The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 12

The arrival of two more pounds of meatloaf on Sunday morning steeled Qwilleran's determination, and the standoff between man and cats resumed. "Take it or leave it," he said. They left it.

Sunday was the turning point, however, in Qwilleran's floundering mission. He took tea with the Appelhardts; his undercover agent made his first report; Lyle Compton presented his program on Scotland at the hotel; and Yum Yum found something among the sofa cushions.

While Qwilleran was dressing for breakfast, he heard the musical murmuring that meant Yum Yum was digging a rusty nail out of a crevice, or trying to open a desk drawer, or retrieving a lost toy. She was on the seat of the sofa, thrusting first one paw and then the other behind a cushion. As the mumblings and fumblings became frantic, he went to her aid. As soon as he removed the seat cushion, she pounced on a half-crumpled piece of paper and carried it to the porch in her jaws, to be batted around for a few seconds and then forgotten.

It looked like a piece of music manuscript paper, and he picked it up.

"N-n-now!" she wailed, seeing her prize confiscated.

"N-n-no!" He retorted.

Offended by the mockery, Yum Yum went into a corner and sat with her back toward him.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I won't say that again," he apologized.

She ignored him.

Smoothing the scrap of paper, he found a phone number. The first three digits identified it as a local number—not the cab stand and not the hotel, both of which he would recognize. The style of the numerals had an affectation that he would associate with June Halliburton, and the type of paper confirmed his guess. Obviously she had dropped it while occupying the cottage. Then the question arose: Whom would she be phoning on the island? It was none of his business, but, still, it would be interesting to know. He could call the number and then hang up—or ask to speak to Ronald Frobnitz.

The first time he tried it—when he went to the inn for breakfast—the line was busy. After corned beef hash with a poached egg, plus hominy grits with sausage gravy (Lori was running out of ideas, he thought), he called the number again. It rang several times, and then a gruff voice answered: "The Pines gatehouse."

"Sorry. Wrong number," he said. Why June would be phoning the Appelhardt gatehouse was a question even more puzzling than why she would be making an island call at all. There was a possibility, of course, that he had punched the wrong digits. He tried again and heard the same voice saying, "The Pines gatehouse." This time he hung up without apology.

Qwilleran spent some time that day in deciding what to wear to tea. The role he was playing was not that of an inquiring reporter, nor Sherlock Holmes in disguise, nor a commoner being patronized by the royal family. He was playing a hero who had saved the life (probably) of an only daughter. Furthermore, while Elizabeth was an heiress, he himself was the Klingenschoen heir, and the K Foundation was capable of buying The Pines and the entire Grand Island Club and restoring it to a wild-Life refuge. The idea appealed to him. He would not wear his silk shirt nor even his blue chambray that screamed "designer shirt"—another gift from Polly. No, he would wear his madras plaid that looked as if it had been washed in the Ganges for twenty years and beaten with stones to a muddy elegance.

In this shirt and some British-looking, almost-white, linen pants, he went out to meet the carriage that was picking him up at four o'clock. The conveyance that pulled up to the carriage block in front of the inn caused a murmur of admiration among the guests on the porch. A glossy-coated horse, quite unlike the nags pulling cabs-for-hire, was harnessed to a handsome buggy of varnished wood and leather.

The driver in green livery with an apple logo stepped down and said, "Mr. Qwillum, sir?" He pointed to the passenger seat on the left, then sprang nimbly into the seat behind the reins. He was a young version of the gaunt old islanders who drove the hacks.

As the carriage started up West Beach Road, Qwilleran remarked that it was a nice day.

"Ay-uh," said the driver.

"What's your name?"

"Henry."

"Nice horse."

"Ay-uh."

"What's his name?"

"Skip."

"Do you think we'll have any rain?" It was a brilliant day, with not a cloud in the sky.

"Might."

At The Pines, the carriage rolled through an open gate and past a gatehouse of considerable size, then to the rear of the main lodge. It stopped at a carriage block on the edge of a stone-paved courtyard. Beyond were acres of flawless lawn, a swimming pool with a high-dive board, and a croquet green, where white-clad youths were screaming epithets and swinging mallets at each other. In the foreground was a grassy terrace with verdigris iron furniture and a scattering of adults in the same croquet white. They looked clinical, compared to Qwilleran's mellow nonwhiteness.

One of the men came forward toward him. "Mr, Qwilleran? I'm Elizabeth's brother, Richard. We met last Thursday for about three seconds. We're grateful for your help in the emergency."

"I'm grateful there was a doctor in the house," Qwilleran replied pleasantly. "How is the patient?"

"Right over there, waiting to thank you personally." He waved a hand toward a chaise longue, where a young woman reclined. She wore a flowing garment of some rusty hue, and long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. She was looking eagerly in their direction.

The two men started toward her but were intercepted by an older woman—buxom, regally handsome, and dramatically poised like an opera diva on stage. Gliding forward with outstretched hand, she said in a powerful contralto, "Mr. Qwilleran, I'm Rowena Appelhardt. Welcome to The Pines."

"My pleasure," he murmured courteously but cooly. As a journalist Down Below and abroad, he had been everywhere and seen everything, and he was not awed by the vastness of the estate. Rather, it seemed to be the Appelhardts who were awed. Had they made a quick background check and discovered his Klingenschoen connection and bachelor status? He became warily reserved.

The matriarch introduced the family: Richard was genuinely cordial; William smiled continually and was eager to talk; their wives sparkled with friendliness. Qwilleran suspected the queen mother had briefed them. She herself was an effusive hostess. Only Jack hung back, his face handsome in a bored and dissipated way. Finally there was the undernourished, unmarried daughter. She made a move to rise from her chaise.

"Stay where you are, Elizabeth," her mother admonished. "You must avoid exertion."

"Mother—" Richard began, but she stopped him with a glance.

Soulfully, the patient said, "I'm so grateful to you, Mr. Qwilleran." She extended her left hand; her right wrist was bandaged. "What would have happened to me if you hadn't been there?"

She had that loving look that women are said to bestow on their rescuers, and he kept his tone brusquely impersonal. "Fortunate coincidence, Ms. Appelhardt," he said.

"It was karma. And please call me Elizabeth. I don't remember what happened after that frightening moment."

"You were only minutes away from home; your brother was waiting with the golf cart; and you were choppered off the island by the Moose County sheriff."

"I love your shirt," she said, scoring several points.

Tea was served, and the conversation became general. The servers were two young men in green seersucker coats—island types but meticulously trained. There was tea with milk or lemon, and there was pound cake. This was no garden party with peacocks and memorable refreshments; this was a simple family tea with seven adult Appelhardts, while the younger members of the family squabbled on the croquet court.

"Richard," came the deep voice of authority, "must my grandchildren behave like savages while we are having tea with a distinguished visitor?"

Her son sent one of the seersucker coats to the croquet green, and the fracas ended abruptly.

"Do you play croquet, Mr. Qwilleran?" she asked.

Mallets, wire wickets, and wooden balls interested him as much as dominoes. "No, but I'm curious about the game. What is the major attraction?"

"Bonking," said Jack, entering the conversation for the first time. "It's more than a matter of knocking a ball through a wicket. You hit your ball so that it sends your opponent's ball off the field. That's bonking. It takes practice. You can also bop your ball over your opponent's ball, blocking his path to the wicket."

"Jack is a sadistic bonker," said William's wife as if it were a compliment.

"It's changed from a harmless pastime to a strategic sport," William said. "It requires deliberation, like chess, but you're limited to forty-five seconds to make a shot."

Richard talked fondly about his Jack Russells, three well-behaved dogs who mingled with the family and never barked, jumped, or sniffed.

Mrs. Appelhardt asked prying questions, skillfully disguised, about Qwilleran's career, lifestyle, and hobbies, which he answered with equally skillful evasion.

Elizabeth was quiet but looked at him all the time.

Then William said, "How did you like that carriage we sent for you? My hobby is restoring antique vehicles."

"It's a beauty!" Qwilleran said in all honesty.

"It's Elizabeth's favorite—a physician's phaeton, so-called because of the hood design. It's deeper and has side panels, the idea being that physicians had to call on patients in all kinds of weather. In fact, this type of vehicle became the badge of the profession, along with the little black leather bag."

"How many carriages have you restored?"

"About two dozen. Most are at our farm in Illinois. There are five here. Would you like to see them?" To his mother, William said, "Do you mind if I show Mr. Qwilleran the carriage barn?"

"Don't keep him away from us too long!" she cautioned with a coy smile. The corners of her mouth turned down when she smiled, making emotion ambiguous.

He was glad to get away from the chatter of the tea table. "This will be highly educational," he said to the eldest brother. "I don't know anything about America's wheels prior to Henry Ford."

"Wheels built the country," William said. "There were carriage makers everywhere, always improving and innovating. In the early 1900s, there were dozens of models shown in the Sears Roebuck catalogue."

"How do you bring them to the island?"

"Disassembled—on my boat. To restore a vehicle you have to take it apart completely in order to strip and sand the wood parts. It takes hours of sanding to make a finish that looks like glass."

The physician's phaeton stood in the courtyard with empty shafts resting on the pavement. Two other four-wheelers were inside the barn, one of them enameled in glossy yellow with black striping and a fringed canopy.

"We use the surrey to drive to the club for lunch or dinner," William said. "The red wagon is for a pack of kids. I personally like the two-wheeled carts—light and easy to drive and safe. You can make a sudden turn without upsetting. If you ever turned over in a carriage with a frightened horse fighting to get free, you'd know why I stress the safety factor. Here ... sit in this one."

Qwilleran climbed into a bright green dogcart with carriage lanterns and seats perched high over a box intended for hunting dogs.

"Do you think you might get interested in driving?" William asked. "There's a driving club in Lockmaster— and driving competitions. Are you anywhere near Lock-master?"

"Yes. Good horse country. I'd like to sit down with you and a tape recorder some day and do an interview," Qwilleran said. "This is good material for my newspaper."

William hesitated. "I'd like that, but ... it's like this: Mother is adamant about avoiding publicity. I wish we could, but no way!"

"How did you learn this craft?"

"Believe it or not, our steward was my mentor, beginning when I was a kid. He's an islander and a rustic Renaissance man—no formal education, but he can do anything. He taught us kids how to drive, sail, fish, hunt—"

"I'm doing a series on islanders for my column," Qwilleran said, "and he sounds like a good character study."

"I'm afraid'Mother would never okay it. Other families would try to get him away from us. Sorry to have to say that."

They started walking back to the terrace, and Qwiileran asked him how much time he spent on the island. "I personally? No more than I have to. There's a limit to the amount of croquet a sane person can play, as someone once said."

"Dorothy Parker, but not in those exact words. How do you feel about the new resort development?"

"It's inevitable, if you want my personal opinion. That's the way our country is going. Mother is vastly unhappy, of course. She wants the islanders to file a class-action suit against the resort, and she'll cover the legal tees, but it's a lost cause, and attorneys avoid lost causes. The courts have ruled again and again that the owner of property can use it in any way that's not illegal."

As they returned to the terrace, he said to Qwilleran, "Talking to you has been a distinct pleasure. If you ever get down to the Chicago area, I'd like to show you the vehicles on my farm." They both looked up in surprise; Elizabeth had dared to rise from her chaise and was approaching them.

She said, "I forgot to thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, for finding the things I lost on the trail."

"I couldn't help noticing the entries in your book. You must be a botanist."

"Just an amateur. I'm fascinated by plant life. Would you like to see the herb garden I've planted?"

Qwilleran appreciated herbs in omelettes, but that was -as far as his interest extended. Nevertheless, he acquiesced, and she asked her mother for permission to take him away from the party.

The queen mother said, "Promise not to tire yourself, Elizabeth."

On the way to the herb garden near the kitchen door, Qwilleran might be said to amble while the amateur botanist wafted in her long flowing robe. "Herbs thrive in the island sun and air," she said.

He stared blankly at two wooden tubs, a stone planter, and some large, clay pots, holding plants of various sizes, shapes, and colors. Finally he ventured, "What are they?"

She pointed out sage, rosemary, sweet basil, mint, lemon balm, chives, dill, and more, explaining, "There's something mysterious about herbs. For centuries they've been used for healing, and when they're used in food, something lovely happens to your senses."

He asked about the tea they had been drinking. To him it tasted and smelled like a product of the stables. It was Lapsang souchong, she said.

"Do you grow catnip?" he asked. "I have two Siamese cats."

"I adore Siamese!" she cried. "I've always wanted one, but Mother ..." Suddenly she appeared weary, and he suggested sitting on a stone bench near the herbs, which were aromatic in their way.

He asked, "Where do you live when you're not on the island?"

"Mother likes to spend autumn at our farm, the holidays in the city, and winters in Palm Beach."

"Have you always lived with your mother?"

"Except when I was away at school."

They sat in silence for a few moments, but her eyes wandered, and her thoughts were almost audible. She had an intelligent face, delicate but wide-browed.

Speaking like a kindly uncle, he said, "Did you ever think you'd like a place of your own?"

"Oh, Mother would not approve, and I doubt whether I'd have the courage to break away or the strength to face responsibility. My two older brothers have suggested it, but ..."

"Do you have money of your own?"

"A trust fund from my father—quite a good one. Mother is trustee, but it's mine, legally."

"Have you ever contemplated a career?"

"Mother says I'm not cut out for anything requiring sustained commitment. She says I'm a dilettante."

"You do have a college degree, don't you?"

She shook her head sheepishly. He felt she was going to say, Mother didn't think it was necessary, or Mother didn't think I could stand the pressure, or Mother-this or Mother-that. To spare her the embarrassment he stood up and said, "Time for me to go home and feed the cats."

They returned to the terrace, and Qwilleran thanked Mrs. Appelhardt for a pleasant afternoon; he commented that she had an interesting family. She mentioned that tea was always poured at four o'clock, and he was always welcome.

Unexpectedly Elizabeth spoke up. Til drive you home, Mr. Qwilleran, and we'll take some fresh herbs for the cook at your inn."

"Henry will drive our guest home," her mother corrected her.

Flinging the hair away from her face, the young woman raised her voice bravely. "Mother, I wish to drive Mr. Qwilleran myself. He has two Siamese cats that I'd like to see."

Other members of the clan listened in hushed wonder.

"Elizabeth, you're not quite yourself," Mrs. Appelhardt said forcefully, "and certainly in no condition to drive. We prefer not to take chances. You're so sensitive to medication ... Richard, don't you agree?"

Before the elder brother could reply, Jack raised his voice. "For God's sake, Mother, let her do what she wants—for once in her life! If the buggy turns over and she breaks her neck, so be it! It's karma! That's what she's always telling us."

Qwilleran, a reluctant witness to this embarrassing moment in family history, walked over to the daughters-in-law and asked if they had heard about the unsolved lighthouse mystery. Fortunately they had not, so he recounted the story in detail, with a few embellishments of his own. By the time his listeners had speculated on the fate of the lightkeepers, Elizabeth reappeared in culottes, boots, straw sailor hat, and tailored shirt. "The groom is bringing the phaeton around," she said in a voice that trembled slightly.