The Cat Who Saw Stars

-9-

On Monday morning Qwilleran faxed his theater review for that day’s edition and the “Qwill Pen” for Tuesday, and he started thinking about the “Qwill Pen” for Friday. For him the treadmill effect was the challenge and fascination of journalism. The job was never finished. There was always another deadline. He remembered the newsdesks in metropolitan papers Down Below, where there was always another scandal, another war, another ballgame, another fire, another murder, another election, another court trial, another hero, another obituary, another Fourth of July.

Now, 400 miles north of everywhere, he was seriously considering such topics as the number of pressed-back chairs in the county and the possibility of spinning cat hair into yarn. His old friends at the Press Clubs around the country would never believe it … What matter? He was enjoying his life, and when Polly returned from Canada, he would enjoy it more.

First thing Monday morning, knowing that farmers rise with the sun, Qwilleran called Alice Ogilvie at the sheep ranch. He remembered her as the demure pioneer woman on the float, in a long dress with a wisp of white kerchief at the neckline and a modest white cap on severely drawn-back hair.

The woman who answered the phone had a vigorous voice and outgoing personality. “That’ll be fun!” she said. “Why don’t you come this morning? Bring some cat hair with you if you want to. From one pound of angora rabbit hair you can spin about forty thousand yards, so … who knows?”

Then and there Qwilleran forgot about Arch’s Christmas gift; it would take forty years to accumulate even a half-pound of the weightless stuff that Koko and Yum Yum were in the habit of shedding. He accepted her invitation to come for coffee and doughnuts, however, and drove to the ranch directly after faxing his copy. It was on Sandpit Road, two miles south of the shore. Having written about sheepkeeping in the past, he knew what to expect: hilly, rocky land unsuitable for crops… fences dividing it into pastures… ewes grazing peacefully… border collies herding

flocks from one pasture to another. It was like a game of musical chairs that gave the sheep a change of diet or a rest period with shade, water, and the necessary salt. Lazy rams occupied one enclosure; hyperactive lambs were in another.

Furthermore, Qwilleran knew that the pastoral scene was being managed by computer in the farmhouse. It not only dictated the movement of the flocks but kept records of the animals by number. Instantly available was information on breeding and lambing history, weaning, growth, quality of fleece, genetic background, and even individual eccentricities such as fence jumping.

“What impresses me most,” he had written in his column, “is the magic of wool: how a roly-poly sheep can emerge from the shearing shed as skinny as a rail and then grow it all back in the cold months.”

The Ogilvies’ sprawling old farmhouse gave no sign of being on-line. When Qwilleran drove up, he was met by Alice, in jeans and a western shirt. She ushered him through the side door into a large kitchen with a ten-foot table and a fleet of tall, stately, shiny pressed-back chairs.

“Handsome chairs!” he said. “It was an inspiration to use them on the float.”

“It was my daughter’s idea. These belonged to my husband’s grandparents, back in the days when farmers had large families and lots of hired hands to feed. I don’t know how many times they’ve been varnished and recaned, and they’re still on duty, always standing at attention.”

“And where did you find a shepherd who can play the flute like Rampal?”

“Wasn’t he good? He’s head of music at Mooseland High and loved doing it. Why does everyone like to be in a parade?”

They sat around a corner of the big table for coffee and doughnuts. They were real fried-cakes, prepared that morning because Alice was taking them to a coffee hour at the church. Qwilleran had to control his enthusiasm and downright greed.

He said, “I’ve been reading Far from the Madding Crowd and find myself identifying with sheepkeepers.”

“Our family,” Alice said, “has worn out three copies of that book over the years. How did you react to the cliff tragedy?”

“With shock and horror.”

“It’s surprising how little sheepkeeping has changed in two centuries. We still use sheepdogs. The shepherd still moves into the bam when the ewes are lambing. We still call the flock by shouting ‘Ovey! Ovey!’ Did you know that cry comes from the Latin word for sheep? It’s been handed down through eight thousand generations. You know, ewes have an age-old tranquility that rubs off on their humans. I can’t help loving the girls, as we call them, and their gentle, trusting, dopey look!”

“I’m glad I brought my tape recorder,” Qwilleran said as he prepared to ease her into the subject of spinning. “What do you spin other than wool?”

“Silk, cotton, angora from rabbits, even a little dog hair blended with other fibers. It’s hard-wearing. For socks, you know… Want to see the spinning studio where I give lessons?”

The spinning wheel used on the float caught his eye. It had a ten-spoke flywheel, tilted bench with treadle underneath, and a post holding a cornhusk bobbin. A hundred years old, Alice said. Built of pine, cherry, maple, and poplar.

On a table was a thick blanket of fleece, exactly as it came from a ewe on shearing day - white on the inside, weathered on the outside. Alice said it would be torn apart and laundered before being carded and fluffed up like cotton candy. Finally it would be combed and rolled into rovings to feed into the spinning wheel.

She said, “There are weavers and knitters who won’t work with anything but handspuns.”

She demonstrated at a contemporary wheel - compact, with well-engineered head assembly and proper bobbin. Treadling with a stockinged foot, she pinched fibers from a roving to feed with rhythmic movements of both hands, all the while talking of ratio, tension, ply, and texture. She invited Qwilleran to try it.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I want to preserve my innocence.”

He thought she talked like one who has given numerous talks to clubs. “Women used to spin yarn, weave cloth, make garments for the family, cook meals in the fireplace, scrub clothes in a brook, carry pails of water from a spring, and walk miles to church on Sunday.”

Outside the window a pickup truck came to an abrupt stop, a door slammed, and footsteps came down a hall.

“My daughter,” Alice explained. “She’s been in Pickax, renewing her driver’s license.” She appeared in the doorway, frowning. “Qwill,” her mother said, “this is my daughter, Barbara.”

“Call me Barb,” the young woman said with a pout. “I hate Barbara.”

Her mother smiled and shrugged. “By any name she’s my one and only daughter and a very talented knitter. She’ll tell you all about it. I have to take my doughnuts to the church.”

As soon as she had left, Barb said, “I need a drink! I had to wait two hours at the license bureau. Twenty people waiting, and only one guy on duty! … What do you drink?”

“Ginger ale, or a reasonable facsimile.”

“Well, I’m gonna have rum and orange juice.” she had long straight blond hair and the sultry eyes that Riker had mentioned. They were heavy with makeup, and she shifted them from side to side as she talked - half smiling when Qwilleran complimented her on the knit vest she was wearing. Worn over a white shirt and shorts, it was white with a multicolor pattern of fireworks in the stitchery.

She smokes, Qwilleran thought, recognizing the slightly husky voice.

“Do you smoke?” she asked. “Let’s go out on the porch. Alice doesn’t let me smoke indoors.”

They carried their drinks to the side porch, where Barb sat cross-legged on a glider.

“Tell me about the knitting club,” he asked.

“It’s unisex. We get together once a week around our big kitchen table, and we laugh a lot - and learn. Then I have a knitting day-camp for kids every Saturday. We have a picnic lunch, and they get several breaks to run around and blow off steam. Then it’s back to the needles.”

“What do they knit?”

“Socks. Goofy socks. The goofier, the better. They love ‘em! Socks are a good way to begin knitting-you learn as you go, and they don’t take much yarn.”

“What makes a sock goofy?”

Barb jumped off the glider. “I’ll show you. I make ‘em to sell at Elizabeth’s.”

She returned with a boxful of mismatched pairs in wild mixes of colors and patterns: stripes, plaids, zigzags, and confetti dots - some with cuffs or tassels.

“Do people actually buy these?”

“As fast as I can knit them. Vacationers buy them to save for Christmas presents because they’re different and because they’re knitted of handspun wool from local sheep. Each pair of socks has the name of the ewe that grew the wool.”

He looked at her askance.

She shrugged. “What does it matter? Sheep all look alike if you don’t know them personally. It’s just a gimmick.” She swiveled her eyes mischievously. “I also have nongoofy stuff on display at Elizabeth’s - vests, scarfs, mittens, hats… Ready for another drink?”

As she went to the kitchen, he reflected that he had never seen her knits at Elizabeth’s because he always avoided the women’s clothing section. When he bought gifts for Polly, Elizabeth selected them.

“Where have you been hiding your talent in the last few years?” he asked when she returned with her second drink.

“I’ve been living Down Below. I came home a couple of winters ago,” she said with a shrug of dissatisfaction.

“Why did you leave in the first place?” He had a feeling there was a story behind the story here, and she was getting relaxed enough to tell it.

She slouched down on the glider. “You really wanna know? … My girlfriend and I decided there weren’t any interesting guys around here, so we went to Florida. But it’s hard to get a job there. They think you’ll quit as soon as snow melts up north. My girlfriend cuts hair, so she can always get work. I didn’t have much luck, though. But then I meet a cool guy who was a balloon-chaser!” Her eyes swiveled pleasurably at the recollection.

“What kind of balloons did he chase? And did he ever catch any?” Qwilleran quipped.

She was not sure how to take it. “Mmmm, you know, hot-air balloons? … They lift off and drift away, and the pilot never knows where he’s gonna land. The chaser follows in a truck so he can pick up the passengers and the envelope and the basket. Our envelope was red-and- white stripes. Our basket held four people standing up.”

“Did you become a chaser yourself?”

“I worked weekends in the support crew. Other days I waited on tables.”

Qwilleran said, “It seems to me that the pilot has all the fun, and the chaser does all the work.”

“No, no! It’s exciting! Never knowing where you are - driving miles and miles, zigzagging all over the map, talking to the pilot on the phone, and sort of afraid you’ll end up in a swamp.”

“If you found it so thrilling, why did you come home?”

She lowered her eyes. “My girlfriend got married. My balloon-chaser wasn’t all that interested in a country girl. Then I started dating an older man who really liked me, only… I found out he was married. So I came home… Why am I telling you all this? I guess it’s because I don’t really have anybody to talk to.”

“How about your mother?”

“Alice is too busy,” she said with a shrug.

“But you should be happy. You’re doing creative work. You’re using your talent. That should be satisfying,” he said sympathetically.

“It isn’t enough. I don’t have anybody I really like - that’s the bummer!”

Another truck turned into the driveway.

“Here’s Alice,” she said. “Gotta empty the ashtray.”

Qwilleran drove back to town thinking that the plight of an ex-balloon-chaser was more interesting than the construction and operation of antique spinning wheels, though less suitable for his column.

In Mooseville, he proceeded to wait for the newspaper truck from Pickax; the Monday edition would carry his theater review, the closure of the backpacker case, and something about the drowned sailor from Grand Island. He was curious to know if his remarks to Arch about twenty-word coverage had made any difference. Probably not, he guessed. The truck from the printing plant was always late on Mondays, a breach he attributed to Monday Morning Flu, which seemed to be epidemic in the workplace everywhere. Fortunately, one could always kill time at the Northern Lights Hotel, open seven days a week and twenty-four hours a day. Its presence was like a beacon shining across a somnolent resort town on

Mondays, when most places were closed. One could always buy a magazine in the lobby, chat with the desk clerk, sit on the rear veranda to watch the harbor traffic, or have a meal - not a good one, but adequate. The couple who now owned it did their best. Wayne Stacy was conscientious, and his wife was compassionate; she would rather lose customers than discharge the old cook before his retirement. The ordinariness of the food was a tradition to townfolk; to vacationers it was local color.

Qwilleran, always amazed that the historical building had not burned down or slid into the harbor, mounted the broad flight of wooden steps to the wide porch that overlooked Main Street.

“Coming for lunch?” Mrs. Stacy greeted him in the lobby. She always looked businesslike in a neutral-colored pantsuit, but she had a family-style approach. It convinced Qwilleran that she cared more about his hunger than the selling of a lunch.

“I might have a sandwich,” he said. “What’s the chopper doing over the lake?” The sheriff’s helicopter could be seen in the distance, making wide circles.

“Looks like a boating emergency. I hope it’s nothing serious. By the way, you know that woman you spoke to in the coffee shop yesterday? She’s been in twice more.”

“She must like your food,” he said, a remark with ambiguous connotations.

“I don’t know about that. She eats like a bird.”

Qwilleran had his ham-and-cheese sandwich and a cup of cream of tomato soup, and still the Monday papers had not arrived, so he sat in one of the weathered chairs on the veranda and watched the desultory activity on the waterfront.

The helicopter was still hovering, and after a while he began to have uncomfortable feelings about its mission. He patted his moustache several times, and his suspicions were confirmed when an ambulance drove to the end of the main pier and waited. A cabin cruiser was heading for shore at a fast clip. When it docked, a sheriff’s deputy jumped to the wharf and conferred with the medics. A wheelchair was rolled out, and a young woman in deckwear and a visored cap was helped off the boat. Although not noticeably ill or injured, she was wheeled to the hotel’s side door on the lower level.

At this point, Qwilleran’s curiosity exceeded his interest in Monday’s paper. He returned to the lobby in time to see an elevator door open and a medic hurry to the manager’s office; the other stayed

in the elevator with the woman, who was still wearing dark glasses. Mrs. Stacy was brought to the elevator, and a pantomime ensued: questioning, advising, urging, refusing. As a result, she hurried back to her office and the elevator ascended with the patient and the two attendants.

Now captivated by the melodrama, Qwilleran stationed himself where he could see both elevator and office. Mrs. Stacy was making urgent phone calls, to judge by her nervous gestures. The elevator signal indicated that the car had stopped at the second floor. Soon after, Mrs. Stacy left her office and ran up a nearby flight of stairs, whereupon the elevator came down with the emergency personnel and a folded wheelchair.

Still the bundle of newspapers had not arrived, and the desk clerk explained to Qwilleran with a sly smirk, “The truck drops the first bundle here, the next at the drugstore, and third at the tavern, where the driver has a nip of something. Maybe today he’s doing it the other way around.”

Qwilleran disliked waiting for his newspaper, but the charade piqued his curiosity. Soon he saw Derek Cuttlebrink rushing into the building and bounding up the stairs, after which Mrs. Stacy came slowly down the same flight, looking disturbed.

Qwilleran called to her, “Mrs. Stacy! What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?” It was the password that always opened the door to confidences.

“Come in the office, Mr. Q, and have a cup of coffee,” she said. “I need one. I feel so sorry for that poor woman.” She peered across the lobby. “There’s my husband. I’m so glad he got back… Wayne! Wayne! Come in here!”

The hotelkeeper joined them, nodding to Qwilleran. “Just got back from Pickax. I could smell bad news, soon’s I parked in the lot - people standing around, staring at nothing, looking bewildered. What happened?”

“One of our guests drowned!” his wife said. “Owen Bowen!”

“No! … I hope he wasn’t fool enough to jump off his boat for a swim. I warned him! But he was so cocksure of himself. Any details?”

“Nothing much. He and Mrs. Bowen were boating on their day off, and she radioed for help. The sheriff’s marine patrol brought her and the boat in.

The helicopter’s been searching for more than an hour.”

“Where is she now?”

“Upstairs. She wouldn’t have a doctor-afraid he’d give her a shot. She’s fussy about what she takes into her body.”

“Does she have any friends in town? They haven’t been very sociable.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Stacy said. “She asked me to call their assistant manager. I had a terrible time finding him.”

Wayne Stacy, who was president of the chamber of commerce, said, “I wonder if there’s something the chamber can do for her. The restaurant may never reopen. And after all the work we did! Darn shame!”

Qwilleran spoke for the first time. “The chef is called the kingpin of a restaurant, and this one is dedicated to her profession, so she might decide to carry on. Derek Cuttlebrink has been managing the lunch hour, and he could take over both shifts - after the run of the play, of course; he has a lead role.”

“Yes, but will that poor woman have the heart to carry on?” Mrs. Stacy worried.

“You know what they say,” he reminded her. “Work is a healthy way of coping with grief, and Derek calls her a workaholic. I predict the operation will continue after a suitable hiatus.”

“I hope so. The town needs a place like that. They say she’s a wonderful chef.”

Next he walked to Elizabeth’s Magic on Oak Street. Although it was closed on Mondays, she would be there, rearranging her stock and totaling the previous week’s receipts. Her enterprise was doing well. She brought to it an infectious spirit, off-beat ideas, and a certain shrewdness. He rapped on the glass, and she ran to the door.

Her first breathless words were, “Qwill! Have’ you heard - ?”

“Shocking, isn’t it? How did you find out?”

“Mrs. Stacy was trying to locate Derek, and he happened to be doing some work for me. He rushed over to the hotel.”

“Do you expect him to come back?”

“He’d better come back!” she said firmly. “He can’t leave me with all this sawdust and plaster lying around!” A somewhat tilted rectangle had been cut in the sidewall of the shop. “I own the whole building, you know, and my tenant next door has moved out, so I’m going to use the space for a lending library.”

“Admirable idea!” he said. “But was that lopsided doorway intentional? Or was Derek hung-over?”

Before she could answer, Derek opened the front door with his own key and charged into the shop saying, “Weird accident! You won’t believe it.”

The three of them huddled in the chairs at the rear as he told what he knew:

“They went out in the boat and anchored somewhere and had a picnic lunch. Ernie had some red wine and got tipsy, so she went below for a nap, leaving Owen to do some fishing. Suddenly she, woke up because the boat was rocking violently. Also, her hands and feet were numb. She was scared.”

“Awful feeling,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve had it happen after drinking.”

“She called to Owen, and he didn’t answer. She crawled up the ladder on her knees and elbows, and he was gone! Then she really panicked, and the blood rushed back to her extremities. She radioed for help… That’s all I know.”

Qwilleran said, “I saw them bring her into the hotel in a wheelchair. How did she seem when you arrived, Derek?”

“In a daze. I had to drag the story out of her.”

“Did she have an explanation of his disappearance?”

“Yeah. He’d been drinking a lot. Booze - not just wine. She thinks they got caught in the wake of another boat, and he lost his balance and fell overboard.”

“Could be,” Qwilleran said, although a nagging sensation in the roots of his moustache was telling him, Not so! Not so!

Derek said, “I imagine she’ll want to sell the boat; it was Owen’s plaything. What she likes is the RV. It has all her cookbooks, and it’s kind of cozy. Sleeps two. Has running water. I think she’d be happy living in the thing.”

“Well, I’ve got commitments to take care of,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll leave you two to clean up the plaster dust.”