THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

“Why, yes! He’s on the boats. They go to our church. His wife just had a beautiful baby boy.”

“Did you know he’s quite an artist? I’ve purchased one of his sculptures.”

“That’s nice. They can use the money. I’d heard that he putters around with metal in his spare time. Are you going to the parade tomorrow, Mr. Q? Magnus will be on the float sponsored by the fisheries. I can’t tell you anything about it, because it’s kind of a secret joke.”

“Those fishermen are great jokers when they get their heads together,” Qwilleran said.

“Four generations of our family will be on the sidelines, including my widowed mother-in-law, who’s a great fan of yours, Mr. Q. She’s embroidering a

sampler for you!”

“That’s thoughtful of her.” He mustered as much enthusiasm as he could. “What’s a sampler?”

“A motto that you can frame and hang on the wall.”

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.”