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

“What kind of wheel? How large? How heavy? I’d better talk to our construction specialist. He used to build houses . . . Unc! We have a serious technical problem.”

  The old uncle ambled over to the bin and went into a huddle with Cecil, discussing the kind of wall, thickness of the wall, number of spokes in the wheel, and width of the wheel rim. Meanwhile Qwilleran studied a nail chart and discovered that there are almost fifteen hundred one-inch finishing nails in a pound. With some research and a little wit, he believed, he could hammer out an entertaining “Qwill Pen” column on the subject: Why is a three-inch nail called a three-penny nail? Who first said, “Thou hath hit the nail on the head?”

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked when the experts had made their decision.

  “No charge,” said Cecil.

  “That’s generous of you . . . but I also need to buy a hammer.”

  “Lend him one,” said the old man.

  The two storekeepers walked to the door with their customer, and Cecil said, “Can you believe that we’ve lost Owen? They’ve got to put some speed limits on the lake and start slapping traffic tickets on irresponsible skippers.”

  The old man said, “If he hadn’t been soaked to the gills, it wouldn’ta happened.”

  Qwilleran asked, “How is his wife? Does anyone know?”

  “She’s better off without that horse’s tail,” the old man said.

  In a flash, an idea struck Qwilleran. As if hit on the head with a hammer, he virtually saw stars! . . . Koko knew about Owen’s death before and after the fact! Else, why his sudden interest in A Horse’s Tail? The connection between a book title (that Koko couldn’t read) and an epithet bestowed on Owen Bowen (that Koko hadn’t heard) would seem far-fetched to anyone but Qwilleran, who had witnessed the cat’s semantic associations before. Though Koko’s communications were coincidental in the extreme, they always proved to be accurate! Sometimes prophetic!

  Then Qwilleran had second thoughts: Could he be succumbing to Mooseville Madness? Everyone around here was over the top! He had to get out!

  TWELVE

  Hanging the four-foot wheel over the fireplace, twelve feet above the floor, was no easy task, and Qwilleran tackled it Wednesday morning when he was fresh. (Koko also was fresh and meddlesome.) First, the eight-foot stepladder had to be maneuvered from the toolshed on a narrow path between a dense growth of wild cherry bushes, then into the small screened kitchen porch and the cabin.

  Yum Yum ducked under the sofa and was not seen during the rest of the operation; Koko inspected every inch of the ladder for hidden hazards; Qwilleran sat down and had a cup of coffee. So far, so good.

  Next, Koko took his post on the mantel and watched the man struggle up the ladder with the large round object, propping it precariously on the horizontal timber before going down for a pencil, two nails, and the borrowed hammer. At this point, the cat’s sniffing of the rusty wheel became so fervent that he was banished to the porch, and Qwilleran had another cup of coffee.

  That done, he climbed up the ladder again, eyeballed the space, penciled two dots, hammered the nails into the wall fairly straight, and hung the wheel. While up there, he noticed a crack in the top surface of the mantel, a square-cut, hand-hewn timber that spanned the width of the room. The old logs and timbers occasionally cracked in the middle of the night, sounding like pistol shots. It was never a serious split—only a fine crevice. A hundred years of such cracks actually added character to the interior. The one on the mantel was just wide enough for wedging postcards upright. More than a dozen had come from Canada, each with Polly’s hurriedly scrawled message on the back. Together they made a pictorial frieze several feet long.

  She and her sister had seen four plays: Oedipus Rex, Macbeth, Major Barbara, and The Importance of Being Earnest. The cards pictured a grotesque mask used in Greek drama . . . the classic sketch of Shakespeare with pointed beard and receding hairline . . . a portrait of George Bernard Shaw . . . and the Toulouse-Lautrec caricature of Oscar Wilde.

  Other cards had been mailed as they motored east: Niagra Falls from the Canadian side; a tower almost half a mile high with a restaurant at the top; Parliament buildings; a ship going through the locks; a mountain lodge; two cathedrals; an ox-drawn hay wagon; an aerial view of small islands; and more. Before the weekend there would be views of a quaint fishing village and a rocky island blanketed with resting waterfowl.

  As soon as Qwilleran opened the porch door, Koko bounded in to see the exhibit, walking behind the upstanding cards in a space too narrow for any but a sure-footed, long-legged Siamese. Next he stood on his hind legs and stretched to paw the rim of the rusty wheel.

  “NO!” Qwilleran thundered. Koko winced and returned to the postcards, sniffing each like a connoisseur of fine wines. The cat seemed to be looking for something. He finally gave his seal of approval, a gentle fang mark, to the two cards that were third and fourth from the left end of the row: portraits of the two Irish playwrights. Qwilleran thought, That cat! Now he’s getting interested in dramaturgy!

  At the Northern Lights Hotel, where Qwilleran went for another cup of coffee and some scuttlebutt, he was stopped in the lobby by Wayne Stacy. The hotelkeeper said, “Qwill! Just the guy I want to see! I have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot! But I reserve the right to dodge.”

  “I think you’ll like it. Saturday we have the annual dogcart races sponsored by the chamber of commerce for the last thirty years. Wetherby Goode usually announces them, but this year he’s got a conflict—wedding, or something like that. Could you help us out?”

  “What does it entail?”

  “You just announce each race, name the winners in each class, and hand out the trophies. Somebody will be at your elbow, supplying the information. I guess anybody could do it, but you’ve got the voice for it.”

  Qwilleran appreciated compliments on his vocal quality. “What time on Saturday?”

  “First gun at eleven A.M. Come early and have breakfast with us.”

  “Okay. It’ll look good on my resumé,” Qwilleran said. “And now tell me: How’s Mrs. Bowen?”

  “To tell the truth, I haven’t seen her. She has her meals sent up to her. But last night she ordered dinner for two and some champagne!”

  “A promising sign.”

  “That’s what we thought. The chamber hopes the restaurant will reopen—and soon.”

  Qwilleran thought, Who was up there helping her drink the champagne? Derek? If so, did Elizabeth know? She was quite possessive.

  Qwilleran changed his mind about having a cup of hotel coffee and hustled to Elizabeth’s Magic.

  Derek was there, working on the space for the new lending library. Barb Ogilvie was there, too, arranging a window display of her handknits.

  Elizabeth said, “Qwill, you should buy one of Barb’s lovely vests for Polly as a welcome-home gift. They’re unique. I’m sure she’d like a white one with sculptured surface texture. When is she due to return?”

  “I pick her up at the airport Monday.”

  “Barb could do a custom design for you . . . Barb! Conference, please!” To Qwilleran she whispered, “She’s not herself today. Something’s wrong. A special order might perk her up.”

  He agreed that the flippant, flamboyant ex-balloon-chaser with mischievous eyes was looking subdued.

  Elizabeth took charge of the conference. She explained that Qwilleran’s friend was returning from a long vacation on Monday, and he wanted a very special gift for her. She was a woman with excellent taste and would be thrilled with a Barb Ogilvie original. Her size was fourteen. She said, “Why don’t you drop everything, Barb? Go home and start the needles flying. I’ll finish the window for you.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said the knitter, and after some aimless puttering, she left and drove away in her pickup.

  Qwilleran thought, She’s argued with Alice about smoking . . . or she’s having man-trouble again . . . or she’s received an upsetting letter from Florida.

 
Elizabeth, on the other hand, was elated. “We’ve had some good news,” she said. “Ernie called this morning and asked Derek to take her some recipe books from the RV parked behind the restaurant. She wants to open next Tuesday—with a whole new menu, except that skewered potatoes will still be featured at lunchtime. Why don’t you buy some skewers, Qwill? I know you don’t cook, but Polly will enjoy using them when she comes up on weekends, and they’re decorative when hung on the kitchen wall. They’re handmade, you know, by Mike Zander, who did your copper sailboat. I suggest a group of five for the best effect. The fingergrips have five motifs: fish, bird, shell, boat, and tree, designed to hang on brads.”

  Qwilleran was fascinated by his protégée’s transformation from a shy, bewildered young woman to a forceful and successful businesswoman—and a weaver of spells when it came to selling merchandise.

  “Whatever you say,” he agreed. “But I’ve just finished the complicated task of buying two nails at Huggins Hardware and borrowing a hammer. I don’t know how they’ll feel about selling five brads.”

  “You’re a dear, Qwill,” she said. “I’ll give you five, and you can borrow one of Derek’s hammers.”

  Qwilleran went to the crooked door and saw Derek ripping out the hairdresser’s plumbing fixtures. “You have an abundance of skills, young man.”

  “Hi, Mr. Q! Come in and grab a pipe wrench.”

  “No, thanks. I prefer to cheer from the sidelines.”

  “I’m trying to finish this job for Liz before the restaurant opens Tuesday. Some people will say it’s too soon, but Ernie says people will rally around while the tragedy is fresh in their minds. If you delay, they cool off.”

  “Frankly, I’m glad to have you back in business. Save me a table for two Tuesday night . . . How much more work do you have to do here?”

  “Me? Just paint the pink walls in a kind of nothing color. The tile will be covered with carpet. The shelves are on order. The books have been shipped from Chicago. Liz inherited them from her dad, you know.” Derek put down his wrench and approached Qwilleran in a confidential manner. “Ernie needs some cash flow. That’s why we’re opening next week, and she wants to sell the boat. I wish you’d have a look at it. Maybe you know somebody interested in a good cash deal.”

  “Where is the boat?”

  “Near the marina office, with a for sale sign in the windshield. It’s the Suncatcher.”

  “Suncatcher?” Qwilleran stroked his moustache with sudden interest.

  “Yeah. You’d think Owen would call it Bottoms Up!”

  Clutching his package of skewers and one of Derek’s hammers, Qwilleran walked briskly to the marina, and there was the Suncatcher, gleaming white in the sun. Whether it was the one that had trafficked with Fast Mama was hard to tell. All cabin cruisers looked alike to a confirmed landlubber, and the name was a common one. Its pristine whiteness was marred only by a faint stain on the deck—very faint—about the size of a spilled glass of red wine. One of the white waterproof seat cushions appeared to be missing, and an eagle eye could detect a few tiny spots on the transom. Otherwise it seemed to be shipshape.

  What interested Qwilleran was: Whether or not it had been involved with Fast Mama, and why. He also wondered about the speedboat’s home port. He had a sudden impulse to drive to the resort town of Brrr, several miles to the east.

  Brrr was the coldest spot in the county in winter and the breeziest in summer. Built on a promontory with an excellent harbor, it had the famous Hotel Booze on its summit, a historic landmark for boaters and fishermen. Now the hotel was owned by Gary Pratt, whose Black Bear Café served the county’s best burger.

  Gary was behind the bar when Qwilleran slid cautiously onto a rickety barstool. The shabbiness of the café was one of its attractions. Another was the mounted black bear at the entrance. Still another was the owner himself, whose shaggy hairiness and shambling gait gave him an ursine persona.

  “Is it too late to get a bearburger?” Qwilleran asked him.

  “Never too late for you, Qwill, even if I have to grill it myself. And while you’re waiting, how about a slug of that poison you drink?”

  As Gary disappeared into the kitchen and Qwilleran poured a bottle of Squunk water into a glass of ice cubes, a man on a nearby barstool said, “Good stuff you’re drinkin’, mister. Been drinkin’ it all my life.”

  “Seems to agree with you,” Qwilleran said. The other customer, though white-haired and wrinkled, spoke briskly and sat with a straight spine.

  “Yep. Just had my ninetieth birthday.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?” Qwilleran said jovially.

  The advocate of Squunk water moved closer and flashed his driver’s license for proof. “I was ten years old when my grandpaw discovered the stuff you’re drinkin’.”

  Qwilleran sensed another story for Short & Tall Tales. “Mind if I tape this conversation? I’m Jim Qwilleran with the Moose County Something.”

  A bony hand shot forward. “Haley Babcock. Land surveyor, retired.”

  They shook hands—the man had a firm grip—and the recorder was placed on the bar between them. “Where did Squunk water get its name, Mr. Babcock?”

  “Well, now . . . my grandpaw’s farm was rocky pastureland, good for sheep and goats, but not a tree or shrub in sight! Grandmaw always wished she had a nice shady porch for sittin’ and knittin’. One day Grandpaw came home from livestock market with some green twigs wrapped in wet paper. He’d paid a Canadian feller a dollar for ’em—big money in those days. It was called Squunkberry vine and supposed to be fast-growin’ and healthy for livestock.”

  Gary brought the bearburger and said, “Glad you guys got together. Haley’s got a good yarn for your book, Qwill.”

  “Did the green twigs do the trick?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Yep. They grew a foot overnight! With big green leaves! In two weeks the vine covered the whole porch and started creepin’ over the roof. Grandpaw cut it back, but the dang stuff crept across the yard, over the dog kennels, over the outhouse, over the fences. The whole family had to fight it every day with axes. Couldn’t stop it!”

  “Sounds like a Hitchcock movie,” Qwilleran said. “How about the livestock? Couldn’t they help keep it under control?”

  “That’s the joke! They wouldn’t touch it! You’d think it was poison. Come winter, it died down, and Grandpaw hoped the snow and ice would freeze it out. No luck! In spring, it started up again. There was a big ditch out in front, and it filled the whole ditch. Then one day Grandpaw thought he heard bubblin’ and gurglin’ in the ditch. He put a pipe down and pumped up good clean water! The folks at the county tested it, and it was full of healthy minerals. Neighbors came from all over with jugs to fill up . . . free.”

  “When did they start selling it?”

  “Well, now . . . after Grandpaw died, my uncles defaulted on taxes, and the farm went to the county. They leased it to a bottlin’ company.”

  “And the vines are still growing?”

  “Yep. But they’ve got big equipment to control ’em.” Mr. Babcock asked for his tab and reached in his pocket.

  “My treat!” Qwilleran insisted. “And thank you for a great story.” He and Gary watched as the old man walked away with a vigorous stride. “Hope I function that way when I’m ninety,” Qwilleran said.

  “Wish I functioned that good right now! Want another Squunk water?”

  “Yep, as our friend would say. Although I suspect Mr. Babcock is a shill to help you sell more of it . . . Now tell me the local reaction to the Owen Bowen incident.”

  “What you’d expect: irresponsible skipper with fast boat, endangering smaller craft. Was the guy an experienced boater?”

  “One presumes so. He brought his own boat up from Florida.”

  “Will the restaurant fold? I could use another cook for the summer.”

  “The chef is out of your class, Gary. You couldn’t even read her menu without a Larousse.”

  “Are you kidding? I d
on’t even know what a Larousse is!”

  Qwilleran remarked casually. “John Bushland has a new boat.”

  “Yeah, he docked here and had lunch one day. Funny, isn’t it, that he doesn’t get married again—good-looking guy with a successful business.”

  “What is really funny, Gary, is how you new bridegrooms want everyone else to jump off the bridge. Does misery love company—or what?”

  “You sound like sour grapes. Did Polly give you the gate? I haven’t seen her lately.”

  “She’s vacationing in Canada with her sister.”

  “Uh-huh . . . sure.”

  And so it went, until Qwilleran said, “Speaking of our friend Bushy, he took me for a cruise on his new boat, and we saw a grungy speedboat that aroused our curiosity. It was called Fast Mama. Have you seen it in these waters?”

  “Can’t say that I have, and it’s the kind of name I’d notice. Around here we name our boats Happy Days or Sweet Iva May . . . Is it important, Qwill? I’ll phone down to the marina.” He ambled to the phone and soon ambled back again. “The name doesn’t ring anybody’s bell down at the pier. If you ask me, it sounds like a boat from Bixby County. Their taste is raunchier than ours.”

  “I don’t know anything about Bixby, except that they have a button club, and our office manager is a member.”

  “There’s a lot more to Bixby than button-collecting,” Gary said. “It’s chiefly industrial and big on sports, but they’re troubled with unemployment, poor schools, a high drop-out rate, and all that.”

  The barkeeper wandered off to serve a trio of boaters at the other end of the bar, and Qwilleran thought, If the Suncatcher involved with Fast Mama is the one from Florida, what was Owen’s game? . . . and how did he make his connection? . . . and was the speedboat again in the vicinity on the day he disappeared? . . . and did Ernie notice it? . . . and could Owen have been abducted while she was sleeping off a wine jag below deck? . . . and if so, was Owen murdered?

  These were questions to discuss with Andrew Brodie over a nightcap at Qwilleran’s Pickax address, and the sooner the better. The Siamese would be glad to return to their spacious home in a converted barn. Furthermore, there was a good neighbor there who catered home-cooked meals for the three of them. They had been at the beach for more than two weeks. There was no real need to stay longer.