Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

“I was getting the message.”

“Are you moving back to the barn today?”

“That was my intention, but we have a crisis here, too. I’ll keep in touch.”

Replacing the receiver, he heard a thump, thump, THUMP as Koko descended from his perch in three stages. Back on the floor he licked his right paw calmly and thoroughly.

“Okay, young man, you’ve had your little joke. Now let’s go!”

As Qwilleran rattled the latch of the carrier, the phone rang again, and Koko flew up to the peak of the roof as if jet-propelled.

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.”

-19-

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.