Three Complete Novels: The Cat Who Tailed a Thief/the Cat Who Sang for the Birds/the Cat Who Saw Stars

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “He came through here on a lecture tour,” Lisa said. “My great-grandmother had a crush on him. She fell for his moustache. I have her diary. The pages are brown, and the ink is fading, but it’s full of fascinating stuff.”

  Qwilleran made a mental note for the “Qwill Pen”: Lisa Compton’s great-grandmother’s diary.

  When Mildred invited them indoors to the table and they were spooning butternut and roasted pepper soup, she asked, “Is everyone going to the Fryers Club play? It may be Fran Brodie’s last production. I hear she’s had a good job offer in Chicago. She was there for two weeks, working on the hotel do-over.”

  “Bad news!” Lisa moaned. “What can we do to keep her here?”

  “Get Dr. Prelligate to propose marriage. They’ve been seeing a lot of each other.”

  Arch said, “It’ll take more than a college president to keep Fran down on the farm. Get Qwilleran to propose . . .”

  “Arch, honey, would you pour the wine? I’m ready to serve the chops,” Mildred interrupted.

  With the coddled chops were twice-baked potatoes, a broccoli soufflé, a pinot noir, and a toast from Lyle Compton: “Thursday’s Independence Day! Let’s drink to the genius who single-handedly dragged the Fourth of July parade from the pits and launched it to the stars!”

  “Hear! Hear!” the others shouted with vigor.

  Mildred blushed. “Lyle, I didn’t know you could be so poetic!”

  “Speech! Speech!”

  “Well, our parades were getting to be all commercial and political. The last straw was a candy-grabbing free-for-all for kids, with rock music blaring from a sound truck, and not an American flag in sight! Someone had to put a foot down, and I have big feet!”

  “That’s my wife,” Arch said proudly.

  “This year’s parade will have flags, marching bands, floats, grass-roots participation, and a little originality. Athletes from Mooseland High, wearing their uniforms, will march in four rows of five each, carrying banners with a single letter of the alphabet. Each row will spell a word: PEACE, TRUTH, HONOR, and TRUST.”

  “Very clever,” said Lisa. “Who’s the grand marshal?”

  “Andrew Brodie, in Scottish regalia, with his bagpipe. He’ll march just ahead of the color guard and play patriotic tunes in slow tempo.”

  “Maybe it’s because I was born a Campbell,” Lisa said, “but there’s something about bagpipe music that makes me limp with emotion.”

  “The floats will be sponsored by the chamber of commerce, parent-teachers, commercial fisheries, private marinas, and the Friends of Wool.” Mildred referred to a new coalition of wool-growers, spinners, knitters, and other fiber artists. “Barb Ogilvie is our mentor—very talented. She teaches knitting, started the knitting club, and runs a knitting day camp for kids. In high school she was considered a bit wild, but she’s settled down. Did Arch tell you he’s learning to knit socks?”

  Qwilleran turned to his lifelong friend in astonishment. “Arch! Why were you keeping this dirty little secret from me?”

  “What the heck! It’s one of the things you do when you’re middle-aged and in love.”

  “Lyle never says sweet things like that,” Lisa complained.

  There was a moment of silence, which Qwilleran interrupted by asking, “What are the Friends of Wool going to do on a float?”

  “We’ll have live sheep, a shepherd playing a flute, two spinners spinning, and six knitters knitting—four women and two men, if Arch will consent. Dr. Emerson, the surgeon, has agreed, and I think it would add prestige if the publisher of the newspaper were on the float, knitting a sock with four needles.”

  As all eyes turned to him, he said, “To quote Shakespeare: I don’t wanna, I don’t hafta, and I ain’t gonna.”

  His wife smiled knowingly at the others.

  After an old-fashioned Waldorf salad, and Black Forest cake, and coffee, Lyle wanted to smoke a cigar, and the other two men accompanied him down the sandladder to the beach.

  Their first comment was about the miniature sand dune recently formed. It extended at least a mile to everyone’s knowledge.

  “Some day,” Lyle predicted, “it will be thirty feet high, and our cottages will have crumbled to dust, leaving only the stone chimneys. Tour groups from other planets will gawk at these monuments as tour guides explain that they had religious significance, being used to ensure fertility and ward off famine.”

  Qwilleran skipped a few stones across the placid lake surface.

  “You’re good at that,” Arch said. “That’s something I could never learn to do.”

  “It’s one of my few talents. I could never learn to knit a sock.”

  Lyle said, “You should ride on the float, Arch. I’m going to be on the PTA float. We’re reproducing a one-room school with old desks and blackboards, a pot-bellied stove, and everyone in nineteenth-century costume. I’m going to be the principal in a frock coat and pince-nez eyeglasses, brandishing a whipping cane. I expect to get booed by the parade-watchers. I just hope they don’t throw eggs.”

  He finished his cigar, and they climbed the sandladder to the deck, where the two women were giggling suspiciously.

  Mildred said, “Qwill, I’d like to ask you a great favor.”

  “It would be a privilege and a pleasure.” He could never say no to Mildred; she was so sincere, generous, and good-natured, and she was such a good cook.

  “Well, the parade opens with a 1776 tableau on a float—the signing of the Declaration of Independence—and it ends with a flock of bicycles. Wouldn’t it be a terrific finale if you brought up the rear with your high-tech recumbent bike?”

  Qwilleran hesitated only a second. “I’m not too enthusiastic about the idea, but . . . I’ll pedal with my feet up in the air . . . if Arch will ride on your float, knitting a sock.”

  THREE

  Ordinarily, Koko was a feline alarm clock at eleven P.M., reminding the world at large that it was time for a bedtime snack and lights-out, so his behavior on his first night at the cabin made Qwilleran wonder. The three of them had been lolling on the screened porch in the dark, watching the fireflies blink their little flashlights. The porch was furnished with cushioned chairs and a dining set in weatherproof molded resin—white at Fran Brodie’s suggestion, as a foil for the dark logs. While Qwilleran and Yum Yum enjoyed the luxury of cushions, Koko huddled on the dining table, perhaps because it gave him an elevated view of the dark beachfront.

  Eventually Yum Yum became restless, leading Qwilleran to consult his watch and announce “Treat!” She scampered after him when he went indoors to serve the Kabibbles, but Koko stayed where he was. Something’s down there, Qwilleran realized—something I can’t see. It was a clear night, the stars were bright, the crickets were chirping, somewhere an owl was hooting, and a gentle surf splashed rhythmically on the shore. It was a pleasant night, too, with no chill in the air, so Qwilleran left the door to the porch open when he retired to his sleeping cubicle. Koko could come indoors if the scene became boring; he could join Yum Yum on the blue cushion atop the refrigerator.

  Qwilleran had a dream that night. He always dreamed after eating pork. In his dream, Moose County had seceded from the state and was an independent principality ruled by a royal family, prime minister, cabinet, and national council—but they were all cats! There was nothing original about the scenario; he had been reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, in which a character suggested feline rule as an improvement over the existing system. In Qwilleran’s dream, the royal cat family was shown to be intelligent, entertaining, and inexpensive to maintain. He was sorry to wake up.

  He found Koko none the worse for his nocturnal escapade. He ate a good breakfast and then wanted to go for a ride on Qwilleran’s shoulder. He kept jumping at the latch on the screened door of the porch.

  “Not now,” Qwilleran told him. “Later! You’ve had your breakfast, and now I’m entitled to mine. This is a democratic family. You’re not the ruling monarch.”
/>   Before setting off for Mooseville in his van, Qwilleran inspected his new guest accommodation. First he had to find it, hidden in the woods—the same size as the toolshed and built of the same green-stained cedar. But the Snuggery had windows, and indoor plumbing. Modular furniture, including a double-deck bunk, made the utmost use of every inch of space. Red blankets, a red rug, and a framed picture of poppies were a trifle overpowering in the small quarters—but cheerful. Qwilleran thought, It’s not a bad place to stay overnight, but I wouldn’t want to stay two nights. Fran knew what she was doing.

  From there he drove along the lakeshore to Mooseville, a quaint resort town two miles long and hardly more than a block wide. It was squeezed between the lake and a high wall of sand called the Great Dune. On the lake side of Main Street were the municipal docks, private marinas, bait shops, and the Northern Lights Hotel; on the other side: the bank, post office, hardware store, Shipwreck Tavern, and so on. A few side streets with names like Oak, Pine, and Maple dead-ended at the foot of the Great Dune and were lined with shops, offices, small eateries, and the Shipwreck Museum.

  The Great Dune, which had taken an estimated ten thousand years to form, was held in reverence in Mooseville. It rose abruptly and towered protectively over the downtown area, crowned with a lush forest of trees. There were no structures up there. Even if building were permitted, who would dare? The sheer drop of about a hundred feet was formidable—and famous; it could be seen for miles out in the lake.

  Only one thoroughfare sliced through the Great Dune, and that was Sandpit Road at the east end of downtown. It was a reminder that sand had once been mined and exported to bolster the country’s failing economy. A chunk of the Great Dune had been shipped Down Below for the construction of concrete highways, bridges, and skyscrapers—like a little bit of Moose County in cities all over the northeast central United States.

  On the first day of Qwilleran’s vacation he always made the rounds, renewing his acquaintance with business people—asking about their winter doings and summer prospects. It was neighborly, and also good public relations for the newspaper. On this morning he had breakfast at the hotel and shook hands with the owners. He shook hands with the bank manager and cashed a check. He shook hands with the postmaster and told her he expected to receive mail addressed to General Delivery; three postcards had already arrived. At Grott’s Grocery he shook hands with the whole family and bought some boiled ham for sandwiches. He shook hands with the druggist and stocked up on hard and soft beverages for possible guests.

  At the Shipwreck Tavern he shook hands with the bartender. “Still drinkin’ Squunk water?” the man asked. “Have one on the house.”

  “I believe in supporting local products,” Qwilleran said. It was a mineral water from a spring in Squunk Corners. “Expecting a lot of business tomorrow?”

  “Nah. Parades are family days. Not much serious drinkin’.”

  “Any developments in the case of the missing backpacker?”

  “Nah. I say it’s a lot of hokum, like the two-headed raccoon a coupla years back. Gives folks somethin’ to talk about.”

  Next, Qwilleran went to Huggins Hardware for mosquito repellent and shook hands with Cecil Huggins and his great-uncle, a white-bearded man who had worked in the store since the age of twelve.

  “Mosquitoes not so bad this year, are they, Unc?”

  “Nope,” said the old man. “Weather’s too dry.”

  The store had a carefully cultivated old-time country-store atmosphere that appealed to vacationers from Down Below: rough wood floors, old showcases, and such merchandise as pitchforks, kerosene lanterns, fifty-pound salt blocks, goat feed, and nails by the pound.

  “What can you tell me about the new restaurant?” Qwilleran asked.

  “On Sandpit Road, across from the Great Dune Motel,” Cecil replied. “Same building where the Chinese restaurant opened and closed last summer. A couple came up from Florida to run it for the tourist season. The chamber of commerce ran an ad in Florida papers—business opportunity with special perks. The guy’s name is Owen Bowen. His wife’s the chef.”

  “Food’s too fancy,” said the old man.

  “Perhaps for campers and locals,” Cecil admitted, “but the whole idea is to get summer people from the Grand Island Club to come here on their yachts and spend money.”

  “What were the special perks?”

  “Pretty generous, we thought. The landlord gave him a break on the rent. The Northern Lights Hotel gave him a suite for the price of a single. Chamber members pitched in and redecorated the restaurant before the Bowens got here.”

  “ ’T were all red last year,” said Unc.

  “Yes, we painted the walls, cleaned the kitchen, washed the windows . . . You’d think he’d be tickled pink, wouldn’t you? But no! He came to a chamber meeting bellyaching about this, that, and the other thing. Then he wanted us to change the name of the Great Dune to the White Cliffs. He said it was more glamorous, more promotable. He talked down to us as if we were a bunch of hicks.”

  “And how did that suggestion go over?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Like a lead balloon! Everybody knows a cliff is rock. Our dune is pure sand. Cliffs are a dime a dozen, but where can you find a dune like ours? We voted against the idea unanimously, and he stomped out of the meeting like a spoiled kid.”

  “If he ain’t careful,” the old man said with a chuckle, “he’ll get the Sand Giant riled up.”

  Qwilleran said he hoped the food was better than Owen’s personality. “Have you tried it?”

  “Not yet, but they say it’s good. They say his wife’s nice. Too bad Owen turned out to be disagreeable.”

  “He’s a horse’s tail!” said Unc.

  “One more thing,” Qwilleran mentioned. “I have a screened door with a rat-tail latch that gets stuck. The bar doesn’t drop. I’m afraid the cats could push the door open.”

  “Easy,” said Cecil and sold him a can of spray-lubricant.

  After the formal handshaking, Qwilleran ambled over to Elizabeth Hart’s boutique on Oak Street at the foot of the Great Dune. Having saved her life once upon a time he felt a godfatherly interest in her well-being. She had belonged to the Grand Island set, and there was something subtly different in her grooming, clothing, speech, manner, and ideas. A Chicago heiress, she had visited Moose County, met Derek Cuttlebrink, and decided to stay. They were good for each other. He had toned down her citified pretensions without spoiling her individuality; she had convinced him to enroll in restaurant management at Moose County Community College, and it was Derek who had renamed her boutique.

  It was now called Elizabeth’s Magic. Unlike the surrounding souvenir shops, it featured exotic wearables, crafts by local artisans, and such mystic paraphernalia as tarot cards, rune stones, Ouija boards, and good-luck jewelry. There was also a coffee dispenser in the rear of the shop and a ring of chairs in aluminum and black nylon.

  When Qwilleran walked in, Elizabeth was busy with customers but waved an airy greeting and said, “Don’t go away; I have news for you.” For a few minutes he joined the browsers, then gravitated toward the coffee dispensary. After a while, Elizabeth joined him, leaving a husky male assistant to keep an eye on idle sight-seers and take the money of paying customers.

  Qwilleran asked, “Is your shop sponsoring a football team? Or is he a bouncer?” He was one of the big blond youths indigenous to the north country.

  “That’s Kenneth, a rising senior at Mooseland High,” she said. “He’s my stockboy and delivery man, and I’m breaking him in on sales . . . Are you going to the parade tomorrow, Qwill? I designed the chamber of commerce float—the signing of the Declaration of Independence, based on the John Turnbull painting.”

  “I know it,” Qwilleran said. “It’s in Philadelphia. Who’ll play the roles of the signers?”

  “C of C members, all in 1776 costumes: wigs, knee breeches, satin waistcoats, jabots, buckle shoes. We’re renting everything from a theater supply house in Ch
icago.”

  “That’s a big investment,” Qwilleran said. “Who’s paying?”

  “You!” she said with glee. “Well, not exactly you, but the K Fund. We applied for a grant.”

  “Is Derek going to be in the parade?”

  “No. The play at the barn opens Friday, and he has the title role. He’s concentrating on that. But the big news is that he has a job! Assistant manager at the new restaurant. They have a sophisticated menu and a good wine list, so he hopes he’ll learn something.”

  “Have you met Owen Bowen?”

  “Only at a C of C meeting. He’s middle-aged, quite handsome, rather supercilious, and ever so tan,” she said disdainfully. “I consider him a bit of a pill, but Derek can handle him.”

  “I believe it.” Derek’s height (six-feet-eight) coupled with his swaggering but likable personality appealed to young girls, bosses, grandmothers, and cats and dogs.

  Elizabeth said, “It was Derek who named the new restaurant. The psychology of naming food establishments is something he learned at MCCC. Mr. Bowen planned to name it—ugh!—the Cliff-side Café! Derek told him it was too ordinary. ‘Owen’s Place’ has an element of played-down snob appeal that will attract the yachting crowd from Grand Island.”

  At this point she was called to the front of the store, and Qwilleran looked at a sailboat in the craft display. It was handcrafted entirely of copper—labeled “Sloop rigged with topsail, mainsail, jib sail, and spinnaker—by Mile Zander.” He was a commercial fisherman whose hobby was metalwork.

  “Does the pedestal go with it?” Qwilleran asked Kenneth.

  “I dunno, but the guy’d sell it to you, I bet. It weighs a ton. I’ll deliver it if you want.”

  When Qwilleran drove away, he had bought a copper sculpture and a railroad tie. He had always liked sailboats, although he had never learned the difference between a sloop, a yawl, and a ketch. He bought yachting magazines and read about the cup races, and the sight of a sailboat regatta breezing along the horizon quickened his pulse. Now he could tell Arch he had bought a sailboat and would watch his old friend’s jaw drop.