Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

Devoted readers liked to send him useless knickknacks made by their own loving hands, and it was to his credit that he always sent a hand-written thank-you. During his boyhood, he had written countless thank-you letters to his mother’s friends who sent him toys and books that were three years too young for him. His mother always said, “Jamie, we accept gifts in the spirit in which they were given.”

To Mrs. Hawley he said, “Well, well! A sampler! That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?”

Driving home, Qwilleran wondered what a fisherman’s widow would chose to embroider for him. Home Sweet Home? Love One Another? He had seen these words of wisdom in antique shops, worked with thousands of stitches and framed in tarnished gilt. He had never seen Slide, Kelly, Slide or Nice Guys Finish Last, or his mother’s favorite maxim: Keep Your Eye Upon the Doughnut and Not Upon the Hole. Growing up in a one-parent household, he had heard that advice a thousand times. Instead of turning him into an optimist, however, it had made him a doughnut addict. What he really liked was the traditional fried-cake with cake like texture and crisp brown crust redolent of hot cooking oil.

As he drove he watched automatically for the old schoolhouse chimney, then turned left into the long K driveway. Halfway up the twisting dirt lane he could hear Koko yowling; the cat knew he was coming. The noisy welcome could mean that the phone had been ringing, or something had been knocked down and smashed, or the radio had been left on, or there was a plumbing leak.

“Cool it, old boy. Nothing’s wrong,” Qwilleran said after inspecting the premises, but Koko continued to frisk about. When he jumped up at the peg where his harness hung, the message was clear: He wanted to go for a walk. Qwilleran obliged - and recorded the cat’s antics in his personal journal. It was not a real diary - just a spiral notebook in which he described noteworthy moments in his life. This was one of them. The report was headed “Mooseville, Wednesday, July 3.”

Koko did it again! He solved a mystery that was boggling the gossips around here. Nobody but me will ever know. If the media discovered this cat’s psychic tendencies, they’d give us no peace. What happened, Koko wanted to go for a walk on the beach, meaning that I walk and he rides - on my shoulder. That way, he doesn’t bog down in deep sand or cut his precious toes on sharp pebbles. Smart cat! He wears a harness, and I keep a firm hand on the leash. All day long he’d wanted to explore the beach. Finally we buckled up and went down the sandladder. I started to walk west toward town, but Koko made a royal ruckus; he wanted to go east. Toward Seagull Point, I imagined. But we hadn’t gone far before a strange growl came from the cat’s innards, and his body stiffened. Then, impulsively, he wanted to get down on the sand. Keeping a taut leash, I let him go. Well, to watch him struggle through that deep sand would have been comic if it weren’t that he was dead serious. When he reached the sand ridge, he climbed up the slope, slipping and sliding. I was tempted to give him a boost but didn’t. This whole expedition was his idea. By the time he reached the top he was really growling, and he started to dig. Sand flew! But most of it trickled back into the excavation. Koko wouldn’t give up, though. What was he after? A dead seagull buried in the sand? He dug and he dug, and I started to get suspicious. “Look out!” I said, pushing him aside. I saw something shining in the hole. The sun was hitting something that glinted. It was the face of a wristwatch! I grabbed Koko and ran back to the cabin.

After calling 911, Qwilleran gave Koko a treat. There was not long to wait. The sheriff’s department knew the K cabin; they checked it regularly during the winter. In a matter of minutes a patrol car came through the woods, and a deputy in a wide-brimmed hat stepped out. Qwilleran went out to meet her - Moose County’s first woman deputy.

“You reported finding a body?” she asked impassively.

“Down on the beach, buried in the sand. I’ll show you the way.”

She followed him down the sandladder and along the shore to Koko’s excavation. “How’d you find it?”

“Just walking on the beach.”

She examined the hole. “Looks like some animal’s been digging.”

“It seems so, doesn’t it?”

Unhooking her phone, she called the state police post, and Qwilleran said he would go back to the cabin and direct whoever responded.

In the next half-hour the clearing filled with vehicles. Qwilleran met each one and pointed to the sandladder; otherwise, he stayed out of sight.

First, the state police car with two officers. Second, the ambulance of the rescue squad.

They had shovels and a stretcher.

Then, another sheriff’s car with two passengers in the backseat. Magnus and Doris Hawley were escorted down the sandladder by the deputy.

Soon, the helicopter from Pickax, landing on the hard flat sand near the water. That would be the medical examiner, Qwilleran presumed.

Unexpectedly, a blue pickup delivering the railroad tie and copper sculpture. “Hey, what’s goin’ on here?” Kenneth asked.

“A simulated rescue drill. My responsibility is to keep the driveway open. So just drop the stuff and I go back down the drive.”

“Hey, this is cool! How old is this cabin?”

“I don’t know,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll take the sculpture. You take the tie around to the lakeside and put it on the screened porch. I’ll lead the way.”

With some prodding, Kenneth positioned the tie in the northwest comer of the porch. “Hey, some view you got here!”

“Yes. This way out…”

“Are those… cats?”

“Yes. Come on, Kenneth. This drill is being timed to the split second… On the double!”

Qwilleran packed him off down the driveway, just as the deputy escorted the Hawleys up the sandladder. Qwilleran ducked indoors. They drove away. Then the ambulance left. The helicopter lifted off, taking a blue body bag on a stretcher. When the state troopers drove away, only Deputy Greenleaf remained, and Qwilleran went out to size her up. Though not bad looking, she was stony-faced, a mask that seemed to go with the wide-brimmed hats worn by deputies.

Glancing at him and getting out her pad, she said, “You must be Mr. Q.”

“Yes, but are you aware of the department’s policy?”

“We don’t release your name.”

“That’s right. You must be Deputy Greenleaf.” It had said in the paper that a woman deputy was needed to escort women prisoners to the Bixby County detention facility. “Glad to have you in the department.”

She nodded, and the tassels on her hat bobbed.

Now Qwilleran knew why Koko had stayed up all night; he knew what was on the beach. If he had not campaigned for an outing on the shore… if he had not insisted on going east instead of west… if he had not started digging at one particular spot, the backpacker mystery would remain unsolved. Most cats had a sixth sense, but Koko’s perception of right and wrong went beyond catly concerns. He sensed answers to the questions that baffled humans and found ways of communicating his findings. Qwilleran could attribute his talents only to his magnificent whiskers. Yum Yum had the standard forty-eight; Koko had sixty.

Qwilleran had reasons for being secretive about Koko’s special gifts and his own involvement, and he was relieved to hear the six o’ clock newscast on WPKX: “Acting on a tip from a beachcomber, the sheriff’s department today found the body of the backpacker missing since Friday. It was buried in the sand near Mooseville. The deceased was identified by Magnus and Doris Hawley as the hiker who had come to their house asking permission to camp on their property. Cause of death has not been determined, according to a sheriff’s spokesperson. Identification was found on the body but is being withheld pending notification of family. The deceased was not from the tri-county area.”