THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

Qwilleran headed in the same direction, stopping only for a hot dog and two copies of the Moose County Something. On the way he thought about another reader-participation stunt: He could take a census of pressed-back chairs in Moose County! … Run a photograph of the one at Arnold’s… Ask, “Do you own one or more of these historic artifacts? Send us a postcard.” Arch Riker chaffed Qwilleran about his postcard parties, although he knew very well that subscribers looked forward to the monthly assignments and talked about them allover the county.

On Oak Street there were three contiguous storefronts, each with a windowbox of petunias: Elizabeth’s Magic in the center, flanked by a realty agent and a hair stylist. When Qwilleran opened the door, an overhead bell jangled, and three persons turned in his direction: Elizabeth and two customers of retirement age, one tall and one short. They had been his neighbors in Indian Village.

“Ladies! What brings you to the haunts of coot and hem?” he asked.

They greeted him happily. “That’s Tennyson!” said the tall one.

“My favorite poem: The Brook,” said the other. They were the Cavendish sisters, retired from distinguished teaching careers Down Below. Qwilleran had rescued one of their cats when it became entangled in the laundry equipment. “I hear you’re living in Ittibittiwassee Estates,” he said.

“Yes, they gave us an apartment with pet privileges.”

“We’d never go anywhere without Pinky and Quinky.”

“We’re here to see the play tonight.”

“They have an activities bus that takes residents on day-trips.”

“How is Koko?”

“And how is that dear Yum Yum?”

“They find the beach stimulating,” he said, “and the screened porch is their university. Koko studies the constellations at night and does graduate work in crow behavior during the day.”

“He’s such an intellectual cat!” said the tall sister.

“Yum Yum is majoring in entomology but yesterday distinguished herself by saving a life.”

“Really?” the sisters said in unison.

“You know how birds knock themselves groggy by trying to fly through a window screen or pane of glass… Well, a hummingbird flew into the porch screen and got its long beak caught in the mesh. It was fluttering desperately until Yum Yum jumped to a nearby chairback and gave the beak a gentle push with her paw.”

“She’s so sweet!” the short sister said.

“Wouldn’t you know she’d be a humanitarian?” the other one said.

More likely, she thought it was a bug on the screen, Qwilleran mused.

The bell over the door jangled, and they all turned to see Derek Cuttlebrink barging into the shop. “Just got off work,” he announced. “Five hours till curtain time. Got any coffee?” He loped to the rear of the store. Qwilleran followed after exchanging pleasantries

with the sisters and giving Elizabeth one of his newspapers.

The two men sat in the black nylon sling chairs with plastic cups of coffee. “I never touch the stuff when I’m on duty,” Derek said.

“How’s business?”

“Great at lunchtime. I’m not there at night, so I don’t know what kind of crowd they get for dinner.”

“Do you and your boss hit it off well?”

“Oh, sure. We get along. He needs me, and he knows it. I don’t have to take any of his guff.” He lowered his voice. “I know more about the food business than he does. At least I’ve cracked a book or two. He’s just a joe who likes to eat and thinks it would be a kick to own a restaurant. They’re wrong! It’s one of the hardest, most complicated businesses you could pick. Owen happened to latch on to a great chef. She’s a creative artist, trained at one of the best chef schools. She’s really dedicated! Besides that, she’s a nice person - much younger than he is. And not as stuffy. He expects to be called Mr. Bowen. She says, ‘Call me Ernie.’ Her name is Ernestine. She works like a dog in the kitchen while he goofs off and goes fishing.”

“Whatever he happens to reel in, I suppose, goes on the menu as catch-of- the-day. At market price.”

“Well… no. It’s a funny thing, but Owen says Ernie isn’t comfortable with lake fish, being a Floridian, so he fishes for the sport. Whatever he catches, he throws back. The guy’s nuts!”

“Hmmm,” Qwilleran said, smoothing his moustache. “What’s your bestseller at lunchtime?”

“Skewered potatoes, hands down.”

“I’ve heard people talk about them. What are they?”

Derek yelled, “Liz, got any skewers left?”

“A few,” she said. “I’ve placed another order, and Mike’s turning them out as fast as he can, but we can hardly keep up with the demand.”

She showed Qwilleran a set of the foot-long needles of twisted iron with sharp points. At the opposite end each had a decorative medallion for a fingergrip. She said, “If you bake potatoes on skewers, the baking time is shortened, and they’re flakier, more flavorful, and more nutritious.”

“Who says so?” Qwilleran said. “It sounds like a scam to me.”

“I don’t know how it originated, but it seems to be an accepted fact. It was Derek’s idea to put skewered potatoes on the menu, and Ernie bought a dozen to start. Now she wants more.”