THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

As for the Athletes for Peace, their staging area was a madhouse. Young persons, each with a large letter of the alphabet on a pole, were running around in a state of hysteria, shouting and laughing like maniacs. They had discovered they could scramble their letters to spell CHEAT, SHOOT, TREASON, and worse! The coach in charge of the unit blew his whistle and yelled at deaf ears.

The official starter was frantic. The sheriff’s car, the grand marshal, and the color guard were lined up. The first float was pulling up with its serious statesmen in wigs and knee breeches, but the athletes were out of control. “What do we do?” the starter cried to his aides. “Do we cancel ‘em?”

At that moment, two gunshots sounded above the din. The effect was paralyzing. Everything stopped. No one moved. The silence was heavy with unasked questions.

Then the coach blew his whistle. “Fall in!” The sheriff’s car started to roll. After giving it a fifty-yard head start, the piper began his slow, swinging gait and skirling rendition of the national anthem. The color guard snapped to attention.

No one asked who had fired the shots, but Qwilleran had an idea.

One by one, the units moved out of the staging area in the correct order, with floats and marchers and bands alternating appropriately.

Qwilleran, waiting for the bikers to be signaled, watched the Friends of Wool roll past. The shepherd stood knee-deep in a small flock of sheep and baby lambs and played his flute. Two spinners dressed as pioneer women sat in antique chairs and treadled their wheels. Six similar chairs were arranged back-to-back for the knitters: four women and two men.

Finally the Parade of Bikers was given the signal. The first to take off was the high-wheeler, followed by neat rows of bikes pedaled by men and women, girls and boys, in colorful helmets. Bringing up the rear was the most prominent man in the county, reclining in a bucket seat with his feet elevated. Everyone recognized the moustache, and while they applauded, cheered, screamed, and whistled, Qwilleran drew on his theater training and pedaled with unflappable cool.

The onlookers swarmed into the road and followed the recumbent - a Pied Piper with wheels. Whether their acclaim was for the bike, or the famous moustache, or the man behind the K Fund …that was anyone’s guess.

The destaging area of the parade was the high school parking lot on the eastside, and when Qwilleran arrived, he found a traffic jam. Floats: were scattered helter-skelter. Families arrived to pick up their athletes, musicians, moms, pets, and bathing beauties. Two school buses were waiting to transport float personnel back to their vehicles on the westside. A truck from the Ogilvie Sheep Ranch was collecting sheep, spinning wheels, and antique chairs.

Qwilleran grabbed Mildred’s arm just as she was boarding the bus. “You got me into this. How about getting me out?”

“What’s the problem, Qwill?”

He said, “I can’t take my bike on the bus. You take my car keys and bring my van down here. It’s a brown van - in the FOO parking lot.”

She took his keys. “What did you think of our float?”

“The lambs were cute. The shepherd looked like the real thing. The sheep were fat and woolly… But your husband, if I may say so, looked sheepish.”

“I heard that!” Arch shouted. “I wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t blackmailed me, you dirty dog!”

The bus driver tooted the horn. “Come on, folks. They want us to move!”

Qwilleran had invited Andrew Brodie to stop at the cabin for a drink, following the parade, and the chief had said, “Make it at four o’clock. I’ve got to make an appearance at a backyard barbecue - some relatives in Black Creek.”

At four o’clock, Qwilleran had a beverage tray on the porch, along with some Gorgonzola and crackers. “How was it?” he asked when his guest arrived, scowling.

“All they had to drink was iced tea! I played a tune for them and had a sandwich, then got the heck out!”

“You came to the right place, Andy. I happen to have some single-malt Scotch and good cheese.”

Brodie was still in piper’s garb, except for the feather bonnet and shoulder plaid. Cocked over one eye was something like a military overseas cap - in navy blue with a red pompon, cockade, and two ribbons hanging down the back. “It’s a Glengarry,” he said in response to Qwilleran’s compliment. He tapped his left temple. “It has my clan badge.”

They went out to the porch, where Koko was again on the pedestal and Yum Yum was sniffing insects on the outside of the screen. When Brodie sat down, however, she came over to inspect his brogues, bare knees, and fancy garters. Then she stood on her hind legs to see what the kilt was all about.

“She’s bewildered,” Qwilleran explained. “Aren’t you the visitor who used to wear long pants and a shiny metal badge?”

“Where’d you get the sailboat?”

“Mike Zander made it. He’s a commercial fisherman by trade.”