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

  Qwilleran said, “It looks like absolute chaos, but I suppose you’ve done it before.”

  “We sure have! For thirty years,” said Stacy. “Some of the young parents were once racers themselves.”

  “Isn’t it somewhat hazardous?”

  “We’ve never lost a kid or a dog, knock on wood.”

  “Well, I wish you’d explain the procedure.”

  “Okay. There are preliminaries, and there are finals. You announce the names and numbers of racers in each heat. Five units come from the paddock and line up. The whistle blows, and they’re off! Moms and dads wait at the finish line, cheering their dog on.”

  “How do I know who’s who and what’s what?” Qwilleran shouted above the general noise.

  “Cecil Huggins will hand you the information. At the end, you present two trophies—Class A and Class B. There’ll be picture-taking.”

  “What are the trophies?”

  “Inscribed mugs. Plus, every kid in the race gets an ice-cream cone and a little something to take home. Every dog gets a bone.”

  “Do I present the bones?”

  The two men had been shouting in each other’s ears, and when Qwilleran went to the mike, even his amplified voice could hardly be heard above the din. It doubled in decibel level when the first whistle blew.

  Spectators cheered their favorites and screamed at unexpected happenings. Once, a basset hound left the track in mid-course and trotted to the sidelines for some sociability . . . Another time, two dogs who were neck-and-neck in the race started to fight and dumped their drivers . . . And then the giant schnauzer crossed the finish line and kept on going down Main Street, while the driver screamed and parents and officials ran in pursuit.

  Through it all, Qwilleran gritted his teeth and did his job.

  The grand champion in Class B was a yellowish, brownish mongrel in a denim bolero, with a four-year-old cowgirl at the reins.

  “They’ve been training,” Qwilleran said to Cecil.

  “All year long! They’re serious about this race.”

  In Class A the champion was a black Labrador in a red, white, and blue bolero, with a seven-year-old astronaut for a driver.

  Qwilleran said to the astronaut’s father, “Aren’t you with the Scotten Fisheries? I met you when I was doing a story on commercial fisheries. I’m Jim Qwilleran.”

  “Right! I’m Phil Scotten. You went out with us, hauling nets. You wrote a good article.”

  “Thanks. It was a priceless experience . . . Nice dog you’ve got.”

  “Right! Einstein is a retired G-dog, trained to do drug search. Very intelligent. He’s what they call a passive searcher. When he detects somethin’, he just sits down.”

  “Is that so?” Qwilleran patted his moustache as a whimsical idea occurred to him. He considered it further as he walked down to the waterfront parking lot, where racing units were being loaded into pickups.

  He approached the Einstein team and said, “I just had a crazy idea. There’s a boat over here that I’m thinking of buying. Would Einstein give it a sniff?”

  “Sure. He’d probably enjoy it.”

  The two men and the dog walked over to the Suncatcher and went aboard. Einstein gave a passing sniff at the stain on the deck and the dark spots on the transom, but it was the cabin that interested him. They took him below. He inspected everything—and sat down.

  “I think he’s tired,” said the fisherman. “He’s gettin’ on in years, and he’s had a hard day.”

  Driving back to the cabin, Qwilleran pounded his moustache with his fist. Now he had something pertinent to discuss with Brodie: first, the rendezvous of the Suncatcher and Fast Mama; then Owen’s disappearance; then Einstein’s behavior.

  As for his houseguest, if she failed to leave on Sunday morning, he was prepared to throw her out, as Wetherby had suggested. Still, he would prefer to use psychology. For example, he could drop some leading remarks into the conversation at dinner.

  During the cocktail hour: “I certainly enjoyed our visit, Tess!”

  With the soup course (she had promised gazpacho): “I hope you’ve found this trip worthwhile.”

  With the steak: “Feel free to phone me about any future developments in Crowmania, such as a civil war or military coup.”

  With the dessert: “They’re expecting violent weather, starting tomorrow noon.”

  With the coffee: “How long does it take to drive to Horseradish?”

  The excellent dinner was served on the porch, and Qwilleran dropped his hints as planned. Afterward, he said, “I’ll clean up the kitchen, in case there’s something you’d like to do.” (Like packing, he thought.)

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’d like to phone my cat-sitter. The last time we talked, Princess was acting strangely.”

  “She misses you,” Qwilleran was quick to say. “The females especially are upset by a long absence.”

  Since the phone was on the bar, he could hardly avoid hearing her conversation: “Hi, Sandy. It’s me again. How’s Princess? . . . Is she still coughing? . . . Give her one of those pills. Mix it with her food, and let’s hope she keeps it down . . . Tell Jeoffrey not to stress her . . . No, I don’t know when I’ll be home. I’m busy making friends for the Republic. But I’ll keep in touch.”

  Qwilleran had yet another idea. He said to his guest, “Before you leave, I want to tape your story about Captain Bunker and the pirates. Why don’t we do it right now?” He made it sound urgent.

  “I’d love to tell it again!” she said. “But first I want to feed my friends on the beach.” She had been scattering dried corn once or twice a day, and the family of seven who had entertained Koko was now an extended family of forty or more.

  Then, still immune to Qwilleran’s dropped hints, she said, “Do you realize that Grott’s Grocery carries duck eggs? I couldn’t resist buying four for breakfast. We’ll have mushroom omelettes. I also bought some of their delicious Cheddar for macaroni and cheese. I’ll prepare a casserole after breakfast, and we’ll have it for lunch.”

  She had touched the two most vulnerable spots in his considerable appetite. Defeated, he mumbled, “Sounds good,” and proceeded to rationalize: Actors need audiences, writers need readers, and cooks need mouths to feed.

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  “He talks more than Jeoffrey does,” she said.

  “Koko is a communicator.” They were sitting on the lake porch, waiting for the purple martins to swoop in for their evening ballet, during which each bird would consume his weight in mosquitoes, according to conventional wisdom. Yum Yum was on a nearby chair with Gertrude. Koko was on his pedestal. “He’s a very smart cat,” Qwilleran went on. “That’s because I read aloud to them. Yum Yum goes to sleep, but Koko listens, and his brain absorbs meanings even if his ears don’t know words.”

  “Thought transference,” she said. “But how does he communicate?”

  “He finds a way. His senses are incredible. He knows when the phone is going to ring. A couple of weeks ago he knew there was a dead body buried in beach sand near here, and he led me to it.”

  Tess said, “All cats are prescient to some extent. They’re aware of an approaching storm, or even an earthquake. Have you had any studies made of Koko’s capabilities?”

  “No! I don’t want any studies, any publicity. This conversation is between you and me . . . Do I have your word?”

  “Absolutely! And when I get home I’m going to start reading to Jeoffrey and Princess.”

  SIXTEEN

  On Sunday morning the sun was shining despite the weather warnings, and Tess came from the Snuggery in shorts, sandals, and a different type of crow T-shirt, depicting three nest-builders.

  “Everyone out of the kitchen!” she ordered cheerily. “The poor man’s Julia Child is about to perform miracles . . . By the way,” she added as she picked up a skewer from the countertop, “one of these skewers keeps falling off its nail.”

  “It’s no accident,” Qwilleran said. “Koko
thinks it’s a toy. It was a mistake to hang them there . . . Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “You might scatter some corn on the beach.”

  “There are no crows today,” he protested.

  “Scatter it, and they will come.”

  She was right. They came out of the woods in a black cloud. Qwilleran got out of their way and back to the lake porch to wait for the omelettes. The sky was Alice blue (one of Polly’s favorite colors) and the lake was dazzlingly bright. Surely there was no imminent storm. From the kitchen came aromas of melting butter, brewing coffee, sautéeing mushrooms, and toasting muffins. With great feelings of satisfaction, he refigured his reunion with Polly.

  She would be pleased with her new vest and would undoubtedly bring him something from Canada: a piece of Inuit sculpture or a CD of French-Canadian jazz. At Owen’s Place she would be delighted to see Derek in a position of responsibility; she had long been convinced of his potential. Arch’s reluctant membership in the knitting club would amuse her, and she would want to know all about the parade, Bushy’s new boat, and the embroidered sampler from Safe Harbor. She would be dismayed by Owen’s unpopularity and shocked by his lacustrine disappearance. (Good word; Polly would like it.)

  He would avoid mention of the Suncatcher and Fast Mama; it alarmed her when he took on self-assigned investigations.

  When breakfast was served, Qwilleran paraphrased Dickens. “There never was such an omelette!”

  “Thank you,” Tess said. “In all modesty, I admit that I make the world’s best, although it’s said that a cook who makes a perfect omelette can’t make anything else. What do you think of the duck eggs? They’re rich, because ducks are amphibious and high in fat content.”

  “Why do they figure so prominently in American slang?” he asked. “We have lame ducks, dead ducks, and sitting ducks.”

  “Slang is full of edibles,” she said. “We call someone a meatball; the boss is the big cheese; something easy is a piece of cake—”

  “Or duck soup.”

  After breakfast, when Tess was assembling the promised casserole, Qwilleran went into town for the New York Times and sat on the hotel veranda for a while—to read a little, eavesdrop, and watch the harbor activity. He had a view of the marina office and was somewhat surprised to see a sheriff’s deputy and a state trooper looking at the Suncatcher. If Einstein’s owner had tipped off the authorities about the dog’s behavior, that was good! The police had been dragging their feet, in Qwilleran’s opinion. If an investigation would implicate Ernie in wrongdoing, that was bad! He saw her through Derek’s worshipful eyes; he himself admired her cuisine, and he was inclined to empathize with anyone who was not “one of us.”

  Qwilleran returned to the cabin and found Tess on the porch, reading about ravens. He asked, “Do they really say ‘nevermore’ or was that Poe-etic license?”

  “For a pun as bad as that,” she retorted, “you have to pay a forfeit.”

  “Will you settle for a glass of sangria?”

  “I’d love it! And while you’re in the kitchen, would you turn on the oven to preheat? Set it at three-fifty.”

  Eventually the casserole went into the oven to bake for forty minutes, and what happened in that brief time was a farce worthy of Feydeau—fast-moving, comic, improbable—and best described by Qwilleran’s own notes in his personal journal:

  Sunday, June 14

  Beautiful day, although storm predicted. Cats apprehensive.

  At 1:15 Tess and I are on the lake porch drinking sangria and cranberry juice, respectively. The cats are huddled in a corner. Suddenly they’re alerted. Someone’s approaching on the beach. A young woman in shorts and sunglasses is carrying a large flat package. She starts up our sandladder. I go out to investigate. In a lazy drawl with breathy pauses she says, “Hi, Mr. Q. I brought . . . your sampler. My uncle . . . framed it. I’m Janelle from Safe Harbor!”

  At 1:25 she’s on the porch, being introduced to Tess. I go to get her a glass of sangria. While in the kitchen I see a red pickup pulling in, and out steps Barb Ogilvie in shorts and sunglasses, carrying another flat package. “I brought your vest,” she says moodily. “Elizabeth said you had to have it today.” I offer her a glass of sangria and take her around to the porch to meet the others.

  At 1:30 I mix another batch of sangria, while Tess tells them about an old doctor who treated all ailments alike—with a horseradish diet, horseradish poultices, and horseradish inhalants. His patients never died; they just evaporated.

  At 1:35 I hear a tooting behind the cabin. It’s an airport rental car, and out steps Polly! In shock, I say, “Your plane isn’t due till tomorrow!” She says sweetly, “I couldn’t wait to get home. I flew in on my broomstick.” I take her around to the porch and introduce her to the three young women. She’s somewhat surprised.

  At 1:40 Tess takes the casserole out of the oven. I’m wondering if there’s enough to serve five.

  At 1:45 the sun disappears behind cloud cover, and all the dark glasses come off. Barb looks terrible without them; she’s been crying.

  At 1:50 the phone rings. I answer, and a man shouts, “Where is she? Where is that woman?” I say calmly, “I have four here. Which one do you want?” It’s Wetherby. Tess is supposed to be in Horseradish as guest of honor at a family reunion. Fifty relatives have come from all over to meet the Bunkers’ first Ph.D. Photographers are there from two newspapers. I return to the porch and tell Tess, “It’s for you.” As she rushes to the phone, she’s saying, “Oh, no! Oh, no!”

  At 1:55 she returns to the porch, wide-eyed. “I’ve got to leave! I’m going to pack! There’s a car blocking the drive!” It’s the rental car, and I offer to move it, but Polly wants to go home to see Brutus and Catta.

  At 2:00 Polly leaves, saying she’ll phone me.

  At 2:05 Tess leaves in a confusion of embarrassment and remorse. I tell her to drive carefully.

  At 2:10 Janelle leaves because it looks like rain.

  At 2:15 Barb leaves, looking more troubled than ever. I ask if something’s wrong. She nods, but says she can’t talk about it.

  At 2:20 they’re all gone, and I have a chance to look at the framing job on my sampler (neat) and Polly’s hand-knitted vest (sensational).

  At 2:25 the sky turns yellowish-gray. There’s a strange whistling in the tops of the pines. Eerie! Koko goes into a tizzy, racing around, knocking things down, scattering stuff. I tell him, “Christopher Smart’s cat would never wreck the house. He was a paragon of virtue. For he will not do destruction, if he is well fed.” He wriggles as if tired of hearing about Jeoffrey.

  At 2:30 I close the windows of guesthouse and van and stack the furniture on the north porch. The storm is coming from Canada.

  At 2:35 it’s really dark. Lights have to be turned on. All the windows and doors are closed, and I sit down to wait for the storm to hit. But where are the cats? Nowhere in sight! Where’s the macaroni and cheese? I yell “Koko!” From the pantry comes a yargle—half yowl and half swallow. The two of them are on the counter, with their heads down and tails up. They’re devouring the cheese, horseradish and all, but avoiding the macaroni.

  The wind and rain that bombarded the shoreline communities on Sunday afternoon was a true squall—brief but violent. In five minutes the lake surface went from glassy to raging surf. Wind-lashed rain slammed into the north side of the cabin, rattling the window glass, seeping under the door and around the window frames. Qwilleran was kept busy soaking up the flood with towels and wringing them out in a pail. Then the blow ended as abruptly as it had started. Although heavy rain continued to fall, it fell in vertical sheets instead of horizontal waves. There was damage indoors but only as a result of Koko’s tizzy: crumpled rugs, a toppled table lamp, books and papers on the floor, and several yards of paper towels unrolled in the kitchen.

  The good news was that the power had not failed, and the telephone still had a dial tone. He called Polly. “Just checking to see if you got home safely.”


  “Luckily I was indoors before the onslaught. Now it’s merely a normal rainfall, steady but not destructive. How about you?”

  “We’re getting a thorough drenching, but the worst is over. Were the cats glad to see you?” he asked.

  “Catta was. She’s too young to know she’s supposed to boycott me for twenty-four hours after a prolonged absence.”

  “Well, you’re probably tired and have things to do.”

  “I admit I’m exhausted.”

  “Make a cup of tea and have a Lorna Doone,” he advised, knowing her choice of pick-me-up. “And let me know tomorrow if there’s anything I can do. You’ll need groceries, and I expect to be back in Pickax tomorrow morning as soon as it stops raining.”

  He hung up and started rectifying Koko’s rearrangement of the cabin interior. Patiently he rerolled the paper toweling, straightened the rugs, put the lamp together again, and restored two postcards to their proper place.

  The gully-washer, as the locals called such a storm, continued all night, pounding the cabin roof and alarming the cats. They were used to the lofty roof of the barn in Pickax; in the tiny cabin, the weather was too close for comfort. Qwilleran allowed Yum Yum to crawl under his bedclothes, and eventually brave Koko followed.

  On Monday morning it was still raining steadily, and roads outside Mooseville were flooded. Qwilleran would have to stay at the cabin one more day. The interior was dismal, even with all the lights turned on, and the cats were moping.

  “Count your blessings,” he told them. “It could be worse.”

  Nevertheless they huddled on the floor, facing each other, in their bored-stiff pose. (Reading aloud to them was no good because of the noise of the rain on the roof.) Only then did Qwilleran remember the Kalico Kat. He found it in a drawer and placed it on the floor between their dispirited noses.

  Koko stretched his neck to sniff it and then withdrew into his torpor. Qwilleran thought, So much for contemporary American folk art. Yum Yum, on the other hand, showed some signs of interest.