   "Larry is arranging the funeral. 
There'll be a private service in the 
Dingleberry chapel for a few friends, 
then burial next to his mother."

   Fran asked, "How is Polly reacting?"

   "We haven't discussed it," he said.

   "Are you two getting along all right?" 
she asked with concern.

   "Why do you want to know?" he asked 
sharply.

   "Well, you know. . . she wasn't there 
at the barn Saturday night. . . and then 
someone saw you at Tipsy's on Sunday - 
with another woman, they said."

   Qwilleran huffed into his moustache 
angrily. "Okay, where are the cartons? 
How many do you have to deliver? Let's 
get the van loaded!"

   On the short drive to Goodwinter 
Boulevard the designer said, "Hilary's 
neighbors will have their telescopes out. 
They'll be sure I'm looting a dead man's 
house."

   "I gather that snooping is a major 
pastime in Pickax."

   "You don't know the half of it! There 
are two busy-bodies who make it their 
lifework to spy and pry and spread 
rumors. But if you meet them on the post 
office steps, they're so sweet!"

   "Who are they?"

   "I'll give you a couple of clues," 
Fran said teasingly. "One wears a plastic 
rainhat even when the sun is shining, and 
the other calls everyone Dear Heart."

   "Thanks for warning me," Qwilleran 
said. "Was Hilary a good customer of 
yours?"

   "He didn't buy much, but he liked to 
come in to the studio and look around and 
tell us things that we already knew. He 
considered himself an authority on 
everything. He bought a lamp once, and we 
upholstered a chair for him last year, 
but the screens are the first big order I 
wrote up. And then this had to happen!"

   "I suppose your father got a search 
warrant and went into the house."

   "I don't know," she said coolly.

   "Does he know you're delivering 
merchandise?"

   "No, but Dear Heart will see that he 
finds out. Actually, Qwill, Dad and I 
haven't been on good terms since I moved 
into my apartment."

   "Too bad. Sorry to hear it." Fran 
parked in the rear of the house, and they 
started to unload. The interior was 
similar to others on Goodwinter 
Boulevard: large, square rooms with high 
ceilings, connected by wide arches; heavy 
woodwork in a dark varnish; a ponderous 
staircase lavished with carving and 
turnings; tall, narrow windows. But 
instead of the usual heirloom furniture 
and elaborate wallcoverings, the main 
rooms were white-walled and sparsely 
furnished with tatami floor matting, low 
Oriental tables, and floor cushions. 
There were a few pieces of porcelain, two 
Japanese scrolls, and a folding screen 
decorated with galloping fat-rumped 
horses. The only false note was the use 
of heavy draperies smothering the 
windows.

   Fran explained, "Hilary was replacing 
the draperies with shoji screens so he 
could have light as well as privacy. He 
was quite secretive about his life-
style."

   "How could he live like this?" 
Qwilleran himself required large, 
comfortable chairs and a place to put his 
feet up.

   "I believe he slept on a futon down 
here, but he said he had a study upstairs 
as well as rooms for books and hobbies."

   Hobbies! Qwilleran found himself 
speculating wildly. "Okay if I look 
around?"

   "Sure, go ahead," she said. "I'll be 
opening the cartons and putting each 
screen where it belongs. They were all 
custom-made, you know. We're talking 
about ten thousand dollars here, and God 
knows how long we'll have to wait to 
collect."

   Qwilleran walked slowly up the 
impressive staircase, thinking about the 
ninety thousand books Compton had 
mentioned. He wondered if the collection 
included City of Brotherly Crime. He 
wondered if the books were catalogued. 
When he started opening doors, however, 
his hopes wilted; the books had never 
been unpacked. He went from room to room 
and found hundreds of sealed cartons of 
books - or so they were labeled.

   Only one room was organized enough to 
have bookshelves, and they covered four 
walls. This was evidently the principal's 
study, having a desk, lounge chair, 
reading lamp, and stereo system. As for 
the volumes on the shelves, they 
expressed VanBrook's eclectic tastes: 
Eastern philosophy, Elizabethan drama, 
architecture, Oriental art, eighteenth-
century costume, Cantonese cookery, 
botany - but nothing on urban crime.

   The desktop in this hideaway had an 
excessive tidiness reflecting the 
influence of the Japanese style 
downstairs. A brass paperknife in the 
shape of a Chinese dragon was placed 
precisely parallel to the onyx-base pen 
set. The telephone was squared off with 
the lefthand edge of the desk, and a 
brass-bound box (locked) was squared off 
with the righthand edge. In between, in 
dead center, was a clean desk blotter on 
which lay a neat pile of letters. 
Apparently they had been received and 
opened on Saturday, at which time they 
were read and returned to their 
envelopes.

   There was a muffled quiet in the 
study. Fran's footsteps could be heard 
downstairs, and occasionally the ripping 
of a carton. Casually, with an ear alert 
to the activity below, Qwilleran examined 
the mail. There were bills from utility 
companies, magazine-subscription 
departments, and an auto-insurance 
agency. There were no death threats, he 
was sorry to discover. But one small 
envelope addressed by hand had a scribble 
in the upper lefthand corner that piqued 
his curiosity: F. Stucker, 231 Fourth 
Street, Lockmaster. After determining 
that Fran was fully occupied with her 
screens, he gingerly drew the letter from 
its envelope and read the following:


Dear Mr. VanBrook - Thanks a lot for the 
$200. I didn't expect you to pay for my 
gas. It was nice of you to ask me to be 
in your play. But I can sure use the 
money. I had to buy new boots for Robbie. 
So thanks again.
Fiona


   "Two hundred bucks!" Qwilleran said 
softly to the surrounding bookshelves. 
"That faker was making five hundred on 
the deal!" Was petty cheating one of his 
"hobbies"? Qwilleran tried the desk 
drawers, but they were locked.

   Then, as he carefully tucked the note 
back in its envelope, he heard a humming 
sound in the insulated silence. He had 
not heard it before. It seemed to come 
from the rear of the second floor, and he 
followed it down the hall. Ahead of him 
was a rosy light spilling from a doorway. 
He approached warily and peeked into the 
room. The humming came from a 
transformer; the ceiling was covered with 
a battery of rose-tinted lights, and a 
timer had just turned them on.

   Under the lights were long tables 
holding trays of plants, greenhouse 
style, but they were beginning to wilt. 
Obviously no one had watered them since 
VanBrook's last day on earth. What were 
they? Qwilleran was no horticulturist, 
but he knew this was not Cannabis sativa. 
There were purple flowers among the 
greenery. He rubbed a leaf and smelled 
his fingers; there was no clue. He broke 
off a sprig and put it in his shirt 
pocket, thinking he would give Koko a 
sniff.

   "Okay, Quill," Fran called from the 
foot of the stairs. "I've done all I can 
do. Let's go."

   As they drove away from the house, 
with the empty cartons loaded in the van, 
she said, "Well, what did you think of 
the place?"

   "Esoteric, to say the least. If the 
estate puts his books up for sale, I'd 
like to know about it. What are the 
plants he was growing upstairs?"

   "I never saw any plants. I was never 
invited upstairs. When I came to measure 
for the screens, he gave me a cup of tea, 
and we sat cross-legged on the floor 
cushions. I sure hope Amanda can collect 
for those screens."

   "Amanda won't let anyone cheat her, 
dead or alive."

   "Can you stand some good news?" she 
asked. "Your tapestries have arrived, and 
we can install them tomorrow - in time 
for the open house!"

   "How do they look?"

   "I haven't opened the packages, and 
the suspense is killing me, but I'll wait 
till we deliver them."

   "Need any help?"

   "No, I'll bring Shawn, my installer-
more brawn than brain - but what he does, 
he does well."

   "How will you hang them?"

   "With carpet tack-strips. Do you mind 
if we make it around five o'clock?"

   Fran always made business calls to 
Qwilleran's residence in the late 
afternoon, obligating, him to offer a 
cocktail, which led to a dinner 
invitation. How did VanBrook get away 
with a cup of tea? . . . Not that 
Qwilleran objected to dining with his 
interior designer. She was good company. 
But Polly disapproved.

   Fran dropped him at Scottie's, where 
he was fitted for a dark blue suit. He 
was to be a pallbearer at Dennis's 
funeral, and it occurred to him - too 
late - that he should have opted for a 
dark blue suit instead of a dinner jacket 
for the steeplechase party. He wondered 
if Scottie would take it back. It irked 
him to buy two of anything if one would 
do. Still, he decided not to suggest it. 
During the fitting, Scottie wanted to 
talk about the suicide, but Qwilleran 
turned him off with frowns and curt 
responses.

   His next ,stop was the Moose County 
Something, and when he walked into Arch 
Riker's office, the publisher jumped to 
his feet. "Qwill! Where've you been? I 
heard it on the air last night and tried 
to reach you. Why didn't you call back? 
Today we're running a 'Died Suddenly,' 
but no one at the police department would 
talk to us. What happened?"

   "I don't know," Qwilleran said. "Does 
this mean the VanBrook case is wrapped 
up?"

   "No, it doesn't. That's definite."

   "What makes you so sure? Are you 
getting vibrations from Koko?" Riker 
asked in an attempt at banter.

   "The police have evidence to that 
effect. That's all I can say, and don't 
ask me how I know. But I'd like to make a 
suggestion, Arch."

   "Let's hear it."

   "I think you should run that editorial 
I suggested: A crime is a crime! Offer a 
reward of $50,000 for information 
regarding the shooting. It'll squelch the 
rumor that Dennis was a suspect, and it 
may help Brodie. The K Fund will cover 
it.”

   “Do we identify the benefactor?”

   "No. Keep it anonymous. How soon can 
you run it?"

   "Friday."

   "Good. I won't be here. I'm going to 
Lockmaster for a steeplechase weekend."

   "You lucky dog! I hear it's a gas!"

   It was too early for Qwilleran to go 
home; Mrs. Fulgrove would still be there, 
furiously mopping and cleaning and 
polishing. He went instead to the library 
- to tell Polly about his plans for the 
weekend. He had neither seen her nor 
talked with her for two days, not since 
the unexplained phone call that made her 
cheeks redden and her eyes sparkle.

   In the vestibule of the library the 
daily quotation was: The evil that men do 
Lives after them; the good is oft 
interred with their bones. The greetings 
from the clerks were appropriately 
solemn. As he headed for the stairs to 
the mezzanine, one of them called out, 
"She's not in, Mr. Q."

   "She's having her hair done," the 
other explained.

   "I'm just going up to read the 
papers," he said.

   On the table in the reading room was a 
copy of the Lockmaster Logger, a 
publication established during lumbering 
days, more than a century before. 
Circulation: 11,500. Editor: Kipling 
MacDiarmid.

   The first page of the Logger was 
devoted to steeplechase news: Five races 
with a combined purse of $75,000, 
preceded by the Trial of Hounds, the 
parade of carriages, and a concert by the 
Lockmaster High School band. A few 
parking spaces overlooking the course 
were still available for $100, but that 
would admit as many persons as could fit 
into the vehicle. There were sidebars 
listing the horses, owners, trainers, and 
riders who would participate in the 
event, and there were instructive 
features on what to wear to the races and 
what to pack in the picnic basket.

   When Qwilleran heard Polly's sensible 
library shoes on the stairs, he put down 
his newspaper, and their eyes met. She 
was looking well-groomed but not as 
girlishly radiant as she had been on the 
day following the long brunch at the 
Palomino Paddock.

   She walked immediately to his table. 
"Qwill, I'm so sorry about Dennis," she 
said softly. "You must be grieving."

   "A lot of people are grieving, Polly."

   "I suppose we can assume that Dennis. 
. . that the VanBrook case is closed 
now," she said, sitting down at the 
table.

   "I don't assume anything, but I know 
that Moose County has lost a good builder 
and a talented actor."

   "To some persons in Pickax the 
principal was such a villain that Dennis 
is now a candidate for a folk hero. . . 
Is that the Lockmaster Logger you're 
reading? What do you think of it?" Her 
face lighted up when she spoke the name 
of the town.

   "It's more conservative than the 
Something in makeup, but it has a 
friendly slant. I hear Lockmaster is a 
friendly town. Did you find it friendly?" 
He gazed at her pointedly as he repeated 
the word.

   Polly's eyes wavered for a fraction of 
a second. "I found everyone very cordial 
and hospitable." Then she added brightly, 
"Would you like to do something exciting 
this weekend? Would you like to go 
birdwatching in the wetlands near Purple 
Point?"

   This was Qwilleran's moment. "I'd like 
to, but I'll be horse watching in 
Lockmaster. That's what I came to tell 
you. The Bushlands have invited me for 
the races. I'll be gone for three days."

   "Oh, really?" she said with half-
concealed disappointment. "You never told 
me you were interested in horses."

   "Chiefly I'm interested in horse 
people. I may find some stuff for the 
'Qwill Pen' column."

   "Shall I feed Koko and Yum Yum while 
you're away?"

   "Their royal highnesses are invited to 
go along - and have their portraits taken 
by a master photographer."

   "How grand!" she said archly. "When do 
you leave?"

   "Friday. After the funeral."

   "Why don't you come over for dinner 
tomorrow night? I could prepare chicken 
divan."

   "I wish I could, but Fran is hanging 
the new tapestries at five o'clock, and I 
don't know how long the operation will 
take or how many problems we'll 
encounter."

   Polly straightened her shoulders and 
drew a deep breath as she always did when 
confronted by her personal demon: 
Jealousy. She stood up. "Then I'll see 
you when you return."

   Qwilleran walked slowly back to the 
apple barn. The events of the morning had 
fired his determination to write a 
biography of the Mystery Man of Moose 
County. It would require prodigious 
research. First he would want to see Lyle 
Compton's file on the late principal. 
Teachers and parents in Pickax and 
Lockmaster would be glad to cooperate. 
VanBrook's attorney would no doubt grant 
an interview, and there would be Fiona 
Stucker, of course, whose connection with 
VanBrook might be a story in itself. The 
colleges that granted the man's degrees 
and the Equity records in New York would 
have to be researched. Qwilleran relished 
the challenge. He had a propensity for 
snooping and a talent for drawing 
information from shy, or reluctant 
subjects.

   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.

   Another woman visitor arrived in the 
afternoon while he was regaling the 
Siamese with the devious exploits of Sir 
Edmund Backhouse. Lulled by his 
mellifluous voice, they were lounging 
dreamily in relaxed postures when a sound 
inaudible to human ears suddenly alerted 
them. Ears perked, heads lifted, necks 
craned, bodies raised on forelegs, 
hindquarters prepared to spring, they 
raced to the front door as if to greet a 
shipment of fresh lobster. Moments later, 
Qwilleran heard what they heard: the 
rumble of a car that had not recently had 
a tune-up.

   It was Lori Bamba's vintage vehicle - 
Lori, his part-time secretary and adviser 
on all matters pertaining to cats. She 
had long golden hair, which she braided 
and tied with ribbons, and these tempting 
appendages held a hypnotic fascination 
for the Siamese, who greeted her with 
enthusiastic prowling and ankle rubbing.

   “A pleasant surprise, Lori," said 
Qwilleran as he admitted her to the barn. 
Her husband usually delivered her 
finished work and picked up the week's 
correspondence.

   “Nick told me what miracles you've 
done with the barn, I had to come and see 
for myself. I'll bet the cats love those 
ramps and balconies."

   “May I show you around? The five-
dollar tour on Saturday limits visitors 
to the main floor; as an intimate of Koko 
and Yum Yum you're entitled to go up on 
the catwalks and visit their loft."

   "First let me give you your 
correspondence. There are forty-seven 
letters for you to sign. On the less 
personal ones, I forged your signature. 
The crank letters were chucked into the 
wastebasket."

   Qwilleran and Lori walked up the 
ramps, followed by e Siamese with erect 
tails, then down again. As soon as she 
sat down, both cats piled into her lap.

   Qwilleran said, "I wish I could get 
Yum Yum to walk on a leash. With Koko 
it's no problem; he walks me on a leash."

   "Just let her wear her harness around 
the house until she gets used to the feel 
of it," she suggested. "And do you 
realize, Qwill, that you have a perfect 
setup here for blowing bubbles?"

   "Bubbles?" he asked dubiously.

   "Soap bubbles. Stand on the balcony 
and let them float own to the cats below. 
They'll have a wonderful time - jumping 
and trying to catch them."

   "Hmmm," he said, stroking his 
moustache. He could imagine the town 
gossips peeking in the window and 
carrying the news back to the coffee 
shops: "Mr. Q has started blowing 
bubbles!"

   "The best thing for blowing bubbles," 
Lori advised, "is the old-fashioned clay 
pipe. They have them at the hardware 
store in Wildcat."

   At that moment Koko leaped from her 
lap and bounded to the window, and they 
all heard the clear-toned who-it? who-it? 
who-it?

   "That's a cardinal," Lori said. "He's 
Koko's buddy."

   "They're a couple of aristocrats," she 
said.

   "Yes, they act like two potentates at 
a summit meeting. The orchard is full of 
other species, but somehow Koko is 
attracted to the cardinal. I don't know 
whether he appreciates the bird's regal 
demeanor or just likes red."

   "I've read conflicting opinions about 
a cat's ability to see color. I'm 
inclined to believe they feel color. They 
get different sensations from different 
hues."

   "I'll buy that," he said. "Koko is 
equipped with a lot more senses than the 
basic five. He's an especially gifted 
animal."

   Lori said, "Let me tell you something 
interesting. I have an elderly aunt who 
lost her sight totally a few years ago, 
but she still recognizes red. She claims 
she can feel it! And she likes to wear 
red. She says it restores her energy."

   "I'd like to meet her. It would make 
an interesting topic for my column. . . 
Would you like a glass of cider, Lori?"

   "No, thanks, Qwill. Just give me the 
week's mail. I've got to dash. I've got a 
baby-sitter."

   Later, he was signing the forty-seven 
letters when a black van with gold 
lettering on the panels pulled into the 
barnyard, and a young blond giant leaped 
out. He opened the rear doors and hoisted 
to his shoulders - with apparent ease - a 
large paper-wrapped cylinder, eight feet 
in length and about a yard in diameter. 
Fran Brodie was with him, and she 
directed him to the back door.

   This is Shawn, our world-class 
installer," she said to Qwilleran.

   “Hi!" said the giant with an amiable 
smile. 

   She guided him through the kitchen to 
the great hall, four stories high, and 
told him to put the tapestry on the floor 
at the foot of the ramp. Going down on 
one knee, like Atlas with the world on 
his shoulders, Shawn dropped the cylinder 
on the floor with a thud. Then he stood 
up and gazed at the balconies, the 
triangular windows, and fireplace cube 
with its three stacks.

   “How much did this job cost?" he said 
in awe. "It's sure ferent! . . . Is this 
where the guy hung himself?"

   "Shawn!" Fran said sharply. "Bring in 
the toolbox, the tack-strips, and the 
rope." To Qwilleran she said, "I want 
unroll the tapestries down here for 
inspection. This is the moment of truth!"

   The wrapping was carefully removed, 
and the eight-by-ten-foot wall hanging 
was spread out on the floor.

   "Beautiful!" said Qwilleran.

   "Gorgeous!" Fran said.

   Shawn shook his head and said, 
"Crazy!"

   The design was a stylized tree dotted 
with a dozen bright red apples the size 
of basketballs. Tufting gave them 
dimension.

   "They look real enough for plucking," 
Qwilleran observed.

   "Don't you think," Fran remarked, 
"that the artist actually captured their 
juiciness?"

   "You guys must be nuts," said the 
installer. "All I know - it weighs a 
ton."

   The Siamese, watching from the top of 
the fireplace had, had no comment.

   "Now, this tapestry," the designer 
explained, "will hang from the railing of 
the highest catwalk, Qwill, making an 
exciting focal point that draws the eye 
upward into that delicious galaxy of 
radiating beams and triangular windows. 
Also, it will add warmth and color to an 
interior with lots of wood and lots of 
open space. Don't you agree?"

   "Yow!" said Koko.

   "Okay, Shawn," she said, "roll it up 
again and carry it to the top level."

   "No elevator?"

   "You don't need an elevator." The 
tack-strips were installed on the top 
surface of the catwalk railing; the top 
edge of the tapestry was pressed down 
securely on the tacks; and then it was 
slowly unrolled as the ropes were played 
out.

   "Hope it doesn't drop and kill a cat," 
said the installer with a grin.

   "If it does," Qwilleran said, "I'll be 
after you with a shotgun."

   "The other tapestry will be easy," 
Fran assured Shawn. "We'll hang it on the 
blank wall of the fireplace cube, facing 
the foyer, and it's a little smaller."

   "Why'n't ya put the heavy one down 
here?" he asked. Again the wrappings were 
removed, and the tapestry was unrolled on 
the floor - a galaxy of birds and green 
foliage.

   "Yow!" came a comment from the 
fireplace cube, and Koko jumped to the 
floor. Birds native to Moose County were 
flitting among weeds, grazing on the 
ground, sipping nectar from flowers, 
warbling from tree branches, and swaying 
on tall grasses. He walked purposefully 
across the tapestry and sniffed the red 
bird with black face patch and red crest.

   "Amazing!" Qwilleran said.

   The bird extravaganza was hung and 
admired, and then Fran glanced at her 
watch. "I can't hang around," she said. 
"This is my mother's birthday, and Dad 
and I are taking her out to dinner. When 
are you leaving for Lockmaster, Qwill?"

   "After the funeral."

   "Have a good time at the races. Don't 
lose all your money."

   Qwilleran was glad to avoid 
socializing. He wanted to stay home and 
plan his trip and learn how to pack his 
new luggage. It was the last word in 
nylon with leather bindings and straps 
and more pockets and compartments than he 
needed. It replaced his two old suitcases 
lost in a disaster Down Below. Imitation 
leather, scuffed and battered, they had 
traveled with him from city to city 
during his lean years. Polly said they 
were a disgrace. He said they were easy 
to pack. "Just throw everything in."

   After dinner, when he opened his new 
luggage on the bed to consider its 
complexities, Koko moved into the two-
suiter and Yum Yum took possession of the 
carry-on. He left them sleeping there and 
settled down with the Thursday edition of 
the Lockmaster Logger.

   The race course, he learned, was a 
little over two miles - in a natural 
setting surrounded by gentle hills from 
which viewing was convenient. For first-
time race goers there were instructions 
for reading the race chart: the name of 
the horse and the weight he was carrying; 
the names of owner, trainer, and rider; 
the color of the racing silks; the 
horse's color, sex, and age; the names of 
sire and dam. Such details were more than 
Qwilleran cared to know.

   There was only one entry that aroused 
his interest: Robin Stucker would be 
riding in a race that permitted amateurs. 
He asked himself: Wasn't Stucker the name 
of the woman who played Queen Katharine? 
Didn't her note to VanBrook mention that 
she had to buy boots for Robbie? The 
horse, according to the chart, was owned 
by W. Chase Amberton. The trainer was S. 
W. O'Hare. The name of the horse - and 
this was what caused Qwilleran to smooth 
his moustache in speculation - was Son of 
Cardinal.

-8-
   The funeral on Friday morning was a 
doubly somber affair attended by a few 
members of the Theatre Club - doubly 
somber because many of the mourners 
thought they were saying farewell to a 
murderer as well as a suicide. No one 
mentioned it, but glances were exchanged 
as the pastor of Larry Lanspeak's church 
spoke his ambiguous platitudes. Only the 
Lanspeaks and Fran Brodie believed 
stubbornly that the rumor was false. Only 
Qwilleran, Hixie Rice, and Chief Brodie 
knew the truth. Brodie was there - not in 
uniform but in kilt and tam-o'-shanter-
playing a dirge on the bagpipe at 
Qwilleran's suggestion.

   "It will allay suspicions without 
formally denying them," he told the 
chief.

   Hixie drew Qwilleran aside and said in 
a low but emotional voice, "It's 
frustrating, isn't it? Why don't the 
police come up with a suspect? Why don't 
you do something about it, Qwill?"

   He said, "It happened only a week ago, 
Hixie. The police have information not 
available to me. What's more, they have 
computers."

   "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."

   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?"

   "I don't know," she said. "My mother 
always did it that way, so I do it that 
way. How's everything upstairs?"

   "Everything's fine. The room looks 
very comfortable. You have quite a 
collection of antiques."

   "It's all been handed down in the 
family, with each generation adding its 
own touch, for better or worse. My great-
great-grandfather Inglehart built the 
house. Grandmother Inglehart lives on the 
third Boor. We call her Grummy. Are you 
going to drive around town?"

   "I prefer to walk. Which way shall I 
go?"

   "Well, you might go down the hill to 
the courthouse and turn right on Fourth 
Street. That's where all the stores are. 
It ends at the river. Originally both 
banks of the river were crammed with 
sawmills and shipyards. Now there's 
Inglehart Park on one side and condos on 
the other."

   "Do you have a bookstore?"

   "Two doors beyond the city hall. It's 
a cast-iron storefront where Bushy's 
grandfather used to have his watch-the-
birdie photo studio before World War I."

   Qwilleran enjoyed walking and 
sightseeing, and as he strode down the 
hill he was amazed at the huge houses, 
masterpieces of architectural 
gingerbread, their details accentuated 
with two or even three colors of paint. 
They looked festive compared to the 
stolid stone mansions of Pickax! He found 
the store with the cast-iron front and 
bought a book on horsemanship. In the 
basement there were used books, but City 
of Brotherly Crime was not among them. At 
an antique shop he found a collection of 
printshop mementos and bought a small 
engraving of a whale.

   Many of the stores capitalized on the 
horseyness of Lockmaster. Equus was a 
men's store. The Tacky Tack Shop 
displayed gaudy sweatshirts, T-shirts, 
and posters with a steeplechase theme. In 
the Foxtrottery everything from paper 
napkins to fireplace andirons had a horse 
or fox motif, but nothing appealed to 
Qwilleran. And then he spotted the public 
library!

   It was obviously built from the same 
set of Greek temple blueprints that 
produced the Pickax library - with the 
same classical columns, the same seven 
steps, the same pair of ornamental 
lampposts. He entered, expecting a 
Shakespeare quotation on a chalkboard in 
the vestibule, but there was only a 
bulletin board announcing new video 
releases. He asked for the chief 
librarian whom he knew only as Polly's 
friend, Shirley.

   "Mrs. Corcoran is in her office on the 
mezzanine," said the clerk.

   The stairway was the same design as in 
Pickax; the glass-enclosed office 
occupied the same location; and the woman 
sitting behind the desk could have been 
Polly's sister. She had the graying hair, 
pleasant face, conservative suit, and 
size sixteen figure.

   He introduced himself. "Mrs. Corcoran, 
I'm Bootsie's godfather."

   "Oh, you must be Jim Qwilleran," she 
cried. "Polly has talked about you so 
much. Do sit down. How is Bootsie?"

   Qwilleran pulled up a chair, 
characteristically of varnished oak and 
hard-seated.

   "He's a handsome cat with an 
insatiable appetite. In another few 
years, I estimate, he'll be the size of a 
small pony."

   "His mother and siblings are the same 
way, and yet they never put on weight. I 
wish I knew their secret. Are you down 
for the 'chase?"

   "Yes, it's my first venture. I'm 
staying with the Bushlands."

   "That should be pleasant. Bushy was 
the official photographer at my son's 
wedding. You should have come down with 
Polly. Everyone had a wonderful time. 
I've just received the album of wedding 
pictures. Would you like to see them?"

   "Yes, I would," he said with 
convincing sincerity, although wedding 
pictures were second only to weddings on 
his list of things to avoid.

   Mrs. Corcoran opened the album to a 
portrait of the happy couple at the 
altar, after the vows. "These are the 
kids, Donald and Heidi. Doesn't he look 
handsome? He's just out of law school and 
he has a position with Summers, Bent & 
Frickle. Heidi is a lovely girl, a 
dietician. Her father is a stockbroker 
and her mother is a psychiatrist. They go 
to our church. . . . And here they are 
with both sets of proud parents. . . And 
here are the attendants. The maid of 
honor caught the bouquet. . ."

   Qwilleran murmured appropriate remarks 
as he politely viewed the candid shots of 
wedding guests: "Here's someone I know," 
he said, pointing to a man with ashen 
hair. "He's a reporter at the Moose 
County Something."

   "Yes. Dave Landrum. One of Donald's 
golfing friends," she said.

   And then Qwilleran caught a glimpse of 
Polly. She was wearing an electric blue 
dress he had never seen before, and she 
was dancing with a man who wore a red 
beard. She was looking entirely too 
happy. She had probably been imbibing 
champagne instead of her usual thimbleful 
of sherry. As the pages of the album 
turned, he watched with more interest. 
There she was again! This time she was 
sitting at a table with the same bearded 
man and having an animated conversation. 
He was wearing a green plaid sports coat 
that seemed inappropriate at a wedding 
reception.

   "Who is the fellow with the beard?" 
Qwilleran asked casually, adding 
untruthfully, "He looks familiar."

   "Oh, he's one of Donald's horsey 
friends," the librarian said. "I can't 
remember them all. Perhaps you noticed 
the beautiful horse farms on your way 
down here."

   "Did the wedding festivities continue 
at the Palomino Paddock Sunday noon?" 
Qwilleran asked innocently.

   "Heavens, no! We were all exhausted. 
The kids left on their honeymoon at nine 
o'clock, and the rest of us carried on 
like blithering fools until the bar 
closed. I'm glad I have no more offspring 
to marry off!"

   Qwilleran said, "As a quiet change of 
pace perhaps you and Mr. Corcoran would 
drive up to Pickax and have dinner with 
Polly and me - some weekend when the 
autumn color is at its height."

   "We'd be delighted! Polly has told us 
about your apple barn, and I'd love to 
see how my little Bootsie has grown. Do 
you think he'll remember me?"

   Qwilleran walked back up the hill 
without noticing the architectural 
splendors of Main Street. He was thinking 
about the man with the red beard and 
plaid coat. Had he also taken Polly to 
Sunday brunch at the Paddock? Was he the 
mysterious Monday morning caller who 
phoned her office and gave her a guilty 
thrill? It was not that Qwilleran felt 
any jealousy; he was merely curious. 
Polly had conservative tastes, and here 
was the type she would keep at arm's 
length: bearded, flashily dressed, and. . 
. horsey!

   Arriving at the Bushland house he met 
the photographer coming out of his 
darkroom.

   "What d'you think of our town?" Bushy 
asked.

   "Looks like a thriving community." 
"It's extra busy today - everybody 
getting ready for the 'chase."

   "How much time do I have to clean up? 
I stopped at Cuttlebrink's on the way 
down, and I feel as if the dust of ages 
has settled on my person."

   "I know what you mean. No hurry. 
People aren't coming till six, and you 
don't have to dress up. We've asked Kip 
and Moira MacDiarmid - he's editor of the 
Logger - and Vicki invited Fiona Stucker, 
the one who went up to Pickax to act in 
your play."

   Qwilleran's moustache bristled with 
interest. "She did an excellent job," he 
said, "and I'll look forward to telling 
her so."

   As he walked up the wide staircase to 
the second floor, he wondered what 
surprises the Siamese had devised for 
him. He was sure of one thing: They would 
have found their blue cushion on the 
chaise and would be taking their ease 
like visiting royalty.

   That proved to be not quite true. They 
had come out of hiding, and their 
attitude was regal and aloof, but they 
were lounging in the middle of the canopy 
bed. It was remarkable how they always 
took possession of the best chair, the 
softest cushion, the warmest lap, and the 
exact center of a bed. Lori Bamba had 
told him that a person or object has an 
aura or field of energy, some more and 
some less. A cat, detecting the 
difference, moves in to take advantage of 
the vibrations. Lori had an explanation 
for everything.

   As Qwilleran walked to the closet, 
stripping off his sweater, he stepped on 
something small and hard. Not completely 
hard. In fact, slightly squashy. He 
hesitated to look down, fearing what 
might be under his foot - a reaction 
based on past experience. Much to his 
relief it roved to be a jelly bean - a 
red one. There were fang larks in it. He 
should have known better than to leave 
the candy dish uncovered. Koko liked to 
sink his fangs in anything gummy or 
chewy. Checking the candy dish Qwilleran 
found that all the red jelly beans had 
been eliminated, and he found them 
scattered about the floor, camouflaged by 
the red Orientals. Something was at work 
in Koko's mind, although his intention 
was not clear. The Siamese watched from 
the bed as the man crawled about the room 
on his hands and knees. They watched the 
performance as if it were a freak show.

   "You're the freaks in this family!" he 
scolded them. " “I should have left you 
at home."

   After hiding the candy in the top 
drawer of the highboy, e showered and 
dressed and spent some time with his few 
book on horsemanship. Always thirsty for 
knowledge n any subject, he learned for 
the first time in his life the location 
of a horse's withers. He discovered that 
a horse as no collarbone, and a "stud" is 
an establishment where horses are bred. 
He looked at pictures of the Arabian, the 
Morgan, the Andalusian, the Pinto, and 
his favorite, the Clydesdale. Finally, at 
six o'clock he opened a can of crabmeat 
for the Siamese and walked downstairs to 
the foyer that was ablaze with jewel-
toned sunlight pouring trough stained-
glass windows.

   The front parlor with its marble 
fireplace and sumptuous Victorian 
furnishings was stiffly formal. Bushy 
used it as a studio for posing brides and 
family groups in quaint settings. Now the 
photographer was in the back parlor 
preparing to mix drinks, and Vicki was in 
the adjoining dining room, putting 
finishing touches on the table.

   "I'd like to ask one question," 
Qwilleran asked. "Why did the founding 
fathers build such large houses?"

   "For one thing," Bushy said, "lumber 
was plentiful and labor was cheap."

   "And they had lots of kids," Vicki 
added. "Usually there was at least one 
unmarried sister or widowed aunt or 
destitute cousin living with them. Also, 
when guests came for a visit, they stayed 
at least a month, because it took a week 
to get here by stagecoach and sailing 
ship. There were plenty of servants in 
those days."

   "How are the cats doing?" Bushy asked.

   "They've commandeered the bed, and I 
may have to spend the night on the window 
seat."

   Vicki said, "Grummy is looking forward 
so much to meeting you, Qwill. She's a 
sweet old lady, just turned eighty-eight. 
When my parents retired to Arizona for 
Dad's health, Grummy deeded this house to 
Bushy and me, with no strings attached."

   "How do you take care of such a big 
place?"

   "I have part-time help. Once upon a 
time they had a housekeeper, cook, two 
maids, houseman, gardener, and a driver 
to take care of the horses and drive the 
family to church in the carriage."

   "They didn't have any riding mowers or 
leaf-vacuums in those days," Bushy put 
in.

   "And no microwaves or food 
processors," Vicki added. "Would you like 
to bring the cats down now, Qwill?"

   "I think they should make their formal 
debut tomorrow morning," he said, "when 
there are no strangers around. You 
remember their behavior the last time we 
were here. I don't want to be embarrassed 
again."

   "Whatever you think best. By the way, 
Grummy won't join us for cocktails. 
She'll come down for dinner at seven and 
won't stay long. She tires easily. We 
installed an elevator for her - velvet 
walls and a needlepoint bench - tiny, but 
she loves it."

   Bushy interrupted. "Vicki, did I tell 
you that Fiona called?"

   "No. What's happened this time?" she 
said with exasperation.

   "She and Steve will be a little late. 
He got tied up at the track."

   "Well, I'm serving exactly at seven, 
regardless. We can't keep Grummy waiting. 
It seems to me that Steve is always 
getting tied up. He's probably sleeping 
one off."

   "Give him a break!" her husband said. 
"All kinds of emergencies come up before 
a race."

   At that point the doorbell rang, and 
the editor and his wife arrived. They 
were introduced as Kip and Moira 
MacDiarmid.

   "Spelled M-a-c-capital D-i-a-r-m-i-d," 
said Moira.

   "I know how to spell a good Scottish 
name like that. My mother was a 
Mackintosh. The question is: Do you know 
how to spell Qwilleran?"

   "With a QW!" they said in unison.

   "We always read you in the Something," 
the editor explained. "Don't tell your 
publisher I said so, but your column's 
the best thing in the whole paper! I wish 
you were writing for us."

   "Make me an offer," Qwilleran said 
genially.

   "I'm sure we couldn't afford you."

   "Aren't you the collector of old 
typefaces? I picked up a few items at the 
Goodwinter sale this spring."

   "So did I. Do you go in for book type 
or jobbing faces?"

   "Mostly I'm interested in small 
mounted cuts of animals that will fit 
into a typecase, but I have a modest 
assortment of fat-face caps, like Ultra 
Bodoni. What's your specialty?"

   "Book faces. I just acquired some 1923 
Erasmus, the most beautiful typeface ever 
designed. I'd like to show you my 
collection some day."

   "Be happy to see it." Moira said to 
Qwilleran, "Bushy tells us you've 
converted a barn."

   "Yes, an octagonal apple barn, more 
than a hundred years old. The orchard is 
defunct, but the barn is in good shape."

   "We ran a couple of pieces on the 
Orchard Incident," said Kip. "What's 
happening to the investigation? We have a 
morbid interest in the victim, you know. 
All the time VanBrook was principal here 
he was a thorn in everyone's side."

   "That's a delicate way of putting it," 
said Moira with a smirk.

   Kip explained, "My wife was president 
of the PTA during his reign of terror. 
Actually, though, he did great things for 
the school system. He was some kind of 
genius, but an odd duck."

   Qwilleran agreed. "I'd like to write a 
biography of that guy, if I could unearth 
some of his secrets. The Mystery Man of 
Moose County, I'd call it."

   "If you do, come down here and we'll 
tell you sometales that will make your 
blood boil."

   At that moment the doorbell rang, and 
the couple who entered gave Qwilleran a 
mild shock. First to walk into the foyer 
was Fiona Stucker, who had played the 
role of Queen Katharine with such regal 
poise and forceful emotion. She was 
small; she was mousy; she extended a limp 
hand and smiled shyly. She had large 
eyes, but they were filled with anxiety. 
He remembered her eyes; with stage makeup 
they had been her most compelling 
feature.

   Behind her was a man introduced as 
Steve O'Hare. Qwilleran took one look at 
him and thought, It's Redbeard! And he's 
still wearing the green plaid coat! So 
this was the "horsey friend" who had 
attached himself to Polly at the wedding 
festivities!

   "Glad to meetcha," said the man with a 
hearty hand-grip.

   It was too hearty, Qwilleran thought. 
He disliked him on sight. Nevertheless he 
said politely, "I hear you're involved in 
the 'chase tomorrow. What's your 
responsibility.

   "I'm just a stable bum," Redbeard 
replied with a grin.

   "On the contrary," Bushy said, 
"Steve's a very good trainer."

   Fiona piped up in her small voice, "He 
trained the horse Robbie's riding 
tomorrow. Robbie's my son."

   "I understand he's riding Son of 
Cardinal," Qwilleran said, glad that he'd 
done his homework. "Does he have a chance 
to win?"

   "Absolutely!" said the trainer, and he 
turned away to sneeze.

   Someone said, "If you sneeze on it, 
it's true."

   Turning to Fiona Qwilleran said, "Let 
me compliment you, Ms. Stucker, on your 
dynamic performance in Henry VIII."

   "Ummm. . . thank you," she said, 
somewhat flustered. "I guess you saw the 
play."

   "I saw it twice, and I was greatly 
impressed by your voice quality and the 
depth of your emotion, especially in your 
scene with Cardinal Wolsey. . . Did you 
see the play, Steve?"

   "Naw, I'm not much for that kind of 
entertainment."

   "Did your son see it?" Qwilleran asked 
Fiona.

   "Ummm . . . No, he was working. He . . 
. uh . . . works with Steve. At the 
stables, you know. Amberton Farm.

   "We have twenty horses," the trainer 
said. "We're up at five in the morning-
feeding, watering, grooming, mucking, and 
exercising the nags. And that's seven 
days a week! Plus training sessions. No 
end to it! But I wouldn't want to do 
anything else." He sneezed again, and 
Fiona handed him a tissue.

   Bushy announced, "Last call for a 
quickie from the bar. We're calling 
Grummy in a few minutes."

   "Shall I go up and get her?" Moira 
volunteered.

   "Better not. She likes to feel 
independent, and she likes to make a 
grand entrance."

   "She descends in her electronic 
chariot like a goddess from Olympus," 
said the editor.

   "That's right!" said Vicki as she 
moved toward the intercom. "Some old 
folks resent new technology, but not 
Grummy! . . . Fiona, would you help me a 
bit in the kitchen?" She spoke to the box 
on the wall. "Grummy, dear, dinner is 
served."

   The party swallowed their drinks 
quickly and sauntered to the far end of 
the foyer where the elevator was located. 
A light on the touch plate indicated that 
the car was in operation. It descended 
slowly. The door opened sedately. 
Qwilleran found himself holding his 
breath in anticipation.

-9-
   Qwilleran stood in the foyer of the 
grand old Inglehart house and waited - 
along with the other guests - for the 
elevator door to open. Never having known 
his own grandparents, he felt drawn to 
anyone over seventy-five years of age, 
and in this northern region, where many 
lived to be a hundred, he had met many 
memorable oldsters.

   The elevator door opened sedately, and 
a distinguished-looking, white-haired 
woman in a floor-length hostess gown of 
wine red velvet stepped from the car, 
leaning on two ivory-headed canes yellow 
with age. She moved slowly, but her 
posture was erect. Seeing the waiting 
audience, she inclined her head 
graciously toward each one until she 
caught sight of Qwilleran in the 
background.

   "And this is Mr. Qwilleran!" she 
exclaimed in a cultivated voice that had 
become tremulous with the years. She had 
a handsome face for a woman nearing 
ninety, like fine-lined porcelain, with 
kind, blue eyes and thin lips accustomed 
to smiling. No eyeglasses, Qwilleran 
noted. He guessed that Grummy would have 
the latest in contact lenses.

   As he stepped forward she tucked one 
cane under the other arm in order to 
extend a hand. "My pleasure, Mrs. 
Inglehart," he murmured, bowing gallantly 
over her trembling hand. It was a courtly 
gesture he reserved for women of a 
certain age.

   "I'm thrilled to meet you at last," 
she said. "I used to read your column 
when you were writing for newspapers Down 
Below. But now you are living among us! 
How fortunate we are! I not only admire 
your writing talent Mr. Qwilleran, and 
what you have to say, but. . ." she added 
with a coy smile, "I adore your 
moustache!"

   Fleetingly he wondered if the 
Inglehart library might contain a copy of 
City of Brotherly Crime.

   "Shall we go into dinner, Grummy?" 
asked Bushy, offering his arm. The others 
followed them into the dining room and 
waited until the elderly woman was seated 
on her granddaughter's left. Qwilleran 
was motioned to sit opposite, next to 
Moira, and the party waited for Grummy to 
raise her soup spoon.

   Glancing brightly around the table she 
said, "For what we are about to receive, 
we give thanks."

   Redbeard, sitting at the other end of 
the table, next to the host, sneezed 
loudly.

   Fiona said apologetically, "He's 
allergic."

   "To everything," said the man who was 
blowing his nose. "Including horses."

   "Is that true?" Kip asked.

   "Absolutely."

   "You should give up horses and go in 
for newspapering. You're doing a good job 
with Stablechat."

   "Nothing to it," said Steve. "I've got 
a bunch of kids digging up the stuff, and 
Mrs. Amberton puts it together."

   "What's your circulation now?"

   "Almost a thousand."

   "Another ten thousand," said the 
editor of the Logger, "and we'll start to 
worry."

   Grummy leaned toward Qwilleran. 
"Victoria tells me you've brought your 
cats. I do hope they don't kill birds."

   "Have no fear," he replied. "They're 
indoor cats, and their interest in birds 
is purely academic. Koko has a friend 
who's a cardinal, and they stare at each 
other through the window glass and 
communicate telepathically."

   Steve said, "Take the glass away and 
it'd be a different story. Cats are 
cats."

   Vicki said quickly, "Grummy has a 
feeding station outside her window in the 
tower, and she records the migration of 
different species in a notebook. . . 
Don't forget your soup, Grummy dear." 
With her spoon poised above the soup 
plate Mrs. Inglehart was gazing at 
Qwilleran like a starstruck young girl.

   Moira said, "One year I decided to 
feed the birds, but all I attracted were 
starlings. They came from three counties 
to my backyard - millions of noisy, messy 
invaders. That was the end of birding for 
me!"

   "My problem," Qwilleran said, "is 
blackbirds. When I bike on country roads, 
they rise up out of the ditch in a great 
cloud and dive-bomb me and my bike, 
screaming chuck chuck chuck."

   "That's in nesting season," said 
Grummy. "They're protecting their young."

   "Whatever their motive, they're very 
unfriendly, and when I talk back to them, 
they're really burned up."

   "What do you say to an unfriendly 
blackbird?" Moira asked.

   "Chuck chuck chuck. But the biggest 
mystery is the behavior of seagulls when 
a farmer plows a field. Within five 
minutes after he starts, a hundred 
seagulls flock in from the lake, thirty 
miles away, and circle the field like 
vultures."

   Kip said, "Seagulls have an 
intelligence network that puts the CIA to 
shame."

   Vicki removed the soup plates, and 
Fiona helped serve the main course: pasta 
shells (easy for Grummy to fork with her 
trembling hand) with a sauce of finely 
chopped vegetables in meat juices, plus 
meatballs for the guests.

   As the Parmesan cheese was being 
passed, Grummy returned to her favorite 
subject. "When I came to live in this 
house as a bride, I instructed the 
gardener to plant everything that would 
attract birds, and I've kept a birdbook 
for seventy years. Teddy Roosevelt had a 
birdbook, and he recorded the birds he 
saw on the White House lawn."

   Occasionally there would be a sneeze 
from Redbeard; Bushy would ask if anyone 
wanted more wine; Fiona would cast 
surreptitious stares in Qwilleran's 
direction; Kip would mention the 
forthcoming millage vote. But always 
Grummy would bring the conversation back 
to birds.

   The editor said, "One of the fillers 
that we ran recently stated that a 
hummingbird has a pulse rate of 615 beats 
a minute. I hope it wasn't a typo."

   "Not at all," said the old lady. "The 
hummingbird is one of nature's small 
miracles."

   Qwilleran confessed, "I can't tell one 
bird from another. They don't stand still 
long enough for me to look in the field 
guide."

   "When I had my bird garden," Grummy 
said, "I could entice wild birds to eat 
out of my hand, and once I raised a 
family of baby robins after their mother 
was killed by a boy with a gun."

   Steve sneezed again. "Grummy dear," 
said Vicki quietly and gently, "don't 
forget to eat your pasta."

   Mrs. Inglehart was having a wonderful 
time, but when the salad was served she 
seemed tired and asked to be excused. 
Bushy escorted her to the eievator.

   After the apple pie and coffee, Steve 
said he had to get back to the farm and 
be up at five in the morning, and Fiona 
said she had to go home and make sure 
Robbie went to bed early on the eve of 
his first race. As she left she said to 
Qwilleran in her small voice, "I . . . uh 
. . .wanted to talk to you. . . about Mr. 
VanBrook, you know, but  didn't. . . uh . 
I. . get a chance."

   "Did you know him well?"

   She nodded. "Maybe. . . tomorrow? 
Vicki invited me to the 'chase."

   "We'll have a talk then," Qwilleran 
promised. "It's been a pleasure meeting 
you."

   She left, giving him a backward 
glance. He was watching her go. Despite 
her self-effacing manner, there was 
something fascinating about the woman - 
her large and sorrowful eyes, perfect 
eyes for Queen Katharine.

   Then the MacDiarmids said good night 
because they had hired a baby-sitter who 
wanted to be home by ten o'clock. "See 
you at the 'chase," they said, explaining 
to Qwilleran, "Our parking slot is next 
to Bushy's, so we do a little friendly 
betting."

   The host and hostess kicked off their 
shoes and poured another drink. Qwilleran 
accepted his third cup of coffee. 
"Pleasant evening," he said. "Grummy is a 
treasure, and I liked Kip and Moira. 
Fiona came as a surprise; she was so 
different on stage. This fellow Steve. . 
. what's their relationship?"

   The Bushlands exchanged glances, and 
Vicki spoke first. "Well, he's Robin's 
mentor in horsemanship, and Fiona's very 
ambitious for her son to succeed at 
something. He dropped out of high school, 
and his only interest is horses."

   "He's not alone, I understand. What's 
our schedule tomorrow morning?"

   "After breakfast," Vicki said, "you'll 
have time to take the cats up to visit 
Grummy. She'll be thrilled."

   Her husband said, "We'll leave about 
eleven and pick up Fiona, and that will 
give us time to fight the traffic and get 
in place for a tailgate picnic before 
post time, which is two o'clock."

   "Kip mentioned betting. How does that 
work?"

   "It's more fun if you have a few bucks 
on a horse, so we usually have a five-
dollar pool going with the MacDiarmid 
crowd."

   "Breakfast at eight-thirty," Vicki 
said. "What do you like?"

   "Coffee and whatever. And now I think 
I'll amble upstairs and see if the cats 
have adjusted."

   "Would they like a meatball? We have 
some left over."

   Qwilleran followed her into the 
kitchen. "How long have you known Fiona?" 
he asked.

   "Ever since junior high. My family 
used to include her in our picnics and 
vacation trips because she had no decent 
homelife of her own. It was the old 
story: absent father, alcoholic mother. I 
liked her. She was so eager and 
appreciative, and she had those heart-
breaking eyes!"

   "That's what I remember most about her 
portrayal of Katharine. What kind of life 
has she had since school-days?"

   "Rough," Vicki said. "Her only dream 
was to have a home and family of her own, 
so she married right after high school. 
It was so ironic! Her husband deserted 
her right after Robin was born."

   "How has she managed financially?"

   "She does housekeeping. She helps me 
two days a week. With some kind of 
training she could do better, but she 
lacks confidence. If everything works 
out, I'd like to start a catering service 
with Fiona as assistant. We'd specialize 
in hunt breakfasts. They're all the rage 
in Lockmaster."

   "What was her connection with 
VanBrook?"

   Vicki shrugged mysteriously. "Better 
ask Fiona about that."

   Qwilleran said good night to the 
Bushlands and started for the second 
floor. Halfway up the stairs he could 
hear exultant cries coming from the best 
guestroom. The Siamese knew he was 
approaching and bearing meatballs. They 
met him at the door, Koko prancing and 
Yum Yum snaking between his ankles. 
Putting the plate on the bathroom floor, 
he then gave the bedroom a quick 
inspection for evidence of mischief. 
Everything was in order except for 
shredded paper in the circular window 
bay, but it was only the copy of 
Stablechat; they frequently reacted to 
fresh ink.

   After their treat, the two satisfied 
animals found their blue cushion on the 
chaise, where they washed up and settled 
down. Qwilleran read for a while before 
sinking into his own bed and reviewing 
his day. He had buried Dennis Hough, 
bought bubble pipes for the cats, 
discovered Polly's strange Lockmaster 
connection, and met a charming 
octagenarian. And tomorrow he might learn 
something about VanBrook from a woman who 
wanted to talk about him. He turned off 
the bedlamp, and in a few moments two 
warm bodies came stealing into the bed, 
nosing under the blanket, Yum Yum on his 
left and Koko on his right, snuggling 
closer and closer until he felt confined 
in a strait jacket.

   "This is ridiculous!" he said aloud. 
jumping out of bed he transferred their 
blue cushion to the bathroom floor, 
placed them on it with a firm hand, and 
closed the door. Immediately the yowling 
and shrieking began, until he feared they 
would disturb Grummy on the third Boor 
and the Bushlands in the master bedroom 
below.

   He opened the bathroom door, hopped 
back into bed and waited anxiously in the 
dark. For a while nothing happened. Then 
the first body landed lightly on the bed, 
followed by a second. He turned his back, 
and they snuggled down behind him. There 
they stayed for the night, peacefully 
sleeping, gradually pressing closer as he 
inched away. By morning he was clinging 
to the edge of the mattress, and the 
Siamese were sprawled crosswise over the 
whole bed.

   "How did you guys sleep?" Bushy asked 
the next morning when the aroma of bacon 
lured the three of them to the kitchen.

   "Fine," Qwilleran said. "Good bed! 
They didn't let me have much of it, but 
what I had was comfortable."

   "How do you like your eggs?" Vicki 
asked.

   "Over easy." He looked around the 
kitchen. "Do I smell coffee?"

   "Help yourself, Qwill."

   Nursing a cup of it he trailed after 
the Siamese as they explored the house, 
reveling in patches of tinted sunlight 
thrown on the carpet by the stained-glass 
windows. He himself checked the library, 
but there was no sign of City of 
Brotherly Crime.

   By the time breakfast was ready, the 
two cats were chasing each other 
gleefully up and down the broad 
staircase. "They're making themselves 
right at home," he said to the 
photographer. "You shouldn't have any 
trouble getting pictures tomorrow."

   "I have: a couple of poses in mind," 
Bushy said, "but mostly I'll let them 
find their own way. When I took Grummy's 
tray upstairs this morning, she said to 
remind you she's expecting them after 
breakfast."

   When the time came for the visit, 
Vicki called upstairs on the intercom, 
and Qwilleran collected the Siamese, 
climbing the stairs to the third floor 
with one under each arm. Grummy greeted 
them graciously, wearing a long flowered 
housecoat and leaning on her two elegant 
canes.

   "Welcome to my eyrie," she said in a 
shaky voice. "And these are the two 
aristocrats I've heard about!"

   They regarded her with blank stares 
and wriggled to escape Qwilleran's 
clutches. They were acting 
disappointingly catlike.

   "I've made some blueberry leaf tea," 
she said to him, "and if you'll carry the 
tray we'll sit in the tower alcove." The 
suite of rooms was furnished with 
heirlooms in profusion, and on every 
surface there were framed photographs, 
including one of Theodore Roosevelt, 
signed. Glass cabinets displayed a 
valuable collection of porcelain birds, 
causing Koko to sit up on his haunches 
and paw the air. One of them was a 
cardinal. Even Qwilleran knew a cardinal 
when he saw one. As Mrs. Inglehart, 
veteran of thousands of formal teas, 
poured with graceful gestures, she said, 
"So this is your first steeplechase, Mr. 
Qwilleran! Do you know the origin of the 
name?"

   "I'm afraid not."

   She spoke in the precise, carefully 
worded style of one who has presided at 
thousands of club meetings. "In early 
days, horses and their riders raced 
through the countryside, taking fences 
and hedges and brooks, racing to the 
church steeple in the next village. In 
Lockmaster the sport of riding was 
unknown until my father-in-law introduced 
it. Until then there were only 
workhorses, pulling wagons, and tired old 
nags used for transportation. Then riding 
became fashionable. We all took lessons 
in equitation. I loved the hunt and the 
music of the hounds. I had my own hunter, 
of course. His name was Timothy."

   "You have good posture, Mrs. 
Inglehart. I imagine you looked splendid 
in the saddle."

   Yum Yum was now in Grummy's lap, being 
stroked. "Yes, everyone said I had a good 
seat and excellent balance and control. 
To control twelve hundred pounds of 
animal with one's hands, legs, voice, and 
body weight is a thrilling challenge. . . 
But I am doing all the talking. Forgive 
me."

   "It's a pleasure to listen to someone 
so well-spoken.

   “What provoked your interest in 
birds?"

   "Well, now. . . let me think. . . 
After I married Mr. Inglehart, I avoided 
the needlework clubs and boring book 
clubs that young matrons were expected to 
join, and I started the ladies' Tuesday 
Afternoon Bird Club. Oh, how the townfolk 
ridiculed us - for studying birds instead 
of shooting them! They wrote letters to 
the newspaper, referring to our idle 
minds and idle hands."

   "Do you mean it was customary to shoot 
songbirds?"

   "Yes, indeed! A young lad would come 
home with a string of tiny birds over his 
shoulder and sell them to the butcher. 
They were in demand for dinner parties! 
I'm sorry to say we still have a few 
sharpshooters who think of a bird as a 
target. Of course, it all started when 
the government put a bounty on birds 
because they were thought to destroy 
crops. Then scientists discovered that 
birds protect fields from rodents, 
insect, pests, and even destructive 
weeds. . . Now, I'm afraid, the farmers 
rely on those spraying machines and all 
kinds of chemicals."

   Koko could be heard chattering at the 
birds in the feeding station outside the 
east window as he stood on his hind legs 
with forepaws on the sill. Yum Yum was 
purring and kneading Grummy's lap with 
her paws.

   "I believe she likes me," said the old 
lady.

   "What kind of birds come to your 
feeder?" Qwilleran asked.

   "Innumerable species! My favorites are 
the chickadees. They're so sociable and 
entertaining, and they stay all winter. 
Koko will have his friend all winter, 
too. Cardinals are non-migratory, and 
don't they look beautiful against the 
snow?"

   "One wonders how birds survive in this 
climate."

   "They wear their winter underwear - a 
nice coat of fat under their feathers," 
she explained. "Oh, I could talk forever 
about my bird friends, but you'll be 
leaving soon for the 'chase."

   "I'm in no hurry," he said. "You must 
have a wealth of memories, Mrs. 
Inglehart, in addition to riding and bird 
watching."

   "May I tell you a secret?" she asked 
with a conspiratorial smile. "You have 
honest eyes, and I know you won't tell on 
me. Promise you won't tell Victoria?"

   "I promise," he said with the 
sincerity that had won confidences 
throughout his career in journalism.

   "Well!" she began with great relish. 
"When everyone leaves the house, I go 
downstairs in my elevator - I call it my 
magic time capsule - and I walk from room 
to room, reliving my life! I sit at the 
head of the dining table where I used to 
pour tea for the Bird Club, and I imagine 
it laid with Madeira linen and flowers in 
a cut-glass bowl and silver trays of 
dainties - and all the ladies wearing 
hats! . . . Does that sound as if I've 
lost my senses?"

   "Not at all. It sounds charming."

   "Then I go into the front parlor and 
sit at the rosewood piano and play a few 
chords, and I can almost hear my 
husband's beautiful tenor voice singing, 
'When you come to the end of a perfect 
day.' I can almost see the sheet music 
with pink roses on the cover. How happy 
we were! . . . I go into other rooms, 
too, and give the housekeeper her orders 
for the day and take a basket of cut 
flowers from the gardener . . . Sometimes 
- but not always - I walk into the 
reception hall and remember reading the 
telegram about my son in Korea." She 
turned to gaze out the window. "After 
that, nothing was quite the same."

   "Where are you?" called a voice from 
the head of the stairs. "Oh, there you 
are!" Vicki walked toward the alcove with 
a covered tray.

   "Not a word to Victoria," Grummy 
cautioned Qwilleran in a whisper.

   "Grummy dear, it's time for us to 
leave for the 'chase, and I'm putting 
your lunch in the refrigerator. Just warm 
up the soup, and there's a muffin and a 
nice little cup custard."

   "Thank you, Victoria," said the old 
lady. "Have a lovely time. I'll be with 
you in memory."

   Vicki gave her grandmother a hug. 
"We'll see you after the fifth race."

   "Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. 
Inglehart," said Qwilleran, bowing over 
her trembling hand and returning her 
confidential wink.

   "Please leave the little ones with 
me," she said: "I'll enjoy their 
company."

   Vicki said to Qwilleran as they walked 
downstairs, "She refuses to have a sitter 
when we go out, but she has a hot line to 
the hospital. In case of emergency, she 
only has to press the red button."

   Bushy had removed the photographic 
gear from the van, and they packed it 
with food baskets and coolers, folding 
chairs, and snack tables. Vicki, wearing 
a flamboyant creation from the Tacky Tack 
Shop, said, "How do you like my 
sweatshirt? Fiona gave it to me for my 
birthday."

   When they picked up Fiona at her 
apartment over a drug store, she too was 
wearing a shirt stenciled in the rah-rah 
spirit of the steeplechase - quite unlike 
her drab attire of the night before. En 
route, she sat quietly, biting her 
thumbnail.

   "I suppose you've attended many of 
these events," Qwilleran remarked.

   "Ummm. . . yes. . . but I'm kind of 
nervous. It's Robbie's first race."

   The stream of traffic heading for the 
race course included cars and vans packed 
to the roof with passengers, the younger 
ones boisterous with anticipation. South 
of town the route lay through hunting 
country, finally turning into a gravel 
road where race officials in Hunt Club 
blazers checked tickets and sold souvenir 
programs of the seventy-fifth annual 
Lockmaster Steeplechase Race Meeting. 
After one more hill and a small bridge 
and a clump of woods, the steeplechase 
course burst into view - a vast, grassy 
bowl, a natural stadium, its slopes 
overlooking the race course, which was 
defined by portable fencing.

   Bushy backed into the parking slot 
designated G-12, with the tail of the van 
down-slope. Chairs and snack tables were 
set up on the downside, and he went about 
mixing drinks. "Bloody Mary okay for 
everybody?" he asked.

   "You know how I want mine," Qwilleran 
said.

   "Right. Extra hot, two stalks of 
celery, and no vodka."

   Already the hillsides were dotted with 
hundreds of vehicles and swarming with 
thousands of fans. Race officials in pink 
riding coats, mounted on thoroughbreds, 
patrolled the grassy course, controlling 
the crowd that crossed over to the 
refreshment tents in the infield. Near G-
12, there was a judges' tower overlooking 
the finish line. Across the field a stand 
of evergreens concealed the backstretch. 
Three ambulances and a veterinary wagon 
were lined up in conspicuous readiness.

   An amplified voice from the judges' 
tower announced the Trial of Hounds, and 
soon the baying and trumpeting of the 
pack could be heard as they came down the 
slope from the backstretch.

   Bushy said, "That sound is music if 
you're a fox hunter."

   Or blood curdling, Qwilleran thought, 
if you're a fox. Then the MacDiarmid 
camper pulled into G-ll. The door opened, 
and a stream of young people poured out. 
Qwilleran counted three, six, eight, 
eleven - emerging with exuberance and 
rushing off to the refreshment tents. Kip 
and Moira and four other adults stepped 
out of the camper in their wake.

   Qwilleran asked the editor, "How many 
of these kids are yours?"

   "Only four, thank God. Did we miss the 
hounds? We got lost. They sent us to the 
wrong gate." He introduced his guests, 
all connected with the newspaper, and the 
women busied themselves with the food. 
Joining with the Bushlands they set up a 
tailgate spread of ham, potato salad, 
baked beans, coleslaw, olives, dill 
pickles, pumpkin tarts, and chocolate 
cake. Again the voice from the tower 
reverberated around the hillsides, 
announcing the parade of carriages, and a 
dozen turn-outs came around the bend: 
plain and fancy carriages drawn by high-
steppers, the drivers and passengers in 
period costumes.

   There was still a half hour before 
post time. The high school band was 
blasting away, with drums and trumpets 
almost drowned out by the hubbub of the 
race crowd, all of whom were wildly 
excited. They were circulating, greeting 
friends, showing off their festive garb, 
sharing food and drink, shouting, 
laughing, screaming. Qwilleran observed 
them in amazement; they were getting a 
high-voltage charge from the occasion 
that totally escaped him.

   "Would you like to stroll around?" he 
asked Fiona, who had been quiet and 
introspective.

   She responded eagerly, and as they 
circled the rim of the bowl she ventured 
to say, "It's quite a sight!" Long 
folding tables were laid with fringed 
cloths, floral centerpieces, champagne 
buckets, and whole turkeys on silver 
platters.

   "I'm sorry I didn't meet you during 
the run of the play," he said, "but you 
always disappeared right after the 
curtain."

   "I had a long drive home," she 
explained, "and then . . . ummm. . . I 
have to keep an eye on Robbie." 
"Altogether, with rehearsals and 
performances, you had to do a lot of 
driving. I hope VanBrook appreciated 
that."

   "Oh, yes," she said. "He sent me money 
out of his own pocket to pay for my gas."

   Qwilleran huffed silently into his 
moustache. "Very thoughtful of him. How 
did you two meet? In the theatre?"

   "Oh, no! I was. . .. uh . . . working 
in a restaurant. . . and this man used to 
come in to eat all the time. He was . . . 
well, not very good-looking, and the 
other waitresses made fun of him. I liked 
him, though. He was, you know, different. 
Then one day he asked me - right out of 
nowhere - if I'd like a job. He needed a 
live-in housekeeper. Robbie was eight 
then, and we both went to live with him. 
It was, well, like a gift from heaven!" 
As Fiona talked, the wonder of it 
overcame her shyness.

   "Was he hard to get along with?" 
Qwilleran asked. "People in Pickax found 
him rather crotchety."

   "Well, he was strange in some ways, 
but I got used to it. He kept saying I 
should educate myself, and he gave me 
books to read. They weren't. . . uh . . . 
very interesting."

   "How did you get involved in Henry 
VIII?"

   “Well, he was going to do the play - 
here in Lockmaster, you know - and he 
said he wanted me to be in it. I almost 
fell over! I'd never been in a play. He 
said he'd coach me. I was good at 
memorizing, and I just did everything the 
way he told me to."

   "Would you like to be in another 
play?"

   "Ummm. . . it would be nice, but I 
couldn't do it without him."

   "How did he and Robin get along?" 
Qwilleran asked.

   "He treated Robbie like a son - always 
getting after him to study and get better 
grades. After he moved to Pickax, he came 
down to see us once a month. He was 
always offering to put Robbie through 
college if he'd study Japanese! He said 
the future belongs to people who know 
Japanese." Fiona uttered a whimsical 
little laugh. "Robbie thought he was 
crazy. So did I."

   The high school band stopped playing, 
and Qwilleran's watch told him it was 
almost post time. "We'll talk some more 
at the party tonight," he promised. They 
hurried back to G-12 and arrived just as 
Kip MacDiarmid was passing a hat.

   "Five dollars, please, if you want to 
get in the pool," he said.

   Qwilleran drew Number Five, a four-
year-old chestnut gelding named Quantum 
Leap, according to the program. Following 
an announcement from the tower, the band 
played the national anthem. There was a 
fanfare of trumpets, and a mounted 
colorguard came around the bend in the 
course, followed by Hunt Club officials 
on horseback. The field for the first 
race was in the paddock, with the riders 
in their colorful silks. Number Five wore 
blue and white. Then the officials led 
the racers to the starting line, and 
before Qwilleran could focus his 
binoculars, they were off and taking the 
first hurdle.

   They disappeared around the bend and 
behind the trees.

   In a moment, they came around again. 
The crowd was cheering. Qwilleran 
couldn't even find Quantum Leap. Horses 
and riders disappeared again and 
reappeared at the far end of the course, 
and in a few moments it was all over. 
Number Five had finished sixth, and one 
of Kip's guests won the fifty-dollar 
kitty. Qwilleran felt cheated - not 
because of losing but because it had all 
happened so fast.

   Vicki said, "You're supposed to cheer 
your horse on, Qwill. No wonder he came 
in sixth!"

   By nature Qwilleran was not 
demonstrative, and the fleeting glimpses 
of his horse in the next three races 
failed to arouse him to any vocal 
enthusiasm. He could wax more excited 
about a ballgame, and even in the 
ballpark he seldom shouted.

   Fiona won the pool in the second race, 
and everyone was pleased. In the third 
race, Qwilleran's horse went down on the 
fourth hurdle, according to an 
announcement from the tower, and 
immediately the veterinary wagon and one 
of the ambulances started for the 
backstretch.

   One of the MacDiarmid youngsters soon 
came racing back to the camper. "Hey, 
Dad, they had to shoot the horse!" he 
shouted.

   "How about the rider?"

   "I dunno. They took him in the 
ambulance. Can you let me have five bucks 
against my allowance?"

   "You'll have to clear it with your 
mother."

   There were only five entries in the 
last race, in which amateur riders were 
acceptable, and Kip as official bookmaker 
suggested going partners on the bets.

zFiona said, "I can't bet. I'm rooting 
for Robbie."

   "So am I," said Qwilleran.

   "We will, too," said the Bushlands.

   The pool was called off, and the 
Bushland and MacDiarmid crowd swarmed 
down the hill to the infield fence, the 
better to cheer for Son of Cardinal. As 
the horses were led from the paddock, 
Robin Stucker looked pathetically young 
and thin in his red and gold silks.

   "Oh, God! Oh, God! Let him win!" Fiona 
was saying softly.

   They were off! And for the first time 
Qwilleran felt moved to cheer. They took 
the first hurdle and thundered up the 
slope, disappearing behind the distant 
trees. Before they came into view again, 
there was a shout of alarm from the 
spectators on the backstretch.

   "Oh, no!" Fiona whimpered. "Oh, no! 
Somebody's down!"

   The emergency vehicles rushed to the 
scene, and a crackling announcement came 
from the tower: "Number Four down on the 
third hurdle!"

   Qwilleran's group groaned with relief. 
Robin was Number Three.

   As the four horses finished the first 
lap, Robin's rooters were in full voice, 
cheering him over the next hurdle and up 
the slope to the hidden backstretch. When 
the field came into view again, Son of 
Cardinal was running a close second.

   Other fans were. yelling, "Go, 
Spunky!" or, "Go Midnight!" But the crew 
from G-12 and G-ll was howling, “Go, 
Robbie!. . . .Ride ‘im, Rob! . . . Keep 
it up! You’re gaining!" Son of Cardinal 
took the hurdle smoothly and pelted up 
the slope. "Attaboy, Rob! Three to go!" 
There were moments of suspense as the 
horses covered the backstretch. "Here 
they come! He's ahead! . . . Go, Robbie! 
. . .

   Fiona burst into tears. Vicki hugged 
her, and the others clustered around with 
congratulations.

   "Let's have a drink to celebrate!" 
Bushy announced. "And it'll give the 
traffic time to thin out."

   "If you don't mind," Fiona said, "I'll 
just walk over to the stables to see 
Robbie. Steve can drive me back to town."

   "Okay," Vicki said, "but be all 
dressed and ready to go at seven-thirty. 
We'll pick you up."

   The MacDiarmids collected their horde 
of youngsters and said goodbye. "When are 
you coming down again, Qwill?" asked Kip. 
"I'd like to show you my type 
collection."

   On the way home in the van Qwilleran 
asked, "Does Robin's win have any 
importance other than the $5,000 purse?"

   "It should increase the value of the 
horse and give Robin a boost up the 
ladder," Bushy said. "Also it should 
sweeten the deal for the Ambertons when 
they sell the farm."

   "Are they selling? Why are they 
selling?"

   "The way I hear it, Amberton wants to 
move to a warmer climate. He's pushing 
sixty and has arthritis pretty bad. His 
wife doesn't want to sell. She's the one 
who edits the Stablechat newsletter."

   "Lisa is quite a bit younger than her 
husband," Vicki put in, "and she's 
interested in Steve O'Hare as well as the 
newsletter."

   "That's unfounded gossip, Vicki," her 
husband reproved her.

   "Steve is a womanizer," she explained 
to Qwilleran. "I hate that word, but 
that's what he is."


   When they reached the turreted mansion 
on Main Street, Qwilleran could hear Koko 
howling.

   Bushy said, "I hear the welcoming 
committee."

   Qwilleran pounded his moustache with a 
fist. "That's not Koko's usual cry! 
Something's wrong!"

   The three of them jumped out of the 
van, Bushy and Qwilleran dashing up the 
steps and into the foyer, with Vicki 
close behind. Koko was in the foyer, 
howling in that frenzied tone that ended 
in a falsetto shriek. Yum Yum was not in 
sight.

   Bushy started up the stairs three at a 
time. Vicki ran to the intercom. 
"Grummy!" she shouted. "Are you all 
right? We're coming up!" Then she, too, 
bolted up the stairs.

   Koko bounded to the elevator at the 
rear of the foyer, and Qwilleran 
followed. Touching the signal panel, he 
could hear a mechanical door closing. 
Then the car started to descend, 
activating a red light on the panel. Koko 
was quiet now, watching the elevator 
door.

   The Bushlands had reached the third 
floor, and their voices echoed down the 
open stairwell. "She's not here!" Vicki 
screamed in panic.

   Slowly the car descended, and slowly 
the door opened on the main floor. There 
they were - both of them: Grummy slumped 
on the needlepoint bench, and Yum Yum 
crouched at her feet, looking worried.

-10-
   Vicki was hysterical. Bushy was 
yelling into two phones at once. 
Qwilleran quietly picked up both cats and 
carried them upstairs. From the window he 
could see the paramedics arriving, then 
the doctor's car, and finally the black 
wagon from the funeral home. When all was 
quiet, he went downstairs.

   "Is there anything I can do?" he 
asked.

   Vicki was walking back and forth and 
moaning. "Poor Grummy! The excitement was 
too much for her."

   "She lived a long life, enjoying it to 
the very end," Qwilleran said, "and she 
went quickly. That's a blessing."

   "Why was she on the elevator? Upstairs 
she could have pressed the emergency 
button. They might have saved her. She 
had no need to come downstairs."

   Qwilleran knew the answer, but he kept 
her secret. He suspected she had already 
been downstairs, reliving her life, and 
was on her way up again. The memory of 
the telegram from the war department may 
have triggered the attack.

   Bushy said, "You'll have to go to the 
club without us, Qwill. You can take the 
tickets and pick up Fiona."

   "No. . . no!" Qwilleran protested. 
"Not under the circumstances. I'd better 
pack up and drive back to Pickax.

   You'll be busy for the next few days."

   "The funeral will probably be 
Tuesday."

   Vicki said to her husband, "Would you 
call Fiona and break the news? I can't 
talk to anyone about it - yet. Ask her if 
she wants to use the tickets."

   Qwilleran went upstairs and packed the 
dinner jacket he had never worn and the 
blue cushion the cats had not used. Then 
he said a somber farewell to his stunned 
and saddened hosts. "We'll talk about 
this another time," he said, "after the 
shock has worn off. She was a grand and 
glorious Grummy."

   Bushy said forlornly, "Bring the cats 
again some weekend, Qwill. We'll give it 
another try."

   Qwilleran drove away - up the avenue 
of giant gingerbread houses - thinking 
about the last twenty-four hours. The 
Siamese, knowing they were on the way 
home, snoozed peacefully in their 
carrier, leaving him free to think about 
many things. He had explored a new city, 
experienced his first steeplechase, met a 
fellow journalist, witnessed the swansong 
of a gallant old lady, and discovered the 
bearded man who had evidently captivated 
Polly. He stroked his moustache in 
wonderment as he drove. She had always 
disliked beards and avoided anyone from 
the sporting world. It also puzzled him 
how she had managed to buy that bright 
blue dress without his knowledge; she 
usually consulted him on the rare 
occasions when she went shopping for 
something to wear.

   Yet, the most amazing discovery of the 
weekend was the diffident little woman 
who had been transformed into the regal 
Katharine on stage. VanBrook had endowed 
her with a completely new persona for the 
duration of the play. She moved like a 
queen; she projected her voice; she 
actually looked taller. Offstage she 
reverted to nervous mannerisms, anxious 
glances, and shy conversation, but for a 
few hours she had been VanBrook's 
creation. His failure to fashion Robin in 
his own image must have been a vexing 
disappointment.

   There were other questions Qwilleran 
wanted to ask Fiona: Did VanBrook ever 
talk about his past Down Below or in 
Asia? Was his Lockmaster house furnished 
in the Japanese style? Did he cultivate 
an indoor garden, and if so, what did he 
grow? Why did he wear turtlenecks all the 
time? Was he hiding something? A scar 
perhaps. Did he ever unpack all his 
books? After four years in Pickax the 
majority were still in cartons. And there 
were other questions of a more personal 
nature that might be asked.

   When Qwilleran reached the Moose 
County line, his watch said seven 
o'clock. The Living Barn Tour would be 
over. He hoped the interior would not 
look like a bus terminal on Sunday 
morning. Undoubtedly his answering 
machine would be jammed with messages, 
which he would ignore until Monday; there 
was no reason to explain his premature 
return to the world at large. His only 
call would be to Polly. He would tell her 
about the death in the family, and then 
he would say, "I stopped in the library 
and met your friend Shirley. She inquired 
about Bootsie and showed me the wedding 
pictures. There were a couple of candids 
of you in a blue dress that I've never 
seen." And then he would say, "I met some 
interesting individuals down there. One 
was a horse trainer - an amiable fellow 
with a red beard. His name was Steve 
something or other." After a moment's 
pause her reaction would be a nonchalant, 
"Oh, really?"

   This entertaining scenario occupied 
his attention until he arrived at 
Trevelyan Trail. Mr. O'Dell had installed 
a new mailbox. The driveway was graded 
and graveled. In the orchard the debris 
left from the storm had been removed. 
Inside the barn there was no indication 
that half of Pickax had tramped through 
the place, but the Siamese knew that five 
hundred strangers had been there. With 
inquisitive noses they inspected every 
inch of the main floor.

   Meanwhile, Qwilleran phoned Polly and 
received no answer. She might be having 
dinner with her widowed sister-in-law. He 
called back at nine o'clock and again at 
eleven. No answer. Most unusual! Polly 
never stayed out late when she was 
driving alone. Weary after his eventful 
visit to Lockmaster, he retired early but 
was slow in falling asleep. Polly's 
absence worried him.

   On Sunday morning he called her number 
again. It was the hour when she would be 
feeding Bootsie and preparing poached 
eggs for her own breakfast. The phone 
rang twelve times before he hung up. This 
was disturbing. He began to fear she had 
arranged a date with Redbeard. The 
trainer could have left Lockmaster after 
the fifth race and reached Pickax in an 
hour. Qwilleran put on a jacket and went 
for a brisk walk on the pretext of 
picking up the Sunday papers. Detouring 
down Goodwinter Boulevard, he noted that 
Polly's car was not parked in its 
accustomed place; she might have driven 
to meet the man at some out-of-the-way 
rendezvous.

   Polly and Qwilleran had been close 
friends for two years, sharing 
confidences, giving each other priority, 
consulting on every question that arose. 
And now she had bought a dress of 
strikingly different style and color 
without mentioning it. There was a 
possibility that her good friend Shirley 
had arranged to pair her with Redbeard at 
the wedding reception. There was no 
knowing what those two women talked about 
when they were together! It seemed 
significant that Shirley, when asked 
about the fellow photographed with Polly, 
had forgotten his name!

   Systematically, Qwilleran reviewed the 
evidence: Polly canceled a dinner date at 
Tipsy's the day after the wedding, 
claiming to be tired. She was secretive 
about the mysterious phone call that came 
to her office. She had been to the 
hairdresser twice in less than a week - 
after a lifetime of washing and setting 
her own hair. Everything pointed to a 
rift in their intimate relationship. 
True, the last two years had seen ups and 
downs, tiffs and misunderstandings, but 
only because Polly was inclined to be 
jealous of the women he met in the course 
of everyday life.

   Feeling frustrated and perhaps a 
trifle lonely, Qwilleran called Susan 
Exbridge to inquire about the barn tour.

   "Darling, it was magnificent!" she 
cried. "Everyone loved everything!"

   "I called to compliment you on leaving 
the place in perfect condition, but can 
you explain why I smelled apple pie when 
I walked in?"

   "Did you like it? We simmered apples 
and cinnamon on the range all day. The 
Mayfus Orchard donated seven bushels of 
apples, and every guest was invited to 
take one. How was your weekend?"

   "Pretty good. Were there any momentous 
local happenings while I was away?"

   "Only an editorial in the Something, 
offering a huge reward for information on 
the VanBrook murder. I hope something 
develops to exonerate Dennis soon. You 
know, Qwill, I spent a lot of time and 
pulled a lot of strings in order to 
introduce that boy to Moose County's 
finest families - hoping to get him some 
jobs -and it will reflect on me if he 
turns out to be a murderer."

   His next call was to Arch Riker at the 
publisher's apartment in Indian Village. 
"I hear you ran the editorial and offered 
the reward, Arch. Get any response?"

   "Two, only. The city desk got a call 
from a crackpot who's always calling the 
paper. They know her voice. They call her 
Dear Heart. First she accused Lyle 
Compton. Her second choice was Larry 
Lanspeak. Take your pick. . . Then there 
was a tip that involved a member of our 
own staff."

   "Who?" Qwilleran's mind raced through 
the roster of employees.

   "Dave Landrum."

   "Dave! He was in Lockmaster at a 
wedding Saturday night, I happen to know. 
That's why Roger took the night shift. 
How did they try to connect Dave with the 
case?"

   "Well, this is a roundabout 
explanation. Are you ready? A year ago 
there was a fatal accident at the 
humpback bridge. Remember?"

   The humpback bridge over Black Creek 
was notorious as an accident site. By 
speeding across it, young drivers could 
get a roller-coaster thrill, and if they 
traveled fast enough they were airborne 
for a second or two.

   Qwilleran said, "As I recall, two kids 
were killed at the bridge, but it turned 
out to be a double suicide. Right?"

   "That's the one - a lovers' pact. It 
happened September tenth - exactly one 
year before VanBrook got his. The person 
who called us seemed to think that was 
noteworthy."

   "Do you know who called?"

   "He declined to identify himself, but 
we gave him a code name so he can collect 
his fifty grand if the tip checks out."

   "How was Dave supposed to be 
involved?"

   "He's the father of one of the kids."

   "I don't get it," Qwilleran said.

   "Neither did I, until we checked our 
files. Dave's daughter was valedictorian 
of the June class at Pickax High, and her 
boyfriend was a football player. We ran a 
'Died Suddenly' obit when it happened, 
and then the usual letters came in from 
irate readers demanding that the humpback 
bridge should be flattened out. Nothing 
was ever done about the bridge, of 
course, but Roger, who gets around to the 
coffeeshops a lot, came up with the 
scuttlebutt. The young couple had hoped 
to attend a state college where they 
could live in a coed dorm. Unfortunately, 
the boy's grades were borderline, and 
VanBrook refused to graduate him."

   "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"

   "Except that it was considered an act 
of vengeance on the principal's part. His 
regime had been opposed by Concerned 
Parents of Pickax for a couple of years, 
and the football player's father was the 
most outspoken of the whole pack. After 
the suicides, he went to VanBrook's 
office and staged a violent scene in 
front of witnesses. He may have made 
threats."

   "What's his name? Do I know him?"

   "Possibly. He has a soft-drink 
distributorship - Marv Spencer."

   "Are we supposed to assume that the 
two fathers collaborated on revenge - on 
the anniversary of the suicides?"

   "That was the general idea. We turned 
the information over to the police."

   "They'll listen, but they won't buy 
it," Qwilleran said, although he later 
recalled that Dave Landrum had been 
rehearsing for the Duke of Suffolk in 
Henry VIII until insulting treatment from 
the director caused him to walk off the 
set in anger.

   Riker asked, "How was the 
steeplechase?"

   "I'm writing a column on it for 
Tuesday. You'll have it at noon tomorrow. 
Frankly, it would be a better show with 
more horses and fewer people."

   At six o'clock Qwilleran tried once 
more to reach Polly-and again at eight 
o'clock. Worried, he phoned her sister-
in-law and expressed his fears.

   "She went away for the weekend," said 
the woman. "She didn't say where, Mr. Q, 
but the invitation came up suddenly, and 
she asked me to feed Bootsie. She'll be 
home later this evening."

   "Thank you," he said. "Now I can stop 
worrying." Truthfully, the news only 
exacerbated his unease.

   He wrote his Tuesday column, 
presenting Lockmaster and the 
steeplechase from a Moose County point of 
view: factual, descriptive, politely 
complimentary, and not overly 
enthusiastic. He hand-delivered it to the 
city desk Monday morning and then headed 
for the public library.

   Passing the Toodle Market (Toodle was 
an old family name in Moose County) he 
stopped in to buy powdered soap for 
bubble blowing - a brand recommended by 
Lori Bamba. He also purchased some deli 
turkey breast for the Siamese. That was 
when he noticed a sign behind the butcher 
counter: YES, WE HAVE RABBITS.

   "How do you sell the rabbits?" he 
asked the butcher.

   "Frozen," said the man, with the 
expressionless face of one who has spent 
too much time at ten degrees Fahrenheit.

   "I'll take one," Qwilleran said, 
thinking he could keep it in his freezer 
while scouting for someone to cook it for 
the Siamese.

   The butcher disappeared into the walk-
in cold vault and returned clutching 
something that was almost the size and 
shape of a baseball bat, but red and raw.

   "Is that a rabbit?" Qwilleran asked 
with a queazy gulp.

   "That's what you asked for."

   "Will it stay frozen till "I get it 
home?"

   "If you don't live south of the 
equator." For emphasis he raised the 
rabbit and slammed it down on the butcher 
block, neither of which suffered from the 
blow.

   "Wrap it well, please," said 
Qwilleran. "I'm walking." The package he 
received resembled a concealed shotgun, 
and he shouldered it for the walk to the 
library, covering the four blocks more 
briskly than usual. In the foyer the 
Shakespeare quotation on the chalkboard 
was Silence is the perfect herald of joy. 
He huffed into his moustache. What was 
that supposed to mean? Dodging the 
friendly clerks he headed for the stairs 
to the mezzanine.

   There she was, in her glass-enclosed 
office, like a sea captain in the pilot 
house, wearing her usual gray suit but 
with a blouse that was brighter and 
silkier than usual.

   "Good-looking shirt," he said, 
dropping into a chair with a loud thump; 
he had forgotten the hard oak seats.

   "Thank you," she said. He waited for 
her to say where she had bought it - and 
why - but she merely smiled pleasantly. 
And cryptically, he thought. Had it been 
a gift from Redbeard? he wondered.

   "I tried to reach you this weekend," 
he said. "You should train Bootsie to 
answer the phone."

   "Perhaps I should invest in an 
answering machine," she said.

   Polly had always resisted the idea, 
and he found her sudden change of 
attitude suspect. "Did you have a good 
weekend?" he asked.

   "Very enjoyable. Irma Hasselrich 
invited me to her family's cottage near 
Purple Point. We went birding in the 
wetlands and saw hundreds of Canada geese 
getting ready to migrate."

   Qwilleran drew a deep breath of 
relief. "I didn't know Irma was a 
birder."

   "One of the best! Her lifelist puts 
mine to shame. Last year she sighted a 
Kirtland's warbler while she was 
traveling in Michigan. How did you enjoy 
the steeplechase?"

   "I ate too much and lost twenty bucks, 
and somehow the sight of ten thousand 
people screaming and jumping up and down 
like puppets fails to stir my blood, but 
I explored Lockmaster, and when I found 
the library I went in and met your 
friend."

   "How did you like Shirley?"

   "She's as friendly as an old shoe. In 
fact, I suggested that she and her 
husband come up here and have dinner with 
us some weekend. She showed me the 
wedding pictures, including a couple of 
shots of you. You seemed to be having an 
unusually good time. I hardly recognized 
you in that bright blue dress."

   "Do you like it? Now that my hair is 
turning gray, I think I should start 
wearing brighter colors. Did you have 
brunch at the Palomino Paddock?"

   "No, but the Bushlands gave a dinner 
party, and I met the editor of the 
Lockmaster Logger - also a fellow who 
trains horses and publishes a newsletter 
called Stablechat. " Qwilleran was 
observing her reactions closely. "He said 
he'd met you at the wedding. Perhaps you 
remember a stocky man with a reddish 
beard and receding hair."

   "I don't recall," said Polly, although 
he thought her cheeks became suddenly 
hollow. "There were so many guests - 
about three hundred at the reception. 
Would you like some tea?"

   "No, thanks."

   "Coffee?"

   "No, thanks. In the snapshots you were 
dancing with this fellow. His name is 
Steve, as I recall."

   "I think perhaps I do remember him," 
she admitted uncertainly. "I also met the 
woman who played Katharine in Henry VIII. 
We should invite her and Steve up here 
some weekend. We could have drinks at the 
barn and then dinner at the Mill."

   Polly turned pale, and he relented. He 
had taunted her long enough; it pained 
him to see her squirm. Charitably, he 
asked if she might be free for dinner.

   "I have a dinner meeting with the 
library board," she said with obvious 
regret. "Tomorrow night. . . perhaps?"

   "There's a funeral in Lockmaster 
tomorrow, so I'd better not count on 
dinner. The editor down there has a type 
collection he wants me to see."

   "How about Wednesday?"

   "That's the judging of the Tipsy 
contest. But we'll get together soon." He 
stood up. "I've got to get this thing 
home before it starts leaking."

   "What is it?"

   "A frozen rabbit from Toodle's. For 
the Siamese."

   "Really? Are they eating wild game 
now?"

   "Well, they like venison and pheasant, 
and when they started knocking the rabbit 
out of my typecase, I assumed they were 
trying to tell me something."

   "Perhaps they want you to read 
Watership Down," she said, and it was not 
clear whether she was teasing or being 
helpful.

   After two years of intimacy, during 
which Qwilleran had confided in Polly 
about Koko's uncanny modes of 
communication, he was still unsure 
whether she really believed. He sometimes 
suspected she humored him - going along 
with the gag, so to speak. Nevertheless, 
he took her suggestion and checked out 
Watership Down from the library's fiction 
room. He had read it before, and it 
merited being read aloud.

   At the apple barn he was greeted 
vociferously by his housemates, who 
showed no interest in the package from 
the butcher but plenty of interest in the 
library book. Either they knew it was all 
about rabbits, or they knew it had been 
previously borrowed by subscribers who 
lived with pets. He tossed the frozen 
rabbit into the freezer and invited the 
Siamese to join him for a read in the 
library area. Here were deep-cushioned 
lounge chairs in pale taupe leather, 
arranged around one wall of the fireplace 
cube. White lacquered shelves were loaded 
with old books. Over the white lacquered 
desk hung the printer's typecase, its 
eighty-nine compartments half-filled with 
old type-blocks.

   "Is everyone comfortable?" Qwilleran 
asked as he opened the book. His feet 
were on the ottoman, Yum Yum was on his 
lap, and Koko made a comfortable bundle 
at his elbow. No sooner had he read the 
first sentence, which consisted of only 
four words, than the telephone rang. 
Grumbling mildly, he disturbed his 
listeners and went to the desk to take 
the call.

   "Hello. . . Is this. . . uh, Mr. 
Qwilleran?" asked a . . wavering voice.

   "Yes."

   "This is Fiona in Lockmaster - Fiona 
Stucker."

   "Of course. I recognized your voice," 
he said. "I'm sorry about Saturday night, 
but we were all upset about Mrs. 
Inglehart, and it was hardly an occasion 
for celebration."

   "Ummm. . . yes, it's too bad. She was 
a nice old lady."

   "Are you going to the funeral 
tomorrow?"

   "I don't think so. I have to work."

   There was an awkward pause during 
which Qwilleran heard voices in the 
background. He said, "How does Robin feel 
about being a winner?"

   "He's all excited. He's only 
seventeen, you know."

   There was another pause, and Qwilleran 
filled in with the usual pleasantry. 
"How's the weather down there? It's a 
beautiful day in Pickax."

   "It's nice here, too."

   Employing his professional escape 
clause he said, "I'm sorry our 
conversation will have to be brief, but I 
have a newspaper deadline.”

   "Oh. I'm sorry," she said. "Steve 
wanted me to call you about something."

   "In connection with what?"

   "Ummm. . . would you like to. . . buy 
a horse farm?"

   "A horse farm!"

   "There's one for sale. He says it's a 
good bet."

   "I'm afraid that's not my kind of 
venture, Fiona."

   "It's the Amberton farm. Steve is 
stablemaster, you know, and Robbie works 
there."

   "I know, but - "

   "He gave me a list of things to tell 
you. Want me to read them?"

   "Go ahead."

   Koko was on the desk, standing on his 
hind legs and reaching for the typecase. 
Qwilleran pushed him away, at the same 
time listening attentively as Fiona read:

   "Sixty-eight acres, one-third wooded. 
All pastures fenced. Eight horses, 
including Son of Cardinal. Stables for 
twenty. Twelve horses now being boarded. 
Restored seventy-year-old farmhouse with 
all improvements, worth four hundred 
thousand. Swimming pool. Guest house. 
Historic barn on property."

   Somewhat awed by this recital, 
Qwilleran failed to notice Koko's 
stealthy return to the desk until a 
typeblock was spirited out of its niche, 
landing on the telephone book and 
bouncing to the floor. Mention of the 
historic barn prompted him to ask, "Is 
the farm a going business or just a hobby 
for the owners?"

   "Steve says it makes money. They breed 
horses and train them, and board horses 
for people, and give riding lessons."

   Wild fantasies were racing through 
Qwilleran's head. "Is it on the market 
yet? Is it listed with a broker?"

   "Not yet. Mr. Amberton wants to try 
selling it first. Steve says he has a 
couple of leads."

   "I'd like to speak with Amberton."

   "He's in Arizona. Steve drove him to 
the airport yesterday, but he has all the 
information - Steve, I mean - if you want 
to talk to him."

   "Is he there? Let me speak with him."

   "He's. . . no, he's at the farm, but – 
uh - he'd be glad to come up and see you. 
Wednesday is his day off."

   "Okay. Wednesday afternoon," Qwilleran 
said. "Tell him to come equipped with 
facts and figures."

   "Ummm. . . could I come with him and 
bring Robbie? I'd like you to meet 
Robbie."

   "All right. Make it about one-thirty." 
Qwilleran hung up the phone slowly and 
thoughtfully, telling himself, This is 
insane! And yet. . . he had lived in 
Pickax for four years, and he was 
becoming restless. As a journalist Down 
Below he had lived the life of a gypsy, 
switching newspapers, moving from city to 
city, seeking challenges, accepting new 
assignments. His present circumstances 
required him to live in Moose County for 
five years or forfeit the Klingenschoen 
inheritance. He had one more year to go . 
. .

   "What do you think about this, Koko?" 
he asked the cat, who was sitting nearby 
with his ears cocked and his tail flat 
out on the floor.

   "Yow!" said Koko.

   Absentmindedly, automatically, 
Qwilleran picked up the scattered 
typeblocks. There were now three on the 
floor. One was the rabbit. One was a 
skunk. The other was a horse's head.

-11-
   Driving south to Lockmaster for 
Grummy's funeral on Tuesday morning, 
Qwilleran crossed the county line into 
horse country with its hilly pastureland, 
picturesque fences, and well-kept 
stables. Horses were being exercised. 
Riders were practicing jumps. A large 
recreation vehicle was pulling away from 
a posh farmhouse, drawing a horse 
trailer. One could adapt to that kind of 
life, he thought: horse shows, equitation 
events, steeplechasing, show jumping, 
carriage driving.

   The funeral services were held in an 
impressive brick church overlooking 
Inglehart Park on the riverbank, after 
which Qwilleran drove to the cemetery 
with the MacDiarmids.

   "Grummy was the last Inglehart around 
here," said Kip. "The others are 
scattered allover the country. We seem to 
have a big population turnover - old 
families moving out, new ones moving in. 
The equestrian environment attracts 
them."

   "Do you consider Lockmaster a good 
place to live?” Qwilleran asked.

   "Are you thinking of moving down 
here?" the editor countered. "If so, 
we've got a place for you at the paper. 
We'll put your column on page one."

   The cemetery was an old one located on 
a wooded hill, and Grummy was laid to 
rest in a large family plot dominated by 
an Inglehart monument befitting a founder 
of the town. At the instant of interment 
her Bird Club associates released Bights 
of doves, and the mourners raised their 
heads and watched them disappear into the 
sky.

   "I'm sorry I knew her such a short 
time," Qwilleran said. "She might have 
converted me to birding. No one else has 
succeeded."

   On the way back to town, Kip pointed 
out big-name horse farms, the Riding and 
Hunt Club, kennels of the Lockmaster 
Hounds, the Foxhunters' Club, and other 
points of interest related to the local 
passion. Moira sat quietly alongside him 
in a pensive mood.

   From the backseat Qwilleran asked, "Is 
a horse farm a good investment?"

   "I doubt it. The average one around 
here is a status symbol or a private 
obsession, to my way of thinking," Kip 
said. "Do you like horses? Do you ride?"

   "The horse is an animal I admire 
greatly. They're beautiful beasts, but 
I've never had any particular desire to 
sit on one. I might enjoy living among 
them, though, if I didn't have to do any 
of the work."

   "The Ambertons are selling their farm, 
and they have good stock and the best of 
everything in facilities."

   "Horse breeding is a high-risk 
venture, you know," Moira put in quietly.

   "What do you know about their 
stablemaster?"

   "Steve? He hasn't been here long," Kip 
replied, "but people say he's an 
excellent trainer. You saw how Son of 
Cardinal came through on Saturday. From 
what I hear, he knows the business inside 
out."

   "Where did he come from?"

   "Various places-New York State, 
Kentucky, Tennessee, I believe."

   "Why is he working in Lockmaster?" 
Qwilleran asked.

   The driver changed his grip on the 
wheel and looked out the side window 
before answering. "I suppose he liked the 
environment. . . and the opportunity to 
move around. The Ambertons travel around 
the country, eventing."

   Moira spoke up sharply. "Why don't you 
tell the truth, Kip?" She turned to face 
Qwilleran. "He got into trouble Down 
Below, doping racehorses."

   Her husband said, "I'm sure he's clean 
now."

   The car was slowing, and she was 
unbuckling her seatbelt. "Maybe so," she 
said, "but most owners are afraid of 
him." She hopped out in front of the 
insurance agency where she worked. "Next 
time we see you, Qwill," she said with a 
wave of the hand, "let's hope it's a 
happier occasion."

   They drove on, and Kip said, "Why 
don't you stick around and have dinner 
with us tonight?"

   Suddenly Qwilleran wanted to return to 
Pickax. "Thanks, but I'm due home at five 
o'clock."

   "Okay. Next time. By the way, that's a 
very generous reward Pickax is offering 
in the VanBrook case. We picked it up and 
ran a short piece in yesterday's paper."

   "I hope it gets results," Qwilleran 
said absently. He was pondering Moira's 
statements.

   "Where do you want to be dropped off?"

   "My car's parked at the church. . . 
Moira seems to have reservations about 
Steve, doesn't she?"

   "Well, he's not a bad guy. . . but we 
were all at a party at the Hunt Club on 
New Year's Eve - a boozy affair, you know 
- and Steve got out of line, rather 
crudely. Moira took umbrage, to put it 
mildly. She's still miffed. It wasn't 
anything serious. He was drunk. He likes 
his liquor, and he likes women."

   Qwilleran picked up his car and 
stopped at a phone booth to call Polly at 
the Pickax library. "Correction," he 
said. "I can be home in time for dinner. 
If you're free, we could go to the Mill." 
She accepted, and he found himself 
driving back to Pickax faster than usual.

   At the barn Koko greeted him with the 
excited chasing that meant a message on 
the answering machine. He checked it out 
and immediately put in a call to Susan 
Exbridge, suspecting an auspicious 
development in the Dennis Hough situation 
that had been bothering her.

   "Darling! I have exciting news!" she 
exclaimed. "Hilary's attorney in 
Lockmaster called me about liquidating 
the estate, and he came up here today to 
discuss it. He's Torry Bent of Summers, 
Bent & Frickle, and he's the personal 
representative for the estate."

   "Did you go through Hilary's house?"

   "Yes, he had a key, which he turned 
over to me after he decided I had 
credentials and an honest face. It's a 
strange place, and I do mean strange! The 
upstairs rooms are filled to the ceiling 
with boxes of books, and one room is full 
of dead plants!"

   "What will you do with all those 
books?"

   "God knows! Secondhand books are an 
absolute glut on the market, but we'll 
open all the boxes - what a job! - and 
hope to find something rare and valuable. 
Edd Smith will be able to advise us on 
that."

   "I'll be glad to help you open boxes," 
Qwilleran said with alacrity. "I'm very 
good at sorting books, and after tomorrow 
nigh I have nothing scheduled."

   "Qwill, you're a darling! How about 
Thursday morning? I'll take you to lunch. 
I took Torry to lunch at the Mill, and he 
was quite impressed!"

   "By the restaurant or the liquidator?"

   "Both, if I'm tuned in to the right 
channel, and I might add that he's a 
charmer! Also, he's divorced - tra la!"

   On this salubrious note the 
conversation ended, and Qwilleran marked 
Thursday for Susan in his datebook -
something he would avoid mentioning to 
the chief librarian.

   When he called for Polly at her 
carriage house, she was wearing a vibrant 
pink blouse with her gray suit-her other 
gray suit, reserved for social occasions.

   "That color is becoming to you," he 
said. "What do you call it?"

   "Fuchsia. You don't think it's too 
intense?"

   "Not at all."

   It was a short drive to the Old Stone 
Mill on the outskirts of town, and they 
filled the time with comments on the 
weather: the highs and lows, humidity and 
visibility, yesterday and today. At the 
restaurant they were shown to Qwilleran's 
favorite table, and he ordered the usual 
dry sherry for Polly and the usual Squunk 
water for himself. When the drinks 
arrived, they both raised their glasses 
and said "Cheers!"

   There was a lull before Polly 
ventured, "Whose funeral did you attend?"

   "Vicki Bushland's grandmother. A 
splendid woman, eighty-eight years old 
and an enthusiastic birder. You would 
have liked her."

   "You seem to be gravitating toward 
Lockmaster lately."

   "It's very pleasant country down 
there," he said, "and there's a horse 
farm coming up for sale that might be an 
investment for the K Fund. I believe I 
could get interested in horses without 
trying too hard."

   "You wouldn't live down there, would 
you?"

   "Not right away, but it's a beautiful 
setup." He then gave a glowing 
description of the Amberton farm. "A 
delegation is coming up tomorrow for a 
conference."

   "It sounds as if you're serious."

   "It's tempting! I have one 
reservation, however. The stablemaster is 
highly competent, but he has an unsavory 
past. Besides having a reputation as a 
heavy drinker and a womanizer, he was 
chased out of jobs Down Below for illegal 
use of drugs in connection with 
racehorses. Too bad. I believe I 
mentioned him before. His name is Steve 
O'Hare."

   Polly put down her glass abruptly and 
turned pale. "Do you feel all right?" he 
asked.

   "A little dizzy, that's all. I skipped 
lunch - trying to lose a few pounds," she 
said with a pathetic smile. "The sherry - 
"

   "We'll have the soup served right 
away." He signaled the waitress. "Eat a 
roll. I'll butter it for you. And don't 
worry about losing weight, Polly. I like 
you best just the way you are." When the 
chicken gumbo was served and she had 
revived, he went on. "Do you realize this 
is our first dinner together in ten days? 
And we've missed two weekends! That's no 
kind of track record for you and me."

   "I know," she said ruefully. "We 
belong together. The last two years have 
been the best years of my life, dearest."

   "I could say the same. . . What are we 
going to do about it?"

   "What do you want to do about it?"

   The halibut steaks arrived, with 
broccoli spears and squash souffle, and 
the answer was deferred.

   Polly said, while dealing with a small 
bone in the fish, “Is there. . . anything 
new. . . at barn?”

   "You won't recognize the orchard. It 
was damaged by last week's storm, but the 
debris has been cleared up and some of 
the worst trees removed. The number of 
prowlers has increased since the barn 
tour. Those who objected to paying five 
dollars are now trying to get a free 
peek. I've ordered mini-blinds, but it 
takes three weeks."

   "Have the tapestries arrived?"

   "Yes, and they've been hung. I think 
you'll like them. The largest hangs from 
the railing of the topmost catwalk, and I 
only hope it's secure. It's hooked onto 
tack-strips, and in our household we're 
subject to Yum Yum's law: If anything can 
be unhooked, untied, unbuckled, or 
unlatched, DO IT! She started with 
shoelaces and advanced to desk drawers. 
Tapestries may be next on her list, so 
I'm monitoring the situation closely. Her 
voice is changing, too. After all, she's 
about five years old - a mature female. 
Frequently she delivers a very assertive 
contralto yowl that sounds suspiciously 
like NOW!"

   "What does Koko think about all of 
this?" Polly asked.

   "He has his own pursuits. Lately he's 
been chummy with a cardinal in the 
orchard. They commune through the window 
glass, and here's the astonishing thing: 
Last Saturday a horse named Son of 
Cardinal won the fifth race at the 
steeplechase. Is that a coincidence or 
not? Suppose Koko could pick winners! 
He'd be a very valuable animal. . . Did I 
tell you I met the woman who played in 
Henry VIII? She's a retiring, insecure 
little creature that VanBrook reshaped in 
the image of Queen Katharine - a 
Pygmalion act that must have bolstered 
his ego."

   Qwilleran was unusually talkative, 
rambling from one subject to another - 
evidence that he had missed Polly's 
company more than he realized. She, on 
the other hand, was unusually quiet, 
simply asking questions.

   At one point she asked, "Did you read 
the letter that an eleven-year-old girl 
wrote to the editor of the Something last 
week?"

   "I never read anything written by 
eleven-year-old girls," he stated in his 
mock-curmudgeon style.

   "There were several replies in 
Friday's paper. I knew you were out of 
town, so I photocopied them for you. It's 
about the Tipsy problem."

   "Problem? What kind of problem?"

   "Read the original letter, and you'll 
see what I mean."

   The communication from one Debbie 
Watts of Kennebeck had been printed with 
all the juvenile errors that made 
Qwilleran wince.


I am 11 years old in 5th grade. My gramma 
told me to rite. We have a famly ablum. 
It has a pitcher of my gramma when she 
was a girl. She worked at Tipsy's. They 
took a pitcher of her and Tipsy out in 
front. She says Tipsy had white feet. Her 
feet are white in the pitcher.


   "Hmmm," Qwilleran said, considering 
the significance of this revelation. "The 
portrait in the restaurant has black 
feet."

   "Exactly! If the prize goes to a Tipsy 
look-alike, does that mean black feet or 
white feet? Now read the replies."

   The first was signed by a Mrs. G. 
Wilson Goodwinter of West Middle Hummock. 
That was an old family name of 
distinction, and the suburb was an 
affluent one.


Little Debbie Watts is correct. My 
housekeeper's daughter works in a nursing 
home Down Below, and one of her patients 
is an old sailor who knew Tipsy when she 
lived at Gus's Timberline Bar on the 
waterfront. Gus was from Moose County, 
and during the Depression he came back 
here and opened a restaurant, bringing 
Tipsy with him and naming the 
establishment in her honor. The patient 
describes Tipsy as having white feet. He 
is quite definite about it.


   Qwilleran said, "This looks bad for 
Hixie Rice and her bright idea."

   "Read on," Polly instructed him.

   Next was a letter from Margaret 
DeRoche of Sawdust City:


My husband's cousin was the artist who 
portrait of Tipsy in the 1930s. He was 
great integrity and would never paint 
black feet on a subject if that were not 
the case. I write because he is not here 
to defend himself, having passed away 
three years ago. His name was Boyd 
Snithers, and he signed the canvas with 
his initials.


   "The plot thickens," Qwilleran said. 
"from the Kennebeck Chamber of Commerce. 
I'll bet they’re in favor of black feet. 
This is getting to be a political issue.”


For fifty years or more Tipsy with black 
boots has been the image we connect with 
the restaurant ant the town of Kennebeck. 
Two generations of Moose County residents 
have raised cats with black boots and 
named them after Tipsy. Why rock the boat 
now?


   Polly said, "Read the one from 
Samantha Campbell. She's the registrar of 
the Historical Society.

In reference to the Tipsy debate I wish 
to note that the Historical Society 
archives contain a Tipsy file of 
clippings from the late lamented Pickax 
Picayune. In 1939 a brief article 
referred to Tipsy as being “all white 
with a black hat." An item in the same 
paper in 1948 refers to Tipsy's "black 
boots.” I mention this to emphasize the 
necessity of accuracy in public press, 
since newspaper accounts go into 
historical records. Thank you.


   "And thank you, Ms. Campbell," 
Qwilleran said. “I should take Koko to 
the restaurant and let him give the 
portrait the Siamese Sniff Test. He knows 
right from wrong."

   Polly said, "You're not taking this 
seriously, Qwill. Read the last one." It 
was written by Betty Bee Warr of Purple 
Point.


My grandmother, who is in the Senior Care 
Facility with arthritis real bad in her 
hands, remembers that a man named Gus 
brought Tipsy to Kennebeck in the 
Depression and had an artist paint her 
picture. When Gus sold his place in the 
1940s the new owners paid my grandmother, 
who did a little painting as a hobby, to 
touch up the feet with black. They said 
it would give the picture "more oomph.” 
Now she realizes she did wrong to paint 
over it, but she needed the money. 


   Qwilleran said, "This is the stickiest 
mess since the fly-paper controversy in 
the city council meeting, but Hixie and 
the chamber of commerce will have to cope 
with it. I'm only a judge, and I have 
other things on my mind."

   "Is the mystery of VanBrook's murder 
bothering you?" Polly asked, knowing he 
could be tormented by unanswered 
questions.

   "No. The mystery of his identity. Was 
he what he claimed to be or was he a 
phony? I suspect the latter. Koko knew 
there was something not quite genuine 
about him from the beginning. That cat 
knows a fake when he sniffs it, whether 
it's a hairpiece or imitation turkey."

   Polly sighed. "Do you think Bootsie 
will ever be as smart as Koko?"

   "Not with a moniker like that! It 
lacks dignity. Koko's name is Kao K'o 
Kung, as you know. . . Will you have 
dessert?"

   "No, thank you. I'd better not."

   "Coffee?"

   Polly hesitated, then said sweetly, 
"Shall we go to my place for coffee?"

   Later that evening, when they were 
saying good night at her carriage house, 
Polly mentioned casually, "This weekend 
may be the last chance to go birding in 
the wetlands. Shall we?"

   "Sure," said Qwilleran, after 
concealing a gulp. "Or we could fly down 
to Chicago with the Lanspeaks for a 
ballgame."

   "That would be nice," she said.

   He arrived home elated and charged 
with energy, but it was midnight, and his 
housemates wanted only their bedtime 
snack and lights-out. Qwilleran retired 
to his studio to continue reading the 
biography of Sir Edmund Backhouse. What a 
difference: The British sinologist had a 
winning personality and a deferential 
manner; VanBrook was all contempt and 
ego.

   The next day being Wednesday, he rose 
early to avoid the garrulous and 
censorious Mrs. Fulgrove. He avoided her 
by writing his Friday column at the 
newspaper office, visiting the bookstore 
to chat with Edd Smith, and buying a pair 
of cashmere gloves for Polly at the 
Lanspeak store - gray to go with her gray 
winter coat.

   While cashing a check, he met Hixie at 
the bank. He said, "Are you concerned 
about the controversy over Tipsy's feet?"

   She tossed her pageboy defiantly. "No 
problem, Qwill. It's simply creating more 
publicity. We'll award two prizes - one 
for the popular Tipsy with black boots 
and one for the authentic look-alike. 
Don't forget, we're expecting you as our 
dinner guest before the judging. . . Want 
to have lunch?"

   "Can't," he said. "I'm expecting 
company at the barn."

   Promptly at one-thirty a van made its 
way up Trevelyan Trail, and the 
delegation from the Amberton Farm 
emerged: Fiona carrying a tissue box and 
wearing nondescript garments that Happed 
about her thin frame, then the red-
bearded stablemaster, walking with a 
broad-shouldered swagger, and finally the 
boy, short and thin like his mother, 
ambling with the loose gait of his 
generation, his thumbs hooked in his back 
pockets. The two men wore dark jeans and 
navy blue nylon jackets with the Amberton 
insigne - a red cardinal - embroidered on 
the breast pocket.

   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 résumé?" 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."

   "Thanks for bringing this 
information," said Qwilleran, waving the 
sheet of paper. "If you'll send us that 
résumé, we'll go to work on it and hope 
that the trustees are interested."

   "Come on, Robbie," said his mother. 
"Say thank you for the cider."

   The three visitors stood up, and as 
Steve put on his jacket he noticed 
something on the floor. He picked it up. 
"What's this?" It was a small metal 
engraving of a horse's head, mounted on a 
wooden block.

   "That's an old printing block," said 
Qwilleran. "The cats have been batting it 
around."

   "I could use that on the front page of 
Stablechat."

   "Take it. You're welcome to it."

   "Oh! That's very nice of you," said 
Fiona. "Don't forget your tissue box."

   "Here's the latest issue of 
Stablechat," Steve said, tossing it on 
the coffee table. "It has all the race 
results from the 'chase."

   Qwilleran accompanied the delegation 
out to their van, making the requisite 
remarks about the temperature and the 
possibility of rain. When he returned, 
Yum Yum was wriggling flatly out from 
under the sofa, and Koko was busy tearing 
up the last issue of Stablechat. Holding 
it down with his forepaws, he grabbed a 
corner with his fangs and jerked his 
head. Qwilleran watched the systematic 
destruction, admiring the cat's 
efficiency. Was there something about the 
smell of the ink or the quality of the 
paper that gave him a thrill? This was 
the second time he had shredded the 
horsey newsletter.

   Abruptly, Koko dropped his task. His 
head rose on a stretched neck and 
swiveled like a periscope in the 
direction of the entrance. The tableau 
lasted for only a second before he dashed 
to the window adjoining the door.

   At the same moment, Qwilleran heard a 
gunshot, followed by a triumphant laugh. 
He made a dash for the door. The van was 
starting down the lane, and on the ground 
near the berry bushes lay a small red 
body.

   "My God!" he gasped. "That stupid kid 
shot the cardinal!"

-12-
   Qwilleran dug a hole near the berry 
bushes and buried the lordly cardinal in 
a coffee can to keep marauding animals 
from desecrating the remains. Raccoons 
and roving dogs sometimes appeared from 
nowhere in violation of city ordinance. 
From a window Koko watched the interment 
with his ears askew, and when Qwilleran 
returned indoors he was yowling and 
pacing the floor.

   "Okay, we'll go out and pay our 
respects to the deceased," Qwilleran said 
calmly, although his teeth were clenched 
in anger.

   He harnessed both cats. Yum Yum rolled 
over in a leaden lump of uncooperative 
fur, but Koko was eager to go. As soon as 
he was outside the door, he walked 
directly to the spot on the earth where 
the cardinal had fallen, then sniffed the 
burial place. Eventually he was persuaded 
to explore the perimeter of the barn, and 
after ten minutes - when the telephone 
summoned them indoors - he had had 
enough. He toppled over and lay on his 
side to lick his paws.

   The call was from Mildred Hanstable, 
one of the judges in the Tipsy contest. 
"You sound angry," she said after 
Qwilleran had barked into the mouthpiece.

   "Someone shot a cardinal in my 
barnyard! I'm not angry; I'm mad as 
hell!"

   "Do you know who did it?"

   "Yes, and he's going to get a tongue 
lashing that he won't forget! What's on 
your mind? Is the contest called off?"

   "No, you'll be sorry to hear. We're 
due at Tipsy's for dinner around six 
o'clock. I have a hair appointment this 
afternoon, and then I'll have some time 
to kill, in case you want to invite me 
over. I could use a fortifying drink 
before having dinner with my boss. Lyle 
is such a sourpuss!"

   "It's all an act," Qwilleran reassured 
her. "Lyle Compton is a pussycat 
masquerading as an English bull."

   "Anyway, I'm dying to see the barn 
without five hundred paying guests 
bumping into me. I was one of the guides, 
you know."

   "You're invited," he said with curt 
hospitality. Koko was still licking his 
paws, and Yum Yum was still in a 
simulated coma, although she revived 
promptly as soon as the harness was 
removed. Qwilleran glanced at his watch. 
The delegation would have had time to 
return to Lockmaster, unless Steve 
stopped on the way for a drink.

   He phoned the Bushland house. "This is 
Qwill. How do I reach Fiona?"

   "You sound upset. Is anything wrong?" 
Vicki asked in alarm. "She was due at 
your place with Steve and Robbie a couple 
of hours ago."

   "They were here and they left, and 
that brat shot a bird in my barnyard - a 
cardinal! I want to have a few words with 
his mother before I light into him."

   "I'm so sorry, Qwill. I'll have her 
call you," Vicki said. "She's due here to 
help me with a hunt breakfast for 
tomorrow."

   "Do that. Not later than five 
o'clock."

   The arrival of Mildred Hanstable was 
therapy for Qwilleran's bruised 
sensibilities. A healthy, happy, 
outgoing, buxom woman of his own age, she 
had an aura of generosity that attracted 
man and beast. The Siamese greeted her 
with exuberance, sensing there was a 
packet of homemade crunchies for them in 
her voluminous handbag.

   Seating herself on a sofa, Mildred 
arranged the folds of the ample garment 
that camouflaged her avoirdupois. She had 
given up the battle to lose weight and 
now concentrated on disguising the 
excess. "I'm happier," she confessed to 
Qwilleran, "now that I've decided Nature 
intended me to be rotund. I'm the 
prototypical Earth Mother. Why fight it? 
. . . And, to answer the question you 
haven't asked: Yes, I'd like a Scotch. . 
. . Tell me, Qwill, how does it feel to 
be wallowing in space?" She waved an arm 
to indicate the vast interior of the 
barn.

   "Wide open spaces are fine," he said, 
"but I'm used to four walls and a door. 
Instead of rooms I have areas: a foyer 
area, a library area, a dining area. 
You're sitting in the main lounge area. 
I'm going to do the honors in the bar 
area adjoining the snack area. It's all 
too vague." He served drinks and a bowl 
of nuts on a small pewter tray, a barn-
warming gift from his designer.

   "Your kitchen area is scrumptious," 
she said. "Are you going to learn to 
cook? Or are you thinking of getting 
married?" she asked mischievously. 
Mildred taught home economics in the 
Pickax schools and had offered to give 
him lessons in egg boiling.

   "Neither could be further from my 
mind," he said as he picked up a few dark 
blocks scattered on the pale Moroccan 
rug.

   "What are those things, Qwill?"

   "I've started collecting antique 
typeblocks, and the cats keep stealing 
them out of the typecase that hangs in 
the library area."

   "Why don't you move it to an area they 
can't reach?"

   "There's no such thing as a place 
Siamese can't reach. They'll swing from a 
chandelier if necessary." He showed her a 
small metal plate mounted on wood. "This 
is their favorite block, which I take to 
mean that they'd like an occasional dish 
of hasenpfeffer. Do you know how to cook 
rabbit?"

   "Of course! It's just like chicken. 
When we were first married, Stan did a 
lot of rabbit hunting, and I made Belgian 
stew every weekend."

   "Would you be good enough to cook a 
batch for the cats? I bought a frozen 
rabbit from Toodle's."

   "You know I'd be happy to. And may I 
ask a favor? Now that you've moved out of 
your garage, Qwill, would you allow the 
hospital auxiliary to use it for a gift 
shop? We need a central location."

   "I'll put you on the list," he said, 
"but the Arts Council wants it for a 
gallery, and the Historical Society wants 
it for an antique shop. Actually, I 
hesitate to let it go until I've spent 
one winter in this barn. The cost of 
heating and snow removal may be 
prohibitive."

   "If you can afford to feed the Siamese 
lobster tail, you can afford a big 
heating bill," she said. As if they 
understood "lobster tail," Koko and Yum 
Yum immediately presented themselves, and 
Mildred went on: "The father of one of my 
students runs the animal shelter, and he 
told me that one mating pair of cats can 
produce twelve cats in a year and sixty-
three in two years. In ten years there 
will be eighty million direct 
descendents!"

   "Tipsy lived fifty years ago," 
Qwilleran said. "No wonder there are so 
many black-and-white cats around."

   "The animal shelter is swamped with 
unwanted cats and kittens. Also, hundreds 
of homeless cats roam the countryside - 
having litters, starving, freezing, and 
getting run over."

   "What are you trying to tell me, 
Mildred?" He knew she was a zealous 
crusader for causes.

   "I think the Klingenschoen Fund should 
underwrite a campaign for free spaying 
and neutering. I'll be glad to present a 
proposal to the trustees. Hixie Rice 
could organize it. We'll need publicity, 
programs in schools, rescue teams - " She 
was interrupted by the telephone.

   "Excuse me," Qwilleran said. He took 
the call in the library area.

   "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!" cried a shaken 
voice on the line. "I feel terrible about 
the bird! Robbie didn't do it. He wanted 
to use Steve's gun, but I wouldn't let 
him. Steve likes to – uh - take pot shots 
at – uh - targets, you know."

   "I appreciate your calling," he said 
stiffly. "Sorry I accused your son. I'll 
have plenty to say to Steve about this 
thoughtless act!"

   When he returned to the lounge area, 
Mildred was struggling to get out of the 
deep-cushioned sofa. "I guess it's time 
we got on the road," she said.

   "Before we leave, Mildred, I'd like 
your opinion on a domestic problem - in 
the laundry area." He led her to a 
partitioned alcove where racks were hung 
with yellow towels, yellow shirts, and 
yellow undershorts.

   "My favorite color!" she said. "But 
not mine."

   "Did you leave something in a pocket 
when you put it in the washer? What was 
it? Do you know?"

   "It was a sprig of green leaves with a 
purple Bower."

   "Where did you get it? And why was it 
in your pocket? Or am I being too nosey?"

   "It's a long story," he said 
evasively.

   She buried her nose in a towel. "It 
could be saffron. I used to put it in 
boiled rice, and it turned it a lovely 
color. Do you know what saffron costs 
today? Twelve dollars for a measly pinch! 
The stores up here don't even carry it 
any more."

   "Why so expensive?"

   "Well, it comes from the inside of a 
tiny flower. That's all I know. Have you 
tried bleach?"

   They drove to Kennebeck in Qwilleran's 
car, and while Mildred chattered about 
roadside litter and the high cost of art 
supplies, he was pondering VanBrook's 
indoor garden. If the man had been 
raising saffron, he had a $20,000 crop in 
one small room. He would have to export 
it, of course - to gourmet centers around 
the country. By using lights he might 
grow five crops a year - a lucrative 
hobby for a rural principal. . . And then 
Qwilleran thought, Did VanBrook know of 
another use for saffron? Did he learn 
something in the Orient? Perhaps it could 
be smoked! In that case, the crop was 
worth millions! And then he wondered, as 
he had done earlier, What was in those 
hundreds of boxes - besides books?

   Before he could formulate a satisfying 
guess, they arrived at Tipsy's 
restaurant. Hixie Rice greeted them and 
conducted them to a table, the one 
beneath the fraudulent black-booted 
Tipsy. Lyle Compton was already there, 
sipping a martini.

   Hixie said, "I'll brief you and then 
leave you while I marshal the contestants 
in the lodge hall across the street." She 
produced two stacks of snapshots. "These 
are the finalists in both categories, a 
total of fifty. Run through them while 
you're having your drinks and choose the 
likeliest candidates, based on markings. 
Later, when you judge them live, your 
final selection will be based on the 
sweetest and funniest. . . See you 
shortly. The crowd is already lining up 
on the sidewalk, and the doors don't open 
for another hour." She bounced out of the 
dining room with the supreme confidence 
that was her trademark.

   "I'm having another drink," Compton 
announced, bestowing his grouchy grimace 
on the other two judges.

   Mildred said, "I'm not sure I approve 
of a duplicate prize based on a forgery. 
What kind of values are we presenting to 
our young people?"

   Qwilleran said, "No one ever told me 
what the prize is going to be."

   "Don't you read your own newspaper?" 
she scolded. "It's a case of catfood, 
fifty pounds of kitty gravel, and an all-
expense weekend for two in Minneapolis."

   "Let's go through this bunch of fakes 
first," said the superintendent, picking 
up the black-booted entries. He was 
accustomed to taking charge of a meeting. 
"The definitive marking, as we all know, 
is the so-called hat - the black patch 
over one ear and eye. That'll eliminate 
most of them."

   Qwilleran said, "I see black collars, 
black earmuffs, black moustaches, black 
sunglasses, black epaulets, and black 
cummerbunds, but no hats."

   Mildred spotted a hat with a chin-
strap.

   "Hang onto it. You may have a winner," 
said Compton.

   "Are all these finalists going to be 
present in person?" Qwilleran asked.

   "That's the idea. With fifty live cats 
in one room, there won't be much 
sweetness of expression," the 
superintendent predicted.

   The white-footed entries were in the 
minority, and there were only three with 
hats, as opposed to seven hatted 
contestants in the other category.

   "Having any luck?" asked Hixie when 
she breezed back into the dining room.

   "Here's the best we can do." Mildred 
spread the ten snapshots on the table.

   "Good! Turn them over, and you'll see 
a code number on the back: W-2, B-6, B-
12, and so forth. Okay? When the cats 
parade in front of you, each will be 
accompanied by a chaperon wearing the 
assigned code number. When you spot the 
ten preselected numbers, direct them to 
the runner-up platform. Then put your 
heads together and make the final 
decision. Take your time. Delay will add 
to the suspense. . . Now, is everything 
clear? I'll be back to get you in an 
hour. Enjoy your dinner. Be sure to have 
the bread pudding for dessert; it's 
super! . . . And wait till you see the 
enthusiastic crowd! This is the greatest 
thing that ever happened to Kennebeck! By 
the way, we have sweeter-and-funnier T-
shirts for you if you care to wear them."

   "Are you kidding?" Mildred asked.

   The judges watched Hixie stride from 
the dining room. Every time the 
restaurant door opened, the hubbub across 
the street could be heard, and Compton 
said, "Sounds more like a riot to me!" 
They ordered steaks, and he turned to 
Qwilleran. "My wife says your barn tour 
was a big success."

   "So I hear. I was glad to be out of 
town."

   "It's true," said Mildred. "The 
visitors loved it, and they were simply 
floored by the apple tree tapestry. They 
objected to the zoological prints, 
though. Why do people have such an 
antipathy to bats? They're such cute 
little things, and they eat tons of 
mosquitoes."

   "They're disgusting," Compton said.

   "Not so!" Mildred was always ready to 
defend the underdog. "When I was in the 
second grade at Black Creek Elementary, 
our teacher had a bat in a cage, and we 
fed him bits of our lunch on the point of 
a pencil."

   "They're filthy little monsters."

   She flashed an indignant rebuttal at 
her boss. "We called him Boppo. He was 
very clean - always washing himself like 
a cat. I remember his bright eyes and 
perky ears, and he had a little pink 
mouth with sharp little teeth - "

   " - which can start a rabies 
epidemic."

   Mildred ignored the remark. "He'd hang 
upside down from his little hooks, and 
then he'd walk on his elbows. Such a 
clown! And I'm sure that both of you 
educated gentlemen know that a bat's wing 
structure is a lesson in aerodynamic 
design."

   "I only know," Compton said with a 
scowl, "that there are other topics I'd 
rather discuss with my steak."

   They talked about the steeplechase, 
the questionable merits of tourism, the 
success of Henry VIII, and the VanBrook 
case. After coffee, when Mildred excused 
herself briefly, the superintendent 
hunched his shoulders and leaned across 
the table toward Qwilleran.

   "While she's out of hearing," he said, 
"I have something confidential to report. 
You questioned Hilary's credentials the 
other day, so I did a little checking on 
the three colleges that supposedly 
granted his degrees. One institution 
doesn't exist and never did, and the 
other two have no record of the guy - by 
either of his names."

   Qwilleran said in a low voice, 
"There's evidence that he was deceitful 
in petty ways, so I'm not surprised."

   "This is off the record, of course. I 
see no need of announcing it, now that 
he's gone. He did a helluva good job for 
us, even though he was a miserable 
tyrant."

   "The amazing thing is that he had such 
a fund of erudition, or so it seemed: Did 
you check Equity?"

   "Yes, and I drew another blank - no 
evidence that he'd ever been a 
professional actor. But he wasn't all 
bad." Compton glanced around. "Here she 
comes. There's more to the story. I'll 
tell you later."

   Mildred announced, "The crowd is 
fighting to get into the lodge hall. I 
hope they can control them during the 
judging."

   At that moment Hixie arrived, flushed 
and breathless. "We have more people than 
we expected," she said. "A troop of Cub 
Scouts came just to see the show, and the 
first three rows are filled with seniors 
from the retirement village. Every cat 
has from five to a dozen supporters. We 
didn't count on that. The fire department 
may stop people from entering the 
building. All the chairs are taken, and 
yet most of those outside are 
contestants. We can't start until they're 
all in the hall, and we can't throw the 
first-comers out."

   "Turn on the fire hose," Compton 
grumbled.

   "Is there anything we can do?" Mildred 
asked.

   "Just put on your judges' badges and 
take your places on the platform. I'll 
take you in the back door."

   "Do I have to wear a badge?" Qwilleran 
asked. "I'd rather be anonymous when the 
shooting starts."

   Hixie smuggled them into the lodge 
hall, and their appearance on the 
platform was greeted by cheers and 
whistles. They seated themselves at a 
long table covered with black felt, on 
which was a bushel basket of catnip toys 
thoughtfully provided by the promoters - 
one toy for each contestant whether a 
winner or not.

   The rows of folding chairs were 
already filled, and an overflow crowd was 
standing in the aisles. At the rear of 
the hall, members of the chamber of 
commerce, wearing sweeter-and-funnier T-
shirts, were trying to reason with the 
horde that demanded admittance. Those 
carrying feline finalists were loudly 
vocal in their indignation. Overpowering 
the official attendants, they pressed 
into the hall, and soon the room was 
filled with squabbling families and 
caterwauling cats. Some were in arms and 
some were in carrying coops, but all were 
black-and-white and all were unhappy.

   "Something tells me," Compton said 
drily, "that this whole thing is not 
going to work."

   In an effort to restore order and 
explain the unexpected situation, the 
president of the chamber of commerce 
appeared on the platform. He was greeted 
by a round of booing and catcalls. 
Raising his hand and shouting into the 
microphone, he tried to get the attention 
of the noisy audience, but the public 
address system was useless. Nothing could 
be heard above the din, and the feedback 
added ear-shattering electronic screeches 
to the pandemonium. Cat chaperons were 
shaking their fists at the stage. Mothers 
shrieked that their children were being 
trampled. Two black-and-white cats-in-
arms flew at each other and engaged in a 
bloody battle. At the height of the 
confusion, a giant black-and-white tomcat 
broke away from his chaperon and bounded 
to the platform and the basket of catnip 
toys. Instantly, every cat who could 
break loose followed the leader, leaping 
across the white heads of screaming 
seniors in the front rows, until the 
judges' table was alive with fighting 
animals and the air was thick with flying 
fur. The judges ducked under the table 
just as the police appeared on the 
platform with bullhorns and, 
mysteriously, the sprinkler system went 
into operation.

   Under the table Compton yelled, "For 
God's sake, let's get out of here!" The 
three of them crawled backstage on hands 
and knees and escaped out the back door. 
For a moment they stood and looked at 
each other as they caught their breath.

   Mildred was the first to speak. "I 
move that we go back to Tipsy's for a 
drink."

   "I second the motion," said her boss.

   "Too bad there's no TV coverage in 
Moose County," Qwilleran observed. "The 
crews would have a field day with this 
one. It has everything: kids, cats, old 
folks, even blood!"

   Main Street was choked with police 
cars and emergency vehicles, their red 
and blue lights flashing, as sheriff's 
deputies and state police tried to 
control the mob. Ambulances were standing 
by, and fire trucks were primed for 
action. The only prudent way for the 
judges to reach the restaurant was to 
circle the block and enter through the 
kitchen door.

   In the relative quiet of Tipsy's bar 
they collapsed into chairs. They saw no 
more of Hixie that evening, and as soon 
as it was deemed safe, they were glad to 
leave.

   Qwilleran pulled Lyle Compton aside. 
"What else were you going to tell me 
about VanBrook? You said there was more 
to the story."

   "It hasn't been officially announced," 
the superintendent said in confidential 
tones, "and haven't even told the school 
board yet, but his attorney notified me 
today that VanBrook left his entire 
estate to the Pickax school system. I 
believe we've earned it, to be perfectly 
frank."

   Qwilleran heard the news with 
skepticism. "What's the catch? Do you 
have to rename it VanBrook High School?"

   "Nothing like that, although we might 
name the library after him. His book 
collection is supposed to number ninety 
thousand volumes."

   Later that evening Qwilleran made a 
call to Susan Exbridge. "What time 
tomorrow are we unpacking books?"

   "How about nine o'clock? It's a big 
job - and probably a dirty Job. Wear old 
clothes," she advised.

   "Would you object if I brought Koko 
along? He has a nose like a bloodhound 
when it comes to sniffing out rare 
books."

   "Darling. . . do whatever makes you 
happy."

   Qwilleran was exhilarated, the 
VanBrook revelation having canceled out 
the Tipsy fiasco. He said to the Siamese, 
"How would you guys like a little sport? 
Something new!" He produced a bubble pipe 
and whipped up a bowl of suds in the 
kitchen, watched by two bemused cats who 
were baffled by a bowl of anything that 
was inedible and unpotable.

   "You stay down here," he said as he 
carried the equipment to the first 
balcony. They followed him up the ramp.

   He dipped the pipe in the suds and put 
it to his lips, making one mistake. His 
pipe-smoking days had accustomed him to 
drawing on a pipe; bubble blowing was 
different. He spat it out and tried 
again. This time he produced one 
beautiful bubble - iridescent in the 
barn's galaxy of uplights and down lights 
- until it burst in his face. He tried 
again, gradually mastering the technique.

   "Okay. Go downstairs," he commanded 
the cats, adding a tap on the rump. 
"Down! Down!" They wanted to go up! It 
was past their bedtime. They stayed on 
the balcony.

   To tantalize them he blew a series of 
bubbles and bubble clusters and bubbles 
within bubbles, wafting them into space, 
watching them float lazily in the air 
currents until they spontaneously 
disappeared. The Siamese were 
unimpressed. They watched this absurd 
specimen of homo sapiens blowing a pipe, 
waving his arm, and peering over the 
railing. Bored, they ambled up the ramp 
to their loft.

   "Cats-s-s!" Qwilleran hissed.

-13-
   Thursday, September 22, would be one 
of the most memorable days in Qwilleran's 
four-year residency in Pickax. It started 
routinely enough. He fed the cats, thawed 
a roll for his own breakfast, and 
harnessed Koko for the trip to Goodwinter 
Boulevard. He also buckled up Yum Yum for 
the sake of practice, hoping she might 
eventually accept the idea. This time, 
instead of falling over, she stood in the 
awkward crazy-leg posture that resulted 
from the buckling process. Koko, on the 
other hand, strutted on his slender brown 
legs, dragging his leash, eager for 
action. For two minutes and seven 
seconds, according to Qwilleran's watch, 
Yum Yum remained in her unlovely pose as 
if cast in stone, with an air of 
martyrdom, until he removed the harness. 
Then she walked away with the 
exasperatingly graceful step of a female 
Siamese who has succeeded in making her 
point.

   Moments later, Susan Exbridge arrived 
in her wagon, and Qwilleran placed Koko's 
carrier on the backseat. As they set out 
for VanBrook's house he asked, "Have you 
had a chance to spend any time at 
Hilary's place?"

   "A couple of mornings," she said. "I 
have to keep my shop open in the 
afternoon, you know. But I'm getting an 
overview of his collection, and in the 
evening I check my art books. It's really 
fascinating!"

   "Have you found anything valuable?"

   "Definitely! There's a Japanese screen 
with horses in color and gold that the 
horsey set in Lockmaster will swoon over! 
And there's a magnificent cloisonné vase, 
two feet high, that I'd love to have 
myself. Then - hidden away in lacquered 
cabinets - are small objects like inro 
and netsuke and fans. It's all very 
exciting! Hilary had a staggering 
collection of fans."

   "Fans?" Qwilleran echoed, doubting 
that he'd heard correctly.

   "Folding fans, you know, with ivory 
sticks and hand-painted leaves, most of 
them signed! To research these I may have 
to fly to Chicago. . . Want to come 
along?" she added playfully.

   "How about the stuff on the second 
floor?"

   "Oh, that junk! I threw out a roomful 
of dead plants, but there were a lot of 
growing lights that will be salable."

   It occurred to Qwilleran that she 
might have thrown out a $20,000 crop of 
whatever VanBrook was cultivating in the 
back room.

   "I haven't touched the books," she was 
saying. "Most of the cartons are sealed, 
so I brought a craft knife for you to use 
and a legal pad in case you want to make 
notes, or lists, or whatever. I don't 
know how to tell you to sort them. You 
can decide that when you see what's 
there."

   "I wonder if Hilary catalogued his 
books. There should be a catalogue."

   "If there is, you'll probably find it 
in his study upstairs." It's really good 
of you, Qwill, to do this for me."

   "Glad to help," he murmured. "Yow!" 
came a comment from the backseat. Koko 
entered the spacious high-ceilinged house 
in grand style, seated regally in his 
carrier as if in a palanquin. He was 
conducted around the main floor on a 
leash to avoid accidental collision with 
a two-foot cloisonné vase. He was 
tugging, however, toward the staircase, a 
fact that Qwilleran considered 
significant. The cat liked books, no 
doubt about it. He enjoyed sniffing the 
spines of fine bindings, probably 
detecting glue made from animal hides, 
and occasionally he found cause to knock 
a pertinent title off the bookshelf. (To 
discourage this uncivilized practice, 
Qwilleran had installed a shelf in the 
cats' apartment, stocked with nickel-and-
dime books that Koko could knock about to 
his heart's content, although it was 
characteristic of feline perversity that 
he ignored them.)

   "Where shall we start?" Qwilleran 
asked as the cat pulled him up the 
stairs.

   For answer, Koko tugged toward 
VanBrook's study with its four walls of 
bookshelves. There he prowled and sniffed 
and jumped effortlessly onto shelves 
eight feet above the floor, while 
Qwilleran made a superficial search for a 
catalogue of the 90,000 books. Ninety 
thousand?

   He found it difficult to believe. 
Unfortunately the desk drawers were 
locked and the Oriental box had been 
removed from the desktop, no doubt by the 
attorney. Either place would be the 
logical spot for a catalogue.

   "No luck," Qwilleran said to his 
assistant. "Let's go next door and start 
unpacking." There were several large 
rooms on the second floor, originally 
bedrooms but now storerooms for book 
cartons. He chose to begin with the, room 
nearest the staircase. Like the others, 
it contained nothing but casual stacks of 
corrugated cartons, formerly used for 
shipping canned soup, chili sauce, 
whiskey, and other commodities. Now, 
according to the adhesive labels, they 
contained Toynbee, Emerson, Goethe, Gide 
and the like, as well as classifications 
such as Russian Drama, Restoration 
Comedy, and Cyprian History. Each sticker 
carried a number in addition to 
identification of the contents.

   "There's got to be a catalogue," 
Qwilleran muttered, for the benefit of 
any listening ear.

   There was no reply from Koko. The cat 
was surveying the irregular stacks of 
boxes like a mountain goat contemplating 
Mount Rushmore, and soon he bounded up 
from ledge to ledge until he reached the 
summit and posed haughtily on a carton of 
Western Thought. Meanwhile, Qwilleran 
closed the door and went to work with his 
craft knife, slitting open a box of 
Dickens, labeled A-74.

   It was no idle choice, Dickens being a 
writer he admired greatly. It was no 
treasure trove either; the volumes were 
inexpensive editions. He took time, 
however, to look up his favorite 
passages: the opening paragraph of A Tale 
of Two Cities; the description of the 
coachman's coat in The Pickwick Papers; 
and a scene from A Christmas Carol that 
he knew virtually by heart. Every 
Christmas Eve, he remembered, his mother 
had read aloud the account of the 
Cratchits' modest Christmas dinner, 
beginning with that mouth-filling line: 
"Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's 
wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-
turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which 
are cheap and make a goodly show for 
sixpence." A wave of nostalgia tingled 
his spine. The room was quiet except for 
an occasional murmur or grunt from Koko 
as he explored his private mountain, and 
Qwilleran read greedily from The Pickwick 
Papers until alerted by the unmistakable 
sound of claws on corrugated cardboard. 
The thinking man's cat was diligently 
scratching a box on the fifth tier, 
labeled "Macaulay A-106." Qwilleran 
immediately pulled it down, slit the 
flaps, and found the famous three-volume 
History of England, plus essays, 
biographies, and the questionably titled 
collection of poems, Lays of Ancient 
Rome. He huffed into his moustache as he 
realized that the Macaulay box had 
originally contained a shipment of canned 
salmon. Koko was no fool.

   Nevertheless, Qwilleran had always 
wanted to check out a statement made by a 
typesetter of the old school - a claim 
that Macaulay used more consonants in his 
writing, while Dickens used more vowels. 
Sitting cross-legged on the floor with a 
pad of paper, he started counting 
consonants and vowels, selecting random 
excerpts from each author. It was a 
brain-numbing, eye-torturing task, and he 
was disappointed with the result. While 
racking up 390 consonants, Dickens used 
250 vowels and Macaulay actually used 
more - a total of 258. The typesetter was 
either misinformed or a practical joker, 
but there was nothing he could do about 
it; the man had died two years before.

   There was a tap on the door, and Susan 
called out to him, "Coffee's ready 
downstairs."

   Qwilleran confined Koko to the room 
with the Dickens and Macaulay and joined 
her in the kitchen.

   "Making good progress?" she inquired.

   "I haven't found anything of value as 
yet," he replied, truthfully. "I've found 
a green dragon dish documented as 
fourteenth century!"

   He wondered: Yes, but are the 
documents forged?

   "I have a feeling," she said, "that a 
lot of these things; should go to New 
York for auction. They'll bring a fortune 
on the east coast."

   If they're genuine, Qwilleran thought.

   After coffee he returned upstairs, and 
as he opened the door Koko shot out of 
the room and made a skidding U-turn into 
the study where the books were on shelves 
instead of in boxes. Qwilleran followed, 
but the cat was already on one of the top 
shelves, looking down impudently at his 
pursuer.

   "Get down here!" Qwilleran demanded at 
his sternest. Koko rubbed his jaw against 
a large volume-teasing, knowing he was 
just beyond reach.

   Qwilleran climbed on a chair and made 
a grab for him. With infuriating 
impertinence Koko slinked behind a row of 
books with only the tip of his brown tail 
giving a clue to his whereabouts.

   "I'll get you, young man, if I have to 
strip this whole bookcase!" Shifting the 
chair a few feet, he started removing 
books from the top shelf, piling them in 
his left arm, until the cat was revealed, 
crouched mischievously in his hiding 
place.

   "You devil!" Qwilleran clutched him 
with his free hand, stepped off the 
chair, dumped his armful of gooks on the 
desk, and deposited the cat in the other 
room, slamming the door as a rebuke. Then 
he returned to the study to replace the 
dislodged books, which appeared to be a 
collection of eighteenth-century 
"erotica. Squelching his curiosity he 
lined the books up on the high shelf. 
That was when he noticed a volume that 
had been concealed behind the others, 
either purposely or accidentally. Memoirs 
of a Merry Milkmaid was the title tooled 
in gold on good cowhide. He put it under 
his arm and stepped off the chair. As he 
did so, the book rattled in a muffled 
way. He shook it, and it rattled again. 
Enjoying the excitement of discovery he 
returned to the Dickens-Macaulay room, 
closed the door, and opened the book. It 
was all cover and no pages!

   There in the hollow volume - a secret 
filing place - was a small notebook, 
alphabetized. He turned to the letter D 
and found "Dickens A-74." Under M there 
was listed "Macaulay A-l06" as well as 
Mencken, Melodrama, Milton, Morality 
Plays and others. This was the catalogue 
he knew must exist. Though inadequate for 
finding titles, it was apparently useful 
for VanBrook's purposes, whatever they 
might be. If he had anything to hide, 
this was not a bad system.

   There were other documents and scraps 
of paper in the hollow book, but for the 
moment the catalogue was all that 
mattered. Entries were grouped from A to 
F, evidently referring to the six rooms 
in which boxes were stored. It was while 
leafing through its pages that he spotted 
a small red dot alongside certain items: 
"Latin A-92," for instance.

   Koko was sitting quietly on A-106 in 
his sphinx pose, guarding the salmon 
carton. "We've got to find A-92," 
Qwilleran said impatiently as he began 
slinging boxes around. They were stacked 
in no particular order, and the noise of 
heavy boxes being shifted soon brought a 
tap on the door.

   "Come in," he yelled without stopping 
his frenzied search.

   "Are you onto something?" Susan asked.

   "I think so . . . I found the 
catalogue. . . Boxes, not titles," he 
said between heavy breathing. "Some have 
a special mark. . . A red dot. . . I'm 
looking for A-92."

   He found it at the bottom of a stack, 
behind two other stacks - a vodka carton 
filled with textbooks, grammars, ponies, 
a Latin-English dictionary, and the works 
of Cicero and Virgil.

   "They're Latin books, all right," he 
announced with disappointment. "Nothing 
but books."

   "Well, let's work another half hour 
and then go to lunch," Susan suggested.

   "If you don't mind," he said, "I'll 
take a raincheck, since I have Koko with 
me and I'm not dressed for lunch at the 
Mill. But if you want to pick us up 
again, I'll be glad to help any day you 
say."

   He repacked A-92, shoving Koko away as 
the cat tried to climb into the vodka 
carton. Then, working fast during the 
next half hour, he opened other boxes 
that warranted a red dot. He found only 
books in an eclectic assortment of 
subjects: Nordic Mythology, Indian 
Authors, Chaucer, Japanese Architecture. 
One box contained Famous Frauds - 
accounts of imposters, swindlers, and 
other white-collar crooks. In the 
stacking of boxes a slight pattern 
emerged; the red dots were all found to 
the left of the door as one entered the 
room, concealed behind other book-boxes. 
Qwilleran counted the red dots in the 
catalogue, and there were fifty-two, 
distributed equally among rooms A to F.

   When they pulled away from the house 
in Susan's wagon, Qwilleran had three 
books tucked under his arm. He said, "I 
hope no one objects if I borrow something 
to read. I found a couple of good 
titles."

   "Keep them," she said. "No one will 
ever know or care." Sandwiched between 
novels of Sir Walter Scott, which came 
from a red-dot carton, was Memoirs of a 
Merry Milkmaid.

   When Susan dropped her passengers off 
at the apple barn, Koko was greeted by 
his mate as if he had returned from an 
alien planet, contaminated by radioactive 
gasses. Belly to the Boor, Yum Yum crept 
toward him cautiously, caught a whiff of 
something evil, and skulked away with 
lowered head and bushy tail. Unconcerned, 
he walked to the kitchen area and stared 
pointedly at an empty plate on the floor 
until a piece of turkey appeared on it 
miraculously.

   Qwilleran had dropped his three books 
on a table in the foyer area. After his 
exertions at the VanBrook house he was 
tremendously hungry. He thawed a carton 
of chili, a small pizza, and two corn 
muffins, while sitting down to this lunch 
in the snack area he heard a loud plop! 
It was followed by another loud plop! He 
recognized the sound, that of a book 
falling on an uncarpeted floor leaving 
his lunch, he investigated the main floor 
and found two volumes of Sir Walter Scott 
on the earthen tiles of the foyer. Koko 
was pushing Ivanhoe around with his nose, 
but it was not the spine he was sniffing; 
he was nosing the fore-edges.

   Qwilleran retrieved it - a book in 
flexible leather binding with gold 
tooling and gilt edges - published in 
1909 with end papers and frontispiece in 
Art Nouveau style. It was a better 
edition than the set of Dickens but 
damaged by dryness. He riffled the pages 
- and gasped! They were interleaved with 
money! With ten-dollar bills! The other 
book, he soon discovered, was the same. 
The "bookmarks" in The Bride of 
Lammermoor were twenties! Both books had 
come from a red-dot carton. He tried a 
little computation: fifty-two red-dot 
boxes. . . approximately twenty books per 
carton. . . twenty or thirty bills in 
each box. . . And yet, considering the 
rate of inflation and opportunities for 
investment, who would hide this amount of 
money in the house? Unless. . .

   Hurrying to the telephone he called 
Exbridge & Cobb Antiques. "Susan," he 
said, "I've discovered something 
remarkable about the red dots, and I 
think you should get the attorney up here 
in a hurry before we open any more 
cartons . . . No, I can't tell you on the 
phone. . . Yes, I'm willing to meet with 
him - any time."

   Qwilleran had forgotten his chili, and 
he knew the pizza would be cold, but they 
could be reheated. There was little left 
to reheat, however. The cheese and 
pepperoni had disappeared, and the chili 
was reduced to beans, while two cats 
washed up assiduously. No matter; food 
was no longer on Qwilleran's mind. He 
carried the two volumes of Scott and 
Memoirs of a Merry Milkmaid to his 
studio, followed by two well-fed Siamese.

   There were other personal papers in 
the hollow book, in addition to the 
catalogue: unidentified phone numbers on 
scraps of paper, legal documents in 
Summers, Bent & Frickle envelopes, 
columns of figures in five digits or 
more, cryptic memos that the late 
principal had written to himself, onion-
skin copies of old business agreements 
signed "William Brooks." Little of it 
seeped into Qwilleran's comprehension, 
but Koko, who was sitting on the desk 
watching every move, occasionally 
extended a tentative paw. Yum Yum was on 
her hindlegs searching the wastebasket 
for crumpled paper, which had an 
irresistible attraction for her. She 
searched, however, in vain. Qwilleran had 
learned never to crumple discarded paper 
if he expected it to stay in the round 
file for more than three minutes.

   Among the items that tempted Koko's 
paw was an envelope labeled "Copies." The 
originals, according to the notation, 
were in the files of Summers, Bent & 
Frickle. One of them, titled "Last Will 
and Testament of William Smurple ," was 
dated recently, September 8, and it 
bequeathed the principal's entire estate 
to the Pickax School District, exactly as 
Lyle Compton had confided to Qwilleran.

   The other document caused a tingling 
in Qwilleran's upper lip that made him 
reach for the phone. He asked directory 
assistance for a number in Lockmaster, 
and when "he called it, a woman's musical 
voice said, "Amberton Farm."

   "This is Jim Qwilleran, calling from 
Pickax," he said. Soothed by her pleasant 
voice he spoke less brusquely than he had 
intended. "Is this the right number for 
Steve O'Hare?"

   "No, Mr. Qwilleran, this is the 
farmhouse. His office in the stables has 
its own phone - "

   "I'm sorry."

   "That's perfectly all right. I'm Lisa 
Amberton, and I understand you're 
interested in our farm. I'd like to show 
you around if you'd care to drive down."

   "I'll take you up on that later, but 
right now I need to talk to Mr. O'Hare."

   She gave him the number, and he called 
the trainer. "Okay, Steve, I'm ready to 
talk," he announced. "How soon can you 
come up to Pickax?"

   "Jeez, that's sooner than I expected, 
but I can come any time. I'd like to 
bring Mrs. Amberton, okay? She says she 
wants to meet you."

   "Not this time. I want you to come 
alone for some private discussion - just 
a deal between you and me."

   "Sure. I understand," Steve said 
genially. "How about at five o'clock? I 
get through at three, and I'll have to 
clean up. I didn't line up that 
information you wanted, though." He 
sneezed loudly.

   "The résumé? Forget it for now. See 
you at five."

   Qwilleran massaged his moustache with 
satisfaction and tripped jauntily down 
the spiral staircase to the kitchen, 
where he pressed the button on the 
coffeemaker.

   While he was waiting for the beverage 
to brew, the telephone rang, and he took 
the call in the library area. It was 
Vicki Bushland's anxious voice. "Qwill, 
there's been an accident down here!" she 
said. "Fiona's son is in the hospital. 
We're very much upset. I thought you'd 
want to know."

   "What kind of accident?"

   "He was taking jumps, and the horse 
went down. Robbie's hurt seriously. He 
wasn't wearing his hard hat. I don't mind 
telling you, Fiona's almost out of her 
mind."

   "When did this happen?"

   "A couple of hours ago. Isn't it 
tragic? So soon after winning his first 
race! Fiona's afraid he'll never walk 
again - let alone ride. I think it's his 
spine."

   "Terrible news," Qwilleran murmured. 
Then he added, "I was talking to Steve 
just a moment ago. To Mrs. Amberton, 
also. They never said a word about an 
accident."

   "They're very cool - that Amberton 
crew," Vicki said with a sign of 
bitterness. "The way they think, 
stableboys are a dime a dozen. Twenty 
more are begging to take Robbie's place! 
It would have been a different story if 
the horse had been Son of Cardinal. They 
had to destroy it."

   Qwilleran was silent.

   "Fiona says you're interested in 
buying the farm, Qwill."

   "Let's put it this way: They're 
interested in selling it . . . What's 
Fiona's number? I'll call her."

   "Try to give her some hope. She's 
terribly down. If she isn't home, try the 
hospital." Vicki gave him two numbers.

   Phoning the hospital he learned only 
that the patient was in surgery; no 
report on his condition had been issued.

   "Could you locate Fiona Stucker, his 
mother?"

   "I'll connect you with the ICU 
lounge," the operator said.

   The volunteer who presided over the 
lounge said Ms. Stucker had just stepped 
out. "Will you leave a message?"

   "No, thanks. I'll call back." As he 
hung up he heard Yum Yum mumbling to 
herself in the adjacent lounge area, 
intent on some personal project. Here was 
a situation he always investigated; she 
had a hobby of stealing wrist watches and 
gold pens and stashing them away under 
the furniture. As he suspected, she was 
lying on her side near one of the sofas, 
reaching underneath it to fish out a 
hidden treasure. It was a piece of 
crumpled paper. To her consternation he 
confiscated it, knowing she would swallow 
pieces of it - the predatory instinct.

   "N-N-NOW!" she demanded. "No!" 
Qwilleran insisted.

   It was a yellow slip of paper he had 
not seen before, and when he smoothed it 
out, it proved to be a salescheck from 
the Tacky Tack Shop, Lockmaster, for the 
purchase of two sweatshirts. The date of 
the transaction was September 9. The 
customer's name was not recorded, but it 
appeared that Fiona had dropped it when 
she visited on the day before. Penciled 
scribbling on the back looked like 
directions for reaching the Qwilleran 
barn. Yum Yum had found it, hiding it 
under the sofa for future reference.

   A sudden movement from the cats 
alerted him, and he caught a glimpse of 
activity in the woods. Someone was 
approaching from the direction of Main 
Street - on foot. . That alone was 
unusual. Although the gate was left open 
during daylight hours, most visitors 
arrived on wheels. Very few persons in 
Pickax chose to use their legs. This 
caller was walking timidly, and he was 
carrying a book.

   Putting the salescheck in his pocket, 
Qwilleran went out to meet Eddington 
Smith.

   "I found something for you," said the 
elderly bookseller.

   "Why didn't you phone me? I could have 
picked it up."

   "Dr. Hal told me to start taking 
walks. It wasn't far. Only a few blocks." 
He was breathing hard. "It's a nice day. 
I think this will be the last warm 
weekend we have."

   Qwilleran reached for the book. Like 
most of the stock in Eddington's shop it 
had lost its dust jacket, and the cover 
suggested years of storage in a damp 
basement. Then he looked at the spine. 
"City of Brotherly Crime! It's my book!" 
he yelped. "You found it! This is worth a 
lot to me, Edd."

   "You don't owe me anything, Mr. Q. I 
want you to have it. You're a good 
customer."

   Qwilleran clapped the frail man on the 
back. "Come in and have a drink of cider. 
Let me show you around the barn. Say 
hello to the cats."

   "I was here the night Mr. VanBrook was 
shot, but I didn't see much of the barn. 
Too many people."

   Qwilleran served cider with a 
magnanimous flourish and explained the 
design of the building: the fireplace 
cube, the triangular windows, the ramps 
and catwalks, and the use of tapestries.

   "That's quite an apple tree," said 
Eddington, looking up at the textile 
hanging overhead. He was chiefly 
impressed, however, by the presence of 
books on every level. Even in the 10ft 
apartment the cats had their own library: 
Beginning Algebra, Learning to Drive, 
Xenophon's Anabasis, and other titles 
from the ten-cent table at his shop.

   After climbing the ramps - slowly, for 
the old man's sake - they reached the 
topmost catwalk and could look down on 
the dramatic view of the main floor.

   "I've never been this high up, where I 
could look down," the bookseller said in 
wonder.

   Yum Yum, who had followed them on the 
tour, jumped to the catwalk railing, now 
conveniently cushioned by the top edge of 
the tapestry, and arranged herself in 
fiddle position: haunches up, body 
elongated, and forelegs stretched forward 
like the neck of a violin.

   "Siamese like a high altitude," 
Qwilleran explained. "It's their ancient 
heritage. They used to be watch-cats on 
the walls of temples and palaces."

   "That's interesting," said Eddington. 
"I never knew that before."

   "Yes, so they say, at any rate. But 
Yum Yum's developed a bad habit of 
pulling everything apart with her paw. . 
. NO!" he scolded, tapping the corner of 
the tapestry back on the tack-strip.

   She gazed into space, afflicted by 
sudden deafness, a common disorder in 
felines.

   "Someone's coming," said the 
bookseller. "I'd better get back to the 
store." A van winding up the Trevelyan 
Trail was visible through the high 
triangular windows.

   "That's my five o'clock appointment," 
Qwilleran mumbled. He combed his 
moustache with his fingertips. "I'd 
appreciate it, Edd, if you'd stay a 
little longer."

   "It's getting late."

   "I'll drive you home."

   "I shouldn't put you to the trouble, 
Mr. Q."

   "No trouble."

   "Won't I be in the way?"

   "You'll be doing me a favor, Edd. Just 
stay up here and listen." Qwilleran 
started down the ramp. "And keep out of 
sight," he called over his shoulder.

   The bookseller opened his mouth to 
speak, but no words came. What could he 
say? It was a strange request from a good 
customer.

   In the barnyard Qwilleran greeted 
Redbeard as he jumped out of his van. 
"Nice day," he said.

   "Yeah, this is the last warm weekend 
coming up. It's gonna rain, though, 
sometime. I can always tell by the way 
the horses act."

   "I envy someone like you who's an 
expert on horseflesh," Qwilleran said, 
indulging in gross flattery. He himself 
was an expert in uttering complimentary 
untruths.

   "Spent my whole life with the 
buggers," said Steve. "Ought to know 
something by this time."

   "Come on in and have a drink. . . How 
long does it take you to drive up here?" 
Qwilleran asked as they entered the barn.

   "Fifty minutes. Sometimes less. I like 
to drive fast."

   "One thing you don't have to worry 
about is red lights."

   "Yeah. Only problem is the old geezers 
driving trucks and tractors down the 
middle of the road like they owned it." 
Steve was eyeing the pale tweed sofas 
with uncertainty.

   "Let's sit over there," Qwilleran 
suggested, motioning toward the library 
area. "It's closer to the bar."

   "Man, I'm all for that! It's been a 
hard day. I could use a drink." He 
dropped his jacket on the floor and sank 
into a big leather chair with a sigh that 
was almost a groan. "Shot and a beer, if 
you've got it."

   Koko had taken up a position on the 
fireplace cube where he could keep the 
visitor under surveillance, his haunches 
coiled, his tail lying flat in a 
horseshoe curve.

   Without ceremony Qwilleran put a shot 
glass and a can of beer on a table at 
Steve's elbow. His own drink of Squunk 
water was in a martini glass, straight 
up, with a twist. "I hear you had an 
accident at the farm today," he said 
casually.

   The trainer tossed off the whiskey. 
"Where'd you hear that?"

   "On the radio." Not true, of course.

   "Yeah. Too bad. He was a good horse - 
great promise - but we hadda put him 
down."

   "What about the rider? Did he get up 
and walk away?"

   "Damn that Robbie! It was his own 
fault - pushing too hard, taking chances! 
You know how kids are today - no 
discipline! Serves him right if he has to 
quit riding. There'll be other riders and 
other horses, I always say. You can't let 
yourself get upset about things like 
that."

   "You're remarkably philosophical."

   "You hafta be in this business. But we 
got some good news. Wanna hear some good 
news?"

   "By all means."

   "Mrs. Amberton is staying on at the 
farm after it's sold. She's a helluva 
good instructor, and it'd be a crime to 
lose her. Plus, she has an idea for a 
tack shop - setting it up right on the 
farmgrounds. Only top-grade gear - 
everything from boots and saddles to hats 
and stock-ties. It'll be a big 
investment, but it'll payoff. The kids 
around here have a lotta dough to spend, 
and Lisa - Mrs. Amberton, that is - 
insists they've gotta have the best 
turnout if they ride under her colors. A 
good tack shop will be a money-maker!"

   "Who are these kids you talk about?"

   "Local kids, crazy about riding - some 
talented, some not - but they're all 
hell-bent on winning ribbons and working 
their way up to Madison Square Garden! 
Lisa - Mrs. Amberton - has as many as 
fifty in some of her classes. If you like 
young chicks, we've got 'em in all shapes 
and sizes."

   "How often do they compete?"

   "Coupla times a month. Lessons three 
times a week. Costs them plenty, but 
they've got it to spend. There's all 
kinds of money in Lockmaster."

   Qwilleran stood up and headed for the 
bar. "Do it again?"

   "Sounds good," said Steve.

   "Same way?"

   The trainer made an okay sign with his 
fingers. Koko was still staring at the 
visitor. Qwilleran kept the man talking 
and drinking, and eventually he began to 
fidget in his chair. "Well, whaddaya 
think about the farm? How does it sound, 
price and all?"

   "Sounds tempting," Qwilleran said, 
"but first I wanted to ask you a 
question."

   "Shoot."

   "Why did you land in Lockmaster?"

   "Tried everywhere else. Nice country 
up here. Good working conditions. Healthy 
climate. Everybody'll tell ya that."

   "Is it true you got into trouble Down 
Below?" Qwilleran asked the question in 
an easy conversational tone.

   "Whaddaya mean?"

   "I heard some scuttlebutt about. . . 
illegal drugs at the racetrack."

   Steve shrugged. "Everybody was doin' 
it. I just got caught."

   "I have a bone to pick with you," 
Qwilleran said in a casual way.

   "Yeah? What is it?"

   "When you were here yesterday, you 
shot a bird on the way out."

   "So? Something wrong with that?"

   "We don't shoot birds around here."

   "Hell! You got millions more. One'll 
never be missed. I can't say no to a 
redbird."

   "You seem pretty handy with a gun."

   "Yeah, I'm a good shot, drunk or 
sober." He looked up at Koko on the 
fireplace cube. "Sittin' right here I 
could get that cat between the eyes." He 
cocked a finger at Koko, who jumped to 
the floor with a grunt and went up the 
vertical 10ft ladder in a blur of fur-
straight up to the top catwalk, ending on 
the railing forty feet above Steve's 
head. "What's with him?" the trainer 
asked.

   Qwilleran could envision an aerial 
attack, and he launched an attack of his 
own. He said calmly, "Were you drunk or 
sober when you killed VanBrook?"

   "What! Are you nuts?"

   "Just kidding," Qwilleran said. "The 
police can't come up with a suspect, and 
I thought you were here that night."

   "Hell, no! I was at a wedding in 
Lockmaster."

   "The party was over at midnight. You 
can drive up here in fifty minutes. 
VanBrook was killed at 3 a.m."

   "I don't know what the hell you're 
talkin' about."

   "How about another drink?" Qwilleran 
said amiably, standing up and ambling to 
the bar area. He made bartending noises 
with bottles and glasses as he went on 
talking. "You knew VanBrook was going to 
be here, didn't you? You found out 
somehow."

   "Me? I never knew the guy!" Now Steve 
was standing up and facing the bar.

   "You also knew there'd be a lot of 
other people here to provide a cover-up." 
Qwilleran pulled a yellow slip of paper 
from his pocket. "Does this look 
familiar? It came out of your pocket, and 
it has directions for finding this 
place."

   "You lie! I was never here before 
yesterday! I didn't know the guy you're 
talkin' about."

   "You don't need a formal introduction 
when you've got a good motive for murder. 
And I happen to know your motive. I've 
also got a dead bird in a coffee can, 
waiting for the crime lab."

   Hearing that, Steve pulled a gun, and 
Qwilleran ducked behind the bar.

   "Don't shoot! I've got three witnesses 
upstairs!" There was a motionless moment 
as a befuddled brain wrestled with the 
options.

   Then came a muffled whoosh overhead. 
The man looked up - too late. The apple 
tree was dropping on him.

   Steve pulled the trigger, but the 
bullet went wild as he went down under 
the weighty tapestry.

   Groans came from beneath the eight-by-
ten-foot textile, and a hunched body 
squirmed to get free. Qwilleran, rushing 
to the kitchen, grabbed a long, blunt 
object from the freezer. He gave it a 
mighty swing above his head and brought 
it down on the struggling mass. It 
stopped struggling.

   "Call the police!" he shouted to 
Eddington on the catwalk. "Call the 
police! Use the phone in my studio!"

   As Qwilleran guarded the silent mound 
under the tapestry, the bookseller 
trotted feebly down the ramps to the 
second balcony and leaned over the 
railing to ask in a barely audible voice, 
"What shall I tell them?"

   Qwilleran enjoyed excellent police 
protection in Pickax. If anything were to 
happen to the Klingenschoen heir, his 
fortune would go to alternate heirs on 
the east coast and be lost forever to 
Moose County. In a matter of three 
minutes, therefore, two Pickax police 
cars and the state troopers were on the 
scene, and Chief Brodie himself was the 
first to arrive.

   Brodie said to Qwilleran, "Funny 
thing! Just half an hour ago an informant 
called us and fingered this guy. We 
didn't expect to have him delivered to us 
. . . at least, not so soon."

   "Who tipped you off?"

   "Anonymous caller. We gave them a code 
name so they can collect the reward. What 
was he doing here, anyway?"

   "Trying to sell me a horse farm. I 
might have killed him with my club if one 
of those apples hadn't cushioned the 
blow."

   "Club? Where is it?"

   "I put it in the freezer."

   Brodie grunted and gave Qwilleran the 
same incredulous look he bestowed on 
fireplaces with white smokestacks.

   "Excuse me," said Eddington Smith. "Is 
it all right if I go now?"

   Qwilleran said, "Stick around for a 
while, Edd, and if Andy doesn't drive you 
home, I will. What made you think of 
releasing the tapestry?"

   "The cats were pulling the corners up 
off the tacks, so I helped them a bit," 
said the bookseller. "Did I do right?"

   "I would say you created a successful 
diversion." Koko was back on top of the 
fireplace cube, hunched in his hungry 
pose, gazing down disapprovingly at the 
strangers in uniform, and probably 
wondering, Where's the red salmon? Yum 
Yum was absent from the scene, although 
the two of them usually presented a 
united front at mealtime. In fact, it was 
the female - with her new assertiveness - 
who had recently assumed the role of 
bread-winner, ordering dinner with a loud 
"N-N-NOW!"

   As the police scoured the barn for the 
bullet that went wild, a chill swept over 
Qwilleran. Where was Yum Yum?

   "My other cat's missing!" he yelled. 
"You guys look around down here! I'll try 
the balconies!"

-14-
   After searching the upper reaches of 
the barn, calling Yum Yum's name and 
hearing no answer, Qwilleran finally 
spotted her on one of the radiating beams 
just below the roof. The gunshot had 
frightened her, and she was hiding in one 
of the angles where all eight beams met, 
her ears flattened like the wings of an 
aircraft. No amount of coaxing or 
endearments would convince her to come 
forth.

   "What can we do?" Qwilleran asked 
Koko, who was trotting back and forth on 
the beam between the cat and the man. 
They had to leave her huddled in her 
secluded corner.

   After a while the bullet was 
discovered in the typecase, lodged 
between a mouse and an owl. Only when 
Qwilleran boiled a frozen lobster tail 
did the prima donna make an appearance, 
ambling down the ramp with a relaxed gait 
as if she had spent a week at a spa.

   "Cats!" he muttered. He was watching 
them devour the lobster when the phone 
rang and he heard an exultant voice. 
"Qwill, Robbie's going to be all right! 
With therapy he'll be able to walk!"

   "That's extremely good news, Vicki. 
Fiona must be greatly relieved. I was 
unable to reach her at the hospital."

   "She's here now, and she wants to talk 
to you."

   "Good! Put her on."

   "Mr. Qwilleran," came a faltering 
voice, "you don't know what I've just 
been through. I still can't believe the 
doctors could save him."

   "We were all pulling for him, Fiona."

   "I don't care if he'll ever. . . ride 
in competition any more, but he's 
promised to go back to school."

   "That's a plus," Qwilleran said, 
adding lightly, "He may switch his 
interest from horses to Japanese."

   "Mr. Qwilleran," she said hesitantly, 
and it was clear she had not noticed his 
quip, "I have something terrible to tell 
you, and I . . . uh . . . don't know how 
to begin."

   "Start at the beginning."

   "Well, it's something Robbie told me 
before he went into surgery. The poor boy 
thought. . . he thought he was going to 
die. . ." She stopped to stifle a few 
whimpering sobs. "He told me he knew 
about. . . Mr. VanBrook's murder. . ." 
Her voice trailed off.

   "Go on, Fiona. I think I know what 
you're going to say."

   "I can't. . . I can't. . ."

   "Then let me say it for you. VanBrook 
had written a will making Robin his heir. 
Is that right?"

   "Yes."

   "And when Robin dropped out of school, 
VanBrook threatened to cut him off 
entirely."

   "How did you know that?"

   Qwilleran passed over her question. 
This part of the scenario he had only 
deduced, but he had been right. He went 
on. "Robin had the bright idea of killing 
VanBrook before he had a chance to 
rewrite his will."

   "No! No! It wasn't Robbie's idea!" she 
cried. "But they talked about it - him 
and Steve. They thought they could use 
the money and buy the farm. . . O-h-h-h!" 
she wailed. "They didn't tell me! I could 
have stopped it!"

   "When did you find out?"

   "Not till Robbie was. . . Not till 
they were wheeling him into the operating 
room. 'Mommy, am I gonna die?' he kept 
saying."

   "Was Steve the shooter?"

   "Yes."

   "Did Robin ride along in the van?"

   "Oh, no! He was in bed when I got back 
from the theatre that night. I told him I 
wouldn't go to the party. I got home 
about one o'clock."

   "Are you sure Robin didn't sneak out 
after you returned home?"

   There was a gasp followed by a 
breathless silence. "The police have 
Steve in custody, Fiona."

   She groaned. "I turned him in. Robbie 
begged me to. He said there was a big 
reward. He thought he was going to die. . 
." Her voice dissolved in a torrent of 
sobs.

   Vicki returned to the line. "What will 
happen now?"

   "Robin is an accessory, but he can 
turn state's evidence," Qwilleran told 
her.

   Soon afterward, Arch Riker called the 
apple barn in high spirit. "It worked! It 
worked!" he said. "The reward brought in 
a tip to the police, and they've arrested 
the suspect. He'll be charged with 
murder. And Dennis is off the hook. Tell 
Koko he can stop working on the case."

   "Good," was Qwilleran's quiet reply.

   "It was someone from Lockmaster, just 
as you said from the beginning. It'll be 
in the paper tomorrow. For once, 
something big happened on our deadline. . 
. You seem remarkably cool. What's the 
matter?"

   "I know the story behind the story, 
Arch, but it's not for publication."

   “You rat!”

   Fran Brodie was the next to call. 
"Dennis is cleared!" she exclaimed. 
"Isn't that wonderful? . . . But I hear 
the apple tree came down! Shawn will 
rehang it tomorrow."

   As far as Qwilleran was concerned, 
the, VanBrook case was closed, but the 
Mystery Man of Moose County would remain 
a puzzle forever. He spent Friday with 
Susan and the attorney at the house on 
Goodwinter Boulevard, slitting red-dot 
boxes and shaking out the leaves of 
almost a thousand books.

   On Saturday he wanted Polly to fly to 
Chicago for a ballgame; she wanted to go 
birding in the wetlands. They compromised 
on a picnic lunch - with binoculars - on 
the banks of the Ittibittiwassee River. 
When he called for her at her carriage 
house shortly before noon, he was in a 
less than amiable mood - after an 
abortive bubble-blowing session with two 
unresponsive and ungrateful Siamese, 
followed by a hair-raising incident 
involving Yum Yum and her harness.

   On arrival, he handed Polly four clay 
pipes and a family-size box of soap 
flakes. "Now you can blow bubbles for 
Bootsie," he said grumpily. "Lori Bamba 
says cats like to chase bubbles."

   "Well. . . thank you," she said 
dubiously. "Do yours chase bubbles?"

   "No. They don't think they're cats. . 
. What do we have to pack in the car?"

   "You take the folding table and 
chairs, and I'll carry the picnic basket. 
Did you remember to bring your 
binoculars?"

   There was a maudlin scene as Polly 
said goodbye to Bootsie, causing 
Qwilleran to grumble into his moustache. 
Then they headed for the Ittibittiwassee 
- past the spot where he had fallen from 
his bicycle three years before, and past 
the ditch where his car had landed upside 
down the previous year.

   As they unfolded the table and chairs 
on a flat, grassy bank at a picturesque 
bend in the river, Polly said, "Look! 
There's a cedar waxwing!"

   "Where?" he asked, picking up the 
binoculars.

   "Across the river."

   "I don't see it. I don't see 
anything."

   "Take the lens covers off, dear. It's 
in that big bush."

   "There are lots of big bushes."

   "Too late. It flew away." She was 
unpacking a paper tablecover and napkins. 
"It's breezier than I anticipated. We may 
have trouble anchoring these. . . Do you 
like deviled eggs?"

   "With or without mashed eggshells?"

   "Really, Qwill! You're slightly 
impossible today. By the way," she added 
with raised eyebrows, "I hear you spent 
the day at the VanBrook house with Susan 
Exbridge yesterday."

   "Has Dear Heart been prowling with her 
telescope?"

   "Quick! There's a male goldfinch!"

   "Where?" He reached for the glasses 
again.

   "On that wild cherry branch. He has a 
lovely song, almost like a canary."

   "I don't hear it."

   "He's stopped singing." Polly poured 
tomato juice into paper cups. "What were 
you doing at VanBrook's house?" she 
persisted. "Or shouldn't I ask?"

   "I was helping Susan and the attorney 
from Lockmaster to open sealed boxes said 
to contain books. She's been commissioned 
to liquidate the estate."

   "And what did you find in the boxes?"

   "Books. . . but there's also some 
valuable Oriental art."

   "We were all delighted to read in the 
paper that he bequeathed everything to 
the Pickax schools. . . Help yourself to 
sandwiches, Qwill."

   He loaded a limp paper plate. with 
moist tuna sandwiches and hard-cooked 
eggs with moist stuffing, neither of 
which was compatible with an oversized 
moustache. "VanBrook was a complex 
character," he said. "I'd like to delve 
into his past and write a book."

   "I hear his credentials were 
falsified."

   "Where did you hear that?"

   Polly shrugged. "The story is going 
around."

   "I suspect he was a self-educated 
genius," said Qwilleran. "He had a couple 
of aliases, and that's probably why he 
avoided personal publicity in my column. 
He was in hiding - or in trouble. . . 
Hey!" A sudden gust of wind caught his 
paper plate and conveyed it across the 
river like a flying carpet, carrying part 
of a stuffed egg. "VanBrook spoke 
Japanese and was familiar with Asia. He 
might have tricked Americans into 
investing in fictitious enterprises in 
Japan."

   "Isn't that rather a bizarre venture 
for a school principal?"

   "Not for VanBrook." Qwilleran was 
thinking of some flimsy business 
agreements he had found in Memoirs of a 
Merry Milkmaid. He was thinking of the 
secret of the red dot. He had no 
intention, however, of telling Polly that 
books in fifty-two cartons were leaved 
with paper money - counterfeit paper 
money.

   "Listen to that blue jay," she said. 
"Now there's a bird with decent 
visibility and audibility!" he said. "I'm 
for blue jays and cardinals. Face it, 
Polly. I can identify a split infinitive 
or dangling participle or hyphenated 
neologism, but I'm not equipped to spot a 
tufted titmouse or yellow-bellied 
sapsucker."

   "Are you ready for coffee?" she asked, 
uncorking a Thermos bottle. "And I made 
chocolate brownies."

   After several brownies Qwilleran was, 
feeling more agreeable. In a mellow mood 
he murmured, "This is supposed to be our 
last warm weekend."

   "I've enjoyed our picnic," she said. 
"I've enjoyed every minute of it."

   "So have I. We belong together, 
Polly."

   "I'm happiest when I'm with you, 
Qwill."

   "Say something from Shakespeare."

   "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
my love as deep. The more I give to thee, 
the more I have, for both are infinite."

   Qwilleran reached across the table and 
grasped her hand - the one with the 
birthstone ring he had given her. With 
brooding eyes intent on her face he said, 
"I want to ask a question, Polly."

   There was a breathy pause as she 
smiled and waited for the question.

   "What did you and Steve talk about at 
the wedding?" Up to that moment there had 
been no reference to Polly's brief fling 
with the trainer, nor had the subject of 
his arrest been mentioned.

   Taking a moment to collect herself and 
rearrange her facial expression, she 
said, "We talked about horses, and my 
interest in books, and the Stablechat, 
and his allergy, but mostly horses. 
Shirley had told him about you, and I 
elaborated on the generous things you and 
the K Fund have done for Moose County. 
When I heard about his arrest, I wondered 
if he had been using me for an alibi on 
the night of the murder."

   "No, the timing was off. More likely 
he was trying to establish a financial 
connection. The Amberton Farm is looking 
for an angel."

   "When did you first suspect him, 
Qwill?"

   "When he came to the barn to talk 
about the farm last Wednesday, He asked 
what happened to my trees in the orchard. 
If he hadn't been there before, how would 
he have known the orchard had been 
cleaned out? Also, it looked as if some 
work had been done on the righthand side 
of his van, at the approximate height of 
my mailbox, but I couldn't be sure. 
Nothing really clicked until Koko found a 
file of Van Brook's personal papers. 
There were two wills: one dated recently, 
naming Pickax as the beneficiary, and a 
prior will naming Steve's stable boy as 
the sole heir."

   Polly frowned. "Stableboy?"

   Qwilleran helped himself to another 
brownie and described the principal's 
curious relationship with his housekeeper 
and her son. "It was Steve's idea to 
eliminate VanBrook before he could change 
his will, but it was too late. When I saw 
those two wills, I had a hunch that the 
gun used to kill Koko's cardinal had also 
killed Cardinal Wolsey." He patted his 
moustache.

   "Look!" cried Polly. "I believe that's 
a female black-throated green warbler!"

   "If you say so, I believe it . . . 
Would you like to come up and see my 
tapestries?" he asked as they started 
packing the picnic things.

   Polly said she would be delighted. 
"Just don't sit under the apple tree," he 
warned her. On the way to the apple barn 
he apologized for his bad humor before 
lunch. "I'd had a hair-raising experience 
with Yum Yum," he explained. "She won't 
walk on a leash, the way Koko does. The 
first time I buckled her harness, she 
played dead. The second time, she froze. 
This morning she galloped up the ramp and 
disappeared. We found her on one of the 
radiating beams that meet in the center 
of the barn. She'd been up there before, 
but this time her harness snagged on a 
bolt. She couldn't get loose. I had to go 
after her."

   "Heavens, Qwill! It's forty feet above 
the floor!”

   "Yes, Polly, that thought occurred to 
me. And the beam was only twelve inches 
wide. I had to crawl out there and 
dislodge her and then back up all the way 
to the catwalk, clutching her in one 
hand. It seemed like half a city block! 
She enjoyed it! She was purring her head 
off all the way."

   "And what was Koko doing?"

   "Trying to help - by crouching on my 
back. He thought it was a steeplechase! . 
. . Why did I ever get involved with 
cats?"

   They had a seven o'clock reservation 
at the Old Stone Mill, and Qwilleran took 
Polly home to feed Bootsie, take a nap, 
and dress for dinner. Back at the apple 
barn Koko was on the desk, sitting on 
Watership Down.

   "Okay, we have time for one chapter," 
Qwilleran said, sinking into his favorite 
leather chair. Yum Yum settled down on 
his lap slowly and softly like a hot-air 
balloon debating, ending in a Bat mound 
of virtually weightless fur. Koko perched 
on the arm of the chair, sitting tall 
with ears alert, whiskers bristling with 
anticipation, and eyes bright with 
intelligence.

   Qwilleran shook his head in wonder. "I 
never know what's going on in that 
transistorized brain of yours. Did you 
know VanBrook was going to get it in the 
back of the head? Did you know Redbeard 
was the murderer? Did you know something 
vital was hidden behind the books in 
VanBrook's office?"

   Koko shifted his feet impatiently and 
waited for the reading to begin. 
Qwilleran had to answer his own 
questions. No, he thought; it's all 
coincidence, plus my imagination. He's 
only a cat. . . But why did he keep 
twisting his tail like a horseshoe? Why 
did he twice tear up Stablechat? Why did 
he sink his fangs in every one of the red 
jelly beans?

   "Don't just sit there; say something!" 
he said to Koko. "Read my mind!"

   "Yow!" Koko said, a yowl that ended in 
a cavernous yawn.

   Qwilleran opened the book to page 
eight. "Chapter two. This is about the 
Chief Rabbit. . ." He closed the book 
again. "One more question: Was your 
sudden interest in rabbits supposed to 
put the finger on Mr. O'Hare?"

   Koko stiffened, turned his head, 
swiveled his ears, leaped impulsively 
from the arm of the chair, and bounded to 
the front windows. And from the berry 
bushes came a whistle, loud and clear: 
who-it? who-it? who-it?