THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

Soon Qwilleran would invite Andy to the barn for a nightcap and relate how Koko knew instinctively that the body of the backpacker was buried in the sand ridge… and how the cat knew when someone was walking on the beach a quarter-mile away… and how his catly strategy had twice stopped Qwilleran from leaving Mooseville, when it was advantageous to stay.

Koko never used his powers frivolously; he provided no clue to the “something nice” that Polly would bring from Canada: a Shakespeare sweatshirt, perhaps, or an unabridged reading of Hamlet on cassettes.

Darkness always came reluctantly to the lake and its endless dome of sky, but eventually it was total. Qwilleran turned off the lights indoors and out, and the three of them sat listening to bullfrogs in a distant pond, an army of crickets, and waves lapping lazily on the shore. It was a moonless night but clear, and Koko studied the stars from his pedestal, while Yum Yum stared into the shrubbery and Qwilleran, stretched in his lounge chair, let his thoughts drift. All three were so enthralled by the magic of the night that they forgot the eleven o’clock curfew and stayed on the porch until well after midnight.

It was then that an uncanny incident occurred - something Qwilleran would later record in his personal journal. When it happened, he was too unnerved to write about it. He paced the floor, unable to sleep, and in the morning he was dressed and ready to leave the cabin even before feeding the cats. Before they were really awake, he stuffed them into the carrier and took them to the van. Luggage, coffeemaker, bike, and so forth were already loaded, and they took off for Pickax. Qwilleran was introspective, and the Siamese respected his mood. There was no yowling or jostling in the backseat.

At the barn, after a phone call to Polly confirming their dinner date, he felt better. He reserved their favorite table and then spent some time deciding what to wear. For three weeks he had lived in shorts, polo shirts, and sandals, and it was not easy to shift gears. There was no dress code at the Old Stone Mill, but customers paid the restaurant the compliment of dressing nicely.

At six o’clock he and Polly walked into the Mill, looking happy. Each carried a flat gift-wrapped package. Qwilleran thought hers was too small for a sweatshirt, too large for a CD, too flat for a piece of sculpture.

The hostess said, “We’ve missed you folks!”

“I’ve been vacationing in Canada,” Polly said.

“I’ve been in the haunts of coot and hern,” Qwilleran said.

“That’s nice,” said the hostess, smiling.

“See?” he said to Polly when they were seated. “People don’t listen. I could have said I’d been in jail.”

First they toasted each other affectionately - Polly with a glass of sherry, Qwilleran with Squunk water. Then he presented his gift. A printed card inside said: “An original Barb Ogilvie design, hand-knitted in pointillé cale stitch, using unbleached fleece from local sheep. The wool is hand-washed, hand-carded, and handspun on an antique wheel.” Polly was thrilled.

When Qwilleran opened his souvenir of Canada, he did it gingerly, as if suspecting a package bomb.

“It won’t bite,” Polly said. “I had it muzzled.” It was something made of fabric. It was in the Mackintosh clan tartan. It was a vest!

“Now we have a vested interest in each other,” he said.

The humor of the situation tickled them both, and the dinner was off to a rollicking start. First Qwilleran wanted to know about the French-Canadian professor.

“He was so kind, so helpful, so gracious!” Polly said. “I invited him to visit Moose County.”

“Does he speak English?” The question was facetious, of course.

“He speaks four languages. He’s working on a book dealing with Canadian influence on northern communities in the U.S. Many of our early settlers came from Ontario, you know.”

“That’s not all we got from Canada,” he said, recalling tales of Prohibition days.

Polly, for her part, wanted to hear about the Rainstorm of the Century that had led to the disaster on Sandpit Road.

He said, “Do you know the legend of the Sand Giant?”

“Yes indeed! It’s my theory that it was inspired by a Scottish phenomenon. The Big Grey Man has been haunting a mountain in Scotland for at least two centuries.”

Then Qwilleran mentioned the UFO library. Polly knew about it. “The subject was brought up at the board meeting last night. It will be interesting to see what books they have. We have at least fifty titles in our collection, and some are checked out daily.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured in perplexity. Twenty-four hours before, he would have scoffed at the fact.

Altogether, it was a memorable evening. When Polly was back in Indian Village and he was back in the barn, it was late, and he was sufficiently relaxed to write in his journal: