Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

THE CAT WHO SAW STARS

LILIAN JACKSON BRAUN

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World-shaking news was seldom broadcast by WPKX, the radio station serving Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. Local baseball scores, another car accident, a fire in a chicken coop, and death notices were the usual fare. In late June, listeners snapped to attention, then, when a Sunday evening newscast included this bulletin:

“An unidentified backpacker of no known address mayor may not be a missing person, according to Moose County authorities. The Caucasian male, thought to be in his early twenties, stowed his camping gear on private property in the Fishport area three days ago and has not returned. He is described as fair-haired with blue eyes and of medium build. When last seen, he was wearing cut-off jeans, a white T-shirt, and a camera on a neck strap. Anyone seeing an individual of this description should notify the sheriff’s department.”

Since the description might fit any number of vacationers in Moose County, the listening audience ignored the matter until the next day, when it was reported in the local newspaper. A detailed story - written in folk-style by Jill Handley, feature editor of the Moose County Something - made sense of the incident.

Wheres David?

MISSING HIKER BAFFLES F’PORT by Jill Handley

Magnus Hawley of Fishport, a veteran on the commercial fishing boats, flagged down a sheriff’s patrol car on Sunday and told a curious tale. Hawley and his wife, Doris, live in a trailer home surrounded by flower beds on Lakeshore Road near Roaring Creek. “T’ other night,” Hawley said, “me and m’wife had just ate supper and was watchin’ TV when there come a knock on the door. I goes to the door, and it’s a young feller with a big backpack, wantin’ to pitch his tent down by the crick for a coupla nights. He says he’s gonna do some hikin’ on the beach. He’s kinda sweaty and dusty, y’know, but he has a reg’lar haircut and talks decent.” Doris Hawley approved of the stranger. “He reminded me of our grandson - nice smile, very polite. I asked if he would be hunting for agates on the beach, because I could suggest a good spot, but he said he was mostly interested in taking pictures. His camera looked expensive, and I thought maybe he was a professional photographer. We told him he could camp near the picnic table at the bottom of the hill, so long as he didn’t throw trash in the creek or play loud music.” The stranger said his name was David. “I never knew a David who wasn’t trustworthy,” she said. She gave him some of her homemade gingersnaps and filled a jug with fresh water from the well. Her husband told David it was okay to take a dip in the creek but warned him about slippery rocks and strong current. Shortly after, they saw the young man heading for the lakeshore with his camera. “Funny thing, though,” said Hawley. “After that we di’n’t see hide or hair of the feller. I went down to the crick in a coupla days to see if he’d cleared out. The water jug-it was still on the picnic table, full up! And his pack was underneath, all strapped and buckled. On’y thing gone was the cookies. We talked about it, Doris and me. I said he could’ve took up with somebody he met on the beach. There’s no tellin’ what kids’ll do these days, y’know. But m’wife was worried about him slippin’ on the rocks and gettin’ drowned, so I hailed the patrol car.” A sheriff’s deputy and a state trooper inspected the campsite but found no identification of any kind. A description of the hiker, as given by the Hawleys, was broadcast Sunday night, but no response to the bulletin had been received at press time.

Following the appearance of the story, the local gossip mill started grinding out idle speculations and inventing sensational details. Abduction was a possibility, many said, nodding their heads wisely. A few busybodies suspected the Hawleys of foul play. “Don’t eat any gingersnaps” was the popular quip in bars and coffee shops.

One who listened to the gossip without contributing to it was Jim Qwilleran, a longtime journalist now writing a twice-weekly column for the Something. Only recently he had interviewed Hawley and other commercial fishermen, even spending time on the lake with a hard-working crew and a half-ton of slippery fish, and he resented the malicious whispers. Yet, that was to be expected in a community polarized between boaters and landlubbers. Qwilleran’s own reaction to the backpacker’s disappearance was an educated curiosity. Formerly a crime reporter in major cities around the United States, he had retained a Sherlockian interest in solving mysteries.

Qwilleran was a popular man-about-town in Pickax City, the county seat (population 3,000). His column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen,” was said to rate ninety percent readership - more than the daily horoscope. Wherever he went in the county, he drew attention, being a good-looking fifty-plus and a well-built six-feet-two with a moustache of outstanding proportions. It had a droop that accentuated his melancholy demeanor, and his eyes had a brooding intensity. Yet friends knew him to be amiable, witty, willing to do favors, and fond of taking them to dinner.

There was something else in Qwilleran’s favor: He was a philanthropist of incredible generosity. Earlier in life he had been a hard-working journalist Down Below, as locals called the high-population centers around the country. He lived from paycheck to paycheck with no thought of accumulating wealth. Then a happenstance that was stranger than fiction made him the most affluent individual in the northeast central United States; he inherited the Klingenschoen estate. The fortune had been amassed when the area was rich in natural resources - and no one paid income tax. As for the original Klingenschoen, he had operated a highly profitable business.

To Qwilleran the very notion of all that money was a burden and actually an embarrassment… until he thought of establishing the Klingenschoen Foundation. Now financial experts at “the K Fund” in Chicago managed the fortune, distributing it for the betterment of the community and leaving him free to write, read, dine well, and do a little amateur sleuthing. Townfolk of every age and income bracket talked about him at clubs, on the phone, in supermarkets. They said:

“Swell fella! Not stuck up at all. Always says hello. Never know he was a billionaire.”

“He sure can write! His column’s the only thing in the paper I ever read.”

“That’s some moustache he’s got! M’wife says it’s sexy, ‘specially when he wears sunglasses.”

“Wonder why he stays single. They say he lives in a barn - with two cats.”

“You’d think he’d get a proper house - and a dog - even if he doesn’t want a wife.”

Qwilleran’s oversized moustache was a virtual landmark in Moose County, admired by men and adored by women. Like his hair, it was turning gray, and that made it more friendly than fierce. What no one knew about was its peculiar sensitivity. Actually, it was the source of his hunches. Whenever faced with suspicious circumstances, he felt a nudge on his upper lip that prompted him to start asking questions. Frequently he could be seen patting his moustache or grooming it with his fingertips or pounding it with his knuckles; it depended on the intensity of the nudge. Observers considered the gesture a nervous habit. Needless to say, it was not something Qwilleran cared to explain - even to his closest friends.

With the disappearance of the backpacker, a nagging sensation on his upper lip was urging him to visit Fishport, a modest village near the resort town of Mooseville, where he had a log cabin and a half-mile of lake frontage. The cabin, part of his inheritance, was small and very old but adequate for short stays in summertime. Only thirty miles from Pickax, its remoteness was more psychological than geographic. Mooseville, with its hundred miles of lake for a vista, and with its great dome of sky, was a different world. Even the pair of Siamese with whom he lived responded to its uniqueness.