The Cat Who Saw Stars

-8-

When Qwilleran went to the drugstore Sunday morning to pick up his New York Times, who should be doing the same thing but Arch Riker. “Had your breakfast?” Qwilleran asked him.

“Sure have! Pecan waffles, apple-chicken sausages, and blueberry muffins,” Arch gloated, a not-too-subtle reminder that he was married to the newspaper’s food writer. “But I’ll have a cup of coffee with you, if you’re getting something to eat.”

They crossed the street to the Northern Lights Hotel and took a table in the coffee shop, overlooking the harbor. Mrs. Stacy rushed forward to greet them. As co-owner, her job was to keep guests happy; her husband, Wayne, solved the problems.

“Where are the sailboats?” Qwilleran asked her. “Isn’t it supposed to be a two-day regatta?”

Her face saddened. “It was called off. There was a drowning yesterday - late.”

“There was nothing about it on the newscast last night.”

“It was all over the Chicago TV channels. He was the son of a big shot down there. He was an expert swimmer, too, but… could I bring you gentlemen some coffee?”

Qwilleran said to Riker sourly, “It wasn’t news here because the victim wasn’t ‘one of us,’ as the locals say.”

“I’m sure we’ll have it in tomorrow’s edition.”

“Yes, twenty words in the here-and- there column. If he were local, the item would have a front-page headline.”

Riker shrugged. “What can I say? I can’t defend our policy, but it’s the way things are. Sad but true. It’s human nature to react more emotionally to a skateboard accident on Sandpit Road than a derailed train in New Jersey. Why don’t you write a column about it?”

“I may do that.”

“Have you written your review of the play?

What did you say?”

Facetiously, Qwilleran replied, “I said that Jennifer was sweet, Kemple was loud, and Derek was tall. I said the whole cast had learned their lines and the bleacher seats were hard.”

Arch ignored the flip retort. “Did you explain the name of the theater? Not many locals will get the joke.”

“No need to explain, boss. The few who know about the Friars Club in major cities will appreciate the pun. Those who think our Fryers Club refers to dead chickens will get a laugh for a different reason, and no one’s intelligence is insulted.” He ordered ham and eggs and country fries without consulting the menu.

“What have you heard from Polly?” Riker asked, aiming at a more agreeable topic.

“Just a shower of postcards. She and her sister Mona are apparently whooping it up in Ontario.”

“Millie and I didn’t know she had a sister.”

“Mona lives in Cincinnati, and they haven’t seen each other for years. Her name is short for Desdemona. Polly’s real name is Hippolyta from Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“I don’t blame her for hushing it up.”

“Their father was a Shakespeare scholar, and he named his offspring for characters in the plays. Polly has a sister Ophelia and…” Qwilleran’s attention wandered. “What are you staring at?”

“A woman sitting alone at a table in the comer.

She’s the same one who walked along my beach yesterday, looking aloof. She still looks as if she doesn’t belong here and wishes she were somewhere else.”

“Maybe she just disembarked from a spaceship,” Riker said with flagrant sarcasm.

Qwilleran stood up and tossed his napkin on the chair seat. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He crossed to the table where a woman in a baseball cap was preparing to leave. “Excuse me,” he said respect-fully, “but are you Dr. Frobnitz from Branchwater University?”

“No,” she said curtly.

“I’m sorry. She’s due to arrive today, and I’m supposed to meet her. I was sure you were - “

“Well, I’m not!” she snapped, standing and shouldering her handbag with pointed annoyance.

“Please forgive the intrusion,” he called after her as she left the coffee shop. To Mrs. Stacy, who had observed the brief encounter, he explained, “I thought she was someone else. Do you know who she is?”

“She’s not registered here, but she’s been coming here for meals. She must be staying at the hotel. I tried to make her feel welcome, but she’s very standoffish.”

“That’s a good word for it.”

Qwilleran looked smug as he returned to his table and the breakfast plate that had been served.

“What was that performance all about?” Riker asked.

“I just wanted to hear her say a few words. I thought she might be from the SBI, investigating the backpacker case, but she sounds more Main Line than bureaucratic.”

“For your information, Qwill, that case is dead in the water. The closure will be in tomorrow’s paper: death attributed to natural causes.”

“Hmff,” Qwilleran murmured. There was more to the mystery than the cause of death, according to Andrew Brodie. He picked up a fork and attacked the fried eggs with burnt edges, the sliver of ham, the warmed-over potatoes, all swimming in grease on a cold plate.

Riker said, “I’ve come to the conclusion that you simply like food, good or bad. When we were kids, you’d shovel it in as if you were starving, no matter what it was.”

“I know good food from bad,” Qwilleran said, “but I adjust. I happen to know they have trouble getting cooks on weekends… Have you finished knitting your first pair of socks, Arch?”

“Heck, I haven’t even reached the heel-flap of the first one.”

“How many men are in the knitting club?”

“Four and a half. I’m not in it with both feet. I shouldn’t have let Barb Ogilvie twist my arm, but she’s young and blond and has sheep’s eyes… By the way, Millie is making lamb stew and inviting singles to dinner tomorrow night. Why don’t you join us? Lisa Compton will be there, because Lyle has a conference in Duluth. Roger is coming because Sharon and the kids and some other home-schoolers are taking an overnight bus trip to a hands-on museum in Lockmaster.”

“What time?”

“Six, for drinks. They’re coming right from work. How does it feel to be on vacation?”

“What vacation?” Qwilleran asked grumpily. “Go home and read your newspaper.”

A dinner invitation from the Rikers was much appreciated, and Qwilleran felt the urge to take Mildred a gift - something from Elizabeth’s Magic, where he could also get a cup of coffee superior to the hotel’s undistinguished brew. He pushed through the Sunday morning horde of vacationers to Oak Street and found Elizabeth leaving her shop, even though customers were filing in and out.

“Qwill, did you hear the tragic news?” she cried tearfully. “A crew member in the regatta fell overboard and drowned! Only nineteen! And about to enter Yale!”

“Did you know him?”

“Slightly, but I know his family very well. His father is CEO of a large corporation in Chicago. What’s so awful is that he was a strong swimmer, but they couldn’t get him out of the water fast enough. The temperature of the lake is lethal, you know. They circled and got back to him in three minutes, but hypothermia had set in, and he was in shock. By the time they got him out of the water, he was unconscious, and they weren’t able to revive him. Everyone’s devastated!”

“It’s sad news,” Qwilleran said. “Sailors know about the risks, but who ever expects it to happen?”

“I thought you’d want to know. Most people around here aren’t concerned about Grand Islanders unless they’re over here spending money,” she said bitterly. “My brother’s coming to take me to the island.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. For a brief moment he saw it as an excuse to postpone his own boating date.

“Thanks, Qwill, but I’ve been grooming Kenneth to wait on customers, and Derek will come at two-thirty… I must rush down to the pier now.”

Qwilleran gave her a warm nod of sympathy, and she hurried away.

Inside the shop the big blond high schooler, suddenly promoted from stockboy to manager, was enjoying his responsibility. He joshed with customers - especially the young ones - and answered questions about the merchandise as if he knew what he was talking about. He took cash or credit cards, operated the computer, bagged purchases properly but said he didn’t do giftwraps. Qwilleran, who had decided on rune stones for Mildred, put him to the test.

“What are these pebbles?” he asked.

“Some old guy picks’ em up on the beach and grinds’ em smooth,” he said. “Then some other old guy paints magic letters on ‘em. You can use ‘em to tell fortunes. There’s a little book that tells how.”

“Have you had your fortune told?”

“Yeah, Elizabeth said I’m gonna make a lotta money if I work hard and use my brain as well as my muscles.”

“I’ll take a set,” Qwilleran said. Mildred would know about rune stones. She could read palms, handwriting, and tarot cards but never read any of them in Arch’s presence.

He put the gift in his van and went down the pier to The Viewfinder. It was a

sleek white cruiser with V-hull and open cockpit. Bushy, obviously pumped up with pride, was waiting for his reaction.

“Neat craft!” Qwilleran said. “Great deck space! What’s the horsepower? How many does it sleep?”

Bushy pointed out the two-person helm station, the well-engineered storage space, and the amenities belowdeck: four berths, a slick head, and galley with refrigerator, stove, and sink. “I’ve gotta work a lot harder to pay for this baby,” he admitted.

With both men seated behind the windshield, the craft moved slowly out of the dock, putting on exhilarating speed when open water was reached.

“This bucket really moves!” Qwilleran said.

“And steers like a dream,” Bushy boasted.

“Good visibility of the water.”

“Did you see the compass and depth-finder?”

“What’s our destination?” Qwilleran asked as the boat skimmed over the glassy lake in a world of its own.

“Traffic picks up Sunday afternoon,” Bushy said, “but I thought this would be a nice time to go out to the lighthouse.” He pointed out islands, shoals, and fishing banks and knew their names.

Near the Pirate Shoals, they spotted a cabin cruiser and a speedboat lashed together, starboard to starboard.

“What’s that all about?” Qwilleran asked.

“Looks like some kind of hanky-panky. Take the glass, Qwill, and see what you can see.”

Training the binoculars on the tęte-á- tęte, he reported, “No one visible in either boat. Maybe they’re below in the galley, making bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.”

“Ha!” Bushy said in derision. “Can you see a name on the transom of the cruiser?”

“It looks like Suncatcher. Does that ring a bell?”

“Nah. I don’t hang around the marinas. Also, it could be from some other harbor. Any fishing rods in evidence?”

“There’s one in a holder, and it’s bobbing. They’ve got a bite, but they don’t want to burn the bacon.”

“I’ll circle around, so you can see the name on the speedboat.”

It was an older craft and not as shipshape as the Suncatcher. Its name was Fast Mama.

“Whoo-ee!” Bushy said.

There was no registration tag visible, an omission that reminded Qwilleran of an uncomfortable day-cruise he had taken when he was a newcomer at the lake. The Minnie K was an old tub that docked downshore in the bulrushes because it had not passed inspection and was operating illegally. He said to Bushy, “Let’s take off before they get the idea we’re tabloid journalists and start shooting at us.”

The Viewfinder moved quietly away and a few minutes later passed the south end of Breakfast Island, restored to its wilderness state after a failed attempt at development. Farther up the shore the island changed its name to Grand Island, and there was a marina with yachts and sailboats from Chicago. Beyond that were the palatial “cottages” of summer people from Down Below - the ones who would boat over to Mooseville and spend money at Owen’s Place and Elizabeth’s Magic. At the north end, the lighthouse stood on a rock-bound promontory, site of so many early shipwrecks. Now there were ringing buoys to warn craft away from submerged dangers.

“Here’s where we’ll anchor,” Bushy said.

Pasties were a perfect easy-to-eat picnic food, and the Nasty Pasty had packed individual cans of tomato juice, apples, coconut cupcakes, and a thermos of coffee.

Qwilleran said, “For a landlubber from Lockmaster, Bushy, you know your way around these waters pretty well.”

“You’ve got me wrong, Qwill. I was born and brought up near the lake. I relocated in Lockmaster when I married. Believe me, it’s good to be back here. I have a passion for fishing and boating. You probably never heard this, but my family was in commercial fishing for three generations before my grandfather sold out to the Scottens. He was always telling me about the herring business in the twenties and thirties. They used wooden boats and cotton nets - and no echo sounders or radio phones. You wouldn’t believe what fishermen went through in those days.”

Try me,” said Qwilleran, always curious about someone else’s business.

“Well, the Bushland Fisheries regularly shipped hundred-pound kegs of dried salted herring Down Below, salt being the preservative in those days, before refrigeration. And here’s the interesting part: The kegs went to Pennsylvania, West VIrginia, and other coal-producing states, and the miners practically lived on herring. They could buy it for four cents a pound. The fishermen got a penny a pound and worked their tails off to get it. They were up before dawn, out on the lake in open boats in all kinds of weather, hauling heavy nets till their backs nearly broke, filling the boats to the gunnels with fish, and racing back to shore to dress it. Sometimes they worked half the night - salting it, packing it, and loading it on a freight car before the locomotive backed up and hauled the car away.”

Qwilleran said, “I hope they didn’t use gill nets.”

“No way! They used coarse-mesh ‘pond’ nets.

That’s spelled p-o-u-n-d. I never found out why it was pronounced the way it was. In the spring, after the ice broke up, they drove stakes in the lake bottom - tree trunks as long as fifty feet - and they drove ‘em with manpower before the gasoline derrick came into use. After that, they set out their nets and visited them every day to scoop out the catch. When cold weather came, they pulled up the stakes before the ice could crush’ em. Then they spent the winter mending nets and repairing boats.”

“I can see why your grandfather wanted to gel out of the business,” Qwilleran said.

“That wasn’t the reason. He wasn’t afraid of hard work. It’s a sad story. He lost his father and two older brothers in a freak incident on the lake They went out in a thirty-five-foot boat, the Jenny Lee, to lift nets. The weather was fair. Lots of boats were in the fishing grounds, all within sight of each other. Suddenly the Jenny Lee vanished. One minute she was seen by other fishermen; the next minute she was gone. The authorities searched for a week and never found the bodies - never even found the boat underwater. The whole village of Fishport was in mourning. It’s remained an unsolved mystery.”

Qwilleran stared at Bushy sternly. “Is this an actual fact?”

“It’s the God’s truth! There’s a memorial plaque in the churchyard. Someone wrote a folksong about it.”

“Were there any speculations as to what happened?”

“All kinds, but there was only one conclusion, and you won’t like it, Qwill. It had to have something to do with the Visitors - like, they could make a thirty-five-foot boat vaporize. There were lots of talk about the Visitors way back then, you know: Blobs of green light in the night sky… Sometimes shining things in daylight. That was before I was born, and they’re still coming back - some years more than others.”

Qwilleran wanted to believe his friend, but he found it difficult. He said, “You once told me about some kind of incident when you were out fishing.”

“Yeah, it was my old boat. I was on the lake all by myself, fishing for bass. All at once I had a strange feeling I wasn’t alone. I looked up, and there was a silver disc with portholes! I had my camera case with me, but before I could get out my camera, the thing disappeared in a flash. Their speed, you know, has been clocked at seventeen hundred miles per hour.”

Qwilleran listened with his usual skepticism, although he tried not to show it. He thought, Here I am in the middle of the lake with a crazy guy! Watch it!

Soberly, he asked, “Do they accelerate from zero to seventeen hundred in the blink of an eye? Or do you think they have a technology that makes them invisible at will?”

“That’s the mystery,” Bushy said. “Obviously they’re far ahead of us technologically. I also have a current theory. Would you like to hear it?”

“By all means.”

“You know how the beach has changed this summer - not just in front of your cabin but for miles along the north shore? The loose sand has blown up into a ridge, all the way from Fishport to Purple Point. Okay… Now flash back to the time when the spacecraft was right over my head; when it zoomed away, there was a rush of air more powerful than anything I’ve experienced in a hurricane! It was a single mechanically produced blast that lasted only a second or two.”

“Are you suggesting that one or more spacecraft followed the line of the shore, rolling up sand like a carpet?”

“You’ve got it! I wrote a letter to the paper about my theory, but it wasn’t printed.”

Qwilleran threw in a handy platitude that seemed appropriate and noncommittal. “We all tend to deny what we don’t understand and don’t want to believe.”

“Exactly,” Bushy said with a look of triumph that was followed by silent indecision. Qwilleran waited for the next revelation. “I don’t know whether I should tell you this,” the young man finally ventured. “It’s confidential, but… Roger won’t mind if I let you in on it.”

Qwilleran agreed. The three of them had surely bonded during the Three Tree Island ordeal.

“Well, Roger has access to the sheriff’s office, you know… and there was something unusual about the backpacker’s body when it was found. It was sent to the state pathologist, but they don’t have any answers. Naturally they won’t admit it, so they’re saying the case is closed… Now, here’s my point: The body was found in the rolled-up hill of sand, so … you can put two and two together.”

“I see what you mean,” Qwilleran said, meaning just that and nothing more. He could have revealed who found the body in the hill of sand. Instead he said, “Bushy, this has been a great outing! Thanks for inviting me. You’ve got a gem of a boat.”

The two men were pensive as The Viewfinder skimmed across the miles to shore. At the Pirate Shoals, the Suncatcher and Fast Mama had concluded their tryst and departed. The Sunday-afternoon skippers were swarming over the lake. Qwilleran was thankful to be back on dry land.

Driving back to the cabin, he looked forward to the serenity and sanity of the domestic scene, and he received a tail-waving, ankle-rubbing welcome. Koko had been on the bookshelves, sniffing titles, and had dislodged a book as a subtle reminder that they were entitled to a Sunday-afternoon reading session. It was a Mark Twain novella, A Horse’s Tale, about an army horse named Soldier Boy, who saved a young girl from wolves. It was a good choice, lending itself to the sound effects that would excite the Siamese: neighing, whinnying, snorting, stomping, and, of course, the howling of a wolf pack. Qwilleran could do them all well, and they gave realism to the melodramatic narrative.