The Cat Who Saw Stars

-4-

The Fourth of July parade was scheduled to start at one P.M., and Qwilleran reported early to scout around. Never having participated in a parade, he was curious about the preparations behind the scene. He thought it must be a masterpiece of organization, and it was!

The staging area was beyond the town limits, with parade units assigned to specific parking lots or open fields. Marchers were close to the starting point, and mechanized units were farthest away; that made sense. In between, assigned to the parking lot of the FOO restaurant, were the bikers. They were a colorful troupe. Qwilleran himself wore white shorts, a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, and a red baseball cap. There were trail bikes, school bikes, plenty of racers, and one old-fashioned high-wheeler. He left his recumbent locked in his van and went exploring with a camera

hanging about his neck.

The floats interested him most. There were five lined up on the highway-flatbeds skirted with tricolor bunting and identifying banners: “Signing of the Declaration of Independence,” “Dear Old Golden Schooldays,” “Priends of Wool.” A twenty-four-foot sailboat on a dolly, called Smooth Sailing, was sponsored jointly by the private marinas, its sails furled and its deck awash with young persons in skimpy swimwear. The fifth float was the one Mrs. Hawley had mentioned. It was called “Feedin’ the Chickens.” Three commercial fishermen in slickers, boots, and rubber gloves were laughing and clowning as they waited for the signal to move. On the flatbed were a couple of barrels, a weathered table, and stacks of wooden boxes.

Qwilleran signaled to Magnus Hawley, one of the three. “Explain the name of your float,” he asked.

“Well, see, soon’s we get rollin’, we start dressin’ the fish in the boxes and throwin’ the guts and heads in the gut barrels. That’s when the gulls come out from nowhere. Chickens, we call’ em.

First two or three, then a whole flock, followin’ us down the whole route, catchin’ the heads before they hit the barrel. By the time we get to the end, there’ll be a hunerd!” He roared with laughter. “Some show!”

As parade time drew near, the official starter in his tricolor top hat ran up and down the highway, waving his arms and yelling. His aides in tricolor sashes and baseball caps checked the individual units. Standing by was the sheriff’s car that would precede the parade at four miles an hour to clear the road and order watchers back onto the sidewalks; Deputy Greenleaf was at the wheel. The color guard stood solemnly at parade-rest-the flag-bearers flanked by members of the military, rifles by their sides.

Highly visible was Andrew Brodie, the Pickax police chief. As grand marshal, the Scots bagpiper would lead the parade in full Highland regalia. He was a big man in any uniform but a giant when swaggering in his lofty feather “bonnet” with a shoulderful of plaid and an armful of pipes.

There was an air of frenzy around the marching units, however. Besides the two bands there were three restless groups: the Parade of Pets, Parade of Moms, and Athletes for Peace. To add to the confusion, the high school band was practicing - no two musicians playing the same number - while the middle-schoolers in the fife-and-drum corps were warming up and had reached fever pitch. Nervous parents were cautioning children who would trudge the course with cats and dogs on leashes or in wagons. Moms were trying to quiet their youngest, who would ride in strollers, baby buggies, backpacks, or even wheelbarrows.

As for the Athletes for Peace, their staging area was a madhouse. Young persons, each with a large letter of the alphabet on a pole, were running around in a state of hysteria, shouting and laughing like maniacs. They had discovered they could scramble their letters to spell CHEAT, SHOOT, TREASON, and worse! The coach in charge of the unit blew his whistle and yelled at deaf ears.

The official starter was frantic. The sheriff’s car, the grand marshal, and the color guard were lined up. The first float was pulling up with its serious statesmen in wigs and knee breeches, but the athletes were out of control. “What do we do?” the starter cried to his aides. “Do we cancel ‘em?”

At that moment, two gunshots sounded above the din. The effect was paralyzing. Everything stopped. No one moved. The silence was heavy with unasked questions.

Then the coach blew his whistle. “Fall in!” The sheriff’s car started to roll. After giving it a fifty-yard head start, the piper began his slow, swinging gait and skirling rendition of the national anthem. The color guard snapped to attention.

No one asked who had fired the shots, but Qwilleran had an idea.

One by one, the units moved out of the staging area in the correct order, with floats and marchers and bands alternating appropriately.

Qwilleran, waiting for the bikers to be signaled, watched the Friends of Wool roll past. The shepherd stood knee-deep in a small flock of sheep and baby lambs and played his flute. Two spinners dressed as pioneer women sat in antique chairs and treadled their wheels. Six similar chairs were arranged back-to-back for the knitters: four women and two men.

Finally the Parade of Bikers was given the signal. The first to take off was the high-wheeler, followed by neat rows of bikes pedaled by men and women, girls and boys, in colorful helmets. Bringing up the rear was the most prominent man in the county, reclining in a bucket seat with his feet elevated. Everyone recognized the moustache, and while they applauded, cheered, screamed, and whistled, Qwilleran drew on his theater training and pedaled with unflappable cool.

The onlookers swarmed into the road and followed the recumbent - a Pied Piper with wheels. Whether their acclaim was for the bike, or the famous moustache, or the man behind the K Fund …that was anyone’s guess.

The destaging area of the parade was the high school parking lot on the eastside, and when Qwilleran arrived, he found a traffic jam. Floats: were scattered helter-skelter. Families arrived to pick up their athletes, musicians, moms, pets, and bathing beauties. Two school buses were waiting to transport float personnel back to their vehicles on the westside. A truck from the Ogilvie Sheep Ranch was collecting sheep, spinning wheels, and antique chairs.

Qwilleran grabbed Mildred’s arm just as she was boarding the bus. “You got me into this. How about getting me out?”

“What’s the problem, Qwill?”

He said, “I can’t take my bike on the bus. You take my car keys and bring my van down here. It’s a brown van - in the FOO parking lot.”

She took his keys. “What did you think of our float?”

“The lambs were cute. The shepherd looked like the real thing. The sheep were fat and woolly… But your husband, if I may say so, looked sheepish.”

“I heard that!” Arch shouted. “I wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t blackmailed me, you dirty dog!”

The bus driver tooted the horn. “Come on, folks. They want us to move!”

Qwilleran had invited Andrew Brodie to stop at the cabin for a drink, following the parade, and the chief had said, “Make it at four o’clock. I’ve got to make an appearance at a backyard barbecue - some relatives in Black Creek.”

At four o’clock, Qwilleran had a beverage tray on the porch, along with some Gorgonzola and crackers. “How was it?” he asked when his guest arrived, scowling.

“All they had to drink was iced tea! I played a tune for them and had a sandwich, then got the heck out!”

“You came to the right place, Andy. I happen to have some single-malt Scotch and good cheese.”

Brodie was still in piper’s garb, except for the feather bonnet and shoulder plaid. Cocked over one eye was something like a military overseas cap - in navy blue with a red pompon, cockade, and two ribbons hanging down the back. “It’s a Glengarry,” he said in response to Qwilleran’s compliment. He tapped his left temple. “It has my clan badge.”

They went out to the porch, where Koko was again on the pedestal and Yum Yum was sniffing insects on the outside of the screen. When Brodie sat down, however, she came over to inspect his brogues, bare knees, and fancy garters. Then she stood on her hind legs to see what the kilt was all about.

“She’s bewildered,” Qwilleran explained. “Aren’t you the visitor who used to wear long pants and a shiny metal badge?”

“Where’d you get the sailboat?”

“Mike Zander made it. He’s a commercial fisherman by trade.”

“Sure, I know the Zanders. When I worked for the sheriff, this was my beat. Your guy must be Mike Junior. Whenever I see Mike Senior, we laugh about something that happened a few years back. It was Saturday, and the boats had just come in. Summer people were buying fish on the pier. One stuffy old biddy from Down Below looked at the fish - some of ‘em still flopping around - and said in an uppity voice, ‘Are you sure they’re quite fresh?’ The crew laughed so hard, she left in a huff.”

“Those guys like a laugh,” Qwilleran said. “Their chicken-feeding float had everybody running for cover!”

“We had a good day for the parade, but what we need now is some rain.”

“You have to admit, though, that the dry spell has helped the mosquito situation.”

“I remember one year, the town council brought in colonies of bats to get rid of mosquitoes. They scared off the tourists as well.”

Qwilleran said, “Let me refresh your drink, Andy.”

“I think I could stand another.”

Yum Yum followed Qwilleran indoors to get a drink of water, and she looked at him so imploringly, he gave her a crumb of Gorgonzola. When he returned to the porch, Brodie was standing at the top of the sandladder.

“Your beach is a lot different this year,” he said. “What’s that burnt circle?”

“Some trespassers apparently had a bonfire before I got here,” Qwilleran said. “At least they didn’t leave any beer cans; that’s to their credit.”

Brodie gave Qwilleran a sharp look. “I hear you’re the one that found the body on the beach.”

“Well, if you must know… yes.” He refrained from mentioning Koko’s involvement. Brodie had heard about “that smart cat” from a detective Down Below but believed only fifty percent of it - and , that reluctantly. Yet both he and the prosecutor valued Qwilleran’s interest in certain cases and appreciated his tips. They also respected his insistence on anonymity. Brodie, for his part, was not above leaking police information if it would aid Qwilleran’s unofficial investigations. Little by little, a mutual trust had developed between the two men.

They sat in silence for a while, no doubt thinking of the same thing, until Qwilleran asked, “Were they able to identify the backpacker?”

“Oh, sure. He had an ID on his person - Philadelphia address - age twenty-five- no next of kin, but the name and phone number of a woman.”

“Homicide or natural causes?”

“Homicide hasn’t been ruled out… the coroner can’t determine the cause of death. They’ve flown the body to the state forensic lab.”

“That’s strange.”

“Stranger than you think. Everything points to the time of death as midnight last Friday, a few hours after he called at the Hawley house, but…” Brodie paused uncertainly. “There was no decomposition. Almost like he was embalmed. He’d been dead four days.”

“I should cut off your drinks, Andy.”

“It’s the God’s truth!”

“Does anyone have a theory?”

“If they do, they’re not talking. The State Bureau has clamped down… This is all between you and me, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And now I’ve gotta take off. Thanks for the refreshments.”

They walked through the cabin, Brodie looking for his Glengarry. “I thought I left it on the back of the sofa.”

They looked behind the sofa cushions and in other places where he may have dropped the cap without thinking. Then Qwilleran saw Yum Yum sitting on the dining table, looking guilty. “She’s attracted to small shiny objects, Andy. She pinched your clan badge! Let me look under the sofa.” A few swipes with a fireplace poker produced a brown sock, a yellow pencil, and the missing cap. Qwilleran offered to brush it.

“Don’t bother. I’ll just give it a couple of whacks.”

Qwilleran walked with him to his car, saying, “Remember the two gunshots just before the parade started? Did they ever find out who fired them?”

“Nope.”

“Did they ever try?”

“Nope. It worked, didn’t it? … How long do you plan to stay here?”

“About a month.”

“We’ll keep an eye on your barn.”

After Brodie had driven away, Qwilleran came to a decision: Koko would never give up the railroad tie as his pedestal, his perch, his rightful eminence. The sailboat sculpture would have to go on the fireplace mantel.

Late that night the three of them sat on the porch in the dark: Koko gazing at the constellations from his private planetarium, Yum Yum fascinated by the fireflies, Qwilleran thinking his thoughts. Brodie’s remark about the condition of the backpacker’s body piqued his curiosity. Tomorrow he would drive to Fishport to buy some of Mrs. Hawley’s home-bakes, express his relief that the fate of the young man was known, and find out how she and Magnus felt identifying the body.