THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

In Polly’s portrait she sat in a highbacked Windsor against a wall of leather-bound books, wearing a blue dress and pearls and holding a copy of Hamlet. When the Rikers saw it, Mildred said, “It’s one of the loveliest contemporary portraits I’ve ever seen. It depicts gentleness and strength.”

“Humor and dignity,” her husband said.

“Let’s have your portrait done, Millie.”

“Not until I lose twenty pounds.”

“Perhaps he could paint you thinner.”

Polly said, “I’m sure I lost a few pounds on canvas.” The three of them had come to the barn directly from their offices for the unveiling and a brief celebratory drink. While the Siamese observed from the top of the fireplace cube, the foursome sat around the lounge area and exchanged news and views.

Arch said to Qwilleran, “Are you going to leave that bike in the living room? It looks a little eccentric, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I consider it a high-tech art object,” Qwilleran said. “The cats will knock it over when they go racing around - the way they scuttled a few other things I could name.”

“They never go near it.”

Then Mildred announced that they were moving into their beach house for the summer, even though it meant a longer commute to the office. “It will be a good summer for UFO sightings,” she said. “They return every seven years.”

Arch and Qwilleran, who scoffed at visitors from outer space, exchanged dour glances, and Arch said, “My sole reason for summering at the beach is to enjoy the revitalizing lake air in the company of my dear but wacky wife.” And he added that the Moose County Something would publish no photographs of mysterious lights in the night sky.

The guests were looking at their wristwatches. It was time to leave - Polly for her bird club and the Rikers for a dinner party. Qwilleran accompanied them to the parking area, where the farewells were prolonged as everyone thought of something else to say: The library was planning a reception to introduce their new mascots, Polly said. Mildred suggested inviting Derek to bring his guitar. Qwilleran ventured that Derek might compose a folk ballad about Mac and Katie.

The two cars finally pulled away, with tooting and waving, and Qwilleran went indoors to feed the cats. They were not waiting at the door. They were not on the fireplace cube. He stood still and did an eye-search of their usual haunts: the top of the refrigerator, the softest furniture, the balcony railings. No cats!

“Treat!” he shouted, and two furry bodies rose from the basketseat of the recumbent bike. “You jokers! You think that’s funny!” he said. “You like to make a fool of anyone with only two legs!”

All three of them had their treat: roast beef from the deli. Some of it was diced and placed on two plates in the feeding station; some of it was sliced and placed on rye bread with tomatoes and horseradish. Then they all went to the gazebo.

Qwilleran stretched out on a lounge chair overlooking the bird garden, and Yum Yum landed weightlessly on his lap. Koko sat at his feet with an alert eye for movement in the bushes and an alert ear for birdsong. Soon he was chattering an obbligato or mewling a melodic phrase of his own.

Amazing! Qwilleran thought. More and more Koko’s behavior convinced him that this was no normal feline. Koko was a natural predator who was never predatory. He had never been interested in catching mice, although Yum Yum had one or two to her credit. He made buddies of crows and sang for the wrens and robins. He was a house cat who knew when the telephone was about to ring and when something bad was happening half a mile away. He put ideas in one’s head when there were problems to solve and secrets to uncover.

Furthermore, Koko had devised uncatly ways of communicating information. Long before “the commish” was implicated in the Coggin case, Koko was bleating like “a dirty old ram,” although Qwilleran had failed to read the message. Long before Phoebe’s murder, he had taken a dislike to the woodpecker with a red topknot. And now that the case was in the hands of the prosecutor, he had suddenly lost interest in red checkers, the bell with a serpent for a handle, the antique compass, and Nathanael and Rebecca.

Such musings said more about Qwilleran’s imagination than the cat’s communication skills. But where could one draw the line between coincidence and a supercat’s intelligence? Somewhere there was an answer. Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips.

There was a noisy flapping of wings as seven crows landed outside the screen and Koko jumped down to greet them - in syllables not too different from their own language.

Qwilleran said to him, “Koko, you are a remarkable, enigmatic, unpredictable, and sometimes exasperating cat!”

Koko turned away from the crows and gave the man a long look before opening his jaws in a wide, unlovely yawn.