The Cat Who Saw Stars

-16-

On Sunday morning the sun was shining despite the weather warnings, and Tess came from the Snuggery in shorts, sandals, and a different type of crow T-shirt, depicting three nest-builders.

“Everyone out of the kitchen!” she ordered cheerily. “The poor man’s Julia Child is about to perform miracles… By the way,” she added as she picked up a skewer from the countertop, “one of these skewers keeps falling off its nail.”

“It’s no accident,” Qwilleran said. “Koko thinks it’s a toy. It was a mistake to hang them there… Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You might scatter some com on the beach.”

“There are no crows today,” he protested. “Scatter it, and they will come.”

She was right. They came out of the woods in a black cloud. Qwilleran got out of their way and back to the lake porch to wait for the omelettes. The sky was Alice blue (one of Polly’s favorite colors) and the lake was dazzlingly bright. Surely there was no imminent storm. From the kitchen came aromas of melting butter, brewing coffee, sautéeing mushrooms, and toasting muffins. With great feelings of satisfaction, he refigured his reunion with Polly.

She would be pleased with her new vest and would undoubtedly bring him something from Canada: a piece of Inuit sculpture or a CD of French-Canadian jazz. At Owen’s Place she would be delighted to see Derek in a position of responsibility; she had long been convinced of his potential. Arch’s reluctant membership in the knitting club would amuse her, and she would want to know all about the parade, Bushy’s new boat, and the embroidered sampler from Safe Harbor. She would be dismayed by Owen’s unpopularity and shocked by his lacustrine disappearance. (Good word; Polly would like it.)

He would avoid mention of the Suncatcher and Fast Mama; it alarmed her when he took on self-assigned investigations.

When breakfast was served, Qwilleran paraphrased Dickens. “There never was such an omelette!”

“Thank you,” Tess said. “In all modesty, I admit that I make the world’s best, although it’s said that a cook who makes a perfect omelette can’t make anything else. What do you think of the duck eggs? They’re rich, because ducks are amphibious and high in fat content.”

“Why do they figure so prominently in American slang?” he asked. “We have lame ducks, dead ducks, and sitting ducks.”

“Slang is full of edibles,” she said. “We call someone a meatball; the boss is the big cheese; something easy is a piece of cake - “

“Or duck soup.”

After breakfast, when Tess was assembling the promised casserole, Qwilleran went into town for the New York Times and sat on the hotel veranda for a while - to read a little, eavesdrop, and watch the harbor activity. He had a view of the marina office and was somewhat surprised to see a sheriff’s deputy and a state trooper looking at the Suncatcher. If Einstein’s owner had tipped off the authorities about the dog’s behavior, that was good! The police had been dragging their feet, in Qwilleran’s opinion. If an investigation would implicate Ernie in wrongdoing, that was bad! He saw her through Derek’s worshipful eyes; he himself admired her cuisine, and he was inclined to empathize with anyone who was not “one of us.”

Qwilleran returned to the cabin and found Tess on the porch, reading about ravens. He asked, “Do they really say ‘nevermore’ or was that Poe-etic license?”

“For a pun as bad as that,” she retorted, “you have to pay a forfeit.”

“Will you settle for a glass of sangria?”

“I’d love it! And while you’re in the kitchen, would you turn on the oven to preheat? Set it at three-fifty.”

Eventually the casserole went into the oven to bake for forty minutes, and what happened in that brief time was a farce worthy of Feydeau-fast-moving, comic, improbable - and best described by Qwilleran’s own notes in his personal journal:

Sunday, June 14 Beautiful day, although storm predicted. Cats apprehensive. At 1:15 Tess and I are on the lake porch drinking sangria and cranberry juice, respectively. The cats are huddled in a comer. Suddenly they’re alerted. Someone’s approaching on the beach. A young woman in shorts and sunglasses is carrying a large flat package. She starts up our sandladder. I go out to investigate. In a lazy drawl with breathy pauses she says, “Hi, Mr. Q. I brought… your sampler. My uncle… framed it. I’m Janelle from Safe Harbor!” At 1 :25 she’s on the porch, being introduced to Tess. I go to get her a glass of sangria. While in the kitchen I see a red pickup pulling in, and out steps Barb Ogilvie in shorts and sunglasses, carrying another flat package. “I brought your vest,” she says moodily. “Elizabeth said you had to have it today.” I offer her a glass of sangria and take her around to the porch to meet the others. At 1:30 I mix another batch of sangria, while Tess tells them about an old doctor who treated all ailments alike - with a horseradish diet, horseradish poultices, and horseradish inhalants. His patients never died; they just evaporated.

At 1:35 I hear a tooting behind the cabin. It’s an airport rental car, and out steps Polly! In shock, I say, “Your plane isn’t due till tomorrow!” She says sweetly, “I couldn’t wait to get home. I flew in on my broomstick.” I take her around to the porch and introduce her to the three young women. She’s somewhat surprised.

At 1:40 Tess takes the casserole out of the oven. I’m wondering if there’s enough to serve five.

At 1:45 the sun disappears behind cloud cover, and all the dark glasses come off. Barb looks terrible without them; she’s been crying.

At 1:50 the phone rings. I answer, and a man shouts, “Where is she? Where is that woman?” I say calmly, “I have four here. Which one do you want?” It’s Wetherby. Tess is supposed to be in Horseradish as guest of honor at a family reunion. Fifty relatives have come from all over to meet the Bunkers’ first Ph.D. Photographers are there from two newspapers. I return to the porch and tell Tess, “It’s for you.” As she rushes to the phone, she’s saying, “Oh, no! Oh, no!”

At 1:55 she returns to the porch, wide-eyed. “I’ve got to leave! I’m going to pack! There’s a car blocking the drive!” It’s the rental car, and I offer to move it, but Polly wants to go home to see Brutus and Catta.

At 2:00 Polly leaves, saying she’ll phone me.

At 2:05 Tess leaves in a confusion of embarrassment and remorse. I tell her to drive carefully.

At 2: 10 Janelle leaves because it looks like rain.

At 2:15 Barb leaves, looking more troubled than ever. I ask if something’s wrong. She nods, but says she can’t talk about it.

At 2:20 they’re all gone, and I have a chance to look at the framing job on my sampler (neat) and Polly’s hand-knitted vest (sensational).

At 2:25 the sky turns yellowish-gray. There’s a strange whistling in the tops of the pines. Eerie! Koko goes into a tizzy, racing around, knocking things down, scattering stuff. I tell him, “Christopher Smart’s cat would never wreck the house. He was a paragon of virtue. For he will not do destruction, if he is well fed.” He wriggles as if tired of hearing about Jeoffrey.

At 2:30 I close the windows of guesthouse and van and stack the furniture on the north porch. The storm is coming from Canada.

At 2:35 it’s really dark. Lights have to be turned on. All the windows and doors are closed, and I sit down to wait for the storm to hit. But where are the cats? Nowhere in sight! Where’s the macaroni and cheese? I yell “Koko!” From the pantry come a yargle - half yowl and half swallow. The two of them are on the counter, with their heads down and tails up. They’re devouring the cheese, horseradish and all, but avoiding the macaroni.

The wind and rain that bombarded the shoreline communities on Sunday afternoon was a true squall - brief but violent. In five minutes the lake surface went from glassy to raging surf. Wind-lashed rain slammed into the north side of the cabin, rattling the window glass, seeping under the door and around the window frames. Qwilleran was kept busy soaking up the flood with towels and wringing them out in a pail. Then the blow ended as abruptly as it had started. Although heavy rain continued to fall, it fell in vertical sheets instead of horizontal waves. There was damage indoors but only as a result of Koko’s tizzy: crumpled rugs, a toppled table lamp, books and papers on the floor, and several yards of paper towels unrolled in the kitchen.

The good news was that the power had not failed, and the telephone still had a dial tone. He called Polly. “Just checking to see if you got home safely.”

“Luckily I was indoors before the onslaught. Now it’s merely a normal rainfall, steady but not destructive. How about you?”

“We’re getting a thorough drenching, but the worst is over. Were the cats glad to see you?” he asked.

“Catta was. She’s too young to know she’s supposed to boycott me for twenty-four hours after a prolonged absence.”

“Well, you’re probably tired and have things to do.”

“I admit I’m exhausted.”

“Make a cup of tea and have a Lorna Doone,” he advised, knowing her choice of pick-me-up. “And let me know tomorrow if there’s anything I can do. You’ll need groceries, and I expect to be back in Pickax tomorrow morning as soon as it stops raining.”

He hung up and started rectifying Koko’s rearrangement of the cabin interior. Patiently he rerolled the paper toweling, straightened the rugs, put the lamp together again, and restored two postcards to their proper place.

The gully-washer, as the locals called such a storm, continued all night, pounding the cabin roof and alarming the cats. They were used to the lofty roof of the barn in Pickax; in the tiny cabin, the weather was too close for comfort. Qwilleran allowed Yum Yum to crawl under his bedclothes, and eventually brave Koko followed.

On Monday morning it was still raining steadily, and roads outside Mooseville were flooded. Qwilleran would have to stay at the cabin one more day. The interior was dismal, even with all the lights turned on, and the cats were moping. “Count your blessings,” he told them. “It could be worse.”

Nevertheless they huddled on the floor, facing each other, in their bored-stiff pose. (Reading aloud to them was no good because of the noise of the rain on the roof.) Only then did Qwilleran remember the Kalico Kat. He found it in a drawer and placed it on the floor between their dispirited noses.

Koko stretched his neck to sniff it and then withdrew into his torpor. Qwilleran thought, So much for contemporary American folk art. Yum Yum, on the other hand, showed some signs of interest.

“This is Gertrude,” Qwilleran said. “She’s come to live with you.”

Murmuring strangely, she crept forward and sniffed the toy thoroughly, then gave it a few licks. Her maternal instincts were aroused. Closing her mouth over the scruff of the toy’s neck, she carried it to her favorite corner on the sofa. She had adopted Gertrude.

It was a bright spot in a dull day, and it inspired Qwilleran to telephone the florist in downtown Pickax. He recognized the silky voice of Claudine, a gentle young person with innocent blue eyes. “Good morning,” he said. “Is it raining cats and dogs where you are?”

“This sounds like Mr. Q,” she said.

“Where are you calling from?”

“The haunts of coot and hem.”

“Oh, Mr. Q, I never know when you’re serious and when you’re kidding.”

“Have your new flowers come in, or are you still selling last week’s wilted stock?”

“You’re awful! They’re unloading the express truck right now. What would you like?”

“A mixed bouquet for Polly, to be delivered to Indian Village ASAP.”

“I hope she isn’t sick.”

“She’s suffering from post-vacation letdown, and I want the flowers to get there while she still feels rotten.”

“Our van doesn’t go to Indian Village till noon.”

“Too late. Send the flowers by taxi, and put it on my bill.”

“What do you want the card to say?”

“Just ‘the grocer boy.’ No name.” When Claudine hesitated, he spelled it for her.

“Oh! The grocer boy! You’re always pulling a fast one, Mr. Q.”

“Don’t hang up,” he said. “I also want to send a large bouquet to a restaurant in Mooseville tomorrow. The roads should be open by then. It’s Owen’s Place on Sandpit Road, and it’s decorated in white, pink, and yellow. Just say ‘from a well-wisher’ on the card. And make it something special; it’s an upscale establishment.”

Within an hour Qwilleran received a phone call, and a woman’s cheery voice said, “Is this the grocer boy? I’d like a dozen oranges.”

“With or without seeds?” he replied.

“Qwill, dear, the flowers are lovely. Thank you so much! They came by taxi! It’s so good to be home.”

“I must say I was shocked to see you yesterday.”

“I was shocked to see that aggregation of youthful pulchritude on your porch - in shorts and sunglasses - and driving! I won’t ask you to explain.”

“Good! And I won’t ask you about the charming and erudite professor who talked you into spending more time in Quebec City.”

“We’ll have much news to exchange tomorrow night, dear. Is it still raining at the beach?”

“It’s pouring! Everything in the cabin is damp: my clothes, the sofas, the cats’ fur, my books! The one I’ve been reading is so soggy, I’ve retitled it A Damp Yankee in King Arthur’s Court… See you tomorrow.”

As the morning splashed on, Qwilleran found himself going rain-crazy, unable to concentrate on either reading or writing. It was the roar! Like Niagara without the picture postcards. So far there were no leaks in the roof, but dryness was all the cabin had to offer. The cats were playing Yin and Yang on the sofa, their ears buried in each other’s fur. Should he thaw a second-rate burger for lunch? Or venture into the outside world at the risk of being drowned? He could get an equally second-rate burger at the hotel.

Holding a waterproof jacket over his head, Qwilleran dashed for his van and headed for Mooseville. There were few vehicles on the highway, and they were moving cautiously as the drivers peered through windshields made opaque by the hurtling rain. There was not yet any flooding; the sandy terrain drained well, but how much more could it take? Already the ditches were beginning to look like canals.

In town, there were many parked cars, but everyone was indoors. He found them in the hotel lobby and coffee shop - gloomy vacationers, looking stranded and bored. Some sat on the veranda and watched the raindrops hitting the pavement hard enough to splash .vertically like a million tiny geysers.

Wayne Stacy was relatively cheerful when he saw Qwilleran. “How about that? It held off till after the races! The C of C will have to send a fifth of something to the weatherman. And we got the new storm sewers just in time, thanks to the K Fund. The stupid voters turned down millage three times before we applied for a grant.”

“Perhaps they’re not so stupid,” Qwilleran observed. “I hope the downpour stops in time for the opening of Owen’s Place.”

“Even if it does, how many diners will venture t out? They said on radio that the access roads are flooded … Are you here for lunch? Be our guest!”

After lunch, Qwilleran made a wet dash to the hardware store for batteries, since a soaking rain usually caused trees to topple.

Cecil Huggins said, “We’ve sold out of camp stoves and bottled water. Grott’s has sold out of bread and milk. Folks are expecting the worst. Another worry is a rising lake level and beach erosion.”

“If every raindrop is big enough to fill a shot glass,” Qwilleran said, “how many shots of rain are needed to raise the level of a twenty-thousand-square-mile lake by one inch?”

Cecil’s great-uncle was pessimistic. “When the Sand Giant gets mad, he gets mad! And he’s mad at somethin’ or somebody.”

From there, Qwilleran went to Elizabeth’s Magic, knowing there was always someone there on a Monday, come hell or high water. He parked at the curb, facing the wrong way, and made a dash for the overhang. When he hammered on the door, Derek came from the rear to let him in.

“Hi, Mr. Q! What d’you think of this rain?”

“The Sand Giant was sick of hearing complaints I about the dry summer.”

“Come in the back and have coffee. I’ve been sorting books, and I’m ready for a break.”

They sat in the spidery chairs, and Qwilleran asked, “Where’s Elizabeth?”

“On Grand Island for her brother’s birthday. They picked her up yesterday in the family yacht - the Argonaut. Maybe you’ve seen it in the harbor. Her dad was into Latin and Greek and all that stuff. He taught Liz the Greek alphabet. Do you know anyone who can recite the Greek alphabet?”

“Not in Moose County.”

“She’s teaching me. Alpha, beta, gamma, delta… that’s as far as I’ve got.”

Qwilleran fingered his moustache; there were some answered questions here. “These books of his that she’s putting into her lending library… I trust they’re not in Greek and Latin.”

Derek laughed - nervously, it appeared. “No, nothing like that.”

“No one has mentioned what the old boy collected. Don’t tell me it’s pornography, and Liz is opening an adult lending library in downtown Mooseville!”

There was another nervous negative.

“Come on, Derek. Am I supposed to play Twenty Questions? What’s to stop me from going to the stockroom and having a look around?”

“Okay, but promise you won’t tell Liz I spilled the beans… Her dad had everything that was ever printed about UFOs - in all languages. He had Chariots of the Gods in the original German.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “And why was she keeping it a secret?”

“Well, you know how you are about UFOs - you and Arch Riker. After the publicity breaks in the Chicago papers and on the TV networks, she thinks you’ll break down and give the story coverage.”

“And you expect that kind of national attention?”

“Well, the PR department at the K Fund is handling it, and they’ve been up here collecting facts. You see, it’s not just a tourist gimmick. It’ll attract serious researchers. The valuable books will be available only to scholars.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache again. Pleadingly, Derek said, “Promise me you won’t say anything about this. If you do, I’ll be in bad trouble.”

“I promise. But one question: Who’s going to catalogue the books?”

“Her dad had them all catalogued.”

“I see… Well, I’d better get home and see if the cabin has floated away. I hear your play was rained out last night. How about the restaurant tomorrow? Access roads are flooded.”

“I know. I talked to Ernie on the phone, but she’s determined to open… Wait a second, Qwill, and I’ll give you a printout of the new menu.”