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 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 I 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 corners 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 baseba
ll 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.

  EIGHT

  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 corner. 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 respectfully, “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 homeschoolers 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?”