The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 5

When Qwilleran returned from dinner at the hotel, the Siamese were still boycotting the slipcovers. Instead of lounging on seat cushions or bed, they crouched in awkward positions on the desk, kitchen counter, dresser, or snack table.

"Okay, you guys!" he ordered. "Clear out! We're trying an experiment." He chased them onto the porch while he stripped the premises of slipcovers, draperies, and bedcover. He also opened all the windows to dispel the haunting memory of June Halliburton, which blended her musky perfume with stale cigarette smoke. Did the Bambas know she was an inveterate smoker? Probably not. He stuffed the offending slipcovers into the bedroom closet temporarily.

What remained—when the roses and irises were gone— was as grim as the previous decor was flashy: roller blinds on the windows, a no-color blanket on the bed, and well-worn leatherette upholstery on sofa and chairs.

He felt guilty about leaving the Siamese cooped up in this stark environment.

"How about a read?" he asked them. He stretched out in a lounge chair that was comfortable except for one broken spring in the seat. Yum Yum piled into his lap, and Koko perched on the arm of the chair as he read to them from Walden. He read about the wild mice around Walden Pond, the battle of the ants, and the cat who grew wings every winter. Soon his soothing voice put them to sleep, their furry bellies heaving in a gentle rhythm.

It was their first night on the island, and it was deadly quiet. Even in rural Moose County one could hear the hum of tires on a distant highway. On the island there was breathless silence. The wind was calm; there was no rustling of leaves in the nearby woods; the lake lapped the shore without even a whisper.

Suddenly—at the blackest hour of the night— Qwilleran was frightened out of slumber by a frenzy of demonic screams and howls. He sat up, not knowing where he was. As he groped for a bedside table, he regained his senses. The cats! Where were they? He stumbled out of the bedroom, found a light switch, and discovered the Siamese awake and ready for battle— arching their backs, bushing their tails, snarling and growling at the threat outside.

He rushed to the porch with a flashlight and turned it on a whirlwind of savage creatures uttering unearthly screeches. He ran back to the kitchen, filled a cookpot with water, and threw it out the back door. There was a burst of profanity, and then the demons disappeared into the night. The Siamese were unnerved, and he left the bedroom door open, spending the rest of the night as a human sandwich between two warm bodies.

While dressing for breakfast the next morning, he thought, Dammit! Why should we stay here? I'll make some excuse. We'll go back on the ferry.

"Ik ik ik" came a rasping retort from the next room, as 3 Koko knew what Qwilleran was thinking.

"Is that vote an aye or a nay, young man?"

"Ik ik ik!" The connotation was definitely negative.

"Well, if you can stand it, I can stand it, I suppose." Avoiding the closet, with its aromatic bundle of slipcovers lad whatnot, Qwilleran dressed in shorts and a tee from the dresser drawer and went to the inn for breakfast, carrying a hammer. He had hung the two gilded masks ower the sofa, between two travel posters, and their elegance made the sturdy, practical furnishings look even bleaker by comparison.

In the sunroom he nodded courteously to a few other guests and took a small table in a cornet, where he found a card in Lori's handwriting:

-

GOOD MORNING

Monday, June 9

Pecan Pancakes With Maple Syrup and Turkey-apple Sausages

or

Tarragon-chive Omelette

With Sauteed Chicken Livers

Help yourself to fruit juices, muffins, biscuits,

homemade preserves, and coffee or milk

-

"These pancakes are delicious," Qwilleran said to the plain-faced waitress, who shuffled about the sunroom. "Did Mrs. Bamba make these herself?"

"Ay-uh," she said without change of expression.

When the serving hours ended, he stopped drinking coffee and went to the office, where he found Lori slumped in a chair, looking frazzled. "That was a sumptuous breakfast," he said. "My compliments to the chef."

"Today I had to do it all myself," she replied wearily. "My cook didn't show up, and the waitress was late. Two of the guests volunteered to wait on tables until she came. I believe in hiring island women, but they can be annoy-ingly casual. Perhaps that's why the hotel hires college kids. Anyway, I'm glad you liked your first breakfast. Did you have the pancakes or the omelette?"

"To be perfectly honest, I had both."

Lori shrieked with delight. "Did you sleep well? Did you find the bed comfortable?"

"Everything was fine except for the catfight outside our back door."

"Oh, dear! I'm sorry. Did it disturb you? It only happens when strays from the other inns come over in our territory. We have three nice strays that we take care of: Billy, Spots, and Susie. They were here before we were, so we adopted them. You'll notice a lot of feral cats around the island."

Qwilleran asked, "What do the islanders think about the resort's invasion of their privacy?"

"The old-timers are dead-set against it, but they can use the jobs. My cook is an older woman. Mr. Beadle, who fixed our steps, is a great-grandfather; he's grumpy but willing to work. And the old men who drive the cabs are as grumpy as their horses. The young islanders are glad to get jobs, of course; they're not exactly grumpy, but they sure don't have any personality. They're good workers—when and if they report—but I wish they'd take their commitments more seriously."

"I'd like to talk with some of them about life on the island before the resort opened. Would they cooperate?"

"Well, they're inclined to be shy and suspicious of strangers, but there's one woman who'd have a wider perspective. She grew up here, attended high school on the mainland, and worked in restaurants over there. Now she's back on the island, operating a cafe for tourists— with financial aid from the K Foundation, of course. You probably know about Harriet's Family Cafe."

"The K Foundation never tells me anything about anything," he said. "Where is she located?"

"Up the beach a little way, in one of the old lodges. She serves lunch and dinner—plain food at moderate prices. Most of our guests go there. She also rents out the upper floors as dorm rooms for the summer help at the hotel. It's a neat arrangement. Don Exbridge masterminded this whole project, and he thought of everything."

"What is Harriet's last name?"

"Beadle. The island is full of Beadles. It was her grandfather who fixed our steps. She got him for me when I was desperate. Harriet's a nice person. She's even a volunteer firefighter!"

Before leaving the inn, Qwilleran was introduced to the Bamba brood. Shoo-Shoo, Sheba, Trish, Natasha, and Sherman were the resident cats.

"Didn't you have a Pushkin?" Qwilleran asked.

"Pushkin passed away. Old age. Sherman is pregnant."

Then there were the children. The eldest, Jason, was in first grade on the mainland; a photo of him showed a lively six-year-old with his mother's blond hair. The talkative Mitchell, age four, had his father's dark coloring and serious mien, and he spoke so earnestly that Qwilleran tried his best to understand him.

"He wants to know," his mother translated, "if you'll play dominoes with him."

"I don't know how," Qwilleran said. Actually, he had played dominoes with his mother while growing up as the only child in a single-parent household. The game had been his boyhood bete noir, along with practicing the piano and drying the dishes.

"Mitchell says he'll teach you how to play," Lori said. "And this is Lovey, our youngest. She's very smart, and we think she'll be president of the United States some day ... Lovey, tell Mr. Qwilleran how old you are."

"Two in April," said the tot in a clear voice. She was a beautiful little girl, with a winning smile.

"That was last year, Lovey," her mother corrected her. "Now you're three in April."

"I'll tell you one thing," Qwilleran said, "you'd better change her name, or she'll never get past the New Hampshire primary. The media will have a picnic with a name like Lovey." Then he asked Lori if she had a place to store the slipcovers from Four Pips, as he seemed to be allergic to the dye. "I tried stripping the rooms last night," he said, "and haven't had any bronchitis or asthma today."

"I never knew you had allergies, Qwill! That's too bad! The housekeeper will get them out of your way as soon as possible."

"They're all in the bedroom closet," he said. "Tell her not to let the cats out."

At the bike rack downtown Qwilleran rented an all-terrain bicycle for his first island adventure, a trip to Lighthouse Point. West Beach Road was uphill all the way. As he passed the Domino Inn, guests waved to him from the porch, and Mitchell chased him like a friendly, barking dog. Next came three other B-and-Bs, Harriet's Family Cafe, and a unique service operation called Vacation Helpers. According to the sign in front of the converted lodge, they would "sit with the baby, wash your shirt, bake a birthday cake, sew a button on, cater a picnic, address your postcards, mail your fudge, clean your fish."

Qwilleran stopped to read it and thought it a good idea. The upper floors were apparently dormitories for hotel employees, because a group of them were leaving for work, wearing the skull-and-crossbones. One of them waved to him—the waitress from the night before.

At that point the commercial aspect of the beach road ended, and a forbidding sense of privacy began. First there was the exclusive Grand Island Club with tennis courts, a long row of stables, and a private marina, docking small yachts and tall-masted sailboats. Beyond were the summer estates, with large, rustic lodges set well back behind broad lawns. On the other side of the road, flights of wooden steps led down to private beaches with white sand. There were no bathers; the lake was notoriously cold, even in summer, and the lodge owners would undoubtedly have heated swimming pools.

Driveways were marked with discreet, rustic signs identifying the estates as RED OAKS or WHITE SANDS or CEDAR GABLES. The last and largest was THE PINES, protected by a high iron fence similar to that in front of Buckingham Palace.

How, Qwilleran wondered, were these elite vacationers reacting to the increased traffic on the beach road? On weekends there would be a continual parade of cyclists pedaling to the lighthouse. Carriageloads of gawking sightseers would stop in front of the grandest lodges to take pictures and listen to the guides spieling about family scandals.

By the same token, how would the reclusive islanders react to the noisy strangers, the aroma of fudge polluting their lake-washed air, and brash cityfolk wearing clown colors and trespassing on their sacred privacy? Would these rugged natives resent the intrusion strongly enough to retaliate? They might be an underground army of little Davids aiming slingshots at a well-capitalized Goliath who was getting a tax break.

After The Pines, the lush woods dwindled to stunted, windswept vegetation atop a mountain of sand. Beyond could be seen the lighthouse, a pristine white against a blue sky. For the last few hundred yards the road was steep, but Qwilleran bore down on the pedals resolutely. He was breathing hard when he reached the summit, but he was in better shape than he had realized.

Lighthouse Point was a desolate promontory overlooking an endless expanse of water to the north, east, and west. The tower itself was dazzlingly white in the strong sunlight, and adjacent buildings were equally well maintained. There was no sign of life, however. Such romantic figures as the lighthousekeeper and the lighthouse-keeper's daughter had been made obsolete by automation. A high, steel fence surrounded the complex. Inside the fence, but visible to visitors, a bronze plaque was a reminder of the old days:

IN MEMORY OF THREE LOYAL LIGHTKEEPERS

WHO SAVED HUNDREDS OF LIVES BY

KEEPING THE BEACON BURNING BUT

LOST THEIR OWN IN THE LINE OF DUTY

There followed the names of the three men—typical north-country names that could be found in the old cemeteries of Moose County: Trevelyan . ., Schmidt . . . Mayfus. Yet, for some reason they were considered heroes. Qwilleran asked himself: What did they do to earn this recognition? Were there three isolated incidents over a period of years? Or were they swept off the rock in a storm? Why is none of this in the county history? He made a mental note to discuss the oversight with Homer Tibbitt.

On the public side of the fence the ground was a plateau of stones and weeds that showed evidence of unauthorized picnicking. There were no picnic tables or rubbish containers provided. Empty bottles were scattered about the site of a campfire, and food wrappers had blown against the fence and over the edge of the cliff. Down below were the treacherous rocks, where old wooden sailing ships had been dashed to pieces in the days before the lighthouse was built.

Moose County, in its nineteenth-century boom years, had been the richest in the state. Every month hundreds of vessels passed the island, transporting lumber, ore, gold coins, and rum, according to Mr. Tibbitt. Hundreds of wrecks now lay submerged and half buried in sand under those deep waters.

Today the lake could only gurgle and splash among the boulders, but the wind was chill on top of the cliff, and Qwilleran soon coasted back down the hill. He gripped the handlebars and clenched his jaw in concentration as :he bike loped recklessly over rocks and ruts. Two young athletes in helmets and stretch pants were pedaling their thirty-speed bikes easily up the slope that had caused him so much effort. They even had breath enough to shout "Hi, neighbor! Nice goin" " as they passed.

After returning his own bike to the rental rack, he bought a supply of snacks and beverages at the deli—for himself and possible visitors. There were two large shopping bags, and he hailed a horse cab to carry them home. Without even greeting the Siamese, he checked the bedroom closet. The slipcovers had been removed, as Lori had promised, but the same odor rushed out to meet his offended nose; it had permeated his clothing.

"That woman!" Qwilleran bellowed. "May her piano always be out of tune!" Without a word to the bewildered cats, he stuffed his belongings into the two shopping bags and hiked up the beach road to Vacation Helpers.

The enterprise occupied the main floor of the former fishing lodge. In one large, open space there were work tables and such equipment as washer, dryer, ironing board, sewing machine, word processor, and child's playpen.

When Qwilleran dumped the5 contents of his shopping bags on one of the tables, the young woman in charge sniffed and said, "Mmm! Someone lovely has been hanging around you!"

"That's what you think," he said grouchily. "How fast can you do this stuff? I need some of it to wear to dinner."

"One shirt is silk, and it'll need special care, but most of it's wash-and-wear. I can have everything ready by ... six o'clock?"

"Make it five-thirty. I'll pick it up." Without any of his usual pleasantries he started for the door.

"Sir! Shall I give your bundle to anyone with a big moustache?" she asked playfully. "Or do you want to leave your name?"

"Sorry," he said. "I had something on my mind. The name's Qwilleran. That's spelled with a QW."

"I'm Shelley, and my partners are Mary and Midge."

"How's business?" he asked, noticing that none of the roomful of equipment was in use.

"We're just getting organized. The rush won't start till July. Our picnic lunches are the most popular so far. Want to try one?"

He was going out to dinner, but it appeared that they needed the business, so he paid his money and took home a box that proved to contain a meatloaf sandwich, cole- slaw, cookies, and ... a pear! He put it in the refrigerator and dropped into his lounge chair. Oops! He had forgot-ten the broken spring. He seated himself again, this time with circumspection.

Then: What are those cats doing? he asked himself.

Koko was on the porch, trying to catch mosquitoes on the screen, the problem being that they were all on the outside.

"And you're supposed to be a smart cat," Qwilleran

Yum Yum was in the tiny kitchen area, fussing. When Yum Yum fussed, she could work industriously and stub-bornly for an hour without any apparent purpose and without results. In Qwilleran's present mood he found the unexplained noises nerve-wracking — the bumping, click-ing, thudding, and skittering.

"What on God's green earth are you doing?" he finally aid in exasperation.

She had found a rusty nail in a crevice and, having worked and worked and worked to get it out, she pushed :t back into another crevice.

"Cats!" he said, throwing up his hands.

Nevertheless, the rusty nail brought to mind the front steps of the Domino Inn. The aged carpenter blamed the collapse of the steps on rusty nails. Lori blamed a careless nspection. Nick wanted to blame the troublemakers from Lockmaster, Qwilleran favored the David-and-Goliath theory. Meanwhile, it was advisable to return to the Buccaneer Den while the bartender still remembered him and his magnanimous tip.

The bartender's craggy face-hardened after eighteen years in Chicago's Loop— brightened when Qwilleran slid onto a bar stool. "Have a good day?" he asked jovially as he toweled the bartop.

"Not bad. Has the bar been busy?"

"Typical Monday." Bert waggled a double old-fashioned glass. "Same?"

"Make it a four-alarm this time. Gotta rev up for one of those Cajun specials in the Corsair Room."

"Yep, pretty good cook we've got. I send a Sazerac to the kitchen several times a day." He placed the blood-red glassful on the bar and waited for Qwilleran's approval. "How long y'here for?"

"Coupla weeks."

"Staying in the hotel?"

"No. At the Domino Inn. Friend of mine owns it."

"Sure, I know him. Short fella, curly black hair. Nice guy. Family man."

"What do you think of his inn?"

"Sensational!" said Bert. "That treebark siding has acid in it that keeps insects out. That's why it's lasted. Besides that, it looks terrific!"

"Have you been to the lighthouse?" Qwilleran asked.

"Sure. A bunch of us went up there in a wagon before the hotel opened. Mr. Exbridge arranged it. He's a good boss. Very human. Owns a third of XYZ, but you'd never know it from his attitude. Pleasure to work for him."

"I've heard he's a good guy. Too bad about the food poisoning and the drowning. Were they accidents? Or did someone have it in for XYZ?"

Bert paused before answering. "Accidents." Then he became suddenly busy with bottles and glasses.

Qwilleran persisted. "The guy that drowned—do you remember serving him?"

"Nope."

"Was he drinking in the lounge or by the pool?"

The bartender shrugged.

"Do any of the poolside waiters remember him?"

Ben shook his head. He was looking nervously up and down the bar.

"Was he a boater or a guest at the hotel? It would be interesting to know who was drinking with him."

Bert moved away and went into a huddle with his two assistants, who turned and looked anxiously at the customer with a sizable moustache. Then all three of them stayed at the far end of the bar.

So Exbridge had imposed the gag rule. Qwilleran had messed as much when having dinner with Dwight Som-ems. Finishing his drink, he went to the Corsair Room for jambalaya, a savory blend of shrimp, ham, and sausage. He had been on the island twenty-four hours, although it seemed like a week. There was something about an island that distorted time. There was also something about jam-balaya that made one heady.

He hailed a cab for the ride home—a spidery vehicle with a small body slung between two large spoked wheels that looked astonishingly delicate. He climbed in beside the lumpish old man holding the reins and said, "Do you know the Domino Inn on the west beach?"

"Ay-uh," said the cabbie. He was wearing the shapeless, colorless clothes of the islanders. "Giddap." The gig moved slowly behind a plodding horse with a swayback.

"Nice horse," Qwilleran said amiably.

"Ay-uh."

"What's his name?"

"Bob."

"How old is he?"

"Pretty old."

"Does he belong to you?"

"Ay-uh."

"Where do you keep him?"

"Yonder."

"How do you like this weather?" Qwilleran wished he had brought his tape recorder.

"Pretty fair."

"Is business good?"

"Pretty much."

"Have you always lived on the island?"

"Ay-uh."

"Do you get a lot of snow in winter?"

"Enough."

"Where is Piratetown?"

"Ain't none."

Eventually the cab reached the Domino Inn, and Qwilleran paid his fare plus a sizable tip. "What's your name?" he asked.

"John."

"Thanks, John. See you around."

The old man shook the reins, and the horse moved on.