THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

“Yes. You called my office.” Her slowness of speech made him speak in a clipped manner. “You have an urgent message?”

“It’s from one of our residents. The widow of… Primus Hawley. She’s made a lovely… gift for you.”

He huffed into his moustache. That would be Doris Hawley’s mother-in-law. She was embroidering something for him… probably Home Sweet Home bordered with roses. He glanced at Koko, who was at his elbow, listening. “Very kind of her,” he said.

“Would it be too much trouble to … pick it up?

She’s ninety years old. She’d be… thrilled to meet you.”

Koko was staring at his forehead, and Qwilleran found himself saying, “No trouble at all. I have great respect for the commercial fishing community. I wrote a column on the blessing of the fleet this spring.”

“I know! We have it in the parlor… in a lovely frame!”

“I’ll drop in some day next week.”

“Could you come… sooner?” she asked in her shy but persistent way.

“Well then, Monday afternoon.” There was a pause.

“Sooner?”

“All right!” he said in exasperation. “Some time tomorrow afternoon.”

There was another pause. “Could you tell us exactly when? She has to … have her nap.”

After promising to be there at two o’ clock, Qwilleran hung up and was surprised to see Koko running around in circles. “If you could drive,” he said to the cat, “I’d send you to pick it up !”

When Qwilleran arrived at Owen’s Place, the first thing he noticed in the small foyer was a lighted case of sparking cut crystal. He looked for a card saying “Courtesy of Arnold’s,” but there was no credit given. Otherwise the interior was mostly white, with accents of pink and yellow and a great many potted plants, hanging baskets, and indoor trees. He could tell at a glance that they were from The Greenery in Lockmaster, a place that rented plastic foliage for all occasions. Altogether it was not a bad scene: The large casement windows on both long walls were open, and their white louvered shutters framed them pleasantly.

Half the tables were taken, and there was a hum of excitement from show-goers headed for an opening-night performance. For a beach crowd they were dressed decently, and Qwilleran was glad he had worn his striped seersucker coat. As he stood waiting in the entry, several heads were turned in his direction, and hands waved.

Owen Bowen, handsomely tanned, came forward with a frown wrinkling his fine features. “Reservation?”

“No, sorry.”

The host scanned the room. “How many?”

“One.”

That required another study of the situation. “Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Non.”

After painful cogitation, he conducted Qwilleran to a small table and said, “Something from the bar?”

“Squunk water on the rocks, with lemon zest.”

“What was that?”

Qwilleran repeated it and explained that it was mineral water from a natural spring at Squunk Corners, but he said he would settle for club soda.

The menu was unusual by Moose County standards: veal loin encrusted with

eggplant, spinach, and roasted red peppers, with sun-dried tomato demiglaze-that sort of thing. Qwilleran played it safe with a lamb shank osso bucco on a bed of basil fettuccini. The soup of the day was a puree of cauliflower and Gorgonzola served in a soup plate with three spears of chives arranged in a triangle on the creamy surface.

While a self-conscious waitstaff took orders and served the food, the host seated guests and served drinks with an air of zero hospitality. Latticework in the rear of the room screened the bar, the cash register, and a window into the kitchen, where Qwilleran caught glimpses of a young woman in a chef’s towering toque. Her face had a look of extreme concentration and a kitchen pallor.

Other diners started leaving at seven-fifteen, saying they were concerned about parking facilities. When Qwilleran arrived at the Botts farm, vehicles lined both shoulders of the highway as far as one could see, and others were being directed into designated pastures. He himself had a press card that admitted him to a lot behind the dairy barn.

Show-goers gathered in the barnyard, reluctant to go indoors. It was a beautiful evening, and this was a festive celebration. The Rikers were there. “How was Owen’s Place?” they asked.

Qwilleran was pleased to report that the food was excellent. “The chef is nouvelle, but not too nouvelle. The host is a cold fish. If you don’t like cold fish, I suggest you go for lunch, when Derek is on duty.” Then, half turning his back to Arch, he asked Mildred, “Has your sensitive husband recovered from the mortification of knitting in public?”

“Don’t be fooled, Qwill. He’s enjoying the notoriety. He even got a fan letter from a mechanic in Chipmunk.”

Arch said, “I hope the play’s better than the precurtain conversation. Let’s go in.”