The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 18

No daylight filtered through the shuttered windows the day after the storm; even the Siamese didn't know it was breakfast time. Only the sound of the sheriff's helicopter assessing the damage and the sound of Nick removing shutters suggested that it was time to get up.

Lori offered Qwilleran hot coffee, cold cereal, and an orange from the fruit basket. "Look out the front door," she said. "You won't believe it."

The sun was shining; the flood waters were rapidly receding; and a workmanlike breeze was drying the drenched building and terrain.

"We were lucky." Lori said. "Wait'll you hear the eleven o'clock newscast!" The WPKX announcer said:

The worst storm in forty years has done its dirty work in Moose County. Beach homes and fisheries on the shore sustained minor damage, but the storm vented its greatest fury on the south end of Pear Island, commonly called Breakfast Island. The Pear Island Hotel was virtually leveled during the five-hour onslaught, which has been officially recorded as a northern hurricane. Winds up to a hundred miles an hour, plus a lake surge, made mincemeat of a structure that was completed less than two months ago. Uprooted trees of tremendous height fell on the flat-roofed building and adjoining strip malls. Sections of the boardwalk and piers were hurled into the wreckage. All personnel had been evacuated from the complex, and no casualties have been reported. The developers, XYZ Enterprises, could not be reached for comment at this hour, but observers estimate that the damage will be in the high millions. Elsewhere on the island, buildings that have survived almost a century of storms continued to withstand the elements with only minor damage.

Qwilleran asked Lori, "Has Ms. Cage been down?"

"No, but I took some tea upstairs. I was worried about her. She's so fragile for a young woman, and so thin! I'm a perfect fourteen, but she makes me feel fat. She's okay, but tired and a little stunned. Aren't we all? You can't use your shaver, Qwill, but you can take a pitcher of water upstairs for washing. I hear the cats yowling. Do you want to let them out?"

"Let them stay where they are. If I open the door, they'll stick their heads out, think about it for five minutes, and then go back in."

"I'll keep them company," said a small voice from the stairs. "We'll play dominoes." It was Liz, wearing another caftan.

Qwilleran helped Nick with the shutters and porch furniture, while Lori tackled the indoor cleanup as well as she could without water or electricity. Rain and sand had blown into the building through invisible cracks, along with black soot from the charred remains of Five Pips.

Nick said, "Did you hear about the hotel? That should tell you something about modern technology. They laugh at our four big tree trunks and birchbark siding, but we didn't blow away, did we? Sorry about the power and phones being out. If you want to go back to the mainland, say when. Any time."

"Well ..." said Qwilleran, thinking fast, "there's a lot of work here that I could help you with . .. and Polly's plane doesn't come in until tomorrow evening ... so why don't I stay until then? But you might ferry Ms. Cage over today. I'm sure she'd appreciate it. She's not accustomed to discomforts and inconveniences."

"Be glad to, and I can drive her to the airport, if she's flying out."

"Uh ... she hasn't quite decided. Just deliver her to the hotel in Mooseville. She can stay there a few days until she makes up her mind."

"Sure. Tell her to let me know when she wants to leave. Lori will be more comfortable, I know, if she doesn't have a guest to worry about while the place is such a mess."

Qwilleran found Liz on the porch, reading a book on the preservation of wetlands, and he was only too glad to relay Nick's offer.

"When are you leaving, Qwill?" she asked.

"Tomorrow evening."

"I'm in no hurry," she said. "Being here in the aftermath of a hurricane is rather exciting. I'd prefer to wait until tomorrow evening and save Mr. Bamba a trip. And since I'm going to Pickax—and you live there—perhaps you'll let me ride into the city with you."

"Well . . . yes ... of course," Qwilleran said, "but there's another consideration: It embarrasses Mrs. Bamba when she's unable to produce decent meals."

"Don't let her worry about that! I'm not particular about food. She's a lovely person, and I'm enjoying my stay. Koko and Yum Yum and I are quite compatible, and I'll keep them entertained while you're helping Mr. Bamba," Liz assured him.

She stayed. Qwilleran cleaned up the storm debris. Lori served canned beans and canned corned beef. Finally, at departure time on Friday, Qwilleran accompanied Liz to the Grand Island Club on foot, and they returned with a dogcart. The luggage was stowed in the dog box, and the two men and two cats perched high on the seat above, while Liz, wearing travel clothes and her Gauguin hat, took the driver's seat. At the last minute Lori ran out with a maroon velvet box. "A souvenir of your vacation, Qwill!"

Aboard the Double-Six it was a smooth voyage to the mainland on a lake that had been raging the previous night. At the municipal pier in Mooseville, Nick helped carry the luggage to Qwilleran's small four-door: two suitcases, typewriter, some cartons, the cat carrier, and the turkey roaster—plus five pieces of luggage belonging to Liz. The uninvited guest was busy photographing the Double-Six and the seagulls on the waterfront.

"The cats and their commode go in the backseat," Qwilleran told Nick. Even so, the engineer's skill was required to fit everything into the trunk. Polly's luggage, they concluded, would have to go inside the car.

"Qwill, I don't know how to thank you," Nick said. "Sorry the weather was so lousy."

"I wish I could have come up with more answers, Nick, but I'm not through yet. I want to kick it around with Brodie when I get back to Pickax. I know you suspect troublemakers from Lockmaster, but I say the blame lies closer to home. Both the natives and the summer people resent the resort, and something tells me the crimes are being committed by a coalition. The sharpies from Down Below have the brains to organize a harassment campaign, and the islanders have the personnel to sneak around and poison the gumbo or plant a bomb. They're everywhere on the island, in low-level jobs where they can be virtually invisible."

"Gosh, you've really been thinking, Qwill."

"Tell you why I think the summer people are involved. They're angry enough to want to sue the resort, but it's a no-win case, and if they can't do it legally, they'll do it illegally. They're used to exercising their power, and they don't like to be thwarted." Qwilleran lowered his voice. "My immediate problem is: what to do with this woman!"

"Don't ask me. She's your woman!" Nick said with a grin.

"Like hell she is! She blew in with the hurricane, and I don't know what she expects ... Well, never mind, I'll figure something out."

The Double-Six chugged back to the island, and Qwilleran faced Liz squarely. "Are you sure you want to go to Pickax and not to this charming town of Mooseville with its quaint Northern Lights Hotel? There's a maritime museum and a mall in a fish cannery and a good little restaurant called the Nasty Pasty."

"No, I find Pickax City more appealing," she said.

Huffing unobtrusively into his moustache, Qwilleran opened the passenger door for her, "We have to stop at the airport to pick up my friend, who's coming in on the seven-thirty-five shuttle. And now that you're here, Liz, what are your plans?"

"I'm going to drop "Appelhardt." I like "Cage" better. It was the maiden name of my paternal grandmother."

"I mean, where do you want to live? What kind of people would you like to meet? How long do you think you'll stay? What do you want to do while you're here?"

"I don't know. Do you have any suggestions?"

He groaned inwardly. He should never have gone to tea at The Pines. "You might take an apartment in Indian Village. They have a clubhouse and golf course, and a lot of young people live there."

"I prefer older people," she said, looking at him appreciatively.

"A lot of older people live there, too. Do you play bridge?"

"No, cards don't appeal to me."

"Wherever you live, you'll need a car. It's a necessity in Moose County. There are no taxis."

"Would there be any objection to a horse and carriage? I could have Skip shipped over here, and William would let me have the physician's phaeton."

"In order to stable a horse, you'd have to live in the country, and you'd still need a car. I assume you have a driver's license."

"I'm afraid it's expired. Mother didn't want me to drive."

"Well, you'll have to renew it."

"Is there a foreign car dealer in Pickax? I'd like a Bentley. William has a Bentley."

Nothing had been settled by the time they reached the airport. Qwilleran parked at the passenger-pickup curb and told Liz to sit tight while he made a phone call and picked up his friend's luggage. In the terminal he called Fran Brodie, the interior designer. "Fran! Have I got a client for you! She's loaded! She's young! She wants to live in Pickax! . . . Don't ask questions. Just listen. She's checking into the Pickax Hotel in half an hour, and I want you to take her under your wing and see that she gets a good apartment, furniture, a car, knives and forks, everything! Her name is Elizabeth Cage. Call her early tomorrow, or even tonight, before she does something impulsive. I've gotta hang up. I'm at the airport. I'm meeting a plane."

When the shuttle taxied to the terminal, eight passengers deplaned, and Qwilleran—in a state of preoccupation—greeted Polly with less enthusiasm than she probably expected. He took her carry-on tote and a long roll of something, saying, "You have one other bag to claim, don't you?"

"That and two cartons. I bought a few things."

While trundling the luggage cart to the curb, he said casually, "I have a hitchhiker who wants to be dropped at the Pickax Hotel."

"Really? I thought you never picked up hitchhikers, Qwill."

"This one is different. I'll explain later."

He introduced Ms. Cage to Mrs. Duncan, and Polly looked at the Gauguin hat and said a stiff how-do-you-do. She was automatically jealous of any woman younger and thinner than she. To his relief, the younger woman had the good manners to relinquish her seat. "Let me sit with the cats," she said.

Polly requested, "When you put my impedimenta in the trunk, Qwill, be careful with that long roll." It looked as if it might be a wall map of the United States.

"I'm sorry, but all your luggage will have to go inside the car," he explained. "The trunk is jam-packed."

As they drove away from the airport, Polly half-turned and asked the other passenger politely, "Did you fly in?"

"No," said Liz in her ingenuous way, "Qwill and I came over on a boat from Grand Island. We were trapped in a strange inn during the hurricane—with no windows or lights or water. It was quite an adventure!"

"Really?" Polly looked at Qwilleran questioningly. "I'm not familiar with Grand Island."

"How was your flight?" he asked forcefully. "Tolerable. Were you covering the hurricane for the paper?"

"Not officially. Did you see any puffin birds in Oregon?"

On the way into town the conversation struggled through a quagmire of bewilderment, evasion, awkwardness, and non sequiturs until they reached Goodwinter Boulevard. Then Qwilleran said, "If you don't mind, Polly, I'll drop you off first. We have a luggage problem to contend with in the trunk, and I know you're tired and want to get home."

Her second-floor apartment occupied a carriage house behind an old mansion, and she rushed upstairs to hug Bootsie, her adored animal companion, while Qwilleran brought up her luggage. Then she turned to him and said crisply, "Who is she?"

"It's a long story, but I'll make it brief," he said, talking fast and inventing half-truths. "After you left, the paper sent me to Breakfast Island on assignment . . . and I stayed at the Bambas" B-and-B ... and I happened to meet a wealthy family from Chicago . . . whose daughter is relocating in Pickax. She's a friend of Fran Brodie's. I think she has some interest in the new college."

"Well!" Polly seemed unconvinced.

"And may I ask the nature of the important decision mentioned on your postcard?"

"That's a long story, too. We can talk about it later."

Downstairs, Liz had moved into the front seat again and was enthusing about the neighborhood. "I'd love to live here," she said.

"All these buildings are part of the new college campus," he explained, as he turned back onto Main Street.

At Park Circle he pointed out the courthouse, the public library, and the K Theater, originally a mansion that was gutted by fire. Fire! His mind did a flashback to Breakfast Island: the fire in Five Pips, the death of June Halliburton, the revelation that she was the caretaker's daughter . . . Liz had known her . . . Liz had heard something upsetting in connection with the fire and was about to relate it when the power failed.

Qwilleran turned the wheel quickly and stopped the car in a parking lot. "Just before the lights went out, Liz, you were about to tell me something you overheard in the stable."

"Yes ... yes ..." she said moodily. "It haunts me, but I don't know whether I should talk about it or not."

"Tell it. You'll feel better."

"I'm afraid it's incriminating."

"If it's the truth, it should be told."

At that moment their conversation was interrupted by a tap on the car window, driver's side. "Hi, Mr. Q! Are you back?"

Qwilleran lowered the window but replied curtly. "Yes, I'm back."

An incredibly tall young man peered into the car, regarding the passenger with interest. "I've got my job back at the Old Stone Mill," he said.

"Good for you!"

The fellow was looking speculatively at Liz, and she leaned forward with a half-smile that gave Qwilleran a brilliant idea. He said, "Liz, this is Derek Cuttlebrink— you saw him in the Corsair Room—a prominent man-about-Pickax ... Derek, Elizabeth Cage is a newcomer from Chicago."

"Hi! I like your crazy hat!" he said with uninhibited honesty.

Qwilleran added congenially, "We'll have to get her interested in the theater club, won't we?"

"Sure will!" Derek said with enthusiasm.

A scenario of the young man's future unreeled in Qwilleran's mind . .. Exit: the ecologist with camping equipment. Enter: the amateur botanist with trust fund. Botanist and ex-pirate enroll in the new college.

Derek ambled away, and Liz repeated what she had said in the hotel lobby: "He's so tall!" Her eyes were lively with admiration.

"Nice young man," Qwilleran said. "Good personality. Lots of talent ... Now, where were we? You overheard your brother arguing with the steward in the stable."

"Yes, I was in the stall with Skip, and they were in the tack room and didn't see me. I couldn't believe my ears! The steward accused Jack of starting the fire that killed his daughter! Elijah said, "You were married to two women, and you had to get rid of one! You're a murderer! I'm going to the sheriff!" And Jack said, "You stupid peasant! No one will believe you! And don't forget, I've got the goods on you—enough to put you away for life. You say one word to anyone, and I'll tell them about the explosion . . . and the shooting .. . and the poisoning! That's enough to hang you twice!" Then Elijah screamed at him, "You're the one told me to do it! You murderer!" And in between they were shouting obscenities that I couldn't repeat ... Just then, Skip whinnied! There was sudden silence. I almost died!"

She paused to recollect the crucial moment, and Qwilleran urged her to continue.

"The arguing stopped then, and I heard Jack leave the stable, still shouting nasty names at the old man who had been like an uncle to him when we were all growing up. After that, Elijah banged things around in the tack room for a while, and then he left, too. When it was safe, I slipped out the back door and walked all around the poolhouse and croquet court before going home. That's when I discovered that Mother was giving evacuation orders. She said it was going to be the storm of the century. But I think it was Jack's idea to—"

"Leave the scene of the crime?" Qwilleran suggested.

"If it's true what Elijah said."

"Elijah Kale? Is that his name?" Mentally Qwilleran spelled it: 5-12-9-10-1-8 and then 11-1-12-5. "Were you aware that Jack had married his daughter?"

"Well, when we were young we spent summers together at The Pines, you know, and she always had a crush on Jack. Mother didn't like him to go sailing with the steward's daughter, but he always got his own way. Then June went away to school, and that was the end of it—until last summer. She spent the whole season on the island, playing the piano at the club, and Jack spent all his time there. Mother had William investigate, and it was true: June was Wife Number Four! William told me. Mother never tells me anything."

"Did you have any suspicion of a Wife Number Five?"

"William says Jack met a French woman in Florida and wanted Mother to settle with June, but the steward's daughter didn't want money; she wanted Jack Appel-hardt." Liz said it with scorn.

As soon as Liz was safely registered at the Pickax Hotel, Qwilleran took the shortcut to his apple barn— through the theater parking lot and the dense patch of woods that separated his orchard from urban Pickax. He unloaded the Siamese, put fresh water in their bowl, and unpacked only enough to find his record of the domino games.

The last entry included 4-4, 5-6, 6-6, 2-3, 3-6, 5-5, 0-1, and 3-5—pips that he had translated into H, K, L, E, I, J, A, and another H. He had been trying to unscramble them when Liz knocked on his door, wearing a caftan and carrying an oil lamp like a vestal of Roman myth.

Now the letters fell into place. Discarding the K and one H, he spelled Elijah. In that same game Koko had produced dominoes that spelled Jack and Kale. (Although Qwilleran had thought it was lake or leak.) Reviewing that final game, he pounded his forehead with his fist and muttered, "Dumb! Dumb!"

Koko, he admitted once again, was amazing. He couldn't spell; neither could he add or subtract. He bypassed the three Rs because he knew everything instinctively. He was psychic! Qwilleran often asked himself, How did I happen to adopt the only psychic cat in captivity? It never occurred to him that Koko may have made it happen, just as he had engineered Qwilleran's presence on the nature trail at a vital moment.

Without further unpacking, Qwilleran phoned the police chief at home. "Andy, I got your phone message, and now I have some information—"

"Where are you?"

"Back at the apple barn, but I was on the island during the storm."

"How was it?"

"Halfway between terrifying and boring. Want to run over for a confidential chat and a nip of the good stuff?"

"Be there in three minutes."

Galloping paws were thundering up the ramps, around the balconies, across the beams, back down to the mezzanine level, from which they swooped to a cushioned chair on the main floor. After two weeks of confinement, they had rediscovered SPACE. Qwilleran said to them, "I swear never to subject you guys to that ordeal again!"

While waiting for Brodie he took another look at the note from Dwight Somers:

Didn't want to give you this dope over the phone (I used Watergate tactics to get it) and I'm leaving the island on the next ferry. I quit this crummy job! Have an appointment with a firm in Lockmaster—sounds good. Noisette's last name is duLac. Permanent residence: Lake Worth FL. Hope this helps.

Almost immediately a vehicle could be seen weaving through the woods and bouncing on the rutted road. It was an occurrence that always excited Koko. "It's the law!" Qwilleran warned him. "Please, no catfits!"

Andy parked at the back door and came blustering through the kitchen. "This had better be good! You pulled me away from a TV special on Edinburgh."

"If it isn't good enough to take to the prosecutor, I'll buy you and your wife dinner at the Old Stone Mill."

Andy's Scotch was ready—with a little water and no ice—and the two men took their glasses into the lounge, where the chief sank into the cushions of an oversize chair. "I hear the hotel got hit bad, just as I predicted."

"The ancient gods of the island have had a curse on the Pear Island resort from the beginning."

"You can't fight nature ... any more than you can fight City Hall. So what have you got? Hard evidence or soft clues?"

"I've got a hack saw blade, some signals from Koko (who's never wrong), and enough two-and-two to put together and make a case of sabotage, bigamy, arson, murder, and several counts of attempted murder. Everyone tried to explain them away as accidents, but I maintain they were the result of two criminal plots, both masterminded by the black sheep of a wealthy family from Chicago. Finding himself married to June Halliburton and Noisette duLac at the same time, he got rid of one wife and helped the other wife to get rid of her husband. I'd guess that both murders were accomplished by drugging the drinks of the victims. Then June's mattress was set afire, and George duLac fell into the hotel pool, probably with a gentle assist.

"Both of these incidents," Qwilleran pointed out, "made unfavorable publicity for the resort but were actually subplots. The major campaign to harass the resort and undermine its tourist business was engineered by the bigamist and an employee at his family's estate. I'll name names when I talk to the prosecutor."

"How much of this is guesswork on your part?" the chief asked.

"You can call it what you like, but it's deduction based on observation, reports from witnesses, and tips from Koko." Qwilleran went into a few details regarding the gumbo poisoning, the finding of the hack saw blade, anc the argument in the stable. He thought it best not to men tion the dominoes. Brodie's admiration for Koko's occult talents had its limits. "Freshen your drink, Andy?"

"Just a wee dram."

On Saturday all three of them—the man and his two animal companions—found themselves in a post-vaca tion, post-hurricane lethargy. The Siamese curled up ii their old familiar places; Qwilleran lolled around and re fused to answer the telephone. Later, when he checked his answering machine, there were these messages:

From Fran Brodie: "Thanks for sending me Ms. Cage I'm doing an apartment for her at Indian Village."

From Polly Duncan: "Sorry I was snippy last night. I was travel-weary. I'm dying to tell you about my big decision."

From Mildred Riker: "If you'll invite us for drinks tomorrow, I'll bring a casserole and a salad. Want to hear about the hurricane and Polly's vacation."

On Sunday evening the Rikers arrived with food and bad news. The high winds had damaged the new addition to their beach house. Polly arrived with her roll of papers and good news. "When I told my friend in Oregon that I intended to keep my carriage house apartment in the new college complex, she convinced me I should own my own home. She's an architect, and we spent the whole time planning a house—two stories high, so Bootsie can run up and down stairs. All I need to do is find a piece of land that's not too remote and not too expensive." She unrolled the architect's sketches and spread them on the coffee table.

Riker applauded. Mildred was thrilled. Qwilleran felt much relieved. He said, "There are two acres at the far end of the orchard, where the Trevelyan farmhouse used to be. I'll sell them for a dollar." Then everyone applauded.

When they asked him about the hurricane, he shrugged it off. "When you've seen one hurricane, you've seen "em all." He captivated them, however, with the tale of the missing lightkeepers.

Mildred said, "Why is everyone mystified? It's perfectly obvious that the men were plucked off the island by a UFO."

No one applauded, but Koko said "Yow-ow-ow" in what seemed to be an authoritative affirmative.

Glibly Qwilleran explained, "He smells the casserole in the oven."

"Okay, Qwill," said Riker. "What was your real reason for going to Breakfast Island? You didn't fool me for one minute, and you've filed only one piece of copy in two weeks."

"Well, you know, Nick Bamba was concerned about the series of accidents on the island, and he wanted me to go over there and poke around for evidence of foul play; but .. . there were three plainclothes detectives from the state police on the scene, so I told myself, Why get involved?"

"Now you're getting smart," the editor said. "I've always told you to mind your own business."

The Rikers left fairly early. Qwilleran drove Polly home and returned to the barn fairly late. He gave the Siamese their bedtime snack, and then the three of them enjoyed their half-hour of propinquity before retiring: Qwilleran sprawled in his big chair, Yum Yum curled on his lap with chin on paw, and Koko on the arm of the chair, condensing himself into an introspective bundle of fur. Satisfied with his treat and contemplating lights-out, Koko looked like anyone's pampered pet, and yet ...

Qwilleran asked himself the questions that would never be fully answered:

When Koko tore the month of June off the calendar, did he know that June Halliburton would lose her life next door?

When he ruined my good clothes and stopped me from visiting the merry widows, did he know what lay ahead on the nature trail? Otherwise, I would never have met the royal family or heard their daughter's story of royal intrigue. Or was it all coincidence?

When Koko threw his catfit and dislodged the tragedy mask, was it because it looked like the dissipated Jack Appelhardt?

And how about his raid on the nutbowl? Did he know that the French word for hazelnut is noisette?

And how about the dominoes? "Level with me, Koko," Qwilleran said to the sleepy cat at his elbow. "Do you get a kick out of swishing your tail and sending them flying off the table? Or do you know what you're doing?"

Koko squeezed his eyes and opened his mouth in a cavernous yawn—showing his fangs, exposing a pink gullet, and breathing a potent reminder of his bedtime snack.