Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

“I didn’t say that!” her husband snapped.

“You implied it!”

“I’m going to bed! I haven’t slept a wink all day!” Arch stomped out of the room.

Mildred said softly, “He’s hardheaded, isn’t he? I don’t dare mention the rune stones you gave me, Qwill. They’re similar to tarot cards, in that the reader has to bring certain instincts to the interpretation.”

“Hmmm,” Qwilleran murmured. Foretelling the future by any method was outside his frame of belief.

Looking deeply concerned, she said, “The stones say we’re headed for disaster. One has to assume it’s connected with the unnatural volume of water that’s being dumped on us all at once. I really believe we should move back to Indian Village, but how do I convince Arch? He loves it here - when it isn’t raining. You and the cats should move back to Pickax also, Qwill.”

“We intend to. Now that Polly’s home and going back to work Wednesday, she’ll need help with grocery shopping. She’s been gone a month. Her cupboard must be bare.”

“Qwill, I don’t know why you and Polly don’t get married. You have strong feelings for her, and I know she adores you!”

“It wouldn’t work,” he explained. “She’s a tea-drinker, and I’m a coffee-drinker, and there are certain basics that must be considered.”

While driving back to the cabin through the persistent rain, Qwilleran thought about Mildred’s eccentric interest in the occult and compared it with his own belief in Koko’s prescient talents. The cat knew when the phone was about to ring and when a storm was brewing. Now Mildred had predicted a disaster for the area. Whimsically, Qwilleran imagined Koko pulling the luggage out of the closet and searching the bookshelves for Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey. That would be no more far-fetched than the cat’s sudden interest in A Horse’s Tale when Owen Bowen disappeared. And how about the backpacker? Not only did Koko sense that the body was buried in the sandhill, but he managed to lead Qwilleran to the site. And how to explain the cat’s obsession with the postcards? Qwilleran reviewed what he knew about the two men pictured. Shaw was a playwright, music critic, socialist, Nobel prize winner, and antivivisectionist; Wilde was a novelist, poet, playwright, and aesthete.

“Wait a minute!” he shouted at the steering wheel. “What’s wrong with me?” He took a chance on driving faster and dashed into the cabin without bothering to cover his head. The two cards were on the floor as usual. Why had he not thought to turn them over? He had not read Polly’s messages since they arrived two weeks before!

“We have tickets for Major Barbara tonight - not my favorite Shaw play, but it will be beautifully done.”

“A male actor plays Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. Always a delightful comedy.”

Qwilleran felt a crawling sensation on his upper lip as the scrawled message brought to mind Barb Ogilvie and Ernestine Bowen. It was pure coincidence, and yet… He looked at Koko.

“Yow!” said the cat, squeezing his eyes.

Qwilleran asked himself, Did the two women know each other in Florida? Did Barb work in the Bowens’ restaurant? Was Owen the “older man” who entered Barb’s life when she was feeling low? She claimed to have moved back north to avoid trouble.

Previously, she may have extolled Moose County as a summer paradise. Did Owen respond to the chamber of commerce ad because of the climate, or because of the seductive young woman? And what was Ernie’s reaction to the move? There the conjectures became tangled. Did she know of the affair or not? Were her objections overruled? There was more intrigue in this situation than met the eye. Answers might explain Barb’s depression in the days , following Owen’s disappearance.

Qwilleran was in deep contemplation when the telephone rang.

It was Tess, calling from Horseradish. “I hear you’re having rain there,” she said.

“A few sprinkles.”

“Sorry to leave so abruptly yesterday. I was having such a wonderful time. Thank you, Qwill, for your hospitality and the clever ideas for the scenario. I left a T-shirt for you on the dresser in the Snuggery; let me know if it’s the wrong size. And by the way, I told Jeoffrey and Princess about your cats’ elitist diet, and now they don’t want to eat cat food.”

“Likely story,” Qwilleran said. “How was the family reunion?”

“The usual. Family gossip. A potluck supper. It was held in the community hall, and cousin Joe played the piano and sang. He was the only one interested in the Republic of Crowmania.” Then she asked the inevitable question: “How did you like the macaroni and cheese?”

“I’ve never tasted its equal!” he said with fervor and only a slight bending of the truth.

On Tuesday morning no one could believe it! The sun was shining, and the cessation of the rain left a blessed void. Qwilleran shouted just to hear his own voice: “Hallelujah!” With restored ambition he dashed off a thousand words about the dogcart races and took it to the bank to be faxed. The downtown streets swarmed with vacationers in dark glasses-laughing and yelling and going into shops to spend money. There was no sign of Mildred’s disaster.

Qwilleran had lunch at the Nasty Pasty, ordering the local specialty that was best when picked up in both hands. While enjoying his primitive repast, he thought of Owen’s Place, open for lunch once again. Derek would be playing the efficient manager and friendly host, dressing the skewered potatoes at tableside with a theatrical flourish. At two o’clock he would be off-duty and going to Elizabeth’s Magic to report.

Qwilleran opted to stay in town till then. He could say good-bye to the businessfolk he knew and listen to their worst-ever rain stories, taping them for use in the Friday “Qwill Pen”:

“Didn’t mind the wet, but the noise was like livin’ in a wind tunnel.”

“To make it worse, my dog howled all night.”

“Whole family wore earplugs. Only way we could get any sleep.”

“It was like living under Niagara Falls.”

Qwilleran would open his column with the dictionary definition of rain: “water falling in drops condensed from vapor in the atmosphere. Also the descent of such drops. See: FOG, MIST.”

Shortly after two o’clock he went to Elizabeth’s to have Polly’s vest gift wrapped. There were quite a few customers buying skewers and raving about the potatoes and the personable young man who dressed them at tableside. “There he is!” they cried when he burst in the front door. They applauded, and he bowed graciously before striding to the rear of the store.

Qwilleran followed. “How was the kickoff?”

“Great! There’s nothing like a mystery or a scandal to attract customers. We had more orders for potatoes than we had skewers, so we cheated. We stuck skewers into ordinary baked potatoes. Nobody knew the difference.”

“Was Ernie pleased with the turnout?”

“Sure was! And she was bug-eyed over the flowers from a well-wisher. I knew they were from you, but I didn’t tell. I put them at the entrance on the maitre d’s desk. They look swell!” Derek glanced toward the front of the store. “Here comes Bad News Barb. Something’s wrong with her; I think she’s been jilted again - Don’t be too sympathetic, Qwill; she goes for older men.”

“How do you know?”

“We were in high school together, and she was always coming on to the science teacher, who was twice her age, and the principal, who was a grandfather.”

The knitter walked solemnly toward the two men, carrying a box of goofy socks. “These need price tags,” she said to Derek.

He took them into the stockroom, and Qwilleran asked her, “Do you knit vests for men? I wouldn’t I mind having one for myself in olive green-with some kind of interesting knit.”