The Cat Who Saw Stars

-7-

Safe Harbor was a three-story frame structure m the Victorian style, with porches, bay windows, balconies, gables, a turret, and a widow’s walk. It had been the residence of a shipping magnate in Moose County’s heyday, when families were large, travel was slow, and guests stayed a long time. There were many bedrooms upstairs and servants’ quarters in the garret. The widow’s walk was a small observation platform on the roof with a fancy wrought-iron railing. From that elevation, members of the family could watch for sailing ships bringing loved ones or valuable cargo, all the while worrying about treacherous rocks and lake pirates.

Following the economic collapse, the stately mansion became a boarding house for sandpit workers, then a summer hotel in the prosperous rum-running days, then a private school for sailing buffs from Chicago. Eventually it was purchased by the Scotten, Hawley, and Zander families as a retirement home for widows of commercial fishermen, whose occupation was on the most-dangerous list in government studies.

When Qwilleran arrived and rang the jangling bell on the front door, it was immediately opened by a breathless young woman with a sweet smile. A mass of auburn hair cloaked her thin shoulders. “I’m Janelle Van Roop,” she said softly. “It’s so … wonderful of you to come, Mr. Qwilleran. All the ladies… are waiting in the parlor.”

It was a large dark foyer with an elaborately carved staircase and double doors opening into equally dark rooms. Janelle led him to the one room that was light and bright and cheerful, with white lace curtains on the tall narrow windows. As they entered, applause came from twelve pairs of frail hands. Twenty-four widows with gray or silver hair and pretty blouses sat in a circle.

Janelle said, “Ladies, this is our… beloved Mr. Q!” There was another patter of applause with more enthusiasm than volume.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Qwilleran said in a mellifluous voice that mesmerized his listeners when he pulled out all the stops. “It’s a great pleasure to meet so many loyal readers, looking so festive and so … fetching.”

There were titters of amusement and delight. “I’d like to shake your hands individually, if Janelle will make the introductions.”

There was a general murmur of excitement. Qwilleran had done this before, and he performed in a courtly manner that appealed to women of a certain age. It was part newspaper public relations and part genuine feeling for the older generation.

As he and Janelle moved clockwise around the room, he cupped each extended hand in both of his - hands that were thin, wrinkled, or arthritic. He held them while he said the right things. He

paid compliments, asked questions, and proffered greetings from Koko and Yum Yum. The exploits of the Siamese were often reported in the “Qwill Pen” column, and many of the women inquired about their health. For his part, he murmured a variety of “right things”:

“You’re looking exceptionally well… Is that an heirloom cameo you’re wearing? … Pink is very becoming to you… You have happy eyes… Your grandson is quite an artist in metal… You have the loveliest white hair I’ve ever seen.”

A few women had canes by their sides; the last in the circle was in a wheelchair. She was introduced as Rebecca Hawley.

“I’ve made something for you, Mr. Q,” she said in a faltering voice. “I’ve been working on it since last October.” She handed him a roll of linen tied with a red ribbon like a diploma.

Concealing his apprehension, he unrolled it slowly, then stared at it in disbelief. The painstakingly embroidered words stared back at him - his own words, stitched in black letters:

CATS ARE CATS… THE WORLD OVER! THESE INTELLIGENT, PEACE-LOYING FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS-WHO ARE WITHOUT PREJUDICE, WITHOUT HATE, WITHOUT GREED-MAY SOMEDAY TEACH US SOMETHING. -THE QWILL PEN

I’m overwhelmed!” he said. “I don’t know what to say!” The words were from his semiannual cat column published the previous fall. “How can I thank you, Mrs. Hawley?”

“Do you like it?” she asked, eager for approval.

“Do I like it! If it had been chiseled in marble, it couldn’t have been more of an honor. I’ll put it in an important frame and think of you every time I see it.”

“Oh, my!” She put her bony hands to her face and rocked back and forth in pleased embarrassment.

Janelle spoke up. “Thank you, Mr. Q, for… paying us this visit. We know… how busy you are.”

“My pleasure !” he said, throwing a final salute to his enraptured fans.

In the foyer Janelle seemed nervous. “Please, Mr. Q … somebody wants to see you… privately. She’s waiting… in the office.”

“Who is it?”

“You’ll see.”

The office was a small space under the stairs, equipped with desk, filing cabinet, and two institutional chairs. Perched primly on one of the hard seats was Doris Hawley. She jumped to her feet.

“Mrs. Hawley! What a surprise!” he said. “I’m sorry - “

“No need to feel sorry. I’ve been wondering about you… Let’s sit down. I’m still weak in the knees after seeing your mother-in-law’s gift.” He waved the roll of linen.

“This was the only way I could think of - to talk to you without being seen… Do you mind if I close the door?”

“I’ll close it … But why the secrecy, Mrs. Hawley?”

Her face made it clear that it was far from a happy secret. “They don’t want us to talk to anybody - Magnus and me - and if we talk to the media, we could be arrested. It’s a terrible feeling. What have we done? They don’t tell us anything.”

“You identified the hiker’s body?”

“Yes, and they thanked us and apologized, sort of. But the next day the state troopers came to the house with orders from the State Bureau of Investigation: no talking to anybody about anything!”

“Ridiculous!” he said with indignation, although he stroked his moustache questioningly.

“Magnus asked them why we couldn’t talk, but all they’d say was ‘SBI orders.’ The sheriff isn’t so bad. We know all the deputies, and the one who comes here goes to our church. She said it was unfair, but they had to follow SBI orders.”

“It seems like high-handed treatment,” Qwilleran said. “I suggest you remove the burlap sack from your sign and get back into the baking business. And if there’s a single objection from the police, have Janelle phone me, and I’ll meet you here.”

Mrs. Hawley was grateful to the point of tears. “How does Magnus react?”

“Oh, he’s mad! He’s furious!”

In the foyer, he said to Janelle, “I’m giving you my private phone number; you may need to call me …Are you a Canary?”

She wore the yellow smock that identified caregiving volunteers in Moose County. “Yes, I’m an MCCC student in health care,” she said in her languid way, “and… I get credits for… community service.”

“Good! Your time is well spent here.” He walked to his van, hoping he had said the right thing to Mrs. Hawley and wishing Arch Riker could have seen his performance for the elderly women. Driving home, he pondered the small intrigues that occur in small towns. The SBI had overreacted, assuming that gullible townfolk would panic if faced with something hard to explain - and also assuming, rightly, that the media would jump on the story and blow it up out of proportion.

More mystifying to Qwilleran was Koko’s behavior in this, and other situations. The cat had wanted him to accept Janelle’s invitation; he had sensed some undisclosed reason behind it. In the same way he had wanted Qwilleran to take the recumbent bike to the cabin, where it would make a rousing finale to the parade. The latter was a minor matter, but it signified that Koko was tuned in, somehow, to forthcoming events. Uncanny! Likewise, he knew there was something buried in the sand ridge - something that should not be there. All cats have a sixth sense, Qwilleran knew, but in Kao K’o Kung it was developed to an incredible degree!

On the way back to town, Qwilleran’s watch told him that Derek might be at Elizabeth’s Magic, cooling off after his steamy lunch hour at Owen’s Place. Derek had a play to do that evening; there would be theater talk as well as restaurant talk.

Derek had not yet arrived. Elizabeth said he was rearranging the tables, putting some on the diagonal to dispel the effect of a railway dining car. It would be a surprise for the boss.

“Does Owen accept all Derek’s ideas?” Qwilleran asked.

“So far he’s had carte blanche. Derek charms: everyone,” she said, her eyes glowing.

Qwilleran had known Derek since his days as a busboy, and always he treated CEOs and visiting bishops with the same offhand bonhomie that captivated the young girls who adored him.

“Have you met Ernie?” Qwilleran asked Elizabeth.

“What’s she like?”

“Very nice, but she’s a person with an intense drive. She was here to buy skewers and she asked about the rune stones, so I did a reading for her.”

“What are they exactly?”

“Little stones inscribed with a prehistoric alphabet that’s used for divining the future. My reading for Ernie was so negative that I didn’t give her an honest interpretation… Here comes Derek!”

He blustered into the shop with his usual energy. “I’m thirsty! Got anything cold?” He bounded to the rear, where there was a small refrigerator beneath the coffeemaker, then flopped into a chair with a bottle of chilled grape juice.

Qwilleran joined him. “Do you have any problem shifting gears from cuisine to showbiz?”

“Nah. It’s all showbiz.”

“Too bad Ernie can’t take an evening off to see you act.”

“She’d never go to the theater. She’s a workaholic,” Derek said. “Works nine-to-nine with only a two-hour break in the afternoon, and then she spends it studying recipes. Did you see that big recreation vehicle behind the restaurant? It’s full of cookbooks! I tell you, she’s a real pro! Turns out orders fast. Makes presentations that are works of art. I asked her what she liked most about her job, and she said ‘the fast pace.’ I asked her what she liked least, and she said ‘tomatoes in winter.’ That’s the way she is!” Derek glanced at the customers in the shop and said, “Come in the stockroom.”

Among the shelves and cartons and racks he could speak freely. He knew Qwilleran liked to hear the story behind the story. “The way it works, I report at ten-thirty A.M. Owen is there to check me in. We count the cash together, and I sign for it. Then he takes off with his bait bucket for a few hours of fishing - or that’s what he says. But there’s liquor on his breath already! Makes you wonder what he eats for breakfast. Makes you wonder what’s in the bait bucket. Does he anchor the boat in some secluded cove where he can nip schnapps and read porno magazines? Is that why he never brings in any fish?”

Qwilleran said, “You’re getting to be very cynical for your age, Derek. Does Ernie ever go out on the lake with him?”

“Only on Mondays, when we’re closed. And then I’ll bet she takes cookbooks to read. Off the record, Qwill, I think she worries about his drinking. She made two stupid mistakes last week because she wasn’t concentrating - like making a BLT without the T. Then a Monte Cristo with mushroom sauce didn’t have the sauce… Well, I’ve gotta go home and make an adjustment from dumb earthling to smart alien.”

He galloped out of the. shop, tossing a “see ya later” in Elizabeth’s direction.

Driving home along the shore, Qwilleran was beginning to watch for the old schoolhouse chimney and the K sign when he saw a vehicle approach from the east and turn into his drive. He stepped on the gas. It was a green van he could not recognize, and he was wary of uninvited visitors. Yum Yum had been kidnapped once, and he had never forgotten the horror of coming home and finding her gone.

By the time the green van pulled into the clearing, the brown van was right on its tail, and Qwilleran jumped out to confront the driver.

“Bushy!” he shouted. “Why didn’t you let me know - “

Stepping out of the green van was a young man in a green baseball cap: John Bushland, commercial photographer, who also handled assignments for the Moose County Something. Losing his hair at an early age - but not his sense of humor - he encouraged friends to call him Bushy.

“I phoned - no answer - so I took a chance. I had a shoot in the neighborhood - a family reunion.”

“For the paper?” There were dozens of family reunions every summer weekend, and they rated two inches of space and no photo.

“No, the Ogilvies have a professional group picture taken every year for their family history. For the usual shot of the eldest and the youngest, I posed a hundred-year-old woman and a two-day-old lamb. Cute. What? They thought it was brilliant.”

“You’ve got a new van, Bushy.”

“No, a new paint job. Dwight Somers recommended a less somber color and a livelier logo to enhance my image in a rural environment.”

“Business must be good if you can afford a PR man.”

“Not that good! I bartered photos for his services.”

“Well, come in and have a gin and tonic. I just happen to have the main ingredients.”

Bushy leaned on the bar while Qwilleran mixed his drink and opened a ginger ale for himself. “Where are the cats?” he asked.

“Asleep somewhere.”

“Then I can speak freely. Those guys are finally licked. I’ve sent for the trick lens.”

For several years Bushy had been trying to take a photo that would win him a prize and land Koko and Yum Yum on the cover of a cat calendar. Having no desire to be cover cats, they had thwarted his repeated efforts with exasperating ingenuity, no matter how stealthy his strategy. Now he had tracked down a vintage lens for photographing reluctant subjects without their knowledge.

“Good!” Qwilleran said. “Those scoundrels have been calling the plays long enough!”

As they carried their drinks to the porch, Yum Yum uncurled from sleep on a chair seat, rising gracefully like a genie coming out of a bottle. Koko had been sleeping compactly in sixty-four- square inches of sunlight on top of his pedestal; he jumped down with a grunt.

The two men stretched out on lounge chairs and absorbed the view: blue sky, white clouds, blue lake with white sails skimming across the horizon.

“That’s the Grand Island Club’s annual wooden sloop regatta,” Bushy said. “Last year’s winner wanted me to sail with them this year and shoot, but I wouldn’t go out on one of those babies for any amount of money! I’ll stick to stink-boats… Did you know I’ve got a new one? Twenty-four-foot cuddy cruiser with depth-finder, VHF radio, stereo. Sleeps four. I’d like to take you for a cruise. I think you’d be impressed.”

“You’ll never get me out on a boat again, Bushy,” Qwilleran said with fervor. “After that trip to Three Tree Island, I had nightmares for a month, and Roger almost succumbed to pneumonia.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve learned a lot since then. I pay attention to the weather clues - the whistling overhead and the sudden change in the sky color. It wouldn’t happen again, and we’d pick a nice day.”

“We picked a nice day the last time.”

That ill-fated voyage had been a fool’s errand in the first place, Qwilleran reflected. A pilot flying over the island had seen what he thought were charred circles on the shore. He mentioned the phenomenon to Roger MacGillivray, who was a spaceship buff. Bushy, being another, wanted to cruise out to see them. Qwilleran went along for the ride. They never saw the circles, and it was a miracle that they ever saw the mainland again.

Qwilleran knew the young man was inordinately fond of his new craft. He said, “Okay, I’ll put my life on the line, but give me advance notice so I can take out some more insurance.”

Bushy said, “I was thinking about tomorrow. The weather’s going to be perfect, and 1 thought we could pick up some pasties at the Nasty Pasty and have lunch on board.”

Qwilleran was inordinately fond of pasties. “What time? Where?” he asked.

After Bushy had driven away, Qwilleran brushed the Siamese. They liked it, and he found it conducive to thinking. Yum Yum considered it an exciting game of fight-the-brush; Koko submitted with the dignity of a monarch being robed for a coronation. The porch was ideal for the ritual. Gentle breezes wafted the loose cat hair into comers where it could easily be scooped up. Whimsically he wondered if the balls of soft weightless fluff could be spun into yarn for Arch to knit into socks. What a Christmas gift that would make! Good for a laugh, at any rate.

One thought led to another, and he phoned Mitch Ogilvie, a goat farmer. “I hear you had a family reunion today Mitch.”

The farmer was in the cheesehouse, and his voice had the hollow ring of concrete walls and stainless-steel vats. “I was there long enough to get in the official photo, that’s all. Goats don’t give you any days off.”

“Would you happen to know the two Ogilvie women who do handspinning?”

“Sure, that would be Alice and her daughter. Her husband has the sheep ranch on Sandpit Road.”

“If I wrote a column on handspinning,” Qwilleran asked, “would she make a good interview? Is she an authority?”

“Definitely. We’re going to get some cashmere and angora goats just for her. She sells her yarn to weavers and knitters all over the country. Her daughter has started a unisex knitting club, Qwill. You ought to join.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Arch Riker has joined, and when he finishes the toe of his first sock, I may consider it. Frankly, I think I’m perfectly safe.”

When Qwilleran phoned the sheep ranch, there was no answer; no doubt the family was still at the reunion, enjoying barbecued chicken, baked beans, and potato salad. He chose not to leave a message but applied himself to his theater review for Monday’s paper. He sprawled in a lounge chair on the porch, writing on a legal pad while the Siamese napped, the clouds scudded, and the regatta dotted the horizon with white sails.

Writing a review of a small-town play for a small-town theater was a special art. He asked himself, What is the purpose of the review? Not to show off the intellect and educated taste of the reviewer. Not to flatter the amateur actors into quitting their jobs and moving to New York. Not to give away the surprise of the plot and spoil it for next week’s audience. And not to convince readers that they were smart to stay home and watch television.

Instead, he told the stay-at-homes what it was like to attend an opening night: the crowd; the excitement; the transformed barn; the stage set; the audience reaction; the pomposity of the major general; the snobbery of the TV commentator; and the roar of laughter when the unexpected happened.

Every once in a while Qwilleran looked up from his pad, and his eyes fell on Koko, after which he went on writing with a fresh idea or neat turn of phrase. It was exactly what Christopher Smart had written about Jeoffrey: For he’s good to think on if a man would express himself neatly.

In one of these interludes, he saw Koko raise his head suddenly, crane his neck, and point his ears toward the lake, as if a crow had stamped its feet on the beach or a grasshopper had rustled the tall grasses. All was quiet, yet Qwilleran found himself touching his moustache in expectation. A few minutes later a figure rounded a curve in the shoreline and came into view: a young woman in black tights, a leopard shirt, black baseball cap, and jogging shoes. She was not the usual beachcomber in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. She was not strolling and searching the beach for agates or walking briskly with pumping elbows. She trudged doggedly.

Qwilleran walked to the top of the sandladder, where he stood with hands in his pant pockets. When she came close enough, he called out, “Good afternoon! Beautiful day!”

Startled, she looked up, nodded, and labored on, a polished leather bag on a very long strap dangling from her shoulder. That was another item never seen on the beach.

In half an hour she was back, trudging without looking to right or left.