THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

Eventually Yum Yum became restless, leading Qwilleran to consult his watch and announce “Treat!” She scampered after him when he went indoors to serve the Kabibbles, but Koko stayed where he was. Something’s down there, Qwilleran realized - something I can’t see. It was a clear night, the stars were bright, the crickets were chirpring, somewhere an owl was hooting, and a gentle surf splashed rhythmically on the shore. It was a pleasant night, too, with no chill in the air, so Qwilleran left the door to the porch open when he retired to his sleeping cubicle. Koko could come indoors if the scene became boring; he could join Yum Yum on the blue cushion atop the refrigerator.

Qwilleran had a dream that night. He always dreamed after eating pork. In his dream, Moose County had seceded from the state and was an independent principality ruled by a royal family, prime minister, cabinet, and national council - but they were all cats! There was nothing original about the scenario; he had been reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, in which a character suggested feline rule as an improvement over the existing system. In Qwilleran’s dream, the royal cat family was shown to be intelligent, entertaining, and inexpensive to maintain. He was sorry to wake up.

He found Koko none the worse for his nocturnal escapade. He ate a good breakfast and then wanted to go for a ride on Qwilleran’s shoulder. He kept jumping at the latch on the screened door of the porch.

“Not now,” Qwilleran told him. “Later! You’ve had your breakfast, and now I’m entitled to mine. This is a democratic family. You’re not the ruling monarch.”

Before setting off for Mooseville in his van, Qwilleran inspected his new guest accommodation. First he had to find it, hidden in the woods - the same size as the tool shed and built of the same green-stained cedar. But the Snuggery had windows, and indoor plumbing. Modular furniture, including a double-deck bunk, made the utmost use of every inch of space. Red blankets, a red rug, and a framed picture of poppies were a trifle overpowering in the small quarters - but cheerful. Qwilleran thought, It’s not a bad place to stay overnight, but I wouldn’t want to stay two nights. Fran knew what she was doing.

From there he drove along the lakeshore to Mooseville, a quaint resort town two miles long and hardly more than a block wide. It was squeezed between the lake and a high wall of sand called the Great Dune. On the lake side of Main Street were the municipal docks, private marinas, bait shops, and the Northern Lights Hotel; on the other side: the bank, post office, hardware store, Shipwreck Tavern, and so on. A few side streets with names like Oak, Pine, and Maple dead-ended at the foot of the Great Dune and were lined with shops, offices, small eateries, and the Shipwreck Museum.

The Great Dune, which had taken an estimated ten thousand years to form, was held in reverence in Mooseville. It rose abruptly and towered protectively over the downtown area, crowned with a lush forest of trees. There were no structures up there. Even if building were permitted, who would dare? The sheer drop of about a hundred feet was formidable - and famous; it could be seen for miles out in the lake.

Only one thoroughfare sliced through the Great Dune, and that was Sandpit Road at the east end of downtown. It was a reminder that sand had once been mined and exported to bolster the country’s failing economy. A chunk of the Great Dune had been shipped Down Below for the construction of concrete highways, bridges, and skyscrapers - like a little bit of Moose County in cities allover the northeast central United States.

On the first day of Qwilleran’s vacation he always made the rounds, renewing his acquaintance with business people - asking about their winter doings and summer prospects. It was neighborly and also good public relations for the newspaper.

On this morning he had breakfast at the hotel and shook hands with the owners. He shook hands with the bank manager and cashed a check. He shook hands with the postmaster and told her he expected to receive mail addressed to General Delivery; three postcards had already arrived. At Grott’s Grocery he shook hands with the whole family and bought some boiled ham for sandwiches. He shook hands with the druggist and stocked up on hard and soft beverages for possible guests.

At the Shipwreck Tavern he shook hands with the bartender. “Still drinkin’ Squunk water?” the man asked. “Have one on the house.”

“I believe in supporting local products,” Qwilleran said. It was a mineral water from a spring in Squunk Comers. “Expecting a lot of business tomorrow?”

“Nah. Parades are family days. Not much serious drinkin’.”

“Any developments in the case of the missing backpacker?”

“Nah. I say it’s a lot of hokum, like the two-headed raccoon a coupla years back. Gives folks somethin’ to talk about.”