The Cat Who Saw Stars

-17-

Still it rained. Returning to the cabin on Monday afternoon, Qwilleran found two reproachful cats huddled on the coffee table, giving him an accusing eye, and two postcards on the floor.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said. “Think dry thoughts, and maybe it’ll stop.”

It was mid-afternoon in July but dark as twilight in January. He turned on all the lights and flopped on the sofa with the new menu from Owen’s Place.

Reading it from Polly’s viewpoint, he guessed that her appetizer would be the miniature acorn squash roasted with a stuffing of wild rice, fresh corn, and caramelized onion. Her entrée would probably be the potato-crusted filet of salmon served with shiitake mushrooms, saffron risotto, and chive beurre blanc.

The telephone rang, making all three of them jump, and a grouchy male voice said, “I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon. Where’ve you been?”

“To the haunts of coot and hern,” Qwilleran retorted. He and Arch Riker had a lifetime license to be rude to each other.

“This rain’s driving me nuts! If only it would turn off for five minutes and start again, I wouldn’t care, but it’s relentless! Mildred copes by cooking. Why don’t you come and eat with us?”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Gumbo. And she’s made some kind of pie. Come anytime, I’m mixing a martini for myself right now.”

Qwilleran changed his shirt, fed the cats, and steered the van between the raindrops to Top o’ the Dune.

Mildred met him at the kitchen door. “You’re so brave, Qwill, to come out in this downpour!”

“I’ll do anything for a free meal, especially if you prepared it. What kind of pie did you make?”

“A new recipe. Strawberry lemon cream. Arch is in the living room with his cocktail. Shall I do something creative with tomato juice for you?”

“Please. And don’t forget the hot sauce.”

“He’s as cross as a bear. See if you can cheer him up.”

Qwilleran found him growling at the TV screen and said playfully, “Don’t bother to get up, Arch.”

“I didn’t intend to,” his friend grumbled.

“If you want me to stay, you’ll have to turn off the boob tube. I brought a copy of the new menu at Owen’s Place.”

“I’m dying to know what they offer,” said Mildred.

“Okay. How’s this for an appetizer? Grilled petite tenderloins of venison with smoked bacon, braised cabbage strudel, and a sun-dried Bing cherry demiglaze?”

“Ridiculous!” Arch said. “Give me the traditional dishes that Millie cooks.”

“Traditional, with a dollop of love thrown in,” she corrected.

“Speaking of food, I’ve had a live-in cook for a few days,” Qwilleran said, pausing long enough to enjoy Arch’s astonishment. Then he told them about Wetherby’s cousin and her crow proposal.

“Don’t take on any fringe projects,” Arch objected petulantly. “If you haven’t enough to do, we’ll run the ‘Qwill Pen’ three times a week. The subscribers are howling for it.”

“Let them howl!”

Qwilleran had never seen Arch so argumentative, but then he had never seen a rain storm so annoying.

The gumbo was filled with the good things that Mildred kept in her larder: chicken, shrimp, sausage - plus rice, vegetables, and spices.

During the dessert, Arch said, “If you want to hear something absurd, Junior has received some leaked information about a library of UFO literature opening in Mooseville! Can you believe that?”

“Sure. It’s a popular subject on the shore, with everyone but you and me,” said Qwilleran. “Even Lyle Compton watches for flying saucers with a telescope.”

“Lyle’s a fool!” Mildred said firmly, “He’s an intelligent, educated, sophisticated individual.” Turning to Arch, she said, “That makes me a fool, too.”

“I didn’t say that!” her husband snapped.

“You implied it!”

“I’m going to bed! I haven’t slept a wink all day!” Arch stomped out of the room.

Mildred said softly, “He’s hardheaded, isn’t he? I don’t dare mention the rune stones you gave me, Qwill. They’re similar to tarot cards, in that the reader has to bring certain instincts to the interpretation.”

“Hmmm,” Qwilleran murmured. Foretelling the future by any method was outside his frame of belief.

Looking deeply concerned, she said, “The stones say we’re headed for disaster. One has to assume it’s connected with the unnatural volume of water that’s being dumped on us all at once. I really believe we should move back to Indian Village, but how do I convince Arch? He loves it here - when it isn’t raining. You and the cats should move back to Pickax also, Qwill.”

“We intend to. Now that Polly’s home and going back to work Wednesday, she’ll need help with grocery shopping. She’s been gone a month. Her cupboard must be bare.”

“Qwill, I don’t know why you and Polly don’t get married. You have strong feelings for her, and I know she adores you!”

“It wouldn’t work,” he explained. “She’s a tea-drinker, and I’m a coffee-drinker, and there are certain basics that must be considered.”

While driving back to the cabin through the persistent rain, Qwilleran thought about Mildred’s eccentric interest in the occult and compared it with his own belief in Koko’s prescient talents. The cat knew when the phone was about to ring and when a storm was brewing. Now Mildred had predicted a disaster for the area. Whimsically, Qwilleran imagined Koko pulling the luggage out of the closet and searching the bookshelves for Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey. That would be no more far-fetched than the cat’s sudden interest in A Horse’s Tale when Owen Bowen disappeared. And how about the backpacker? Not only did Koko sense that the body was buried in the sandhill, but he managed to lead Qwilleran to the site. And how to explain the cat’s obsession with the postcards? Qwilleran reviewed what he knew about the two men pictured. Shaw was a playwright, music critic, socialist, Nobel prize winner, and antivivisectionist; Wilde was a novelist, poet, playwright, and aesthete.

“Wait a minute!” he shouted at the steering wheel. “What’s wrong with me?” He took a chance on driving faster and dashed into the cabin without bothering to cover his head. The two cards were on the floor as usual. Why had he not thought to turn them over? He had not read Polly’s messages since they arrived two weeks before!

“We have tickets for Major Barbara tonight - not my favorite Shaw play, but it will be beautifully done.”

“A male actor plays Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. Always a delightful comedy.”

Qwilleran felt a crawling sensation on his upper lip as the scrawled message brought to mind Barb Ogilvie and Ernestine Bowen. It was pure coincidence, and yet… He looked at Koko.

“Yow!” said the cat, squeezing his eyes.

Qwilleran asked himself, Did the two women know each other in Florida? Did Barb work in the Bowens’ restaurant? Was Owen the “older man” who entered Barb’s life when she was feeling low? She claimed to have moved back north to avoid trouble.

Previously, she may have extolled Moose County as a summer paradise. Did Owen respond to the chamber of commerce ad because of the climate, or because of the seductive young woman? And what was Ernie’s reaction to the move? There the conjectures became tangled. Did she know of the affair or not? Were her objections overruled? There was more intrigue in this situation than met the eye. Answers might explain Barb’s depression in the days , following Owen’s disappearance.

Qwilleran was in deep contemplation when the telephone rang.

It was Tess, calling from Horseradish. “I hear you’re having rain there,” she said.

“A few sprinkles.”

“Sorry to leave so abruptly yesterday. I was having such a wonderful time. Thank you, Qwill, for your hospitality and the clever ideas for the scenario. I left a T-shirt for you on the dresser in the Snuggery; let me know if it’s the wrong size. And by the way, I told Jeoffrey and Princess about your cats’ elitist diet, and now they don’t want to eat cat food.”

“Likely story,” Qwilleran said. “How was the family reunion?”

“The usual. Family gossip. A potluck supper. It was held in the community hall, and cousin Joe played the piano and sang. He was the only one interested in the Republic of Crowmania.” Then she asked the inevitable question: “How did you like the macaroni and cheese?”

“I’ve never tasted its equal!” he said with fervor and only a slight bending of the truth.

On Tuesday morning no one could believe it! The sun was shining, and the cessation of the rain left a blessed void. Qwilleran shouted just to hear his own voice: “Hallelujah!” With restored ambition he dashed off a thousand words about the dogcart races and took it to the bank to be faxed. The downtown streets swarmed with vacationers in dark glasses-laughing and yelling and going into shops to spend money. There was no sign of Mildred’s disaster.

Qwilleran had lunch at the Nasty Pasty, ordering the local specialty that was best when picked up in both hands. While enjoying his primitive repast, he thought of Owen’s Place, open for lunch once again. Derek would be playing the efficient manager and friendly host, dressing the skewered potatoes at tableside with a theatrical flourish. At two o’clock he would be off-duty and going to Elizabeth’s Magic to report.

Qwilleran opted to stay in town till then. He could say good-bye to the businessfolk he knew and listen to their worst-ever rain stories, taping them for use in the Friday “Qwill Pen”:

“Didn’t mind the wet, but the noise was like livin’ in a wind tunnel.”

“To make it worse, my dog howled all night.”

“Whole family wore earplugs. Only way we could get any sleep.”

“It was like living under Niagara Falls.”

Qwilleran would open his column with the dictionary definition of rain: “water falling in drops condensed from vapor in the atmosphere. Also the descent of such drops. See: FOG, MIST.”

Shortly after two o’clock he went to Elizabeth’s to have Polly’s vest gift wrapped. There were quite a few customers buying skewers and raving about the potatoes and the personable young man who dressed them at tableside. “There he is!” they cried when he burst in the front door. They applauded, and he bowed graciously before striding to the rear of the store.

Qwilleran followed. “How was the kickoff?”

“Great! There’s nothing like a mystery or a scandal to attract customers. We had more orders for potatoes than we had skewers, so we cheated. We stuck skewers into ordinary baked potatoes. Nobody knew the difference.”

“Was Ernie pleased with the turnout?”

“Sure was! And she was bug-eyed over the flowers from a well-wisher. I knew they were from you, but I didn’t tell. I put them at the entrance on the maitre d’s desk. They look swell!” Derek glanced toward the front of the store. “Here comes Bad News Barb. Something’s wrong with her; I think she’s been jilted again - Don’t be too sympathetic, Qwill; she goes for older men.”

“How do you know?”

“We were in high school together, and she was always coming on to the science teacher, who was twice her age, and the principal, who was a grandfather.”

The knitter walked solemnly toward the two men, carrying a box of goofy socks. “These need price tags,” she said to Derek.

He took them into the stockroom, and Qwilleran asked her, “Do you knit vests for men? I wouldn’t I mind having one for myself in olive green-with some kind of interesting knit.”

“There are lots of stitches,” she said. “I could show you samples. Do you want me to dye some yarn samples, too?”

Before he could reply, there was a moment of silence in the store as the building vibrated. Then came a. thunderous boom followed by crashing and screaming.

“Earthquake!” Derek yelled, charging out of the stockroom. “Get out! Get out! Everybody out!”

He ran through the store, waving his arms and shoving customers toward the exit. There were cries of disbelief, bewilderment, fear.

“Stay calm!” Elizabeth shouted as she locked the cash drawer.

Oak Street was in turmoil. Frightened customers and workers streamed from the various stores and offices and huddled in the middle of the street, not knowing what had happened or where to run. On Main Street, half a block away, sirens were wailing and emergency vehicles with flashing blue lights were speeding eastward. From somewhere came an amplified voice of authority: “Evacuate all buildings! Police order! Evacuate all buildings!” The honking of medical and fire fighting equipment added to the anxiety on Oak Street.

Then there were shouts of “Look! Look!” among the evacuees, and fingers pointed to the east where a cloud of dust or smoke billowed upward.

Qwilleran made a dash for Main Street with a double purpose: to identify the nature of the disaster and to phone the newspaper. He found official vehicles turning into Sandpit Road, while scores of individuals fled away from the Great Dune Motel and surrounding establishments. Yellow tape defining danger zones was stretched in all directions. He showed his press card to a deputy guarding the entry.

“Sorry, Mr. Q,” she said. “Security orders.”

“Is it an earthquake?”

“Sinkhole … Step aside, please.” A sheriff’s car with a dog cage in the backseat drove through.

Among the many flustered persons swarming up to Main Street was the antique dealer, and Qwilleran shouted, “Arnold! Where is it? Where’s sinkhole?”

“Back of the restaurant! Huge cave-in! Cars swallowed up!

At the same time the earth rumbled like thunder, and the east end of the Great Dune crumbled, engulfing the rear of Owen’s Place. Giant trees in full leaf, with enormous trunks and root systems, came tumbling end-over-end.

Qwilleran ran to his van and called the newspaper. Thank God, he thought, that the restaurant was closed! Then the question struck him: Where was Ernie?

In the milling crowd he spotted Derek, head and shoulders above the rest. He yelled, “Derek! Was she in the RV?”

“I’m positive! I told the police! They took an S-and-R dog in!” He pushed his way through the crowd to Qwilleran’s side.

“Was anyone working in the kitchen when you left?”

“The prep cook and the dishwasher. But I’m sure they’d get out when the pavement caved in, or the building began to shake… Ernie, though, went to the RV to plot the dinner procedure.” Derek’s face was pale and drawn. “The dog will find her, dead or alive. I wish I could be optimistic, but I’ve got this gut feeling that she’s gone.”

Qwilleran stroked his moustache with a heavy hand. “Let’s go into the hotel for a cup of coffee.”

In the coffee shop they sat in a dark booth instead of a sunny window overlooking the harbor; it seemed more appropriate. They sat weighted with silence for a while. Qwilleran was thinking about Mildred’s rune stones and her prediction of disaster. Then he thought about Derek’s loss. The young man admired Ernie tremendously, and they had developed a rapport. He had also lost a good position that would launch him on a serious career.

Finally Derek said, “I wish I’d taken a picture of Ernie in her chef’s toque and that tunic with buttons on the side. It was neat! … She was so professional … I’m the only one in town who got to know her. I thought she was swell. So did the kitchen staff.”

“Did she talk about her training?”

“Yeah. I asked her. She had two years at a good culinary institute. What a curriculum! Besides basic cooking she got to study baking and pastry arts, international cuisine, and nutrition. There were courses like knife skills, menu-planning, wine, purchasing, and I don’t know what else. She wasn’t stingy with her know-how either. She liked to teach. Do you know the two most important things in the chef business? Learning to taste, and learning to make a good sauce. That’s what she said, anyway.”

“Were you tempted to get into cooking?” Qwilleran asked.

“Nah. I like being out front, meeting people, and managing the service… Qwill, I can’t believe she’s gone!”

“Let’s not give up hope, Miracles can happen.”

The radio that provided country music and local commercials as background noise for the coffee shop was interrupted by a news bulletin.

“Turn it up!” Qwilleran yelled to the cashier.

“What was thought to be an earthquake in Mooseville this afternoon was the sudden opening of a deep sinkhole behind a restaurant on Sandpit Road, destroying two parked vehicles and causing a major sandslide at the east end of the Great Dune. When it occurred, the restaurant was closed to customers, but it’s not known at this time whether the kitchen staff escaped. Police, fire, and rescue squads are at the scene.”

Qwilleran, summing up what he had heard about the Bowens, was led to ask, “Do you think she really grieved about losing her husband?”

“Well… she went through the motions, but… I don’t know.”

“People grieve in different ways-some only in private, keeping up a brave front in public.”

“Yeah, well, to tell the truth, I didn’t get any good vibes between those two.” Derek jumped up.

“I should go and try to find Liz.” He shuffled out of the coffee shop with none of the bursting energy that was his style.