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

  Meals? How long does she think she’s staying? Qwilleran asked himself.

  “Just tell me what you like to eat,” she said. “I make a fantastic macaroni-and-cheese with horseradish, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “First, let’s bring your luggage in,” he said.

  There were two enormous duffel bags and a briefcase in the bus. Together they carried them through the woods to the guest house.

  “It’s small, but it has indoor plumbing,” he said. “We call it the Snuggery.”

  “It’s cute!” she said. “I love it!”

  Qwilleran rushed back to the cabin to make his first mint julep and slapped his forehead in dismay. No mint! He had plenty of bourbon but no fresh mint. The Rikers grew it in their backyard, and Mildred had said he could help himself at any time. He grabbed his car keys and drove to Top o’ the Dunes, left the motor running, and grabbed a handful of what he presumed was mint. It smelled like mint. Then he drove recklessly back to the cabin and arrived just as Tess was coming through the woods in a fresh denim shirt.

  “How would you like a mint julep?” he asked.

  “Oh, I love mint juleps!” she exclaimed. “But the doctor won’t let me have anything stronger than wine. What are you drinking?”

  “Ginger ale.”

  “Then I’ll have the same. This is a charming cabin. How old is it?” She wandered about, admiring the stone fireplace, the copper sailboat, the Mark Twain collection. She commented on the row of postcards. “There are two on the floor!”

  “They probably have fang marks in the corners,” Qwilleran said. “Just put them on the coffee table. I’ll replace them.”

  He had a hunch which two they would be: George Bernard Shaw with his handsome beard . . . and Oscar Wilde with a posy in his buttonhole.

  FOURTEEN

  Qwilleran took his houseguest to dinner at the Northern Lights Hotel, apologizing for the ordinary menu. “We would have dined with class at Owen’s Place, but Owen had the misfortune to drown. The cook here has been a fixture for thirty years, and he cooks plain.”

  They ordered Swiss steak, and to take their minds off the gravy thick as wallpaper paste, and the overboiled carrots, and the potatoes whipped to the consistency of shaving cream, Qwilleran asked a leading question: “What was it like to grow up in Horseradish?”

  “Actually, by the time I was born,” she said, “agriculture had given way to tourism. We were no longer the horseradish capital of the Middle West, but lingering fumes from the former industry still make an invigorating atmosphere for vacationers.”

  “But were your forebears horseradish farmers?”

  “No, they were in shipping. Our town was the chief port for all of Lockmaster County, and my great-grandfather’s adventures as captain of the sailing vessel Princess have made him a legendary figure. You see, all sorts of commodities were being shipped in and out. There was still some gold-mining in the interior, as well as a thriving fur trade, especially beaver. This made cargo ships prey to buccaneers. Did you know there were pirates on the lakes at one time?”

  “Joe told me that their victims were often made to walk the plank. He never mentioned the Princess.”

  “Oh, she was famous in her day! On one occasion the Princess sailed out of harbor with a cargo and had just lost sight of land when a craft with a black flag loomed on the horizon. Captain Bunker gave some unusual orders: When the pirate ship hove to, the crew would go below with crowbars and wet rags.”

  Tess paused to observe her listener’s reaction; she had told this tale many times.

  “A volley was fired across the bow of the Princess, and she dropped sail. Then all hands disappeared into the hold, which was stowed with kegs of grated horseradish mixed with vinegar. The pirates came aboard, stomping and cursing. Where was the blankety-blank crew? It was a blankety-blank ghost ship! They stormed down the hatch . . . Immediately the lids came off the kegs, and the fumes rose like poison gas! The pirates choked and staggered blindly, while the crew—masked with wet rags—threw handfuls of the stuff and swung their crowbars. Overpowered, the pirates were dragged to the deck and heaved overboard.”

  “Tess! That’s a fascinating story!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “Would you mind repeating it when my tape recorder is handy? I’m collecting local legends for a book.”

  “I’d love to! The pirate story is true, but there are many Bunyanesque tales about our town, like the cargo ship powered by horseradish fumes before steam boilers came into use.”

  Qwilleran found her well read, well spoken, and not a bad-looking dinner date. He was glad she had not worn her crow T-shirt. They discussed cats (she had two) and journalism (the ethics of responsibility) but not a word about crows. Yet, the sooner the crow-show was off the docket, the sooner he could take off for Pickax. For breakfast they would have coffee and rolls and then spend the morning talking crow, after which he would hope to see the taillights of the yellow bus disappearing down the driveway.

  To direct the conversation accordingly, he asked, “Do you plan to sell T-shirts as a tie-in with the film?”

  “Eventually,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ve brought one for you. What size do you wear? They’re cut full.”

  “Uh . . . large,” he said vaguely, as he tried to imagine himself with a crow on his chest. “Do you have any real assurance that your film will be produced?”

  “Definitely! The university has the technology and the artists and the grant. My responsibility is to provide the scenario. I see the film as being entertaining, educational, and inspirational—with the crows solving problems, overcoming evil, and respecting the environment and family values.”

  For a moment, it crossed Qwilleran’s mind that the crow-show was another of Wetherby Goode’s practical jokes, like his Intergalactic System of Managed Weather that would control temperature, regulate precipitation, harness winds, eliminate natural disasters, and promote global amity. One never knew whether he was prankster or visionary.

  Tess was saying, “The bus attracts attention wherever I go, and I’m always happy to tell strangers about Corvus americanus. They’re curious to know how crows function in their cooperative families of seven: a breeding pair and five adult helpers.”

  “So am I,” Qwilleran said.

  “I left a dossier on your bar—papers I’ve written for scientific journals—and you can read them tomorrow while I run into town. Do you have a market that sells good meat? I know this is lamb country, and one of my specialties is lamb shank with beans, lumberjack style.”

  That was another of Qwilleran’s absolute favorites. Okay, he thought; she can stay a second night. He said, “Grott’s Grocery is run by four generations: Gramps, Pop, Sonny, and Kiddo. They still cut meat to order and cheese from the wheel. Anything you buy can go on my charge account. Tell Gramps you’re my guest.”

  Then a surge of hospitality prompted him to say, “Would you like to see a play at the barn theater tomorrow night? It’s a sellout, but they reserve a few passes for visiting celebrities.”

  “I love barn theater!” she said.

  Tess retired early to the Snuggery—she wanted to do some reading—and Qwilleran phoned Wetherby Goode in Indian Village. He said, “Guess who drove a school bus into my yard today and moved into the guest house! Your cousin!”

  “That woman! She was supposed to go to the family homestead in Horseradish and phone you from there.”

  “Well, she changed her mind.”

  “What do you think of her, Qwill?”

  “She’s as nutty as you are! But pleasant and interesting. Did you tell her that I have a weakness for macaroni-and-cheese and lamb shank?”

  “No. I never mentioned food. I swear!”

  “The problem is, she seems to like it here, but I’ve got to move back to Pickax.”

  “Throw her out! She won’t mind,” Wetherby said. “And thanks, Qwill, for pinch hitting for me at the dogcart races Saturday.”

  Friday morning Qwilleran served a continental b
reakfast on the kitchen porch, which was flooded with morning sun. He reconstituted frozen orange juice, thawed cinnamon rolls, and pressed the button on the automated coffeemaker. The Siamese joined them, looking for warm concrete on which to sun. Koko stretched out full-length to do his grooming in solarized comfort.

  “He’s a ham,” Qwilleran explained. “He likes an audience for his morning ablutions. An eighteenth-century poet described the ritual in ten steps: For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean. For secondly, he kicks up behind to clear away there.”

  Tess laughed heartily and said, “For thirdly he works it upon stretch, with his forepaws extended.”

  “You know Christopher Smart!” Qwilleran said in pleased surprise.

  “Oh, I adored Christopher Smart! I named my male cat after Jeoffrey. Stop and think: For two centuries—or two millennia—cats have been washing up in the same simple, efficient way, while we go on inventing revolutionary improvements that may or may not be successful or even necessary.”

  “Avoid radical theories in Mooseville,” he advised. “Don’t get yourself arrested. The local law-men may consider the Republic of Crowmania subversive . . . Incidentally, while you’re there, be sure to visit Elizabeth’s Magic on Oak Street.”

  After the yellow bus had wheeled down the driveway, Qwilleran took the file of crow literature to the lake porch and read it carefully, hoping to find something—anything—that would suggest a scenario to Tess’s specifications. He was disappointed. There was nothing that made crows seem glamorous or heroic or inspirational. They had some repulsive feeding habits. They could be nasty to other species or even other crows who happened to be outside their family cooperative. They enjoyed pulling the tails of dogs, sheep, and birds of a different feather. Some of their hobbies bordered on the kinky, like encouraging ants to run through their feathers.

  “Please!” he said in repugnance.

  He thought about the friendly family of seven who visited the beach daily and amused the Siamese. They cawed, and Koko cawed right back. They strutted. They showed off. They seemed to have innocent fun.

  Now, in the cold light of research, crows seemed snobbish, antisocial, prejudiced, and nauseous in some relationships. Qwilleran threw the dossier aside and drove into Mooseville to buy red wine and fruit juices for sangria—and to see if Tess had been arrested. He found the yellow bus on the hotel parking lot surrounded by excited tourists. Tess, in her crow T-shirt, stood on the bottom step of the bus and answered questions. A patrol car cruised slowly past the scene.

  As he listened to her captivating her audience, Wayne Stacy came up to him. “She’s a friend of yours? She asked permission to park on the lot and said she was visiting you.”

  “She’s Wetherby’s cousin from Down Below. She’s here to visit her family in Horseradish.”

  “I told her she could park there for an hour. Anything that pleases the tourists is good for business. But after that we have to clear the lot and paint lines on the asphalt for the dogcart event—lanes for racers, you know. We use a temporary kind of marker and then hope it won’t rain tonight and wash it away. A big storm is expected, coming down from Canada, but Wetherby says it isn’t due till Sunday. He appreciates your filling in for him, Qwill, and so do we.”

  There was a ripple of applause around the bus as the crowd started to dissolve, and Qwilleran moved away before Tess could see him. According to schedule, it was time for her to go home and start cooking the lamb. He went to Elizabeth’s Magic to inquire about his special order.

  “Barb assured me she’ll finish it on time,” Elizabeth said. “And thank you, Qwill, for sending me that delightful Dr. Bunker. She loved everything in my shop and bought several things: goofy socks for her cousin and her cat-sitter, skewers for herself, and a Thai caftan for her grandmother in Horseradish, who’s celebrating her hundredth birthday.”

  “Did she talk about crows?”

  “Enthusiastically! We discussed the possibilities for crow-oriented souvenirs. I said I would relax my rule against T-shirts and would be willing to sell one like hers if the proceeds went to scientific research.”

  “Good for you!”

  “Come and see a new item that a friend of yours brought in—Janelle Van Roop.”

  “Oh?” What else could he say?

  In the craft section there was a display of small stuffed creatures called Kalico Kittens and made of rosebud-patterned cotton. Eight inches long including tail, they were primitive but appealing, having splayed legs, a spike of a tail, and oversized ears. Eyes, whiskers, and tiny mouth were embroidered, not too carefully.

  Elizabeth said, “Their lopsided features make them amusing and rather lovable, don’t you think? Dr. Bunker called them contemporary folk art and bought several for gifts.”

  “Who makes them?”

  “The elderly ladies at Safe Harbor. I’m handling them without commission. It was my idea to give each kitten a name—nothing cute or faddy but traditional and dignified—like Clarence, Martha, Spencer, Agatha, and so on. Why don’t you buy one for the cats?”

  He knew they would be quickly vetoed by the Siamese, who ignored velvet mice, rubber frogs, and tinkling plastic balls. They preferred a necktie with a man on the other end . . . “Okay,” he said, “I’ll take this one. Gertrude.”

  Tess would be returning to the cabin to prepare dinner—she knew where to find the key—and Qwilleran intended to stay out of sight lest he be asked to peel potatoes. He sat on the hotel veranda to read Friday’s paper and consider the crow scenario. He was definitely cooling off. The question was: How to break the news to Tess? She was a nice woman—the cousin of a good friend. If he reneged, it should be done with grace: a few ideas, a little advice, a lot of encouragement.

  He would conclude the matter after the play. Then she could leave after breakfast, and he could return to Pickax after the dogcart races.

  All went well that evening: Qwilleran thought the lamb shank superb; Tess loved the play. Afterward, he served sangria on the lake porch and said, “Tess, your visit has been memorable! I only wish I could work on your project. Unfortunately, I have other commitments. But I can visualize the possibilities—and the problems—and the decisions to be made.”

  “I understand,” she said, with less disappointment than he had anticipated. “What kind of decisions do you mean?”

  “In regard to the plot: Who or what will provide the conflict? Other species of birds? Other wildlife? Humans? Mechanical equipment? Scarecrows? . . . First of all, will it be an all-bird cast? I would think not. Crows seem to hang around cow pastures; do they have any relationships with cattle other than scatological? Who are the crows’ friends, and who are their foes?”

  Tess asked, “What about dialogue? How anthropomorphic do we want to get?”

  “Well . . . you might have all the animals in the cast speak in their own voices—with a human voice-over translating their caws and clucks and woofs.”

  “What language do you suppose scarecrows speak?”

  Qwilleran said, “That’s one for the language department at your university.” He smoothed his moustache as an idea began to form. “The scarecrow’s job is to protect the crops from the crows—right? Suppose he makes friends with the crows and starts an underground movement in their behalf. His collaboration is discovered, and he’s condemned to death. If he’s made a sympathetic character, this could be a highly emotional situation.”

  Tess said, “I’m getting the weeps already.”

  They discussed names for the characters. The breeding pair could be Queen Croquette and her consort Prince Chromosome.

  “I love it! I love it!” she cried.

  “May I refresh your drink, Tess?”

  It was a happy corvidologist who took the electric lantern and found her way to the Snuggery. Before saying goodnight, she said, “Do you realize you have thimbleberries behind the toolshed? I could pick some and make thimbleberry pancakes for breakfast.”

  “Splendid id
ea!” Qwilleran said.

  “And Grott’s Grocery had some beautiful rib-eye steaks. I bought two, thinking we could have steak au poivre tomorrow night—with skewered potatoes.” Before Qwilleran could react, she said, “Do you realize one of the skewers is missing? There were five.”

  FIFTEEN

  After the thimbleberry pancakes, Tess took the yellow bus to the unsuspecting town of Brrr to propagandize for the Republic of Crowmania. Qwilleran drove to Mooseville for the dogcart races. Traffic was unusually heavy on the lakeshore road. Even before he reached the city limits he saw cars, vans, and pickups parked in farmyards, as well as on both shoulders of the road. Droves of pedestrians were walking toward downtown, where three blocks were blockaded. Only racing units and the cars of officials were admitted. Qwilleran showed his press card and was told to park in the marina lot.

  He had never seen so many kids in one place: clamoring for attention; shrieking for joy; crying; jumping up and down; getting lost; tussling. Adults, who were in the minority, had tots in arms, toddlers in strollers, and infants in backpacks. Both hotel lots were cleared for official use: one marked as a racetrack, the other serving as a paddock.

  Wayne Stacy spotted Qwilleran and explained the system. Forty youngsters would ride in forty toy wagons hitched to forty family pets. There were boxers, retrievers, hounds, pit bulls, terriers, huskies, German shepherds, and one giant schnauzer, and plenty of mongrels, all classified according to weight. The young drivers had numbers on their backs; the dogs wore boleros in the family’s racing colors. One adult accompanied each racing unit in the paddock; a second adult member of the family would stand at the finish line.

  Over the years the event had become a carnival. Wagons were decorated with paint or crepe paper, and the young drivers were in costume. There were astronauts, ballerinas, red devils, pirates, cowboys and girls, clowns, and black cats mingling with the forty dogs, eighty adults, and numerous harassed officials.