THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

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.

A propitious fate had brought the three of them together. The female had been a poor little rich cat abandoned in a posh neighborhood when Qwilleran found her. Because of her sweet expression and winning ways, he named her Yum Yum. The sleek muscular male had simply moved in - at a time when Qwilleran was trying to get his life together. Kao K’o Kung had been his name before being orphaned. Now called Koko, he had a magnificent set of whiskers and remarkable sensory attributes. In fact, he and Qwilleran had developed a kind of kinship - the one with a feline radar system and the other with an intuitive moustache.

The day after the newspaper story about the backpacker, Qwilleran drove downtown to the Something office to announce his vacation plans and hand in his copy for the “Qwill Pen” column. He had written a thousand words about the Fourth of July from the viewpoint of Benjamin Franklin. (How would Poor Richard react to backyard barbecues and high school majorettes in silver tights?) He found the managing editor’s office decorated with crepe-paper streamers and a sign daubed with the message: HAPPY BIRTHDAY JUNIOR… TODAY YOU ARE 16! Junior Goodwinter was past thirty, but slight stature and boyish features gave him the look of a perennial schoolboy.

“Happy sixteenth!” Qwilleran said. “You don’t look a day over fifteen!” Dropping into a chair, he propped his right ankle on his left knee. “Any coffee left?”