The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 1

It was a weekend in June—glorious weather for boating. A small cabin cruiser with Double-Six freshly painted on the sternboard chugged across the lake at a cautious speed. Stowed on the aft deck were suitcases, cartons, a turkey roaster without handles, and a small wire-mesh cage with a jacket thrown over the top.

"They're quiet!" the pilot yelled above the motor noise.

The passenger, a man with a large moustache, shouted back, "They like the vibration!"

"Yeah. They can smell the lake, too!"

"How long does it take to cross?"

"The ferry makes it in thirty minutes! I'm going slow so they don't get seasick!"

The passenger lifted a sleeve of the jacket for a surreptitious peek. "They seem to be okay!"

Pointing across the water to a thin black line on the horizon, the pilot announced loudly. "That's our destination! . . . Breakfast Island, ahoy!"

"YOW!" came a piercing baritone from the cage.

"That's Koko!" the passenger yelled. "He knows what "breakfast" means!"

"N-n-NOW!" came a shrill soprano echo.

"That's Yum Yum! They're both hungry!"

The cabin cruiser picked up speed. For all of them it was a voyage to another world.

Breakfast Island, several miles from the Moose County mainland, was not on the navigation chart. The pear-shaped blip of land—broad at the south end and elongated at the northern tip—had been named Pear Island by nineteenth-century cartographers. Less printable names were invented by lake captains who lost ships and cargo on the treacherous rocks at the stem end of the pear.

The southern shore was more hospitable. For many years, fishermen from the mainland, rowing out at dawn to try their luck, would beach their dinghies on the sand and fry up some of their catch for breakfast. No one knew exactly when or how Breakfast Island earned its affectionate nickname, but it was a long time before the economic blessing known as tourism.

Moose County itself, 400 miles north of everywhere, had recently been discovered as a vacation paradise; its popularity was developing gradually by word of mouth. Breakfast Island, on the other hand, blossomed suddenly—the result of a seed planted by a real-estate entrepreneur, nurtured by a financial institution, and watered by the careful hand of national publicity.

Two days before the voyage of the Double-Six, the flowering of Breakfast Island was the subject of debate on the mainland, where two couples were having dinner at the Old Stone Mill.

"Let's drink a toast to the new Pear Island resort," said Arch Riker, publisher of the local newspaper. "Best thing that ever happened to Moose County!"

"I can hardly wait to see it," said Polly Duncan, head of the Pickax Public Library.

Mildred Riker suggested, "Let's all four of us go over for a weekend and stay at a bed-and-breakfast!"

The fourth member of the party sat in moody silence, tamping his luxuriant moustache.

"How about it, Qwill?" asked Riker. "Will you drink to that?"

"No!" said Jim Qwilleran. "I don't like what they've done to Breakfast Island; I see no reason for changing its name; and I have no desire to go there!"

"Well!" said Polly in surprise.

"Really!" said Mildred in protest.

The two men were old friends—journalists from. "Down Below," as Moose County natives called the population centers of the United States. Now Riker was realizing his dream of publishing a country newspaper, and Qwilleran, having inherited money, was living a comfortable bachelor life in Pickax City (population 3,000) and writing a column for the Moose County Something. Despite the droop of his pepper-and-salt moustache and the melancholy look in his heavy-lidded eyes, he had found middle-aged contentment here. He walked and biked and filled his lungs with country air. He met new people and confronted new challenges. He had a fulfilling friendship with Polly Duncan. He lived in a spectacular converted apple barn. And he shared the routine of everyday living with two Siamese cats.

"Let me tell you," he went on to his dinner partners, "why I'm opposed to the Pear Island resort. When I first came up here from Down Below, some boaters took me out to the island, and we tied up at an old wooden pier. The silence was absolute, except for the scream of a gull or the splash of a fish jumping out of the water. God! It was peaceful! No cars, no paved roads, no telephone poles, no people, and only a few nondescript shacks on the edge of the forest!" He paused and noted the effect he was having on his listeners. "What is on that lonely shore now? A three-story hotel, a marina with fifty boat slips, a pizza parlor, a T-shirt studio, and two fudge shops!"

"How do you know?" Riker challenged him. "You haven't even been over there to see the resort, let alone count the fudge shops."

"I read the publicity releases. That was enough to turn me off."

"If you had attended the press preview, you'd have a proper perspective." Riker had the ruddy face and paunchy figure of an editor who had attended too many press previews.

"If I ate their free lunch," Qwilleran shot back, "they'd expect all kinds of puffery in my column . . . No, it was enough, Arch, that you gave them the lead story on page one, three pictures inside, and an editorial!"

The publisher's new wife, Mildred, spoke up. "Qwill, I went to the preview with Arch and thought XYZ Enterprises did a very tasteful job with the hotel. It's rustic and blends in nicely. There's a shopping strip on either side of the hotel—also rustic—and the signage is standardized and not at all junky." This was high praise coming from someone who taught art in the public schools. "I must admit, though, that you can smell fudge all over the island."

"And horses," said her husband. "It's a heady combination, let me tell you! Since motor vehicles are prohibited, visitors hire carriages or hail horse cabs or rent bicycles or walk."

"Can you picture -the traffic jam when that little island is cluttered with hordes of bicycles and strollers and sightseeing carriages?" Qwilleran asked with a hint of belligerence.

Polly Duncan laid a hand softly on his arm. "Qwill, dear, should we attribute your negative attitude to guilt? If so, banish the thought!"

Qwilleran winced. There was some painful truth in her well-intended statement. It was his own money that had financed, to a great degree, the development of the island. Having inherited the enormous Klingenschoen fortune based in Moose County, he had established the Klingenschoen Foundation to distribute megamillions for the betterment of the community, thus relieving himself of responsibility. A host of changes had resulted, some of which he questioned. Nevertheless, he adhered to his policy of hands-off.

Polly continued, with sincere enthusiasm. "Think how much the K Foundation has done for the schools, health care, and literacy! If it weren't for Klingenschoen backing, we wouldn't have a good newspaper and plans for a community college!"

Riker said, "The Pear Island Hotel alone will provide three hundred jobs, many of them much-needed summer work for young people. We pointed that out on our editorial page. Also, the influx of tourists will pour millions into the local economy over a period of time. At the press preview, I met the editor of the Lockmaster Ledger, and he told me that Lockmaster County is green with envy. They say we have an offshore goldmine. One has to admire XYZ for undertaking such a herculean project. Everything had to be shipped over on barges: building materials, heavy equipment, furniture! Talk about giving yourself a few problems!"

The man with a prominent moustache huffed into it with annoyance.

"Why fight it, Qwill? Isn't the K Foundation a philanthropic institution? Isn't it mandated to do what's best for the community?"

Qwilleran shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I've kept my nose out of the operation because I know nothing about business and finance—and care even less—but if I had offered more input, the directors might have balanced economic improvement with environmental foresight. More and more I'm concerned about the future of our planet."

"Well, you have a point there," Riker admitted. "Let's drink to environmental conscience!" he said jovially, waving his empty glass at a tall serving person, who was hovering nearby. Derek Cuttlebrink was obviously listening to their conversation. "Another Scotch, Derek."

"No more for me," said Mildred.

Polly was still sipping her first glass of sherry.

Qwilleran shook his head, having downed two glasses of a local mineral water.

Everyone was ready to order, and Riker inquired if there were any specials.

"Chicken Florentine," said the server, making a disagreeable face.

The four diners glanced at each other, and Mildred said, "Oh, no!"

They consulted the menu, and the eventual choice was trout for Mildred, sweetbreads for Polly, and rack of lamb for the two men. Then Qwilleran returned to the subject: "Why did they change it to Pear Island? I say that Breakfast Island has a friendly and appetizing connotation."

"It won't do any good to complain," Riker told him. "XYZ Enterprises has spent a fortune on wining and dining travel editors, and every travel page in the country has hailed the discovery of Pear Island. Anyway, that's what it's called on the map, and it happens to be pear-shaped. Furthermore, surveys indicate that a sophisticated market Down Below finds "Pear Island" more appealing than "Breakfast Island," according to Don Exbridge." He referred to the X in XYZ Enterprises.

"They like the pear's erotic shape," Qwilleran grumbled. "As a fruit it's either underripe or overripe, mealy or gritty, with a choice of mild flavor or no flavor."

Mildred protested. "I insist there's nothing to equal a beautiful russet-colored Bosc with a wedge of Roquefort!"

"Of course! A pear needs all the help it can get. It's delicious with chocolate sauce or fresh raspberries. What isn't?"

"Qwill's on his soapbox again," Riker observed.

"I agree with him on the name of the island," said Polly. "I think "Breakfast Island" has a certain quaint charm. Names of islands on the map usually reflect a bureaucratic lack of imagination."

"Enough about pears!" Riker said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Let's eat."

Mildred asked Qwilleran, "Don't you have friends who've opened a bed-and-breakfast on the island?"

"I do indeed, and it disturbs me. Nick and Lori Bamba were about to convert one of the old fishing lodges there. Then the Pear Island resort hoopla started, and they got sucked into the general promotional scheme. They would have" preferred leaving the island in its natural state as much as possible."

"Here comes the food," Arch Riker said with a sigh of relief.

Qwilleran turned to the young man who was serving the entrees. "How come you're waiting on tables, Derek? I thought you'd been promoted to assistant chef."

"Yeah ... well ... I was in charge of French fries and garlic toast, but I can make more money out on the floor, what with tips, you know. Mr. Exbridge—he's one of the owners here—said he might give me a summer job at his new hotel. You can have a lot of fun, working at a resort. I'd like to be captain in the hotel dining room, where they slip you a ten for giving them a good table."

"As captain you'd be outstanding," Qwilleran said. Derek Cuttlebrink was six-feet-eight and still growing.

Polly asked him, "Now that Pickax is getting a community college, do you think you might further your education?"

"If they're gonna teach ecology, maybe I will. I've met this girl, you know, and she's into ecology pretty heavy."

Qwilleran asked, "Is she the girl who owns the blue nylon tent?"

"Yeah, we went camping last summer. I learned a lot .. . Anything else you guys want here?"

When Derek had ambled away, Riker muttered, "When will his consumption of French fries and hot dogs start nourishing his brain instead of his arms and legs?"

"Give him a break. He's smarter than you think," Qwilleran replied.

The meal was untainted by any further argument about Breakfast Island. The Rikers described the new addition to their beach house on the sand dune near Mooseville. Polly announced that her old college roommate had invited her to visit Oregon. Qwilleran, when pressed, said he might do some free-lance writing during the summer.

In pleased surprise, Polly asked, "Do you have something important in mind, dear?" As a librarian, she entertained a perennial hope that Qwilleran would write a literary masterpiece. Although the two of them had a warm and understanding relationship, this particular aspiration was hers, not his. Whenever she launched her favorite theme, he found a way to tease her.

"Yes .. . I'm thinking ... of a project," he said soberly. "I may undertake to write ... cat opera for TV. How's this for a scenario? ... In the first episode we've left Fluffy and Ting Foy hissing at each other, after an unidentified male has approached her and caused Ting Foy to make a big tail. Today's episode starts with a long shot of Fluffy and Ting Foy at their feeding station, gobbling their food amicably. We zoom in on the empty plate and the wash-up ritual, frontal exposures only. Then . . . close-up of a cuckoo clock. (Sound of cuckooing.) Ting Foy leaves the scene. (Sound of scratching in litter box.) Cut to female, sitting on her brisket, meditating. She turns her head. She hears something! She reacts anxiously. Has her mysterious lover returned? Will Ting Foy come back from the litter box? Why is he taking so long? What will happen when the two males meet?... Tune in tomorrow, same time."

Riker guffawed. "This has great sponsorship potential, Qwill: catfood, cat litter, flea collars ..."

Mildred giggled, and Polly smiled indulgently. "Very amusing, Qwill dear, but I wish you'd apply your talents to belles lettres."

"I know my limitations," he said. "I'm a hack journalist, but a good hack journalist: nosy, aggressive, suspicious, cynical—"

"Please, Qwill!" Polly remonstrated. "We appreciate a little nonsense, but let's not be totally absurd."

Across the table the newlyweds gazed at each other in middle-aged bliss. They were old enough to have grandchildren but young enough to hold hands under the tablecloth. Both had survived marital upheavals, but now the easygoing publisher had married the warm-hearted Mildred Hanstable, who taught art and homemaking skills in the public schools. She also wrote the food column for the Moose County Something. She was noticeably overweight, but so was her bridegroom.

For this occasion Mildred had baked a chocolate cake, and she suggested having dessert and coffee at their beach house. The new addition had doubled the size of the little yellow cottage, and an enlarged deck overlooked the lake. Somewhere out there was Breakfast and/or Pear Island.

The interior of the beach house had undergone some changes, too, since their marriage. The handmade quilts that previously muffled the walls and furniture had been removed, and the interior was light and airy with splashes of bright yellow. The focal point was a Japanese screen from the VanBrook estate, a wedding gift from Qwil-leran.

Riker said, "It's hard to find a builder for a small job, but Don Exbridge sent one of his crackerjack construction crews, and they built our new wing in a jiffy. Charged only for labor and materials."

A black-and-white cat with rakish markings walked inquisitively into their midst and was introduced as Toulouse. He went directly to Qwilleran and had his ears scratched.

"We wanted a purebred," said Mildred, "but Toulouse came to our door one day and just moved in."

"His coloring is perfect with all the yellow in the house," Polly remarked.

"Do you think I've used too much? It's my favorite color, and I tend to overdo it."

"Not at all. It makes a very spirited and happy ambiance. It reflects your new lifestyle."

Riker said, "Toulouse is a nice cat, but he has one bad habit. He pounces on the kitchen counter when Mildred is cooking and steals a shrimp or a pork chop, right from under her nose. When I lived Down Below, we had a cat who was a counter-pouncer, and we cured his habit with a spray bottle of water. We had a damp pet for a couple of weeks (that's spelled d-a-m-p), but he got the message and was a model of propriety for the rest of his life— except when we weren't looking."

The evening ended earlier than usual, because Polly was working the next day. No one else had any Saturday commitments. Riker, following his recent marriage, no longer spent seven days a week at the office, and Qwilleran's life was unstructured, except for feeding and brushing the Siamese and servicing their commode. "My self-image," he liked to say, "was formerly that of a journalist; now I perceive myself as handservant to a pair of cats—also tailservant."

He and Polly drove back to Pickax, where she had an apartment on Goodwinter Boulevard, not far from his converted apple barn. As soon as they pulled away from the beach house he popped the question: "What's all this about going to Oregon? You never told me."

"I'm sorry, dear. My old roommate phoned just before you picked me up, and the invitation was so unexpected, I hardly knew how to decide. But I have two weeks more of vacation time, and I've never seen Oregon. They say it's a beautiful state."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran murmured as he considered all the aspects of this sudden decision. Once she had gone to England alone and had become quite ill. Once she had gone to Lockmaster for a weekend and had met another man. At length he asked, "Shall I feed Bootsie while you're away?"

"That's kind of you to offer, Qwill, but he really needs a live-in companion for that length of time. My sister-in-law will be happy to move in. When I return, we should think seriously about spending a weekend on the island at an interesting bed-and-breakfast."

"A weekend of inhaling fudge fumes could be hazardous to our health," he objected. "It would be safer to fly down to Minneapolis with the Rikers. You and Mildred could go shopping, and Arch and I could see a ballgame."

He stroked his moustache in indecision, wondering how much to tell her. He had an uneasiness about the present situation that was rooted in the old days, when he and Riker worked for large newspapers Down Below. They kept a punctilious distance from advertisers, lobbyists, and politicians as a matter of policy. Now, Riker was getting too chummy with Don Exbridge. XYZ Enterprises was a heavy advertiser in the Moose County Something; Exbridge had lent the Rikers a cottage for their honeymoon; and he had expedited the building of an addition to their beach house.

To Qwilleran it looked bad. And yet, he tried to tell himself, this was a small town, and everything was different. There were fewer people, and they were constantly thrown together at churches, fraternal lodges, business organizations, and country clubs. They were all on first-name terms and mutually supportive. And there were times when they covered up for each other. He had met Don Exbridge socially and at the Pickax Boosters Club and found him a hearty, likable man, ever ready with a handshake and a compliment. His cheerful face always looked scrubbed and polished; so did the top of his head, having only a fringe of brown hair over his ears. Exbridge was the idea man for the XYZ firm, and he said his cranium could sprout either ideas or hair but not both.

Polly said, "You're quiet tonight. Did you have a good time? You look wonderful—ten years younger than your age." Under his blazer he was wearing her birthday gift—a boldly striped shirt with white collar and a patterned tie.

"Thanks. You're looking pretty spiffy yourself. I'm glad to see you wearing bright colors. I assume it means you're happy."

"You know I'm happy, dear—happier than I've ever been in my life!... What did you think of Mildred's decorating?"

"I'm glad she got rid of all those quilts. The yellow's okay, I guess."

They turned into Goodwinter Boulevard, an avenue of old stone mansions that would soon be the campus of the new community college. The Klingenschoen Foundation had bought the property and donated it to the city. Currently there was some debate as to whether the institution should be named after the Goodwinters, who had founded the city, or after the original Klingenschoen, who was a rascally old saloonkeeper. Polly's apartment occupied a carriage house behind one of the mansions— within walking distance of the public library—and she was assured of a leasehold.

"Things will get lively here when the college opens," Qwilleran reminded her.

"That's all right. I like having young people around," she said, adding slyly, "Would you like to come upstairs and say goodnight to Bootsie?"

Afterward, driving home to his barn, Qwilleran considered the hazards of letting Polly out of his sight for two weeks. She was a perfect companion for him, being a loving, attractive, intelligent woman of his own age, with a gentle voice that never ceased to thrill him.

Anything could happen in Oregon, he told himself as he turned on the car radio. After the usual Friday night rundown on the soccer game between Moose County and Lockmaster, the WPKX announcer said:

"Another serious incident has occurred at the Pear Island Hotel, the second in less than a week. An adult male was found drowned in the hotel pool at eleven-fifteen this evening. The name of the victim is being withheld, but police say he was not a resident of Moose County. This incident follows on the heels of the food poisoning that caused fifteen hotel guests to become ill, three of them critically. Authorities have given the cause as contaminated chicken."

As soon as Qwilleran reached the barn, he telephoned Riker. "Did you hear the midnight news?"

"Damn shame!" said the publisher. "The island's been getting so much national coverage that the media will pounce on these accidents with perverse glee! What concerns me is the effect the bad publicity will have on the hotel and other businesses. They've gambled a helluva lot of money on these projects."

"Do you really think the incidents are accidents?" Qwilleran asked pointedly.

"Here we go again! With your mind-set, everything's foul play," Riker retorted. "Wait a minute. Mildred's trying to tell me something." After a pause he came back on the line. "She wishes you'd reconsider the idea of a weekend on the island—the four of us—when Polly returns from vacation. She thinks it would be fun."

"Well ... you know, Arch ... I don't go for resorts or cruises or anything like that."

"I know. You like working vacations. Well, sleep on the idea anyway. It would please the girls . . . and since you're such a workaholic, how about writing three columns a week instead of two during the summer? Staff members will be taking vacations, and we'll be short-handed."

"Steer them away from Pear Island resort," Qwilleran said. "I have a hunch the ancient gods of the island are frowning."