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

“How does this compare with the Hubbell space ’scope?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Considering the difference in cost, it does a pretty good job. Take a squint at that cabin cruiser out there.”

  Qwilleran squinted. “There are two couples having cocktails on deck . . . I believe they’re drinking martinis.”

  “With anchovy olives or pickled onions?” Lyle asked.

  “Seriously, Lyle, I’m impressed,” Qwilleran said, “although I haven’t caught the UFO bug myself. But you’ll have fun with it.”

  They returned to the screened porch, and Lisa asked about Polly’s vacation. She and her husband frequently traveled in Canada. She said, “I hope Polly brings you something nice. They have wonderful cashmeres there—from Scotland.”

  “One of her postcards says she’s bringing me a loonie and a toonie, whatever they are.”

  “They’re coins that replace paper money,” Lyle said, “and I’m all in favor of the idea. The loonie has a loon on one side and is worth a buck. The toonie is worth two bucks. Both are about the size of our half-dollar, but those clever Canadians have put a copper center in one and a faceted edge on the other.”

  Lisa said, “We have more than two hundred color slides of our trips to Canada, and we’d love to show them to you and Polly some weekend.”

  “That’s something to look forward to,” Qwilleran murmured in a minor key, already plotting a way to avoid the invitation. They were wonderful people—the Comptons—but . . .

  Qwilleran read to the Siamese until the light began to fade. He enjoyed twilight, those moody moments between light and dark. What poet had called it l’heure bleu? Polly would know. He missed her for reasons he had never put into words: her loving smile, soft voice, merry laugh—and their shared interests. There would be much to talk about over dinner at the Old Stone Mill: her trip abroad and his adventures at home. He would not, however, bring up the subject of Ernie’s confession to Barb; that was reserved for Andrew Brodie, along with Koko’s involvement in the case. Only the police chief was privy to the cat’s unique talents, and even he was skeptical.

  Soon Qwilleran would invite Andy to the barn for a nightcap and relate how Koko knew instinctively that the body of the backpacker was buried in the sand ridge . . . and how the cat knew when someone was walking on the beach a quarter-mile away . . . and how his catly strategy had twice stopped Qwilleran from leaving Mooseville, when it was advantageous to stay.

  Koko never used his powers frivolously; he provided no clue to the “something nice” that Polly would bring from Canada: a Shakespeare sweatshirt, perhaps, or an unabridged reading of Hamlet on cassettes.

  Darkness always came reluctantly to the lake and its endless dome of sky, but eventually it was total. Qwilleran turned off the lights indoors and out, and the three of them sat listening to bullfrogs in a distant pond, an army of crickets, and waves lapping lazily on the shore. It was a moonless night but clear, and Koko studied the stars from his pedestal, while Yum Yum stared into the shrubbery and Qwilleran, stretched in his lounge chair, let his thoughts drift. All three were so enthralled by the magic of the night that they forgot the eleven o’clock curfew and stayed on the porch until well after midnight.

  It was then that an uncanny incident occurred—something Qwilleran would later record in his personal journal. When it happened, he was too unnerved to write about it. He paced the floor, unable to sleep, and in the morning he was dressed and ready to leave the cabin even before feeding the cats. Before they were really awake, he stuffed them into the carrier and took them to the van. Luggage, coffeemaker, bike, and so forth were already loaded, and they took off for Pickax. Qwilleran was introspective, and the Siamese respected his mood. There was no yowling or jostling in the backseat.

  At the barn, after a phone call to Polly confirming their dinner date, he felt better. He reserved their favorite table and then spent some time deciding what to wear. For three weeks he had lived in shorts, polo shirts, and sandals, and it was not easy to shift gears. There was no dress code at the Old Stone Mill, but customers paid the restaurant the compliment of dressing nicely.

  At six o’clock he and Polly walked into the Mill, looking happy. Each carried a flat gift-wrapped package. Qwilleran thought hers was too small for a sweatshirt, too large for a CD, too flat for a piece of sculpture.

  The hostess said, “We’ve missed you folks!”

  “I’ve been vacationing in Canada,” Polly said.

  “I’ve been in the haunts of coot and hern,” Qwilleran said.

  “That’s nice,” said the hostess, smiling.

  “See?” he said to Polly when they were seated. “People don’t listen. I could have said I’d been in jail.”

  First they toasted each other affectionately—Polly with a glass of sherry, Qwilleran with Squunk water. Then he presented his gift. A printed card inside said: “An original Barb Ogilvie design, hand-knitted in pointillé cale stitch, using unbleached fleece from local sheep. The wool is hand-washed, hand-carded, and hand-spun on an antique wheel.” Polly was thrilled.

  When Qwilleran opened his souvenir of Canada, he did it gingerly, as if suspecting a package bomb.

  “It won’t bite,” Polly said. “I had it muzzled.”

  It was something made of fabric. It was in the Mackintosh clan tartan. It was a vest!

  “Now we have a vested interest in each other,” he said.

  The humor of the situation tickled them both, and the dinner was off to a rollicking start. First Qwilleran wanted to know about the French-Canadian professor.

  “He was so kind, so helpful, so gracious!” Polly said. “I invited him to visit Moose County.”

  “Does he speak English?” The question was facetious, of course.

  “He speaks four languages. He’s working on a book dealing with Canadian influence on northern communities in the U.S. Many of our early settlers came from Ontario, you know.”

  “That’s not all we got from Canada,” he said, recalling tales of Prohibition days.

  Polly, for her part, wanted to hear about the Rainstorm of the Century that had led to the disaster on Sandpit Road.

  He said, “Do you know the legend of the Sand Giant?”

  “Yes indeed! It’s my theory that it was inspired by a Scottish phenomenon. The Big Grey Man has been haunting a mountain in Scotland for at least two centuries.”

  Then Qwilleran mentioned the UFO library.

  Polly knew about it. “The subject was brought up at the board meeting last night. It will be interesting to see what books they have. We have at least fifty titles in our collection, and some are checked out daily.”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured in perplexity. Twenty-four hours before, he would have scoffed at the fact.

  Altogether, it was a memorable evening. When Polly was back in Indian Village and he was back in the barn, it was late, and he was sufficiently relaxed to write in his journal:

  Pickax—Thursday, July 16

  Last night was our last at the cabin. We were sitting on the porch after midnight with the lights turned off, indoors and out. To use a cliché, the night was pitch black. The cats like it that way; they’re fascinated by the invisible sights and inaudible sounds that only they can see and hear.

  When I’m lounging in a porch chair with my feet up, just thinking, time means nothing, so I didn’t know how long I had sat there. The sky seemed to be getting lighter, yet my watch said it was only two-forty-five. The cats sensed something irregular and fussed nervously. Soon Yum Yum ran indoors.

  Was it my imagination, or was the sky turning green? Also unusual was the deathlike silence. Suddenly a strong gust of wind stirred up papers and whatnot on the porch, and Koko jumped on my lap and dug in with his claws for safety. It lasted only a few seconds, though.

  At the same time a large round disc floated downward, throwing shafts of light on the beach. I could feel Koko’s fur standing on end. His tail bushed. Next thing I knew, he was at the screened door, pawing the defective latch.r />
  “Koko!” I yelled, though I couldn’t hear my voice. I leaped out of my chair, but he was outside on the deck. I dashed after him and made a grab. He slipped away and headed for the beach, straight down the side of the dune.

  Just as I was about to go after him, I saw small creatures tumbling out of the disc and sliding down the shafts of light. They had four legs and long tails! He was going to meet them!

  “Koko!” I screamed, but no sound came out of my mouth. He was picking his way through the tall grass on the sandy slope. Desperate, I plunged headlong in a flying tackle and landed on top of him. For a second I saw stars, then blacked out.

  When I came to my senses, I was pinned down under a heavy weight—in total darkness. Where was I? My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see, and there was a throbbing in my chest that alarmed me.

  Then something wet touched my nose. The weight on my body shifted. Managing to raise an arm, I felt fur! Koko was on my chest, purring loudly, and I was back in my lounge chair. How did I get there? My mind was muddled. The green light had disappeared, and the beach was dark. I could hear the waves splashing.

  Still I felt stunned. It was a dream, I told myself . . . or was it? Koko’s fur was sandy, and when I stood up, I brushed a shower of sand off my clothes.

  It had been twenty-four hours after the incident before Qwilleran had finally found the objectivity to report it in his journal, and he still felt uneasy about the experience. He might be a fool, but he could not swear it was only a dream.

  One thought haunted him and caused a spasm of discomfort in the roots of his moustache. Was this a clue to Koko’s abnormal sensory perception? What were the cat’s origins? No one knew. One day he simply . . . appeared.

  Previously, Qwilleran had attributed Koko’s superior intelligence to his sixty whiskers. Perhaps the secret was something more unthinkable—the intelligence of an alien race who were not little green men but little green cats!

  As for Sixty Whiskers himself, he had not changed a whisker since the incident. He was still a handsome, intelligent, companionable, unpredictable, somewhat imperious, and frequently exasperating feline . . . But Qwilleran had changed. He was willing to concede that Koko was not seeing stars when he gazed at the sky; he was seeing fuzzy green blobs.