The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 6

It was sunset time. Guests filled the porch swings as Qwilleran walked up the front steps of the inn.

"Beautiful evening," said the man who wore a French beret indoors and out. He spoke with a pleasant voice and a warmly benign expression on his wrinkled face.

"Yes, indeed," Qwilleran replied with a special brand of courtesy that he reserved for his elders. "I'm Arledge Harding, and this is my wife, Dorothy." "My pleasure. My name is Qwilleran—Jim Qwilleran." The retired vicar moved with a physical stiffness that added to his dignity. "We're quite familiar with your name, Mr. Qwilleran, being privileged to read your column in the Moose County newspaper. It's most refreshing! You write extremely well."

"Thank you. I was sorry to hear about your accident. Which was the faulty step?" "The third from the top, alas." "Were you walking down or coming up?"

"He was going down," said Mrs. Harding. "Fortunately he had hold of the railing. I always remind him to grip the handrail. It's strange, though. Arledge weighs like a feather, and that husky young man who rides a bicycle runs up and down the steps all the time—"

"But in the middle, my dear. I stepped on the end of the step, and the other end flew up in a seesaw effect. The carpenter blamed it on rusty nails, and I do believe the nails in this building are even older than I am."

His wife squirmed to get out of the wooden swing. "Do sit here, Mr. Qwilleran."

"Don't let me disturb you," he protested.

"Not at all. I have things to do indoors, and I'll leave my husband in your good hands ... Arledge, come inside if you feel the slightest chill."

When she had bustled away, Qwilleran said, "A charming lady. I didn't mean tp chase her away."

"Have no compunction. My dear wife will be glad of a moment's respite. Since my accident she feels an uxorial obligation to attend me twenty-four hours a day—and this for a single fractured rib. I tremble to think of her ceaseless attention if I were to break a leg. Such is the price of marital devotion. Are you married, Mr, Qwilleran?"

"Not any more, and not likely to try it again," said Qwilleran, taking the vacant seat in the creaking swing. "I understand you have visited the island in the past."

"Yes, Mrs. Harding and I are fond of islands, which is not to imply that we're insular in our thinking—just a little odd. Individuals who are attracted to islands, I have observed, are all a little odd, and if they spend enough of their lives completely surrounded by water, they become completely odd."

"I daresay you've noted many changes here."

"Quite! We were frequently guests of an Indianapolis family by the name of Ritchie—in the decades B.C. Before commercialization, I might add. The Ritchies would have deplored the current development. They were a mercantile family, good to their friends and employees and generous to the church, rest their souls."

Qwilleran said, "The name of Ritchie is connected with the Mackintosh clan. My mother was a Mackintosh."

"I recognized a certain sly Scottish wit in your writing, Mr. Qwilleran. I mentioned it to Mrs. Harding, and she agreed with me."

"What was this island like in the years B.C.?

Mr. Harding paused to reflect. "Quiet... in tune with nature ... and eminently restorative."

"Did the Ritchies have the lodge behind the high iron fence?"

"Gracious me! No!" the vicar exclaimed. "They were not at all pretentious, and they found delight in poking fun at those who were."

"Then who is the owner of The Pines? It looks like quite a compound."

"It belongs to the Appelhardts, who founded the private club and were the first to build in the 1920s. The Ritchies called them the royal family and their estate, Buckingham Palace ... What brings you to the island, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"A working vacation. I'm staying in one of the cottages because my cats are with me, a pair of Siamese."

"Indeed! We once had a Siamese in the vicarage. His name was Holy Terror."

Mrs. Harding suddenly appeared. "A breeze has sprung up, and I'm afraid it's too chilly for you, Arledge."

"Yes, a storm is brewing. I feel it in my bones, and one bone in particular." The three of them went into the lounge and found comfortable seating in an alcove, whereupon the vicar asked his wife, "Should I tell Mr. Qwilleran the story about Holy Terror and the bishop?"

"Do you think it would be entirely suitable, Arledge?"

"The bishop has been entertaining the civilized world with the story for twenty years."

"Well ... you wouldn't put it in the paper, would you, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"Of course not. I never mention cats and clergymen in the same column."

"Very well, then," she agreed and sat nervously clutching her handbag as her husband proceeded:

"It was a very special occasion," Mr. Harding said with a twinkle in his left eye. "The bishop was coming to luncheon at the vicarage, and we discovered that he enjoyed a Bloody Mary at that time of day. This required much planning and research, I assure you. After consulting all available experts, we settled upon the perfect recipe and took pains to assemble the correct ingredients. On the appointed day our distinguished guest arrived and was duly welcomed, and then I repaired to the kitchen to mix the concoction myself. As I carried the tray into the living room, Holy Terror went into one of his Siamese tizzies, flying up and down stairs and around the house at great speed until he swooped over my shoulder and landed in the tray. Glasses catapulted into space, and the Bloody Mary flew in all directions, spraying tomato juice over the walls, furniture, carpet, ceiling, and the august person of the bishop."

The gentle Mr. Harding rocked back and forth with unholy mirth until his wife said, "Do try to control yourself, Arledge. You're putting a strain on your rib." Then she turned to Qwilleran and asked the inevitable question: "Do you play dominoes?"

"I'm afraid I have to say no, and I suppose I should go home and see what profane terrors my two companions have devised."

Gasping a little, Mr. Harding said, "I would deem it ... a privilege and a pleasure ... to introduce you to a game that promotes tranquility."

Sooner or later, Qwilleran knew, he would have to play dominoes with someone, and he could use a little tranquility after the events of the day. He followed the Hardings to a card table under a bridge lamp. When the old man was properly seated, his wife excused herself, saying the best game was two-handed.

The vicar opened a box of dominoes and explained that there were twenty-eight'pieces in the set, having pips similar to the spots on dice. "Why the one game is considered nice and the other is considered naughty, I am unable to fathom, especially since the naughty game is so often played on one's knees with certain prayerful exhortations. Or so I am told," he added with a twinkle in his good eye. "You might address that weighty question in your column some day. As a clue, let me mention that a domino was originally a hood worn by a canon in a cathedral."

The two men began matching pips in geometric formations, and Qwilleran began thinking longingly about a chocolate sundae, a symptom of boredom in his case. When the game ended, and the Hardings retired to their cottage, he found Lori and asked if Harriet's Family Cafe would be open at that hour.

"She'll be open, but she may not be serving the regular menu. If you're starving, though, she'll scramble some eggs for you."

"All I want is some ice cream."

Before walking to the restaurant, Qwilleran picked up his tape recorder and a flashlight at the cottage, moving quietly to avoid waking the Siamese. They were sleeping blissfully in the bowl-shaped leatherette cushion of the lounge chair. Groggy heads raised indifferently, with eyes open to slits, and then fell heavily back to sleep.

The cafe occupied one of the more modest lodges, built when the west beach was being invaded by the lower upperclass and even the upper middleclass. Whatever residential refinements had been there were now superseded by a bleak practicality: fluorescent lights that made it easy to clean the floor; dark, varnished paneling that would not show grease spots; tables with stainproof, plastic tops and kickproof, metal legs. It had been a busy evening, judging by the number of highchairs scattered among the tables. The last customer stood at the cash register, counting his change, and the cashier was clearing tables and sweeping up jettisoned food.

"Sorry to bother you," Qwilleran said. "Am I too late for an ice cream sundae?"

"You can sit down," she said in a flat voice. "What kind?"

"Can you rustle up some chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce?"

She left the dining room and returned, saying, "Vanilla is all."

"That'll do, if you have chocolate sauce." He sat at a table near the kitchen to save the weary employee a long trek. To his surprise, another woman burst through the kitchen door, carrying his sundae. She was a husky woman of about forty, wearing a chef's hat (unstarched) and a large canvas apron (streaked with tomato sauce). She had the lean face and stony expression typical of island women, and she walked with a lumbering gait.

Plunking the dish down in front of the customer, she said, "I know you—from Pickax. You came into the Old Stone Mill to eat. I worked in the kitchen. Derek would come back and say, "He's here with his girlfriend." Or he'd say, "He's here with a strange woman, much younger." Then we'd peek through the kitchen door, and we'd put an extra slice of pork or turkey on your plate. We always had a doggie bag ready for you ... Eat your ice cream before it melts."

"Thank you," he said, plunging his spoon into the puddle of chocolate sauce.

"How come you didn't ask for hot fudge? I can cook some up if you want. I know you like it."

"This is fine," he said, "and it's late, and you must be tired."

"I'm not tired. When you have your own business, you don't get tired. Funny, isn't it?"

"You must be Harriet Beadle. I'm staying at the Domino Inn, and Lori told me you helped her find a carpenter when she was in trouble."

"Lori's nice. I like her ... Want some coffee?"

"I'll take a cup, if you'll have one with me."

Harriet sent her helper home, saying she'd finish the cleanup herself. Then she brought two cups of coffee and sat down, having removed her soiled apron and limp headgear. Her straight, colorless hair had been cut in the kitchen, Qwilleran guessed, with poultry shears and a mixing bowl. "I know you like it strong," she said. "This is island coffee. We don't make it like this for customers."

He could understand why; he winced at the first sip. "What brought you back to the island?"

"There's something about the island—always makes you want to come back. I always wanted to run my own restaurant and do all the cooking. Then Mr. Exbridge told me about this and told me how to go about it— borrow the money, buy secondhand kitchen equipment, and all that. He's a nice man. I s'pose you know him. What are you doing here? Writing for the paper?"

"If I can find anything to write about. Perhaps you could tell me something about island life."

-You bet I could!"

He placed his recorder on the table. "I'd like to tape our conversation. Don't pay any attention to it. Just talk."

"What about?"

"Breakfast Island when you were growing up."

"It was hard. No electricity. No bathrooms. No clocks. No phones. No money. We don't call it Breakfast Island over here. It's Providence Island."

"Who gave it that name?"

"The first settlers. A divine providence cast "em up on the beach after their ship was wrecked."

"You say you had no money. How did you live?"

"On fish. Wild rabbit. Goat's milk." She said it proudly.

"What about necessities like shoes and flour and ammunition for hunting rabbits?"

"They used traps, back then. Other things they needed, they got by trading on the mainland. They traded fish, mostly, and stuff that washed up on the beach. My pa built a boat with wood that washed up."

"Is he still living?" Qwilleran asked, thinking he might be one of the unsociable cab drivers.

"He drowned, trying to haul his nets before a storm." She said it without emotion.

"And your mother?"

"Ma's still here. Still using oil lamps. Never left the island—not even for a day. She'd just as soon go to the moon."

"But surely electricity is now available to islanders.

The resort has it. The summer estates have had it a long rime."

"Ay-uh, but a lot of people here can't afford it. A lot of "em still make their own medicines from wild plants. My ma remembers when there was no school. Now we have a one-room schoolhouse. I went through eight grades there—everybody in one room with one teacher." She said it boastfully.

"How did you arrange to go to high school?" "Stayed with a family on the mainland." "Did you have any trouble adapting to a different kind of school?"

"Ay-uh. Sure did. It was hard. I was ahead of the mainland kids in some things, the teachers said, but islanders were supposed to be dumb, and we got called all kinds of names."

"How did you feel about that?" Qwilleran asked sympathetically.

"Made me mad! Had to beat up on "em a coupla times." Harriet clenched a capable fist

He regarded this Amazon with astonishment and grudging admiration. "You must be very strong." "Gotta be strong to live here." "Where do the islanders live? I don't see any houses." "In Providence Village, back in the woods." "Is that what the mainlanders call Piratetown?" "Ay-uh. Makes me mad!" The clenched fist hit the ta-bletop and made the dishes dance. "How do your people feel about the new resort?" "They're afraid. They think they'll be chased off the island, like they were chased off the west beach when the rich folks came."

"What do they think about the tourists?"

"They don't like "em. Some of the tourists are cocky . . . rowdy ... half-naked. Last coupla weekends, a bunch of "em camped near the lighthouse and flew kites big enough to ride in."

"Hang gliders," Qwilleran said, nodding. "Was that considered objectionable?"

"Well... they sat around with no clothes on, drinking beer and playing the radio loud."

"How do you know?"

"Some rabbit hunters saw "em ... Want more coffee?"

For the first time in his life Qwilleran declined a second cup; he could feel drums beating in his head. "What's your personal opinion of the Pear Island Hotel?" he asked her.

"Too much stuff about pirates. Makes me mad!"

"Are you saying that there were no pirates in the history of the island? Maybe they were here before your ancestors came."

Harriet looked fierce and banged the table. "It's all lies! Made-up lies!"

He thought it a good idea to change the subject. "There's a plaque at the lighthouse, honoring three light-keepers. Do you know what happened to them?"

"Nobody knows," she said mysteriously. "I could tell you the story if you want to hear it."

The drums stopped beating in Qwilleran's head, and he snapped to attention. "I'd like to hear it, but you've had a long hard day. You probably want to go home."

"I don't go home. I have a bed upstairs."

"Then let me take you to lunch on your day off. We'll eat in the Corsair Room."

"I don't take a day off. I work seven days a week. Wait'll I get another cup of coffee. Sure you don't want some?"

Qwilleran had a feeling that he had just found buried treasure. The lighthouse mystery had never been mentioned by Homer Tibbitt.

Harriet returned. "My grampa told this story over and over again, so I practically know it by heart. My great-grampa was mixed up in it."

"Is that so? Was he a lightkeeper himself?"

"No, the guv'ment never hired islanders. That made "em mad! It was like saying they were too dumb, or couldn't be trusted. The guv'ment hired three men from the mainland to live on the rock and keep the light burning. It was an oil lamp in those days, you know. Every so often a guv'ment boat delivered oil for the beacon and food for the keepers, and it was all hauled up the cliff by rope. There were some zigzag steps chiseled in the side of the cliff—you can see "em from the lake—but they were slippery and dangerous. Still are! When the guv'ment boat brought a relief man, he was hauled up like the groceries, by rope."

"How did your great-grandfather become involved, Harriet?"

"Well, he was kind of a leader, because he could read and write."

"Was that unusual?"

"Ay-uh. They didn't have a school. The settlers were kind of a forgotten colony—not only forgotten but looked down on."

"Where did your great-grandfather get his learning, then?"

"His pa taught him. His pa was kind of a preacher, but that's another whole story."

Qwilleran said impatiently, "Don't keep me in suspense, Harriet. What happened?"

"Well, one dark night my great-grampa woke up suddenly and didn't know why. It was like a message from the Lord. Wake up! Wake up! He got out of bed and looked around outside, and he saw that the beacon wasn't burning. That was bad! He put on his boots and took a lantern and went to the lighthouse, to see what was wrong. It was about a mile off. When he got there, there weren't any men around, and then he shouted—no answers! The fence gate was locked, so he climbed over. The door on the keepers" cottage was standing open, but there was nobody there. He thought of trying to light the beacon himself, but the door to the tower was locked. He didn't know what to do."

"There was no wireless at that time?" Qwilleran asked.

"No wireless—no radio—no telephone. That was a long time ago, Mr. Q. So ... my great-grampa went home. Passing ships must've reported the beacon being out, because . . . pretty soon the island was swarming with constables and soldiers, arresting people, searching houses, and even digging up backyard graves. They didn't have regular cemeteries then."

"Did they think the islanders had murdered the men? What would be the motive?"

"The guv'ment thought the islanders really wanted ships to be wrecked so they could rob them. They believed the old lie about pirate blood. That was a hundred years ago, and people still believe it! Makes me boiling mad!"

"Old legends never die," Qwilleran said. (They only get made into movies, he thought.) "Were the bodies ever found?"

"Never. The police suspected my great-grampa and took him to the mainland for questioning."

"Why? Because he climbed over the fence?"

"Because he could read and write. They thought he was dangerous."

"Incredible! Are you sure this story is true, Harriet?"

She nodded soberly. "He kept a diary and wrote everything down. My ma has it hidden away."

Qwilleran said, "I'd give a lot to see that diary!" He was thinking, What a story this will make!... Homer Tibbitt, eat your heart out!

"Ma won't show the diary to anybody," Harriet said. "She's afraid it'll be stolen."

"Haven't you ever seen it?"

"Only once, when I was in seventh grade. I had to be in a program for Heritage Day, so my ma let me see it. It had some weird things."

"Like what?" he asked.

"I remember one page, because I had to memorize it for the program. August 7. Fine day. Lake calm. Light wind from southeast. Hauled nets all day. Mary died in childbirth. Baby is fine, thank the Lord ... August 8. Cool. Some clouds. Wind shifting to northeast. Three rabbits in traps. Buried Mary after supper. Baby colicky. A few days after, the light burned out," Harriet concluded, "and the soldiers dug up the grave."

"Ghastly!" Qwilleran said. "How could your greatgrandfather write about such things without emotion?"

"Islanders don't cry. They just do what they have to do," said Harriet, "and it doesn't matter how hard it is."

Qwilleran thought, They never laugh either. He asked her, "Had the islanders been on friendly terms with the lightkeepers?"

"Ay-uh. They celebrated feast days together, and Grampa took them fresh fish sometimes. They'd give him some hardtack. The islanders couldn't go inside the fence, but the keepers could come out."

"Were there any changes in the system after the disappearance?"

"Well, the guv'ment kept on sending three men from the mainland to do the job, but they had big dogs."

"Congratulations, Harriet. You report the facts as if you were actually there."

"I've heard it so many times," she said modestly.

"It'll make a sensational piece for the "Qwill Pen" column. Is it okay to quote you?"

Her pleasure at being complimented turned to sudden alarm. "Which do you mean? Not the lighthouse story!"

"Especially the lighthouse mystery," he corrected her. "This is the first I've heard of such an incident, and I've read a lot of county history."

Harriet put her hands to her face in chagrin. "No! No! You can't write anything about that! I just told you because I thought you'd be personally interested. I didn't know ..."

Why, Qwilleran wondered, do people give journalists sensational information or personal secrets that they don't want published? And why are they so surprised when it appears in print? What would happen if I ran this story anyway? Historical data obtained from an anonymous source ... And then he thought, The lighthouse story might be a hoax. Does she know it's not true? It might be a family fiction invented to go with the ambiguous bronze plaque in the lighthouse compound. As for the diary, that's probably a myth, too. To Harriet he said, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't publish the lighthouse story. Your reason will be confidential."

"It'll make trouble. It'll make trouble in the village." She moistened her lips anxiously.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Don't you know what happened Memorial weekend? I think Mr. Exbridge stopped it from getting in the paper. Some men from the mainland—from Lockmaster—came to the village with shovels and started digging for buried pirate treasure. They dug big holes in front of Ma's house and near the school. They had a map that they'd bought for fifty dollars from some man in a bar."

Qwilleran suppressed an urge to chuckle. "How did the villagers get rid of them?"

"Some rabbit hunters chased them out. The diggers complained to the sheriff's deputy about harassment, but he laughed and told them to go home and say nothing about it, or they'd look like fools. He reported it to Mr. Exbridge, though, and Mr. Exbridge said he'd done right."

Qwilleran said, "I'm sure it was annoying to the villagers, but I don't blame the deputy for laughing. The question is: What does this have to do with my running the lighthouse mystery?"

"Don't you see?" she said angrily. "Someone would sell maps, and the men would be back, digging for bones!"