The Cat Who Saw Stars

-18-

When Derek left the coffee shop, Qwilleran suddenly remembered his dinner date with Polly… at Owen’s Place! He paid for the coffee and phoned her from a public booth in the lobby. “Have you heard the news on WPKX?” he asked.

“I haven’t been listening to the radio. What is it? Not too bad, I hope.”

“Very bad. A sinkhole behind the restaurant where we were supposed to have dinner! And it caused a catastrophic sandslide - the east end of the Great Dune.”

“Qwill! I can’t believe this!” she said in horror. “Are you exaggerating?”

“Not at all. I was there when it happened. I was on Oak Street, a block away.”

“I hope there was no loss of life.”

“That hasn’t been announced, but I have fears for the chef - a young, talented, dedicated woman.”

“How dreadful!”

“So where shall we have dinner? I haven’t had time to move back to Pickax as yet, but I could pick you up, and we could go to the Old Stone Mill, or Tipsy’s Tavern.”

“I don’t know, Qwill… This is such depressing news! Do you mean the Great Dune itself is destroyed?”

“Tons of it! Trees and all!”

There was a pause at the Indian Village end of the line. “Perhaps we should postpone it until tomorrow night. I go back to work tomorrow, and you could pick me up at the library.”

“And I’m definitely moving back to Pickax tomorrow morning. I’ll call you at the library as soon as I get in.”

With that matter settled, Qwilleran went out on Main Street again - to listen. The tourists were concerned only with the disruption of their vacations, but the locals had explanations to exchange. They blamed the sand-mining that was unwisely contracted during the Great Depression… the local commissioners for steadfastly ignoring the potential dangers… the short-sighted taxpayers who voted down a safety study… interplanetary Visitors for tampering with the weather and causing the abnormal rain… and greedy developers who had enraged the Sand Giant.

For news-on-the-hour, Qwilleran returned to his van and tuned in WPKX. He heard this:

“One casualty has been reported in the Mooseville disaster. Ernestine Bowen was killed in her recreation vehicle when it dropped into the sinkhole and was buried under tons of sand. She was the chef at Owen’s Place. Her husband disappeared a week ago in a freak accident on the lake. The couple had come from Florida to open a restaurant for the summer.”

Parked near Qwilleran’s vehicle was John Bushland’s green van. The photographer was obviously getting ground photos while aerial shots were being taken from the hovering helicopter. Qwilleran wrote a note on the back of his business card and wedged it under Bushy’s windshield wiper. Then he spotted Phil Scotten in the crowd and said, “Did the boats go out today?”

“They went, but got a late start,” the fisherman said. “I don’t work the boats every day; I do the accounting for the fisheries. I heard the news on the air and had to come and see for myself. Never thought it would happen - not in my lifetime, anyway.”

Qwilleran nodded soberly. “The sheriff’s dog was on the job, and a victim was found in the rubble.”

“That’s Dutch, a German shepherd, trained for search-and-rescue. He’s highly intelligent, has a good sense of sight and smell, and never gives up!

That’s the beauty of an S-and-R. Einstein is trained as an all-purpose dog. In his five-year career he sniffed out millions of dollars’ worth of contraband. But all they need around here is an S-and-R. Dutch found a deer-hunter who went into the woods alone, tripped, and broke a leg… and he found an old lady who wandered away from Safe Harbor in a snowstorm.”

Qwilleran said, “If I had a dog, it would be a German shepherd.”

“You couldn’t do any better than a shep. Remember the bloody riot at the soccer game between Sawdust City and Lockmaster? After that, Dutch and his handler attended the games and - no more trouble! The dog’s presence alone was enough to keep the enthusiasm within bounds. My old college roommate Down Below is a handler on a police force, and I’ll tell him to watch for a shep going into retirement, if you want me to.”

“Uh… do that!”

“Are you covering the disaster for the newspaper?”

“No, I was here when it happened. I’ve been waiting for them to open the lake highway to east-bound traffic.”

When Qwilleran arrived at the cabin, the Siamese met him with expressions of concern; they knew something was wrong.

“Bad scene down there,” he told them. “There’s nothing we can do to help, so we’re heading for home first thing in the morning.”

He fed them and gave them a good brushing to calm their apprehensions. They were basking in the late afternoon sun on the porch when the green van pulled into the clearing.

Bushy jumped out, waving the card. Qwilleran had written: “Good for G and T at the K ranch. Signed: Q.”

“I need one,” Bushy said. “I’ve exposed a lot of film in the last hour. They’re giving the story most of the front page tomorrow, and most of the picture page.”

“Well, I’ve got the gin and tonic. Have you got the lens?”

“I’ve got the lens. Have you got the cats?”

“They’re on the porch in the sun, freshly fed and brushed, so they should be receptive. We’ll take our drinks out there and talk about anything but cats and cameras. Don’t even think about taking a picture; they read minds.”

The two men took porch chairs facing the lake.

To their left, visible from the comer of an eye, were the Siamese: Koko striking aristocratic poses on his pedestal; Yum Yum stretched full-length on the warm glass top of the snack table.

Bushy asked, “Where were you when it happened?”

“At Elizabeth’s Magic. They thought it was an earthquake, and we rushed out into the street. We saw the dune collapse.”

“It buried the rear of the restaurant and killed the chef,” Bushy said, “and -strange enough - it was her husband who disappeared in his boat a week ago. I have a theory about that.”

“So have I,” said Qwilleran. “It was his boat that was in conference with Fast Mama, the day you and I were out on the lake. I say there’s got to be some connection.”

“I say it was an abduction. Do you know, Qwill, that Mooseville has an ordinance on the books going back more than a hundred years - an ordinance about UFOs? It’s never been enforced and never been rescinded.”

“What’s the nature of it?”

“Anyone having contact with a ‘flying boat’ must report the incident to the town constable within twenty-four hours. Would they have enacted such a law if there hadn’t been any ‘flying boats’ in the sky?”

“Well…” Qwilleran thought, How can I tell him that his ancestors weren’t quite sane? He said, “How did you find out about it?”

“My grandfather told me when I was a kid. He’d seen several flying boats himself, when out with the fishing fleet. Recently I got the … idea of …” His voice trailed off. He stood up slowly, raised his camera, and clicked it while facing the lake.

Qwilleran turned his head cautiously. Yum Yum was lounging on the table, and nestled between her forelegs was Gertrude with a tipsy expression embroidered on her calico face. Yum Yum, without knowing it, was facing the camera with a contented look of fulfilled motherhood.

“That does it!” Bushy announced with satisfaction. “If that doesn’t win a prize, I’m going to give up photography.”

“What about Koko ?” Qwilleran asked.

“Forget that tyrant! He’s missed his chance. He’ll never be famous.”

Having heard the click-click-click, Koko had jumped from the pedestal to the floor and - as the poet delicately phrased it - was kicking up behind.

Qwilleran said to him, “I’m going to trade you in on a German shepherd!”

Wednesday was moving day, and the sooner they left the cabin, the better Qwilleran would like it. Packing had to be done surreptitiously; although Koko was usually eager to jump into the carrier, the sight of it sent Yum Yum scurrying to places unknown. Once she was found on the top shelf of the pantry, behind the supply of paper towels; another time it was under the red blanket in the bunk-room, where she flattened herself like an omelette; then again she turned up among the wires behind the stereo amplifier. Qwilleran’s strategy was to lock them on the lake porch until the van was loaded, then grab Yum Yum and pop her into the carrier before she knew what day it was.

On this occasion she was captured and caged, but Koko - instead of panting to join the expedition - vanished suddenly and utterly, like the legendary Jenny Lee. Impatiently, Qwilleran checked all possible hiding places while Yum Yum’s wailing in the carrier added to his frustration. He yelled “Treat!” That was a password guaranteed to bring Koko stampeding into view. Instead, there was only a faint murmur in the upper reaches of the cabin. Twenty feet above the floor, in the peak of the roof, the cat had elongated himself on a narrow shelf created by the ridgepole and rafters.

After shouting the magic word again and hearing another nonchalant murmur, Qwilleran sat down to think. There was no ladder in the toolshed capable of reaching the peak. He was reluctant to call out the volunteer firefighters on such a mission. At that moment the phone rang, and he answered with a curt “Yes?”

It was Polly, sounding frantic. “Qwill, I’m back at work and calling an emergency meeting of the library board tonight. We have a mess on our hands.”

Grouchily, he muttered, “Did Mac and Katie throw up?” They were newly acquired library cats.

Ignoring the feeble quip, she said, “My assistant has resigned; the new roof is leaking; and someone tore a page from Webster’s Unabridged! We’ll have to postpone our dinner date again.”

“I was getting the message.”

“Are you moving back to the barn today?”

“That was my intention, but we have a crisis here, too. I’ll keep in touch.”

Replacing the receiver, he heard a thump, thump, THUMP as Koko descended from his perch in three stages. Back on the floor he licked his right paw calmly and thoroughly.

“Okay, young man, you’ve had your little joke. Now let’s go!”

As Qwilleran rattled the latch of the carrier, the phone rang again, and Koko flew up to the peak of the roof as if jet-propelled.

This time it was Junior Goodwinter, speaking in a muffled voice that suggested matters of great secrecy. “Qwill, how are you coming with Operation You Know What?”

“Slowly and painfully.”

“Could you meet today’s deadline? A hole just opened up on page five. Somebody killed an ad.”

“Will it blow my cover if I fax it? Who’s in charge of the fax machine?”

“Wilfred. Use an alias. Use a Fishport address… Thanks a lot, Qwill.”

Qwilleran hurried to the van and retrieved his typewriter. Then, releasing Yum Yum from the carrier and forgetting about Koko, he pounded out three pages of copy:

Dear sweet readers - Your charming, sincere, intelligent letters warm Ms. Gramma’s pluperfect heart! Sorry to hear you’re having trouble with the L-words. The safest way to cope with lie, lay, lied, laid and lain is to avoid them entirely. Simply say, “The hen deposited an egg… He fibbed to his boss… She stretched out on the couch.” Get the idea? But if you really want to wrestle these pesky verbs to the mat, use Ms. Gramma’s quick-and-easy guide: 1 - Today the hen lays an egg. Yesterday she laid an egg. She has laid eggs all summer. (Ms. Gramma likes them poached, with Canadian bacon and Hollandaise sauce.) 2 - Today you lie to your boss. Yesterday you lied to him. You have lied to the old buzzard frequently. (Tomorrow you may be fired.) 3 - Today you lie down for a nap. Yesterday you lay down for a nap. In the past you have lain down frequently. (See your doctor, honey. It could be an iron deficiency.)

There was more. Ms. Gramma tackles such bothersome partners as who-and-whom, that-and-which, as-and-like, and less-and-fewer. And the copy made it to the fax machine on time.

After that ordeal, Qwilleran treated himself to a pasty for lunch and reviewed his two-week “vacation.” He had intended to stay in Mooseville a month, but any more “vacation” would knock him for a loop, he decided. There had been no time to walk on the beach or ride the recumbent bike or entertain the cats with The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. There had been one incident after another, and a tremor on his upper lip convinced him there were more to come. Perhaps Koko had sensed some forthcoming development and was trying to stop him from leaving the sea.

Before returning to the cabin, he visited Elizabeth’s Magic for a disaster update. She was alone.

“My customers are all gawking at the sandslide. People like to be horrified when it’s someone else’s horror.”

“Where’s Derek?”

“He was grieving about Ernie and about the loss of his job, so I told him to take a long walk; that always helps… What about you, Qwill?”

“I’m still interested in an olive green vest, but I want to see color samples.”

“Barb was here a few minutes ago but left when she found Derek wasn’t here. She’s one of his groupies, you know, and I suspect Ernie was trending in that direction.” Elizabeth arched her eyebrows. “After her husband died, she wanted Derek at the hotel for daily conferences.”

“Your guy has a magnetic personality. Devoted females will always be hanging around the stage door. You’ll have to get used to it,” he advised. Cynically he thought, Elizabeth had nothing to fear; Derek knows which side his bread is buttered on … or, as Ms. Gramma would say, on which side his bread is buttered.

“Did Polly like her vest?” she asked.

“She hasn’t seen it. We were supposed to have dinner at Owen’s Place last night.”

“When the library is ready, do you suppose she’d cut the ribbon for us on opening day? The head of the county library seems more appropriate than a politician who’s running for office.”

“And better looking, too,” he said. “Are you planning to have a library cat?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, but what a splendid idea!”

“They have all kinds at the animal shelter. Pick one that looks literary, and have a contest to name him or her.”

Qwilleran walked back to Main Street, where his van was parked. On the way he heard running footsteps behind him and a throaty voice calling, “Mr. Q! Mr. Q !” It was Barb Ogilvie, considerably more alive than she had been recently.

“Elizabeth and I were just talking about you and my olive green vest,” he said.

“I’ll dye some yarn samples as soon as I get back on track,” she said. “I’ve had a bad time.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Swiveling her glances from side to side (she seldom looked anyone directly in the eye), she said, “I don’t want to impose, Mr. Q, but I wish I could talk to you a bit - about something serious.”

He huffed into his moustache. Young females were always confiding in him, and he was tired of the kindly uncle role. “If you’re looking for free advice, don’t expect any from me,” he said, adding lightly, “unless you sign a release promising not to sue.”

Barb gestured helplessly. “I just want to unload, and you’re the only one I know who’s cool enough to understand.”

The compliment, coupled with his unbridled curiosity, led him to suggest talking over a cup of coffee somewhere.

She hesitated. “I don’t dare… talk about it… in a public place.”

He thought, If she expects an invitation to the cabin, it’s no deal! Then he had an inspiration! “I’ve never seen the petroglyphs. You could give me a guided tour.” He knew they were on the Ogilvie ranch. “It wouldn’t be for a newspaper story - just for my own education.”

She hesitated. “It would have to be when Alice isn’t at home, like… this afternoon?”

“Four o’clock?” he suggested.

“Wear boots. It could be muddy.”