Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"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."