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

  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 tête-à-tête, 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 get 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 JennyLee, 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.

  NINE

  On Monday morning Qwilleran faxed his theater review for that day’s edition and the “Qwill Pen” for Tuesday, and he started thinking about the “Qwill Pen” for Friday. For him the treadmill effect was the challenge and fascination of journalism. The job was never finished. There was always another deadline. He remembered the newsdesks in metropolitan papers Down Below, where there was always another scandal, another war, another ball-game, another fire, another murder, another election, another court trial, another hero, another obituary, another Fourth of July.

  Now, 400 miles north of everywhere, he was seriously considering such topics as the number of pressed-back chairs in the county and the possibility of spinning cat hair into yarn. His old friends at the Press Clubs around the country would never believe it . . . What matter? He was enjoying his life, and when Polly returned from Canada, he would enjoy it more.

  First thing Monday morning, knowing that farmers rise with the sun, Qwilleran called Alice Ogilvie at the sheep ranch. He remembered her as the demure pioneer woman on the float, in a long dress with a wisp of white kerchief at the neckline and a modest white cap on severely drawn-back hair.

  The woman who answered the phone had a vigorous voice and outgoing personality. “That’ll be fun!” she said. “Why don’t you come this morning? Bring some cat hair with you if you want to. From one pound of angora rabbit hair you can spin about forty thousand yards, so . . . who knows?”

  Then and there Qwilleran forgot about Arch’s Christmas gift; it would take forty years to accumulate even a half-pound of the weightless stuff that Koko and Yum Yum were in the habit of shedding. He accepted her invitation to come for coffee and doughnuts, however, and drove to the ranch directly after faxing his copy. It was on Sandpit Road, two miles south of the shore. Having written about sheepkeeping in the past, he knew what to expect: hilly, rocky land unsuitable for crops . . . fences dividing it into pastures . . . ewes grazing peacefully . . . border collies herding flocks from one pasture to another. It was like a game of musical chairs that gave the sheep a change of diet or a rest period with shade, water, and the necessary salt. Lazy rams occupied one enclosure; hyperactive lambs were in another.

  Furthermore, Qwilleran knew that the pastoral scene was being managed by computer in the farmhouse. It not only dictated the movement of the flocks but kept records of the animals by number. Instantly available was information on breeding and lambing history, weaning, growth, quality of fleece, genetic background, and even individual eccentricities such as fence jumping.

  “What impresses me most,” he had written in his column, “is the magic of wool: how a roly-poly sheep can emerge from the shearing shed as skinny as a rail and then grow it all back in the cold months.”

  The Ogilvies’ sprawling old farmhouse gave no sign of being on-line. When Qwilleran drove up, he was met by Alice, in jeans and a western shirt. She ushered him through the side door into a large kitchen with a ten-foot table and a fleet of tall, stately, shiny pressed-back chairs.

  “Handsome chairs!” he said. “It was an inspiration to use them on the float.”

  “It was my daughter’s idea. These belonged to my husband’s grandparents, back in the days when farmers had large families and lots of hired hands to feed. I don’t know how many times they’ve been varnished and recaned, and they’re still on duty, always standing at attention.”

  “And where did you find a shepherd who can play the flute like Rampal?”

  “Wasn’t he good? He’s head of music at Mooseland High and loved doing it. Why does everyone like to be in a parade?”

  They sat around a corner of the big table for coffee and doughnuts. They were real fried-cakes, prepared that morning because Alice was taking them to a coffee hour at the church. Qwilleran had to control his enthusiasm and downright greed.

  He said, “I’ve been reading Far from the Madding Crowd and find myself identifying with sheepkeepers.”

  “Our family,” Alice said, “has worn out three copies of that book over the years. How did you react to the cliff tragedy?”

  “With shock and horror.”

  “It’s surprising how little sheepkeeping has changed in two centuries. We still use sheepdogs. The shepherd still moves into the barn when the ewes are lambing. We still call the flock by shouting ‘Ovey! Ovey!’ Did you know that cry comes from the Latin word for sheep? It’s been handed down through eight thousand generations. You know, ewes have an age-old tranquility that rubs off on their humans. I can’t help loving the girls, as we call them, and their gentle, trusting, dopey look!”

  “I’m glad I brought my tape recorder,” Qwilleran said as he prepared to ease her into the subject of spinning. “What do you spin other than wool?”

  “Silk, cotton, angora from rabbits, even a little dog hair blended with other fibers. It’s hard-wearing. For socks, you know . . . Want to see the spinning studio where I give lessons?”

  The spinning wheel used on the float caught his eye. It had a ten-spoke flywheel, tilted bench with treadle underneath, and a post holding a cornhusk bobbin. A hundred years old, Alice said. Built of pine, cherry, maple, and poplar.

  On a table was a thick blanket of fleece, exactly as it came from a ewe on shearing day—white on the inside, weathered on the outside. Alice said it would be torn apart and laundered before being carded and fluffed up like cotton candy. Finally it would be combed and rolled into rovings to feed into the spinning wheel.

  She said, “There are weavers and knitters who won’t work with anything but handspuns.”

  She demonstrated at a contemporary wheel—compact, with well-engineered head assembly and proper bobbin. Treadling wi
th a stockinged foot, she pinched fibers from a roving to feed with rhythmic movements of both hands, all the while talking of ratio, tension, ply, and texture. She invited Qwilleran to try it.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I want to preserve my innocence.”

  He thought she talked like one who has given numerous talks to clubs. “Women used to spin yarn, weave cloth, make garments for the family, cook meals in the fireplace, scrub clothes in a brook, carry pails of water from a spring, and walk miles to church on Sunday.”

  Outside the window a pickup truck came to an abrupt stop, a door slammed, and footsteps came down a hall.

  “My daughter,” Alice explained. “She’s been in Pickax, renewing her driver’s license.” She appeared in the doorway, frowning. “Qwill,” her mother said, “this is my daughter, Barbara.”

  “Call me Barb,” the young woman said with a pout. “I hate Barbara.”

  Her mother smiled and shrugged. “By any name she’s my one and only daughter and a very talented knitter. She’ll tell you all about it. I have to take my doughnuts to the church.”

  As soon as she had left, Barb said, “I need a drink! I had to wait two hours at the license bureau. Twenty people waiting, and only one guy on duty! . . . What do you drink?”

  “Ginger ale, or a reasonable facsimile.”

  “Well, I’m gonna have rum and orange juice.”

  She had long straight blond hair and the sultry eyes that Riker had mentioned. They were heavy with makeup, and she shifted them from side to side as she talked—half smiling when Qwilleran complimented her on the knit vest she was wearing. Worn over a white shirt and shorts, it was white with a multicolor pattern of fireworks in the stitchery.

  She smokes, Qwilleran thought, recognizing the slightly husky voice.

  “Do you smoke?” she asked. “Let’s go out on the porch. Alice doesn’t let me smoke indoors.”

  They carried their drinks to the side porch, where Barb sat cross-legged on a glider.