THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

Before bringing the cats indoors, Qwilleran inspected the premises, which had been cleaned and summerized by a youthful maintenance crew called the Sand Giant’s Gnomes. The interior space was limited: a single large room with two cubicles at one end and a stone fireplace spanning the other. What suggested spaciousness and a kind of grandeur was the open ceiling that soared to the peak of the roof and was crisscrossed by log beams and braces. As soon as blinds were opened, the large window facing the lake and the three new skylights in the roof filled the interior with shafts of light.

Only then was the carrier brought indoors, its occupants jostling roughly and yowling loudly. The tiny door was unlatched, and suddenly they were quiet and wary.

“It’s safe!” Qwilleran reassured them. “No lions or tigers! The floor has been cleaned and polished, and you can walk on it with impunity.” The more you talk to cats, he believed, the smarter they become.

Immediately they remembered the back porch with its concrete floor warmed by the sun’s rays. They rushed out to curl and uncurl on its rough surface. Then Koko stretched out to his full length, the better to absorb warmth in every glistening cat hair.

Qwilleran thought, He loves the sun, and the sun loves him. He was quoting another journalist, Christopher Smart, who had written a poem about his cat, Jeoffrey. It was rich in quotable lines, even though Christopher and Jeoffrey had lived in the eighteenth century.

While the Siamese lounged al fresco, Qwilleran unpacked the van - first, the recumbent bicycle. The tough old trail bike was in the toolshed, but the snooty technological freak with basket seat and elevated pedals deserved more respect. He parked it on the kitchen porch. Trial runs on the backroads of Pickax had convinced him that it was safer, speedier, and less tiring than conventional bikes. Whether he would have the nerve to ride such a curiosity in tradition-bound Mooseville was yet to be decided.

Other baggage from the van made itself at home: clothing in the sleeping cubicle, writing materials in the office cubicle, books on shelves in the main room. Two exceptions went on the coffee table: the Thomas Hardy novel because of its impressive leather binding, and Mark Twain A to Z because of its large size. Koko liked to sit on large books.

There was a second screened porch on the lakeside - with a magnificent view and plenty of afternoon sun - but the concrete floor was not good for rolling, the Siamese had discovered. Sand tracked in from the beach or was blown in by prevailing winds.

The cabin perched on a lofty sand dune that had been hundreds of years in the making, its steep slope anchored by beach grass and milkweed. A sandladder led down to the beach; it was simply a framework of two-by-fours filled in with loose sand for treads.

Qwilleran, dressed for dinner in white shorts and black polo shirt, stood at the top of the sandladder, and noticed that the beach had changed. Normally an expanse of deep, dry sand, it was now a hard, flat pebbly surface, while the loose sand had blown up into a ridge at the foot of the dune. It might blow away or wash away in the next storm; that was the fascination of living at the shore. The water itself could change from calm to turbulent in five minutes, while its color shifted from blue to turquoise to green.

He walked along the shore to the Rikers’ beachhouse. The first half-mile bordered his own property and included

the stony Seagull Point. Then came the row of cottages known as Top o’ the Dune Club. This year they had been given names, displayed on rustic signs of routed wood. The golfing Mableys called their place THE SAND TRAP. The old Dunfield cottage, said to be haunted, was now LITTLE MANDERLEY. A little frame house called THE LITTLE FRAME HOUSE was understandable when one knew the owners had a picture-framing business. Then there was BAH HUMBUG, which could belong only to the Comptons; Lyle was superintendent of schools, a grouch with a sense of humor.

Most of the cottagers were on their decks, and they waved at Qwilleran; some invited him up for a drink.

Last in the row was the Rikers’ cottage, a yellow frame bungalow called SUNNY DAZE.

“Is that the cleverest name you could think of?” Qwilleran asked Arch, never missing a chance to needle his old friend. Arch was serving drinks; Mildred was serving canapés. The Comptons were there, and Toulouse sat on the deck railing - a silent bundle of black-and- white fur.

“Does he ever say anything?” Qwilleran asked, comparing his silence with Koko’s electronic yowl.

“He says a polite meow when I feed him,” Mildred said. “For a stray he’s very well-mannered.”