THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

Besides imaginative variations on standard luncheon dishes, there was the house specialty: “Try our skewered potato! A flawless 20-ounce Idaho, baked on a skewer and dressed at tableside with three toppings. Choose one sauce, one accompaniment, and one garnish.”

The newsmen studied the list of toppings conscientiously:

THE SAUCES: Choice of marinara, Bolognese, Alfredo, ratatouille, curried chicken, or herbed yogurt with anchovies.

THE ACCOMPANIMENTS: Choice of sautéed Portobello mushrooms, red onion rings, pitted ripe olives, garlic-pickled garbanzos, sautéed chicken livers, or grilled tofu cubes.

THE GARNISHES: Choice of grated Parmesan cheese, toasted cashews, shredded carrots with capers, slivered fresh coconut, crumbled Stilton cheese, or sour cream with chives.

After studying the list, Junior said, “It’s daunting, to say the least. I can’t believe this is happening in Moose County.”

“Blame Derek,” Qwilleran said. “That’s what happens when you send a boy to college.”

“What I really wanted was a roast beef sandwich.”

Qwilleran called Derek to the table. “Would we be thrown out if we ordered roast beef sandwiches with horseradish?”

“Sure, that’s okay,” Derek said, adding in a lower voice, “We’re short of skewers, anyway.”

They spent the lunch hour discussing editorial policies, staff problems, new ideas, and old mistakes. Qwilleran enjoyed it and offered advice, but finally he looked at his watch and said it was time to leave for Fishport.

“What are you doing there?”

“Paying a call on some elderly residents at Safe Harbor. It’s one of the many things I do for the Moose County Something and don’t get paid for. I make an appearance, shake hands, say the right things, and make friends for the paper. I hope it’s appreciated.”

“I think you like old ladies.”

“Why not? They like me,” Qwilleran said flippantly, although he realized he was drawn to octogenarians and nonagenarians of both sexes, and he knew why. He had never known his grandparents. His mother never talked about them, and as a kid he was too self-absorbed to ask questions. His life was all about playing baseball, acting in school plays, training for spelling bees (which he always won), and practicing the piano (reluctantly).

There were no birthday cards or Christmas presents from grandparents. His extended family consisted of his mother’s friends and Arch Riker’s parents. Pop Riker was as good a father as he had ever known. Now he often wondered about his: forebears. Who were they? Where did they live? What did they do? Why had his mother never mentioned them? Could they be traced? There was a genealogical society in Pickax; they would know how to proceed.

He thought about it on the way to his afternoon appointment. Before he knew it, he had reached the Fishport village limits, and the landmark mansion called Safe Harbor loomed ahead.

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Safe Harbor was a three-story frame structure m the Victorian style, with porches, bay windows, balconies, gables, a turret, and a widow’s walk. It had been the residence of a shipping magnate in Moose County’s heyday, when families were large, travel was slow, and guests stayed a long time. There were many bedrooms upstairs and servants’ quarters in the garret. The widow’s walk was a small observation platform on the roof with a fancy wrought-iron railing. From that elevation, members of the family could watch for sailing ships bringing loved ones or valuable cargo, all the while worrying about treacherous rocks and lake pirates.

Following the economic collapse, the stately mansion became a boarding house for sandpit workers, then a summer hotel in the prosperous rum-running days, then a private school for sailing buffs from Chicago. Eventually it was purchased by the Scotten, Hawley, and Zander families as a retirement home for widows of commercial fishermen, whose occupation was on the most-dangerous list in government studies.

When Qwilleran arrived and rang the jangling bell on the front door, it was immediately opened by a breathless young woman with a sweet smile. A mass of auburn hair cloaked her thin shoulders. “I’m Janelle Van Roop,” she said softly. “It’s so … wonderful of you to come, Mr. Qwilleran. All the ladies… are waiting in the parlor.”

It was a large dark foyer with an elaborately carved staircase and double doors opening into equally dark rooms. Janelle led him to the one room that was light and bright and cheerful, with white lace curtains on the tall narrow windows. As they entered, applause came from twelve pairs of frail hands. Twenty-four widows with gray or silver hair and pretty blouses sat in a circle.

Janelle said, “Ladies, this is our… beloved Mr. Q!” There was another patter of applause with more enthusiasm than volume.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Qwilleran said in a mellifluous voice that mesmerized his listeners when he pulled out all the stops. “It’s a great pleasure to meet so many loyal readers, looking so festive and so … fetching.”