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

This time it was Junior Goodwinter, speaking in a muffled voice that suggested matters of great secrecy. “Qwill, how are you coming with Operation You Know What?”

  “Slowly and painfully.”

  “Could you meet today’s deadline? A hole just opened up on page five. Somebody killed an ad.”

  “Will it blow my cover if I fax it? Who’s in charge of the fax machine?”

  “Wilfred. Use an alias. Use a Fishport address . . . Thanks a lot, Qwill.”

  Qwilleran hurried to the van and retrieved his typewriter. Then, releasing Yum Yum from the carrier and forgetting about Koko, he pounded out three pages of copy:

  Dear sweet readers—Your charming, sincere, intelligent letters warm Ms. Gramma’s pluperfect heart! Sorry to hear you’re having trouble with the L-words. The safest way to cope with lie, lay, lied, laid and lain is to avoid them entirely. Simply say, “The hen deposited an egg . . . He fibbed to his boss . . . She stretched out on the couch.” Get the idea? But if you really want to wrestle these pesky verbs to the mat, use Ms. Gramma’s quick-and-easy guide:

  1—Today the hen lays an egg. Yesterday she laid an egg. She has laid eggs all summer. (Ms. Gramma likes them poached, with Canadian bacon and Hollandaise sauce.)

  2—Today you lie to your boss. Yesterday you lied to him. You have lied to the old buzzard frequently. (Tomorrow you may be fired.)

  3—Today you lie down for a nap. Yesterday you lay down for a nap. In the past you have lain down frequently. (See your doctor, honey. It could be an iron deficiency.)

  There was more. Ms. Gramma tackles such bothersome partners as who-and-whom, that-and-which, as-and-like, and less-and-fewer. And the copy made it to the fax machine on time.

  After that ordeal, Qwilleran treated himself to a pasty for lunch and reviewed his two-week “vacation.” He had intended to stay in Mooseville a month, but any more “vacation” would knock him for a loop, he decided. There had been no time to walk on the beach or ride the recumbent bike or entertain the cats with The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. There had been one incident after another, and a tremor on his upper lip convinced him there were more to come. Perhaps Koko had sensed some forthcoming development and was trying to stop him from leaving the sea.

  Before returning to the cabin, he visited Elizabeth’s Magic for a disaster update. She was alone. “My customers are all gawking at the sandslide. People like to be horrified when it’s someone else’s horror.”

  “Where’s Derek?”

  “He was grieving about Ernie and about the loss of his job, so I told him to take a long walk; that always helps . . . What about you, Qwill?”

  “I’m still interested in an olive green vest, but I want to see color samples.”

  “Barb was here a few minutes ago but left when she found Derek wasn’t here. She’s one of his groupies, you know, and I suspect Ernie was trending in that direction.” Elizabeth arched her eyebrows. “After her husband died, she wanted Derek at the hotel for daily conferences.”

  “Your guy has a magnetic personality. Devoted females will always be hanging around the stage door. You’ll have to get used to it,” he advised. Cynically he thought, Elizabeth had nothing to fear; Derek knows which side his bread is buttered on . . . or, as Ms. Gramma would say, on which side his bread is buttered.

  “Did Polly like her vest?” she asked.

  “She hasn’t seen it. We were supposed to have dinner at Owen’s Place last night.”

  “When the library is ready, do you suppose she’d cut the ribbon for us on opening day? The head of the county library seems more appropriate than a politician who’s running for office.”

  “And better looking, too,” he said. “Are you planning to have a library cat?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it, but what a splendid idea!”

  “They have all kinds at the animal shelter. Pick one that looks literary, and have a contest to name him or her.”

  Qwilleran walked back to Main Street, where his van was parked. On the way he heard running footsteps behind him and a throaty voice calling, “Mr. Q! Mr. Q!” It was Barb Ogilvie, considerably more alive than she had been recently.

  “Elizabeth and I were just talking about you and my olive green vest,” he said.

  “I’ll dye some yarn samples as soon as I get back on track,” she said. “I’ve had a bad time.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Swiveling her glances from side to side (she seldom looked anyone directly in the eye), she said, “I don’t want to impose, Mr. Q, but I wish I could talk to you a bit—about something serious.”

  He huffed into his moustache. Young females were always confiding in him, and he was tired of the kindly-uncle role. “If you’re looking for free advice, don’t expect any from me,” he said, adding lightly, “unless you sign a release promising not to sue.”

  Barb gestured helplessly. “I just want to unload, and you’re the only one I know who’s cool enough to understand.”

  The compliment, coupled with his unbridled curiosity, led him to suggest talking over a cup of coffee somewhere.

  She hesitated. “I don’t dare . . . talk about it . . . in a public place.”

  He thought, If she expects an invitation to the cabin, it’s no deal! Then he had an inspiration! “I’ve never seen the petroglyphs. You could give me a guided tour.” He knew they were on the Ogilvie ranch. “It wouldn’t be for a newspaper story—just for my own education.”

  She hesitated. “It would have to be when Alice isn’t at home, like . . . this afternoon?”

  “Four o’clock?” he suggested.

  “Wear boots. It could be muddy.”

  NINETEEN

  When Qwilleran drove into the Ogilvie farmyard at four o’clock, Barb met him and told him where to park. “My dad’s pleased to know you want to see the ’glyph garden,” she said. “He reads your column, and he met you once at Scottish Night in Pickax. He says you wore a kilt and made a great speech.”

  “Why didn’t you want your mother here, if I may ask?”

  “Oh . . . she’d want to go with us. She has to stick her nose in everything.”

  The driveway tapered into a rough wagon trail and then into a footpath. “Nice day for a hike,” he said. “May I carry the tote bag?” It contained two colorful seat cushions from the porch furniture.

  “We’ll want to sit on the stones, and they’re damp,” she said. “I often go down there to knit. Is that crazy?”

  “Not at all. I imagine it’s quiet.”

  “Not really. I take a boom box.”

  “In that case, if I have a choice, I’d like my vest to be knitted under the influence of Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker.”

  They tramped across pastures, through the gates of numerous fences, and past grazing flocks. “What are the petroglyphs doing on your land?” he asked. He knew the answer, but she enjoyed explaining how the lake had shrunk in the last few thousand years. “The shoreline that’s two miles away was once right here, so the ’glyphs were on the beach. I don’t know who put them here—probably the Sand Giant.”

  The trail ended at a high chain-link fence enclosing a clutter of large flat slabs . . . and a colony of crows.

  “This looks like the Republic of Crowmania in parliamentary session,” Qwilleran said.

  “They know me. I usually bring them a handful of corn. Today I forgot . . . Do you want to poke around the stones for a while? There’s not much to see—just chicken scratchings that are supposed to be some kind of secret language.”

  “Then I suggest we get down to business.”

  They selected two fairly horizontal slabs and sat on the red-and-white striped cushions.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Barb asked, taking cigarettes from the tote bag.

  “Yes, I mind,” Qwilleran said, “but for your sake, not necessarily mine.”

  With a roguish glance, she said, “You sound just like my parents.”

  “Then there are three smart people around here,”
he said, “. . . Now what did you want to tell me?” He was in a snappish mood.

  Reluctantly she dropped the cigarette pack into the tote bag. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “As the King of Hearts said to the White Rabbit, ‘Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end, then stop.’ ”

  “Well . . . I told you about Florida and the balloon-chaser, didn’t I? After I chalked him off, I started dating my boss. He was a lot older, but we had fun. He took me out on his boat, and I think he really liked me. I liked my job, too.”

  “Where were you working?”

  “At his restaurant. The only trouble was—the other waitresses were jealous. The boss gave me the best tables, and I was in solid with the chef. That meant my orders were filled first, and my customers got little extras, so I got bigger tips . . . Do you know?—A guy once left me a big tip and then went to the restroom, and I saw his date swipe it!”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Nothing surprises me. Stick to your story.”

  “Well . . . one day another waitress backed me into a corner and said, ‘We all know what’s goin’ on, honey, and you’d better quit this job right now or we’ll tell his wife, and she’ll come after you with a cleaver!’ . . . His wife! She was the chef! I thought he was a bachelor! I thought they were brother and sister! How could I be so dumb?”

  “It happens,” he said.

  “I decided in a hurry that Florida was a dead end for me. I came home and started being a country girl again.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “A year ago last winter. I started knitting seriously, and everything was okay until this summer, and then they suddenly showed up in Mooseville—the Bowens!”

  “Did they know you lived here?”

  “I guess I talked about my hometown a lot when I was Down Below. I always told people about the nice summer temperature in Moose County. Summers down there were unbearable!”

  “Did Owen try to contact you?”

  “No, and I stayed away from Sandpit Road! Then, after he died, Ernie called the ranch and wanted me to have dinner with her at the hotel. She said I was the only person she knew within two thousand miles. So I went to her suite. She had two dinners sent up and champagne in an ice bucket. It was neat! She threw her arms around me and cried a bit, and I got sort of choked up, too. At first we just talked about Florida. When they decided to come up here, she drove the convertible, and Owen drove the RV, towing the Suncatcher. She really didn’t care for boats, but he said they should take a picnic cruise on their day off, or people would talk . . . God! I need a cigarette!”

  There had been times in Qwilleran’s life when he needed a smoke or a drink—desperately—so he said, “Go ahead. I’ll walk around and look at the chicken scratchings.”

  When Barb was revived and had carefully buried the evidence, she returned to the conference area. “Alice comes down here to check up on me,” she explained.

  “Do you smoke while you’re knitting?”

  “No. Never.”

  “That should tell you something,” he said. “Knit more; smoke less; live longer.”

  “Yes, doctor,” she said impudently.

  “Now go on with your story.”

  “Well, on their first day off after opening the restaurant, they were out on the lake when a weird speedboat started following them and finally flagged them down.”

  Fat Mama, Qwilleran thought.

  “Owen told them to buzz off. He said the Suncatcher was not for sale. But Ernie was suspicious. You can’t live in Florida without knowing what goes on, drugwise, and she had seen some locked suitcases down in the cabin. She started asking innocent questions and pretended not to be shocked by the answers. Putting two and two together, she figured that Owen had a commission from a Florida drug ring and was supposed to open up a new market in an area that was ripe for it. He told her to keep her eyes shut and her mouth shut, and it would be the best investment she ever made. If she didn’t, he told her, she’d never cook another meal. He was quite cool about it.”

  “What did she do?”

  “What could she do?” Barb said. “She didn’t want to be a dead chef. But if she kept her mouth shut, wouldn’t that make her an accomplice? She had nightmares about cooking vats of oatmeal in a prison kitchen. It was driving her crazy. She started making mistakes at the restaurant.”

  “I heard about the mistakes,” Qwilleran said. “Derek was concerned about her. He thought she was worried about Owen’s drinking. There were two theories about his death. A lot of people thought he was crocked and fell overboard.”

  “I know, but Ernie told me she’d made a deal with the devil. Owen would put her through chef’s school, and she’d run his restaurant. All she ever wanted in life was to work with food, supervise a kitchen, train a staff, and wear a chef’s toque. She didn’t care if he drank a fifth a day and chased women. She hoped he’d die of cirrhosis, and the restaurant would be hers. Suddenly she got an idea that would get her off the hook with Owen, and she could start her own business—with Derek as a partner.” She stopped and gulped. “I need another cigarette . . . Please!”

  “Go ahead.” Qwilleran took another turn around the enclosure. He even talked to the crows in their own language, cawing the way Koko did, but they ignored him.

  After the ritual of burying the butt, Barb was ready to talk. “This isn’t easy to talk about,” she said. “Ernie should never have told me. But I need to get it off my mind.”

  “I’m listening,” he said in a tone more sympathetic than he had been using.

  “It was their second day off. There aren’t many pleasure boats around on a Monday, and Owen said they wouldn’t be bothered by customers from Bixby because the deal was: Never on Monday. He said some stupid guy had got his signals crossed the week before . . . So they anchored at Pirate Shoals. Ernie ate her lunch, and Owen drank his. She chattered about new items she wanted to put on the menu, and finally Owen flaked out on the banquette in the stern. As soon as he started snoring, she got a potato skewer from the picnic basket and stabbed him in the ear. Then rolled him over the railing.”

  There was silence in the ’glyph garden. Even the crows were quiet.

  After a while, Qwilleran said, “Wouldn’t there be a lot of blood—from an artery?”

  “She sopped it up with towels and stuffed them in the bait bucket. Then she threw it overboard, along with the locked suitcases. She moved the boat about a mile before calling for help.”

  “One question, Barb. Why did she tell you all this? Why didn’t she keep her grisly little secret?”

  “I don’t know. We’d drunk two bottles of champagne, and she conked out on the bed. I wasn’t in any condition to drive, so I flopped on the sofa. I woke up early in the morning and went home . . . God! What had she done to me? I didn’t know what to do! There was no one I could ask for advice. Which is worse? To betray someone who trusts you? Or to be a party to murder? I went around like a zombie for a week, and then—”

  “And then the Sand Giant came to your rescue,” Qwilleran said, “except that you have information on a homicide that could enable police to effect a closure, and it’s your social duty to report it . . . Do you know anyone in the sheriff’s department?”

  “Deputy Greenleaf. We were in high school together.”

  “Tell her the whole story, and she’ll tell you what to do. Mention Pirate Shoals as the scene of the alleged crime. Then the sheriff and SBI will investigate as they see fit.”

  “One thing I’m thankful for,” Barb said. “She wasn’t one of us.”

  A commotion among the crows—frenzied cawing, fluttering, and squabbling—signaled the end of the conversation.

  Arriving at the cabin, Qwilleran found all five skewers hanging on their brads. Either Koko was tired of his new toy, or it was his way of saying “case closed.” The cat was now lounging contentedly in a patch of sunlight coming through a roof window. Qwilleran thought of the poet’s Jeoffrey: Fo
r there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.

  TWENTY

  After feeding the Siamese, Qwilleran opened the lakeside door, and the three of them moved gratefully onto the porch with its late-afternoon sun, friendly breezes, and idyllic view. “This is your last chance, guys, to watch the twilight bird ballet and the nighttime show of stars!”

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  “And as for you, young man, you’re going back to Pickax tomorrow, even if we have to bring in the fire department with a hose!”

  At that moment the cat’s ears pricked, and he turned his head toward the cabin interior. In a few seconds the phone rang.

  It was Lisa Compton. “Are you busy, Qwill? Do you have company?”

  “I have some four-legged company, and we’re busy watching the crows. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, Lyle has a new toy he wants to show you. He thinks you’ll want one like it. Do you mind if we walk over there?”

  “Come along. We’ll have a farewell drink. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  Five minutes before the Comptons arrived, Koko knew they were on the way. When they came into sight, Lyle was shouldering a long tubular carrying case.

  Qwilleran went to the top of the sandladder to greet them. “Don’t tell me! It’s a shotgun,” he guessed.

  After they were seated on the porch, and after the drinks were served, Lyle unsheathed a brass telescope about a yard long, together with an extendable tripod in wood with brass fittings.

  “Handsome piece of equipment,” the host said.

  “You should get one, Qwill. It’s great for watching UFOs. What looks like a fuzzy green blob becomes a flying machine!”

  “You’re selling to the wrong customer, Lyle. I can’t even see the fuzzy green blobs.”

  “Well, anyway, let me show you how powerful it is.”

  The three of them trooped to the small open deck that surrounded the screened porch. The tripod was extended to shoulder-height, and the telescope was trained on the lake.