The Cat Who Saw Stars

-6-

Before going to dinner and the theater, Qwilleran fed the cats and treated them to a reading session. They were currently enjoying the sheep book Far from the Madding Crowd. They usually sat on the porch - Qwilleran in a lounge chair, Yum Yum on his lap, and Koko on the back of the chair, looking over his shoulder. If Qwilleran dramatized the story, Koko would get excited and inch forward. Then the cat’s whiskers would tickle the man’s ear. The episode that Qwilleran read on this occasion was an ear tickler - the tragic event for which the novel was famous.

An inexperienced sheepdog made a fatal mistake. His sire, old George, had the wisdom of a veteran sheepkeeper, but the young one had too much enthusiasm and too little sense. His job was to chase sheep, and he chased them. It was the jangling of bells on fast-running sheep that alerted the farmer one dark night. He called the dogs, and only George responded.

Shouting the shepherd’s cry of “Ovey! Ovey! Ovey!” the man ran to the hill. There were no sheep in sight, but the young dog was standing on the edge of the chalk cliff, gazing down below. He had chased the flock until they broke through a hedge and a rail fence and plunged to their death. Lost were two hundred ewes and the two hundred lambs they would have birthed. The farmer was financially ruined, and the poor dog was shot.

Qwilleran slapped the book shut. He had been reading with emotion, and his listeners sensed the tension in his voice. Though it described a nineteenth-century farm in a fictional English county called Wessex, it resembled Moose County, where sheep farming supported so many families. There was a heavy silence on the porch - until the telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, dislodging Yum Yum from his lap.

The caller was Sarah Plensdorf, the conscientious office manager at the Something. “I’m sorry to bother you on your vacation, Qwill, but I had a request for your phone number from a woman who seemed very young and very shy. When I told her to write you a letter, she insisted that she had an urgent message for you. I took her number and said I’d try to reach you. She was calling from Fishport.”

“Give me the number. I’ll call her,” he said. “You handled it well, Sarah.”

“You’re to ask for Janelle.”

When he phoned the number, a soft, whispery voice said, “Safe Harbor Residence.”

He had to think a moment. Was this the home for widows of commercial fishermen? He said, “Is there someone there by the name of Janelle?”

“This is … Janelle,” she said hesitantly. “Is this… Mr. Qwilleran?”

“Yes. You called my office.” Her slowness of speech made him speak in a clipped manner. “You have an urgent message?”

“It’s from one of our residents. The widow of… Primus Hawley. She’s made a lovely… gift for you.”

He huffed into his moustache. That would be Doris Hawley’s mother-in-law. She was embroidering something for him… probably Home Sweet Home bordered with roses. He glanced at Koko, who was at his elbow, listening. “Very kind of her,” he said.

“Would it be too much trouble to … pick it up?

She’s ninety years old. She’d be… thrilled to meet you.”

Koko was staring at his forehead, and Qwilleran found himself saying, “No trouble at all. I have great respect for the commercial fishing community. I wrote a column on the blessing of the fleet this spring.”

“I know! We have it in the parlor… in a lovely frame!”

“I’ll drop in some day next week.”

“Could you come… sooner?” she asked in her shy but persistent way.

“Well then, Monday afternoon.” There was a pause.

“Sooner?”

“All right!” he said in exasperation. “Some time tomorrow afternoon.”

There was another pause. “Could you tell us exactly when? She has to … have her nap.”

After promising to be there at two o’ clock, Qwilleran hung up and was surprised to see Koko running around in circles. “If you could drive,” he said to the cat, “I’d send you to pick it up !”

When Qwilleran arrived at Owen’s Place, the first thing he noticed in the small foyer was a lighted case of sparking cut crystal. He looked for a card saying “Courtesy of Arnold’s,” but there was no credit given. Otherwise the interior was mostly white, with accents of pink and yellow and a great many potted plants, hanging baskets, and indoor trees. He could tell at a glance that they were from The Greenery in Lockmaster, a place that rented plastic foliage for all occasions. Altogether it was not a bad scene: The large casement windows on both long walls were open, and their white louvered shutters framed them pleasantly.

Half the tables were taken, and there was a hum of excitement from show-goers headed for an opening-night performance. For a beach crowd they were dressed decently, and Qwilleran was glad he had worn his striped seersucker coat. As he stood waiting in the entry, several heads were turned in his direction, and hands waved.

Owen Bowen, handsomely tanned, came forward with a frown wrinkling his fine features. “Reservation?”

“No, sorry.”

The host scanned the room. “How many?”

“One.”

That required another study of the situation. “Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Non.”

After painful cogitation, he conducted Qwilleran to a small table and said, “Something from the bar?”

“Squunk water on the rocks, with lemon zest.”

“What was that?”

Qwilleran repeated it and explained that it was mineral water from a natural spring at Squunk Corners, but he said he would settle for club soda.

The menu was unusual by Moose County standards: veal loin encrusted with

eggplant, spinach, and roasted red peppers, with sun-dried tomato demiglaze-that sort of thing. Qwilleran played it safe with a lamb shank osso bucco on a bed of basil fettuccini. The soup of the day was a puree of cauliflower and Gorgonzola served in a soup plate with three spears of chives arranged in a triangle on the creamy surface.

While a self-conscious waitstaff took orders and served the food, the host seated guests and served drinks with an air of zero hospitality. Latticework in the rear of the room screened the bar, the cash register, and a window into the kitchen, where Qwilleran caught glimpses of a young woman in a chef’s towering toque. Her face had a look of extreme concentration and a kitchen pallor.

Other diners started leaving at seven-fifteen, saying they were concerned about parking facilities. When Qwilleran arrived at the Botts farm, vehicles lined both shoulders of the highway as far as one could see, and others were being directed into designated pastures. He himself had a press card that admitted him to a lot behind the dairy barn.

Show-goers gathered in the barnyard, reluctant to go indoors. It was a beautiful evening, and this was a festive celebration. The Rikers were there. “How was Owen’s Place?” they asked.

Qwilleran was pleased to report that the food was excellent. “The chef is nouvelle, but not too nouvelle. The host is a cold fish. If you don’t like cold fish, I suggest you go for lunch, when Derek is on duty.” Then, half turning his back to Arch, he asked Mildred, “Has your sensitive husband recovered from the mortification of knitting in public?”

“Don’t be fooled, Qwill. He’s enjoying the notoriety. He even got a fan letter from a mechanic in Chipmunk.”

Arch said, “I hope the play’s better than the precurtain conversation. Let’s go in.”

“Curtain time !” an usher was shouting to the crowd milling about the barnyard. There was no curtain in the theater, and there were no backs on the seats. Bleachers, providing good sight lines, filled one end of the barn, while an elevated stage occupied the other. Although the set was sketchy, the audience could imagine a fashionable country house with a terrace off to the right.

The lights dimmed; the haunting electronic sounds faded; and the play began - with headstrong characters insisting that UFOs were figments of the imagination. Meanwhile, a spaceship was landing in a rose garden offstage with green lights spilling onstage. Enter: a Visitor from outer space, almost seven feet tall. The audience howled as they recognized their favorite actor. He wore a Civil War uniform and sideburns and explained to the earthlings that he had miscalculated and landed in the wrong century. It was a challenging role for Derek, who was in almost every scene of the play.

During intermission, when the audience was glad to leave the bleachers for a few minutes, Qwilleran listened to their comments:

Elizabeth Hart: “Isn’t he talented? He does everything well.”

Lyle Compton: “Will that guy ever stop growing?”

Arch Riker: “This play puts UFOs where they belong: in a comic strip.”

Junior Goodwinter: “I hear tickets are sold out for three weekends.”

Obviously Derek was stealing the show. All his groupies were there, overreacting to every line. After the last act, and after the last tumultuous applause had shivered the timbers of the old barn, it was a joyful crowd that poured out to the barnyard.

Junior grabbed Qwilleran’s arm. “How about lunch tomorrow and some shoptalk? I have some ideas to bounce around.”

“You come to Mooseville, and I’ll buy,” Qwilleran said. “I have a two o’clock appointment in Fishport. We’ll go to Owen’s Place and see Derek in a different role.”

Then he found Arch waiting for Mildred. He was standing near an arrow that pointed to the portable facilities behind the barn. Qwilleran said, “Apart from the hard seats, how did you like the show?”

“I hope it’s not going to stir up a lot more UFO fever! People have brainwashed themselves, and my wife is one of the nuts.”

“Well, I listen to their conversation politely,” Qwilleran said, “but I don’t buy it, of course.”

“I’ve stopped being polite. Enough is enough! Toulouse sits staring into space, the way cats do, and Mildred insists he’s watching for Visitors… here she comes now.”

“Sorry to keep you both waiting,” she said. “There was a long line. Qwill, would you like to stop at our place for a snack?”

“Thanks, but I want to go home and grapple with my review while the show’s fresh in my mind.”

“We’re parked half a mile away,” Arch said. “Where are you parked?”

“Behind the barn. Reviewer’s privilege.”

“Lucky dog! I run the paper, and I have to walk half a mile!”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Qwilleran said. “You write the review, and I’ll drive you to your car.”

It was no deal.

What Qwilleran missed most about newspaper life Down Below was the interminable shoptalk - in the office, at the watercooler, in the lunchroom, at the Press Club. So he looked forward to his Saturday luncheon with the managing editor. Junior, for his part, probably welcomed an exchange of ideas with a journalist who was also a friend - and the financial backer of the newspaper in a round-about way.

Qwilleran arrived in the parking lot of Owen’s Place just as Junior was stepping out of his car. They went in together.

“Wow! Some class!” Junior exclaimed as Derek greeted them.

“Good show last night,” Qwilleran said. “You hit exactly the right blend of absurdity and convincing reality.”

When they were seated, Junior said to Qwilleran, “Do you think the play will kick off any UFO hysteria in Mooseville? You know how they are around here. We don’t want to attract any attention from the TV networks or major dailies Down Below. They’re quick to pounce on bizarre stories about simple country folk like us. But that’s not why Arch has vetoed stories about mysterious lights in the sky. It’s a personal phobia.”

“What about you, Junior?”

“I have no strong beliefs, one way or the other, but I maintain that the reaction of beach residents is news, and we should report it - plus a sidebar quoting the Pentagon and other official sources, as the other side of the story.”

The drinks were served - one red spritzer and one Squunk water - and Qwilleran raised his glass in a toast. “To sanity, if there’s any left!”

“What’s your next column, Qwill?”

“A thousand words on the diary of Lisa Compton’s great-grandmother. Mark Twain came through here on a lecture tour in the late nineteenth century, and she had a crush on him. They never met, but she fell for his moustache.”

“Sounds like hot stuff for a family newspaper,” Junior said drily.

“There was one interesting fact: Strange objects in the sky were being reported prior to the 1900s, thought to be from the spirit world… Have you looked at the menu, Junior? We’d better order.”

Besides imaginative variations on standard luncheon dishes, there was the house specialty: “Try our skewered potato! A flawless 20-ounce Idaho, baked on a skewer and dressed at tableside with three toppings. Choose one sauce, one accompaniment, and one garnish.”

The newsmen studied the list of toppings conscientiously:

THE SAUCES: Choice of marinara, Bolognese, Alfredo, ratatouille, curried chicken, or herbed yogurt with anchovies.

THE ACCOMPANIMENTS: Choice of sautéed Portobello mushrooms, red onion rings, pitted ripe olives, garlic-pickled garbanzos, sautéed chicken livers, or grilled tofu cubes.

THE GARNISHES: Choice of grated Parmesan cheese, toasted cashews, shredded carrots with capers, slivered fresh coconut, crumbled Stilton cheese, or sour cream with chives.

After studying the list, Junior said, “It’s daunting, to say the least. I can’t believe this is happening in Moose County.”

“Blame Derek,” Qwilleran said. “That’s what happens when you send a boy to college.”

“What I really wanted was a roast beef sandwich.”

Qwilleran called Derek to the table. “Would we be thrown out if we ordered roast beef sandwiches with horseradish?”

“Sure, that’s okay,” Derek said, adding in a lower voice, “We’re short of skewers, anyway.”

They spent the lunch hour discussing editorial policies, staff problems, new ideas, and old mistakes. Qwilleran enjoyed it and offered advice, but finally he looked at his watch and said it was time to leave for Fishport.

“What are you doing there?”

“Paying a call on some elderly residents at Safe Harbor. It’s one of the many things I do for the Moose County Something and don’t get paid for. I make an appearance, shake hands, say the right things, and make friends for the paper. I hope it’s appreciated.”

“I think you like old ladies.”

“Why not? They like me,” Qwilleran said flippantly, although he realized he was drawn to octogenarians and nonagenarians of both sexes, and he knew why. He had never known his grandparents. His mother never talked about them, and as a kid he was too self-absorbed to ask questions. His life was all about playing baseball, acting in school plays, training for spelling bees (which he always won), and practicing the piano (reluctantly).

There were no birthday cards or Christmas presents from grandparents. His extended family consisted of his mother’s friends and Arch Riker’s parents. Pop Riker was as good a father as he had ever known. Now he often wondered about his: forebears. Who were they? Where did they live? What did they do? Why had his mother never mentioned them? Could they be traced? There was a genealogical society in Pickax; they would know how to proceed.

He thought about it on the way to his afternoon appointment. Before he knew it, he had reached the Fishport village limits, and the landmark mansion called Safe Harbor loomed ahead.