Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

“Who says so?” Qwilleran said. “It sounds like a scam to me.”

“I don’t know how it originated, but it seems to be an accepted fact. It was Derek’s idea to put skewered potatoes on the menu, and Ernie bought a dozen to start. Now she wants more.”

“Here’s why they’re popular,” Derek said. “The potatoes are un skewered and dressed at tableside for dramatic effect. Dining in a fine restaurant is part showbiz, you know. People like the special attention they get with tableside service, like fileting a trout or tossing a Caesar salad or flaming a dessert. I do the ritual myself. I put on a good show. Come and have lunch some day.”

“I’ll do that. Meanwhile, I’m having dinner there tonight before the play.”

“That reminds me …” He jumped out of his chair and headed for the front door.

“Break a leg !” Qwilleran shouted after him.

“Qwill, have you seen today’s paper?” Elizabeth asked. “Look at the announcement on page five.”

He unfolded the newspaper he had been carrying and read a boxed announcement: YOU AIN’T SEEN NOTHIN’ YET, HARDLY

Do you like the way folks speak in Moose County? Do you have pet peeves about English as she is spoken? Do you think “whom” should be eliminated from the English language? Are you confused about him-and-me and he-and-I? ASK MS. GRAMMA Her column stars next week on this page. Write to her at the Moose County Something. Queries and complaints will receive her attention.

“Well, that’s a surprise, to say the least,” Qwilleran said. “Readers have been clamoring for editorial comment on the sloppy English common in Moose County, but it remains to be seen whether a column on good grammar will accomplish anything. What’s your reaction, Elizabeth?”

“Frankly, I think the people who need it most won’t read it, and what’s more, they see nothing wrong with the way they speak. Their patois was learned from their parents and is spoken, most likely, by their friends.”

Qwilleran said, “My question is: Who will write it? Jill Handley on the staff could do it, or some retired teacher of English. But that’s Junior Goodwinter’s problem. We’ll wait and see.”

Before going home, Qwilleran drove to Fishport once more. The burlap sack was still covering the sign on the lawn, but there were no police cars in the drive. Qwilleran thought he could knock on the door and ask, as a friend, how things were going. “Is there anything I can do?” was always a key to unlocking confidences.

He knocked on the door, and no one answered. He knocked again. Someone could be seen moving around inside the house - someone who obviously did not want to be bothered. He drove away.

-6-

Before going to dinner and the theater, Qwilleran fed the cats and treated them to a reading session. They were currently enjoying the sheep book Far from the Madding Crowd. They usually sat on the porch - Qwilleran in a lounge chair, Yum Yum on his lap, and Koko on the back of the chair, looking over his shoulder. If Qwilleran dramatized the story, Koko would get excited and inch forward. Then the cat’s whiskers would tickle the man’s ear. The episode that Qwilleran read on this occasion was an ear tickler - the tragic event for which the novel was famous.

An inexperienced sheepdog made a fatal mistake. His sire, old George, had the wisdom of a veteran sheepkeeper, but the young one had too much enthusiasm and too little sense. His job was to chase sheep, and he chased them. It was the jangling of bells on fast-running sheep that alerted the farmer one dark night. He called the dogs, and only George responded.

Shouting the shepherd’s cry of “Ovey! Ovey! Ovey!” the man ran to the hill. There were no sheep in sight, but the young dog was standing on the edge of the chalk cliff, gazing down below. He had chased the flock until they broke through a hedge and a rail fence and plunged to their death. Lost were two hundred ewes and the two hundred lambs they would have birthed. The farmer was financially ruined, and the poor dog was shot.

Qwilleran slapped the book shut. He had been reading with emotion, and his listeners sensed the tension in his voice. Though it described a nineteenth-century farm in a fictional English county called Wessex, it resembled Moose County, where sheep farming supported so many families. There was a heavy silence on the porch - until the telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, dislodging Yum Yum from his lap.

The caller was Sarah Plensdorf, the conscientious office manager at the Something. “I’m sorry to bother you on your vacation, Qwill, but I had a request for your phone number from a woman who seemed very young and very shy. When I told her to write you a letter, she insisted that she had an urgent message for you. I took her number and said I’d try to reach you. She was calling from Fishport.”

“Give me the number. I’ll call her,” he said. “You handled it well, Sarah.”

“You’re to ask for Janelle.”

When he phoned the number, a soft, whispery voice said, “Safe Harbor Residence.”

He had to think a moment. Was this the home for widows of commercial fishermen? He said, “Is there someone there by the name of Janelle?”

“This is … Janelle,” she said hesitantly. “Is this… Mr. Qwilleran?”

“Yes. You called my office.” Her slowness of speech made him speak in a clipped manner. “You have an urgent message?”

“It’s from one of our residents. The widow of… Primus Hawley. She’s made a lovely… gift for you.”

He huffed into his moustache. That would be Doris Hawley’s mother-in-law. She was embroidering something for him… probably Home Sweet Home bordered with roses. He glanced at Koko, who was at his elbow, listening. “Very kind of her,” he said.

“Would it be too much trouble to … pick it up?

She’s ninety years old. She’d be… thrilled to meet you.”

Koko was staring at his forehead, and Qwilleran found himself saying, “No trouble at all. I have great respect for the commercial fishing community. I wrote a column on the blessing of the fleet this spring.”

“I know! We have it in the parlor… in a lovely frame!”

“I’ll drop in some day next week.”

“Could you come… sooner?” she asked in her shy but persistent way.

“Well then, Monday afternoon.” There was a pause.

“Sooner?”

“All right!” he said in exasperation. “Some time tomorrow afternoon.”

There was another pause. “Could you tell us exactly when? She has to … have her nap.”

After promising to be there at two o’ clock, Qwilleran hung up and was surprised to see Koko running around in circles. “If you could drive,” he said to the cat, “I’d send you to pick it up !”

When Qwilleran arrived at Owen’s Place, the first thing he noticed in the small foyer was a lighted case of sparking cut crystal. He looked for a card saying “Courtesy of Arnold’s,” but there was no credit given. Otherwise the interior was mostly white, with accents of pink and yellow and a great many potted plants, hanging baskets, and indoor trees. He could tell at a glance that they were from The Greenery in Lockmaster, a place that rented plastic foliage for all occasions. Altogether it was not a bad scene: The large casement windows on both long walls were open, and their white louvered shutters framed them pleasantly.

Half the tables were taken, and there was a hum of excitement from show-goers headed for an opening-night performance. For a beach crowd they were dressed decently, and Qwilleran was glad he had worn his striped seersucker coat. As he stood waiting in the entry, several heads were turned in his direction, and hands waved.

Owen Bowen, handsomely tanned, came forward with a frown wrinkling his fine features. “Reservation?”