The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 11

Qwilleran may not have known it, but he wa losing the Battle of the Meatloaf. Two hungry and indig nant cats started yowling outside his bedroom door a six A.M. Saturday. He endured it for almost an hour ani then—in bare feet and pajama bottoms—went to th kitchen to prepare another plate of meatloaf for the un grateful wretches. They were quiet as he cut the fooc mincing it this time instead of cubing it. They were quit when he placed the plate on the floor. They looked at in disbelief, as if to say, What is this stuff? . . . Are w supposed to eat this dog dinner? Just as they were shal ing their paws exquisitely and walking away from th plate, there was a knock on the front door.

Qwilleran's watch said seven-fifteen. It must b Mitchell—who else? He might be bringing a messag from the Rikers. Perhaps they had not arrived last nigh Perhaps some emergency had arisen. He pulled the doc open with anxiety.

To his embarrassment it was June Halliburton, fully clothed and squinting through the smoke of a cigarette that she held gracefully in one hand. She appraised his rumpled pajama bottoms and uncombed hair and grinned impishly. "Want to go to breakfast with me? Come as you are."

"Sorry," he said. "I won't be ready for food for another couple of hours. Go along without me. They serve an excellent breakfast."

"I'm aware of that," she said loftily. "I spent two weekends in this cottage, keeping your bed warm for you. Did anyone tell you I'm handling the entertainment for the hotel? While you're sitting around doing nothing, you might try writing some material for me. I can't guarantee I'll use it, but it should be good practice for you." These typically shabby remarks were made with the insolent smile that was her trademark.

Qwilleran had been writing college revues when she was still sucking teething rings. Before he could think of a retort within the bounds of civility, Koko came up behind and swooped to his shoulder, teetering there as if ready to spring and fixing the intruder with his laser stare.

"Well," she said, "come over to Five Pips for a drink, or some music, or anything—anytime." She flicked her cigarette, tossed her glistening red hair, and sauntered away.

Koko jumped to the floor, and Qwilleran said, "Thanks. You're a good egg! Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'll chop some smoked oysters and add them to the meatloaf."

Both cats went to work on the exotic hash and extracted the oyster while avoiding the meatloaf.

"Cats!" Qwilleran said. "You can't win!"

For his own breakfast he had ham biscuits with cheese sauce and then codfish cakes with scrambled eggs. It was late, and only one other table was taken. The family who had checked into Two Pips had an infant in a highchair and a tot who was attracted to Qwilleran's moustache. When he inadvertently made eye contact, she squirmed out of her chair and toddled to his table, offering him a piece of toast, partly masticated.

"Sandra, don't bother the man," her father said.

"She's very friendly," her mother explained.

Qwilleran groaned inwardly. He felt besieged by finicky cats, pushy piano players, and now gregarious youngsters. When he returned to Four Pips, the piano player was doing scales and finger exercises, a monotonous recital that made it difficult to concentrate on reading or writing. Eventually there was a pause. It felt good when she stopped! Then there was a knock on the front door. Irritably he yanked it open.

"Morning, Qwill," said Nick Bamba. He had two of his children by the hand. "Lovey wants to see your kitties, and this is Jason, who just graduated from first grade. He's our vice president in charge of waste baskets and litter boxes."

"We learned about Indians and squabs and cabooses," said the blond boy. "They lived in wigs with a hole for the smoke."

Qwilleran said, "And how is the future Madame President this morning?"

"Two in April," she said and lunged after Yum Yum, who slithered under the sofa. Koko looked on with haughty disapproval.

"The kitties are bashful," her father said, "but you've seen them now, and you can go home . . . Jason, take your sister back. Mr. Qwilleran and I have business to discuss."

"Okefenokee!" said Jason. He grabbed his sister's hand, and the two of them trudged up the lane, Lovey gazing back longingly.

Nick handed Qwilleran a plastic sack. "Here's some pears, Qwill. I bought a bushel on sale, but they have to be eaten right away."

"Thanks. Shall we sit on the porch?"

"Better sit indoors. The air is still this morning, and voices carry. Have you been downtown yet? The pickets came over on the firsr ferry, and they're marching again. They don't want the mosquitoes sprayed."

"What do you think about the hang-glider shooting?" Qwilleran asked.

"The sheriff blames a stray shot from a hunting gun. I say the sheriff is full of it! ... So what's with you, Qwill?"

"I've lined up an undercover agent who can work from the inside. It's my contention that there's covert hostility among the natives. They don't come out punching, but they've infiltrated the resort as kitchen helpers, hack drivers, servants, busboys, dockworkers, handymen, and plenty we don't know about. They're silent. They're shadowy. I'm convinced your front steps were okay until one of these silent, shadowy islanders tampered with them— perhaps pulled a few nails under cover of darkness. Unfortunately I have no evidence ... Is there any more news about the poultry farm in Lockmaster?"

"That investigation fizzled out," said Nick. "Nobody died. Everybody wants to forget it. Food poisoning is something that just happens."

"How will Exbridge react to the shooting last night?"

"This is not for publication, Qwill, but he's lobbying to get hunting banned on the island. The sound of gunfire makes tourists nervous, he says, especially those from big cities."

Qwilleran said, "The pickets will have a grand old time with that issue! Rabbit is a staple of the islanders" diet, and a mainstay of their economy."

"Want to hear something else, off the record? Don wants the county to pave the beach roads and cut through the sand dune to make it a ring road."

"The environmentalists are hypersensitive about sand dunes, you know, and the summer people will fight the paving project to the last drop of their blue blood. How do you and Lori feel about all these changes?"

"Well, it isn't the dream we had—not by a long shot— but now we're in it with both feet and every dollar we have, plus some we don't have."

"Nick, I hate to be a pessimist, but I bet Exbridge will want a golf course next. Then the ordinance against motor vehicles will be rescinded. There'll be RVs, motorcycles, bumper-to-bumper traffic and a gas station on Lighthouse Point. Emissions will kill the wildlife and defoliate the woods, and Piratetown will go condo. The island will be so honeycombed with wells and septic tanks that it'll sink like a sieve to the bottom of the lake."

"Qwill, I hope you're not gonna write anything crazy like that for your column. This was all confidential, you know." Nick stood up. "I've gotta go and do my chores . . . G'bye, kids," he said to the Siamese.

Qwilleran walked with him up the lane. The strays were hanging around the trash cans as usual. "They're all over," Nick said. "They're around restaurants, picnic tables, docks—wherever there's food. Exbridge wants the board of health to exterminate them."

"If he proposes that, he'll have another American Revolution on his hands."

"For God's sake, don't mention it!"

Qwilleran looked up sharply. "What's all that noise?"

"They're picnickers and day-trippers," Nick said. "They're supposed to use the public beach on the other side of the island, but they like our sand. You can't blame them."

Qwilleran left him and ambled across the road to the beach, where children were screaming and throwing sand and having a wonderful time; young adults were rocking to boom boxes; and volleyball players were yelling good-natured threats and insults. The scene gave him an idea for a satire on tourism, and he went back to Four Pips to set up his typewriter on the snack table. What he had in mind was a skit spoofing package weekends. It would require a cast of two: a tourist couple in shorts, sandals, and Pear Island T-shirts. The scene would be the hotel porch with rocking chairs. The tourists would be rocking, eating a box lunch, and reading aloud from an advertising flyer.

FANTASTIC FUN-FILLED WEEKEND

ON WONDERFUL PEAR ISLAND

ONLY $149.50

(Children under 12, 15% extra)

Friday Afternoon ... You are met at the jet-port by our friendly guide, who will give you a pear-shaped luggage tag (one per person) and a discount coupon for a T-shirt. Depart promptly for enchanting Moose County aboard a deluxe single-engine prop aircraft with seat belts and headrests. Peanuts will be served in flight, with only one scheduled stop for refueling, repairs, . and use of facilities. Arrive at Moose County airport and proceed in the comfort of a converted school bus to an all-night restaurant famous for pirogi and boiled cabbage. After a delicious repast, continue to the historic Hotel Booze in the unspoiled lakeside town of Brrr, where you will spend your first exciting night.

Saturday ... After a complimentary breakfast

(choice of biscuit or muffin), you depart on a delightfully quaint coal-burning ferry for the voyage to the island. (Life preservers provided, but passengers are advised to use facilities before leaving hotel.) Enjoy the rare thrill of feeding the seagulls that follow the boat. (Bird bread not included.) Folding chairs available for passengers over 75. (Birth certificate required.)

On arrival at fabulous Pear Island, transfer to the spectacular Pear Island Hotel to register and receive your generous sample of mosquito spray. Your first day is entirely free—for walking around, splashing in the hotel pool, and rocking in the hotel's fifty rocking chairs. Watch the ferries unload; write postcards; shop for T-shirts; buy fudge; and thoroughly enjoy yourself. Feeling adventurous? Walk to the Riviera-type stone beach to hunt for agates. (Not included in the package: carriage rides, bike rentals, fishing parties, or lunch.)

Your exciting, fun-filled evening begins with a memorable dinner featuring the hotel's Very Special Chicken and a choice of sinfully delicious desserts: pears Romano, pears Chantilly, or pears Escoffier. Live entertainment follows, headlining the celebrated "Maestro of Moose County" and his accordion. When you retire after your full day of fun, you will find an individually wrapped square of fudge on your pillow. Sweet dreams!

Sunday . . . The excitement begins with a sumptuous breakfast buffet offering 85 items. (Choose any four.) Then it's "all aboard" a specially prepared hay wagon for a ride to Lighthouse Point via the exclusive West Beach Road.

See the summer homes of the rich and famous! Photograph the picturesque lighthouse! See where hundreds of ships sank and thousands of persons drowned! Thrill to the sound of gunfire in the woods! After lunch (not included), you board the ferry and bid a reluctant farewell to magical Pear Island, an experience you will never forget.. .And only $149.50, based on triple occupancy! Price includes a short-term life insurance policy plus a free cat for each and every visitor to take home. Choice of colors. (Black-and-whites temporarily out of stock.)

Writing the skit put Qwilleran in a good mood for an evening with the Rikers, and shortly before eight o'clock he called for a carriage and picked them up at their bed-and-breakfast.

"How do you like the Island Experience?" he asked.

"It's a dream!" Mildred exclaimed. "The innkeepers are positively charming!"

"But their rates are atrocious!" Arch said. "Do you know what we're paying for that suite you reserved? There's only one other guest registered; that should tell you something."

"But the decor is exquisite," Mildred insisted, "and there's a lovely arrangement of fresh flowers in our suite. Pink carnations and snapdragons."

"Frankly, I think those two women are just going through the motions of innkeeping," her husband said. "They take the inn as a loss for tax purposes, while they spend the summer getting sloshed in the gazebo."

"Yes, they do seem to imbibe quite a bit," said Mildred, who was on the wagon. "Oh! Isn't that a hideous building!" she added as the carriage passed the Domino Inn.

"But it's popular," Qwilleran said.

"Because the prices are right; that's why," Riker snapped.

At the hotel they pushed through a phalanx of pickets, tourists, and stray cats. Mildred said it was a mess. In the lobby she said the black flags were too somber. Then she caught sight of Derek Cuttlebrink at the reservation desk. She had taught him in high school and had applauded him in Pickax theater productions. "Derek! What are you doing here?" she cried.

"I'm playing Captain Hook this week. Next week, King Kong." With a flourish he assigned them to a choice booth in the Corsair Room. Unobtrusively he slipped a scrap of paper to Qwilleran, who dropped it in his pocket.

The three old friends had much to talk about after being apart for a whole week: the shooting on the sand dune, the mosquito controversy, and ordinary newspaper shoptalk. Then Riker asked Qwilleran, "Do you consider this boondoggle of yours worthwhile? You're not jamming the fax machine with copy."

"Did you come over here to check up on your hired help?" Qwilleran retorted.

"The paper is paying for your junket, don't forget."

"Well," Qwilleran began cagily, since Riker was not aware of his real mission, "I have a lot of notes and tapes, but I need time to organize them. I've discovered, for example, that Pear Island is not pear-shaped. It may have been pear-shaped when it was surveyed a couple of centuries ago, but erosion has changed it to an isosceles triangle."

"That's a world-shaking discovery," the publisher said dryly. "Let's see you write a thousand words on that profound subject. Do you recommend changing the name again? It'll sound like a Greek island."

The entrees were served. Qwilleran had recommended the Cajun menu, and all three had ordered pork chops etouffee.

"Why, these are nothing but smothered pork chops, highly seasoned," Riker said. "Mildred fixes these all the time. How much are they paying this New Orleans chef?"

When they settled down to serious eating, Qwilleran told them the story behind the story of the snake-bite incident, with hitherto unrevealed descriptions, reactions, apprehensions, and conclusions. "First aid was the only merit badge I ever earned in scouting, and it finally paid off," he said.

Mildred was thrilled. Even Riker was impressed and wanted to know why the facts had been withheld from the newspaper. "It would have made a great feature: everybody's favorite columnist rescuing an heiress."

"There may be more to the story. They're an unusual family, and I'm invited to tea tomorrow afternoon."

"Speaking of tea," Mildred said, "have you been to the tea room? They serve real tea in fat English teapots with thin porcelain cups and all the shortbread you can eat."

Her husband said, "Qwill and I had enough shortbread in Scotland to last a lifetime. It hardly strikes me as tourist fare in this country. They certainly weren't doing any business when we were there."

"Did you go into the antique shop?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yes, and we recognized the woman who runs it," said Mildred. "She's staying at the Island Experience. We saw her in the breakfast room this morning, but she was rather aloof."

"No wonder the prices in her shop are so high," Riker said. "She has to pay for that suite with fresh flowers and champagne. Moreover, her inventory is questionable. She has some reproductions of Depression glass that she represents as the real thing. There's a lot of fraud these days in scrimshaw and netsuke and pre-Columbian figures. Is she uninformed or deliberately falsifying?"

"How would Exbridge react to this information?" Qwilleran asked. "He seems to run a tight ship."

"Well, I'm not going to be the one to tell him. He's been hard to get along with lately. Thinks he can tell us how to run the paper."

Over dessert—the inevitable pecan pie—Mildred askec about the Siamese.

"Koko is learning to play dominoes," Qwilleran said "and he beats me every time."

"That shouldn't be hard to do," Riker said gleefully.

"What do you think of the feral cats on the island?"

Mildred was an activist in humanitarian causes, am she said vehemently, "There are too many! Overpopula tion is inhumane. To maintain a healthy cat colony in ar area like this, they should be trapped, neutered, anc released—the way we're doing on the mainland."

Riker said, "Our editorials finally convinced the bu reaucrats it's not only humane but cheaper in the long rui than wholesale killing."

Qwilleran, who liked to stir things up, made a sly sug gestion. "Why don't you send a reporter over here to dis cuss feral cats with vacationers, businesspeople, and thi chief honcho himself? You could get some good photos."

"Don't assign my son-in-law," said Mildred. "Roge will break out in a rash even before the ferry docks."

After dinner, riding up the beach road in a carriage Qwilleran announced that he was staying at the "hid eous" inn to save the newspaper money. Then he had thi driver wait a few minutes while he showed the Rikers thi four tree trunks in the lounge and the cottage on Pi] Court.

"Don't you get claustrophobia?" Riker asked.

The Siamese and Mildred indulged in a display of mutual affection (she had been their cat sitter once for two weeks) and then she said excitedly, "Where did you get those?" She pointed to the gilded leather masks.

"They were a birthday present," Qwilleran said, thinking it better not to tell the truth. "Do you know anything about that kind of work? They're leather."

"Yes, I know," she said. "It's an old Venetian craft that's been revived by a young artist down south. She does excellent work."

Then the Rikers drove back to their B-and-B. Everyone had enjoyed the evening: the usual joshing, frank talk, and exchange of news. To Qwilleran the news about Noisette confirmed his suspicion that she was an impostor. Why was she on the island? He sat on the porch and listened to June Halliburton playing jazz. She had a male visitor again. The voice sounded younger.

The Siamese sat with him; they were friends again. Before going to dinner he had bitten the bullet and given them a can of red salmon. The partying next door was still going on when he retired. It was not until he emptied his pockets that he remembered the scrap of paper from Derek. It was a one-word message: Gumbo. Later, after his lights were out, he heard good nights being said next door, and the beam of a flashlight preceded the departing guest—not to the nature trail but up Pip Court. The tall, lanky scarecrow of a figure was that of Derek Cuttle-brink.