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

  “Actually, they’re coordinating policies on homeschooling.”

  “Does he approve of it?”

  “He says Abraham Lincoln did it, and Thomas Edison did it, and they turned out okay.”

  “That sounds like Lyle,” Qwilleran said. “To tell the truth, I don’t know how homeschooling works.”

  “Ask me!” said Roger MacGillivray. Mildred’s son-in-law was a pale young man with a clipped black beard and plenty of enthusiasm. “We follow a prescribed curriculum. Kids get their lessons by E-mail. They take achievement tests. They learn at their own pace with no time wasted on the school bus.”

  Lisa said, “I wish I’d been homeschooled. I was the only Campbell in a classful of Macdonalds, and they were still avenging the Glencoe Massacre of 1692.”

  Qwilleran asked, “But do kids get a chance to mix with their peers?”

  “Better yet,” Roger said, “they meet a variety of adults and kids of all ages—through field trips, Scouts, Little League sports, and creative activities. For example, our group takes their pets to visit the women at Safe Harbor once a month. They’re widows of commercial fishermen, you know.”

  Qwilleran said he knew—and pulled the embroidered sampler from the tote bag. He wanted advice on having it framed. He was giving it to Polly, thinking it more suitable for her house.

  The women were agog over the concept, the tiny stitches, the colors of the yarn (Siamese colors). Lisa said her next-door neighbor on the beach had a framing shop in Lockmaster. Mildred suggested a narrow molding in dark wood.

  Then Arch Riker, “Did everybody hear the news about Owen Bowen? He drowned this afternoon. He’d been here only a few weeks.”

  There were polite murmurings: “Really too bad! . . . How old was he? . . . Where was he from? . . . Will the restaurant fold?”

  Guiltily, Qwilleran thought, If he were “one of us,” we’d be shocked, horrified, and ready to take up a collection for his family. But Owen was an outsider, as Qwilleran himself had been before he inherited the Klingenschoen fortune and before the Moose County Something was established.

  To restore the party mood Mildred served zucchini fritters with a dill-yogurt dip, and Qwilleran presented her with the set of rune stones. She promised to study the instructions and tell fortunes the next time they met. Roger hoped the stones would predict rain.

  “It’s dangerously dry. I worry about forest fires,” he said. “Even the Sand Giant is worried. People think they’re hearing distant thunder, but it’s really the old boy growling in his cave.”

  Qwilleran, who was collecting local legends for a book to be titled Short & Tall Tales, said, “Would you explain the Sand Giant to me? I just happen to have my tape recorder here.” He knew Roger always had a yarn to tell, having been a history teacher before switching to journalism.

  “Sure!” he said, relishing an audience. “The history of the Sand Giant goes way back. The first explorers in this region arrived by sailing ship and made camp on the beach at the base of a huge wall of sand. Strangely, they claimed to hear rumbling inside the dune, and some nights they could see a large gray shape moving among the trees on the summit. Being superstitious in those days, they decided a giant lived in a cave inside the dune. They often ‘saw things’ that weren’t there.”

  “Still do,” Riker muttered with a glance at Qwilleran, who nodded and chuckled.

  “Through the years,” Roger went on, “the Sand Giant continued to prowl and growl, and kids were afraid of being grabbed and taken to his cave if they misbehaved. His first overt act of hostility didn’t occur, however, until the mid-nineteenth century, when wealthy lumbermen got the idea of building fine houses on top of the Great Dune, as it was then called. As soon as they started cutting down the ancient hardwoods, a giant sandslide engulfed the lumbercamp, killing everybody. Old-timers weren’t surprised; they said the lumbermen had offended the Sand Giant. My grandparents believed that absolutely.”

  “My mother’s forebears were believers,” Lisa said, “but not the Campbell side of the family.”

  “There’s more to the story,” Roger went on. “For about sixty years no one tampered with the Great Dune, and Moose County prospered. Then came the economic collapse. Mines closed, and shipping went down the drain. There was no money and precious little food. But somebody got the bright idea of mining sand and shipping it Down Below to make concrete for bridges and large buildings. So the county commissioners issued a permit to hack away at the Great Dune, where Sandpit Road now cuts through. It was dangerous work because of the shifting sand, but men had to feed their families, and they kept on hacking in spite of occasional casualties.

  “Eventually they tapped a pocket of hydrogen sulphide that smelled like rotten eggs and made the whole town sick. The permit was revoked, and it was back to oatmeal and turnips for hungry families . . . that is, until Prohibition came along and bootlegging was found to be profitable. There were no more sandslides, but, in certain kinds of weather, you can still hear the Sand Giant growling in his cave.”

  “Great story!” Qwilleran said, turning off the recorder.

  “And I’m willing to believe it,” said Lisa.

  “Interesting,” was Arch’s reluctant comment.

  “Dinner is served,” Mildred announced. It was squash bisque, lamb stew, crusty bread, and green salad. Dessert and coffee were served on the deck, during which Qwilleran and Arch entertained them with a tell-all session about growing up in Chicago. How Qwilleran’s first name was really Merlin and he’d never let any other kid use his baseball bat . . . and how Arch’s nickname was Tubby and he once got sick from eating erasers . . . and how both of them were sent to the principal’s office for putting glue on the teacher’s chair pad.

  “You did it!” said Qwilleran, pointing at his old friend.

  “No, you did it, you dirty dog!”

  The evening ended with laughter, and Qwilleran accompanied Lisa back along the beach.

  “Do you ever see the aurora borealis?” she asked.

  “Once in a while. When I first saw those dancing lights on the horizon, I was tempted to call 911.”

  “Have you seen many Visitors this year?”

  He knew what she meant, but he hesitated. “Visitors?”

  “Spacecraft,” she explained. “Lyle films them, and when he gets back from Duluth, we’ll have you over to look at our videos.”

  “Well! That’s something to look forward to,” he said ambiguously.

  When they reached The Little Frame House, she introduced him to the Van Roops, who did picture framing.

  “My shop is in Lockmaster, but we advertise in your paper,” the framer said.

  “Our niece knows you,” his wife said. “She’s a volunteer at Safe Harbor.”

  “Charming young woman,” Qwilleran murmured.

  He left the sampler at The Little Frame House, then escorted Lisa to Bah Humbug.

  When he arrived at the cabin, the Siamese were waiting with the tranquillity that comes halfway between dinner and bedtime snack. It indicated that some mischief had been done. Polly’s postcards, which had been stacked on the bar, were now scattered about the floor.

  ELEVEN

  Christopher Smart’s cat always greeted the morning by wreathing his body seven times around with elegant quickness. Qwilleran’s Siamese did a few turns upon waking but never more than three, and those were done sleepily. The day after the Owen Bowen incident he fed them and addressed the two heads that bobbed over the plates of red salmon: “How come Jeoffrey did seven turns and you do only three? You have a gourmet diet and health care. He had to catch his own breakfast, and there were no vitamin drops. He never had a vaccination, blood test, or dental prophylaxis.” The heads went on bobbing contentedly.

  As Qwilleran thawed the last one of Doris Hawley’s cinnamon rolls, it occurred to him that the closure of the backpacker case would put her back in the baking business. He telephoned, and she answered cheerily—a good sign. There were cinnamon rolls in the o
ven, she said.

  “Save a whole pan for me,” he requested. “I’ll be there at midday.”

  In Mooseville, he picked up a basket of fresh fruit before heading for Fishport. There, the Roaring Creek was reduced to a gurgle by the lack of rain, and the Hawleys’ lawn looked sadly thirsty. The burlap sack had been removed from the home-bake sign, however. He rapped on the side door, and the Doris Hawley who answered his knock was twenty years younger than the one who had recited her woes at Safe Harbor.

  He presented his basket of fruit. “To celebrate the end of a nasty experience! You and Magnus handled it well.”

  “He’s really mad! He wants to sue somebody. I’m just glad it’s over . . . but you haven’t heard the latest, Mr. Q. Come in the kitchen and have a cup of tea.”

  The kitchen was heady with the aroma of baking ginger snaps.

  “Sunday afternoon,” she began, a “woman came to the door wanting to talk to the last ones who saw David alive. She was his partner, she said. She’d come from Philadelphia to claim his body and his belongings.”

  “What was she like?” Qwilleran asked. “I think I saw her at the hotel and walking on the beach.”

  Doris’s description matched his. “She was kind of stiff at first but softened up when I talked about David and what a nice young man he was. He worked with computers, she said, but his hobby was UFOs, and he’d heard we had lots of sightings here.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache at the thought of traveling that distance for such a purpose.

  “She was very unhappy with the SBI and the way they questioned her. They’d taken the film from his camera and wouldn’t give it to her, and they warned her not to discuss the matter—the way they did us . . . What do you think about UFOs, Mr. Q? Magnus thinks they’re out there over the lake, messing with our weather somehow.”

  “I try to keep an open mind,” he said. “I personally have seen no hard evidence, but everyone is entitled to his opinion, and I think official attempts at cover-up are a trifle absurd.”

  The truth was that Qwilleran was beginning to find the topic tiresome. When he returned to Mooseville, however, he found the townfolk debating another hot topic: the Owen Bowen incident. He heard about it at the bank, where he cashed a check . . . at the post office, where he found more postcards from Polly . . . at the Nasty Pasty, where he had lunch . . . at the drugstore where he bought the newspaper at two o’clock.

  The druggist drew him aside. “Just between you and me, Mr. Q, I lost a good customer when Owen drowned. The guy was a boozer. Only beer and wine were served at the restaurant, but he bought a lot of liquor—and always in pints. They’ve got the story on page one, but not the whole story.”

  A news item on the front page of the Something read:

  M’VILLE MAN

  LOST ON LAKE

  The owner of a new Mooseville restaurant was reported missing Monday, following an unexplained incident aboard his cabin cruiser. Owen Bowen, 48, proprietor of Owen’s Place on Sandpit Road, sailed from the municipal pier shortly before noon. With him was his wife, Ernestine, 27, chef at the restaurant. His intention was to do some bass fishing, she said.

  They anchored at a spot where the bass were said to be running and had a picnic lunch aboard, after which Bowen dropped two lines off the stern. His wife took a nap in the cabin below. She woke to find the craft rolling violently and her husband missing from the open deck.

  The sheriff’s marine patrol responded immediately to her call for help but found no trace of Bowen. The sheriff’s helicopter continued the search until dark.

  A spokesperson for the sheriff’s department said, “After an exhaustive search and investigation, the conclusion is that the 25-foot craft was caught in the wake of a larger boat traveling at high speed, and Bowen was thrown off balance while tending his lines. Only a few minutes in the icy water north of the lighthouse can cause death by hypothermia.”

  Owen’s Place, a summer operation of a Florida restaurant, will remain closed until further notice.

  Qwilleran took his newspaper to the Shipwreck Tavern. He knew there would be gossip about the incident, and the tavern was the fount of controversy on such occasions. The Main Street hangout was constructed like a beached boat, and on a sunny day the interior was, by contrast, as dark as a ship’s hold. He groped his way to the bar and joined an assortment of waterfront loafers.

  “What for you, Mr. Q?” asked Fred, the bartender.

  “Ginger ale, and also I’d like to know how to mix a mint julep. I’m having a guest who’s hooked on juleps.” It was as good an excuse as any for an eavesdropping mission.

  “Mint julep?” Fred muttered vaguely. “Never had a call for one. Could look it up in the barbook.”

  While he consulted the dogeared pages, Qwilleran tuned in:

  “Always said that guy wouldn’t make a go of it. He didn’t belong here. Never thought he’d drown.”

  “You don’t know he drowned. He just disappeared.”

  “Sheriff said he fell in.”

  “Nobody saw him fall in. They didn’t dredge up a body.”

  “Maybe he jumped in for a swim and turned into an instant block of ice.”

  “Yep. In this lake a body goes down once and never comes up.”

  “I say he’s down there, all right. I say he got crocked and fell overboard.”

  “The way I see it, the sheriff knows somethin’ he ain’t tellin’.”

  “Something he’s afraid to tell! Another cover-up, like the backpacker case.”

  “Or like the Jenny Lee . . . Sing it, Fred.”

  “I ain’t got my guitar.”

  “Never mind the verses. Just sing the chorus.”

  The bartender straightened up from studying the barbook, placed both hands squarely on the bar, and sang in a wavering country voice:

  “The waves will pound, and the wind will blow,

  And folks on this planet will never know

  The honest fate of the Jenny Lee

  And her never-forgotten crew of three.”

  Customers from the boats, farms, and downtown establishments applauded the oblique reference to interplanetary hocus-pocus. They nodded wisely to each other.

  Meanwhile, an older man with a ruddy face and fringe of white hair around a pink bald spot slid onto the barstool next to Qwilleran. He was the head volunteer at the Shipwreck Museum. He said, “Haven’t seen you at the museum this summer, Mr. Q. We have a new exhibit: photos of the petroglyphs on the Ogilvie ranch.”

  Qwilleran regarded him sharply. “Should I know about those?”

  “Maybe not. They’ve been hushed up in recent years. When they were first discovered, there was national publicity, and sightseers from all over traipsed through the pastures, stressing the sheep. Some of them even chipped off pieces for souvenirs. So Ogilvie clamped down and put a chain-link fence around the whole shebang. But you can see very good photos at the museum.”

  “Interesting,” said Qwilleran, who had no real interest in archaeological artifacts. “Are they like Native American pictographs?”

  “Well, they’re prehistoric inscriptions on stone but not pictorial—more like chicken scratching. The scientists who came up from the universities called them mathematical symbols that could be a universal language. In age they tested out to about the time of the Egyptian pyramids. Strange thing is, they were etched by some kind of technological method unknown until the twentieth century . . . Put that in your pipe and smoke it!”

  Qwilleran thought, The stones could be old and the inscriptions fake. He asked, “What are they doing on the Ogilvie ranch?”

  “The lake was shrunk a couple of miles. The ’glyphs were on the lakeshore once upon a time,” said the man from the museum. “During the centuries they got buried under tons of silt washed downstream. About twenty years ago we had a great flood that washed the silt away from the ’glyphs . . . You should come and see the photos, Mr. Q.”

  The lake air was considered salubrious, but there was
also something insidious about the atmosphere that affected the brain. Everyone in Mooseville talked about interplanetary visitors, the Sand Giant, the vaporization of the Jenny Lee, the unexplained fate of the backpacker, the mystery of the petroglyphs, and now . . . Owen Bowen would probably become a legend. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache when he left the tavern and walked around town to work off his ire. Eventually he found himself on Sandpit Road in front of Arnold’s Antiques. In the window was his rusty wheel, and in the glass-paneled door was Phreddie, standing on his hind legs and wagging his tail hospitably. Qwilleran went in.

  As he expected, Arnold’s first words were, “Well, we lost our quirky neighbor. I think the place is jinxed. Do you think the Sand Giant got him? I hope I get my Waterford back. What do you think of it all, Mr. Q?”

  “I don’t try to fathom the mysteries of this daft community, Arnold. I just came for my wheel.”

  Arnold took it from the window. “I could have sold it twice, but I saved it for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “What are you planning to do with it?”

  “Hang it on the wall of my cabin, over the fireplace.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “Thanks, but I think not. It’s just a matter of hanging it from a nail, isn’t it?”

  “Two nails, a few inches apart.”

  Qwilleran said he would bring his van, which was parked behind the bank.

  On the way to the bank he realized there were no nails at the cabin—or even a hammer, to his knowledge. Aunt Fanny had left him a fortune but nothing so practical as a hammer. He detoured to the hardware store. They had a revolving, four-standing bin for bulk nails, with prices posted per pound.

  “Help you?” asked Cecil, surprised to see Qwilleran at the nail bin.

  “Yes, I’m in the market for a couple of nails, but I’m not sure which kind.”

  “Two nails?”

  “Yes, I’ve bought an antique wheel to hang over the fireplace.”