The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

CHAPTER 8

It rained again on Wednesday. One day of rain at a resort is an adventure, of sorts. Two successive days of rain are a bore. The Siamese were bored and still heavy from the hundred percent humidity. Qwilleran was equally bored and felt heavy mentally and physically.

First he gave the cats their breakfast and their daily grooming. Waving the walnut-handled brush that Polly had given them for Christmas, he announced, "Brush! Brush! Who wants to go first?" Koko always went first, despite efforts to introduce him to precepts of chivalry. Both of them had their ideas about the grooming process. Koko liked to be brushed while walking away, forcing his human valet to follow on his knees. Yum Yum missed the point entirely; she fought the brush, grabbing it, biting the bristles, and kicking the handle. The daily ritual was a farce, but it was an expected prelude to their morning nap.

Qwilleran reported to the inn for his own breakfast with Penguin Island in one pocket of his waterproof jacket; in another pocket he had the pear from his box lunch of the day before. The walk up the lane was surprisingly unmuddy; the sandy island drained like a sieve. Parking his green-and-white umbrella on the porch, he went directly to the sunless sunroom. There were no other guests, and he was able to order both breakfasts without embarrassment: eggs Benedict with Hollandaise sauce and johnnycakes with sausages and apple sauce. On the way out he avoided the domino'players but stopped at the fruit basket, where he exchanged his pear for two apples, one red and one green. So far, so good.

At Four Pips the boredom descended more heavily with every bucket of rain. He tried to read; he paced the floor; he ate an apple; he took a nap; he made a cup of instant coffee; he tried to write something trenchant. All his typewriter could produce was "The rain in the lane goes mainly to the brain." It was still only one o'clock, and out of sheer boredom he ate his box lunch from the Vacation Helpers. It was not bad for day-old food. The meatloaf, in fact, was very well flavored. When the Siamese finally struggled out of their somnolence, he offered them a morsel, but they were not interested.

"Good! All the more for me!" he said. "How about a stimulating game of dominoes?"

They recognized the maroon velvet box and took their places: Yum Yum crouching on the table as referee; Koko standing on the chair, ready to push dominoes onto the floor.

In the interest of scientific research and the hope that it might make a trenchant subject for his column, Qwilleran was keeping a daily record of Koko's selections. Strangely, one of his draws duplicated the first one of the day before, although in a different order: 5-6, 0-1, 6-6, 2-3.

Also, the cat won again. Did he sense that certain black rectangles had more white pips than others? If so, what did he know—or care—about winning? Was he trying to convey a message? Double-six! Double-five! There was usually a message in his madness. Or was he making a contribution to parapsychology? In some ways, Qwilleran was convinced, Koko knew more than he did.

When the game was over and Qwilleran was boxing the dominoes, he felt a pang of loneliness. There was no one with whom he could discuss these abstruse theories seriously. Polly listened politely; Riker kidded him; even the police chief talked about Koko's proven exploits with tongue in cheek. Perhaps one had to be a trifle odd to believe in the cat's ESP. Perhaps the Hardings—

His ruminations were interrupted by an urgent hammering on the door. Opening it, he found himself looking down on an open umbrella, from under which a small hand extended, holding a note.

"Thank you," Qwilleran said. "Are you Mitchell, vice president in charge of communications?"

The messenger jabbered something and ran back to the inn.

The note was a message from Lori: "Arch Riker phoned. Call him at the office. Urgent."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. What could be so urgent? He had faxed his copy yesterday, and it was already past the Wednesday deadline. Furthermore, it was still raining hard. He would have to change his shoes and put on his waterproof jacket... Then it occurred to him that the apple barn might have been damaged by the storm. There had been flashes of lightning over the mainland. He pulled on his duck boots and grabbed his umbrella.

Most of the guests were in the lounge, playing dominoes or snoozing in their chairs; even Koko and Yum Yum went to sleep after a domino session. Qwilleran strode purposefully up the stairs to the phone booth on the landing and called the newspaper office, collect.

An annoyingly cheerful voice came on the line. "How're things on the island with four names?"

"Wet!" Qwilleran answered curtly. "What's on your mind, Arch?"

"I like your column in today's paper. No one but you can write a thousand words about nothing and make it sound interesting."

"Some of my readers consider my stuff trenchant and not just interesting."

"So be it. When can we expect your next copy?"

"Is that all you called about? I risked drowning to get to this blasted phone! . . . But to answer your question: I've talked to an island woman who dismisses the pirate myth completely."

"Soft-pedal that aspect," the editor advised. "It's the main theme of the hotel."

"I know Don Exbridge has invested his life savings in black T-shirts, but the natives object. I don't see why we should support a commercial gimmick and reinforce a spurious legend because of an advertiser's ignorant whim."

"Cool it, Qwill. Isn't the native community called Piratetown?"

"Only by ignorant outsiders. Officially it's Providence Village, and trespassers are not welcome. In fact, I suspect a covert hostility that may explain the so-called accidents. The boat explosion was the fourth, and the people in charge of the waterfront are doing a lot of fast talking, so no one will get the idea it was a bomb. I'll tell you more when I see you."

"Which is why I called, Qwill," said the editor. "Mildred and I want to spend a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast before the resort gets crowded—this weekend, if it isn't too short a notice. The weather's due to clear up tomorrow and stay nice for a while. Would you make a reservation for us? Mildred wants you to pick out a B-and-B with a little class."

That eliminates the Domino Inn, Qwilleran thought. "Do you trust my judgment?"

"No, but Mildred apparently does. We plan to arrive late Friday, and we hope you'll have dinner with us Saturday night."

"I'll see what I can find. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Great! How are the mosquitoes?"

"Not too bad if you stay out of the woods. In the tourist area, they're automatically gassed by the fudge fumes."

Qwilleran walked slowly downstairs from the phone booth, regretting that he had mentioned the pirate controversy prematurely. Harriet may have been lying. She might not know the real truth about her heritage. The island might very well have been a pirate stronghold in prehistoric times. (Prehistoric in Moose County was anything before the War of 1812.) There was a hotel owner on the mainland who boasted of his pirate ancestry; why were the islanders so sensitive about the possibility?

He was intercepted at the foot of the stairs by Lori. "Is everything all right, Qwill?"

"Just a misplaced comma in my copy," he said archly. He opened his mouth to mention the Rikers" impending visit but closed it again; he could hardly ask the owner of the Domino Inn to recommend a B-and-B with more class!

Later, he remembered seeing a bed-and-breakfast brochure near the cash register at Harriet's cafe. He went there for dinner and ordered vegetable soup, two hot dogs with everything, and apple pie with ice cream. He could hear Harriet shouting orders in the kitchen like a drill sergeant. While eating, he read the advertising blurbs in the brochure: The Domino Inn was described as "Absolutely unique, with hearty, delicious breakfasts lovingly prepared. Newly redecorated with original 1920s furniture." The Seagull Inn featured brass beds and a billiard room. The B-and-B called Yesteryear-by-the-Lake had a cobblestone fireplace and a collection of toy trains. None of these would thrill the Rikers.

Then he read about the Island Experience: "Charming ambiance and gracious hospitality, with antique furnishings and gourmet breakfasts! Canopied beds have eyelet-embroidered bedlinens and handmade quilts. Complimentary champagne in the gazebo every afternoon."

Mildred would swoon over such amenities. Arch would prefer complimentary Scotch in the gazebo but would appreciate the antiques; he and his first wife Down Below had been experienced collectors. It was the bottom line that interested Qwilleran personally: Innkeepers Carlo Helmuth and Trudy Feathering are former members of the Grand Island Club. With no motive other than curiosity about the private estates, he determined to check out the Island Experience the next day, rain or shine. He went home and trimmed his moustache.

The sun was shining Thursday morning. Before going to breakfast, Qwilleran laid out his clothing for the visit with the former members of the Grand Island Club: a brushed silk shirt that Polly had given him for Sweetest Day, his new khaki twill trousers, and his British tan loafers.

The Hardings were leaving the breakfast room as he arrived. "Lovely day for the nature trail!" Mrs. Harding told him. "The wildflowers will be at their best, but don't forget the mosquito repellent. Spray and pray, as Arledge says."

"With emphasis on the latter," said her husband. "After a heavy rain, their buzzing sounds like a pondful of bullfrogs."

"By the way," Qwilleran asked them, "when you used to visit the Ritchies, did you meet any clubmembers named Feathering or Helmuth?"

The couple searched each other's eyes for answers, then admitted that the names were only vaguely familiar. "We didn't know any of the clubmembers well. The Ritchies were not what you would call clubby."

"It's not important," he said. "I merely heard that their widows were running a bed-and-breakfast here."

"How interesting," murmured Mrs. Harding, although k was clear that she was not interested at all.

After smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, followed by ham-and-potato cakes with chutney, Qwilleran returned to Four Pips to dress for his visit with the widows. As he unlocked the door he heard sounds of commotion; when be walked in, he saw a scene of disaster: table lamp on the floor, chair knocked over, desk papers scattered. He stepped on something; it was a domino. He kicked something; it was his green apple. Koko was circling the room wildly, jumping over furniture, ricocheting off the walls, and yowling with pain—or glee. He was having a catfit.

"Stop! Stop!" Qwilleran yelled.

Koko made a few more turns about the room before stopping and licking his battered body. Yum Yum came crawling out from under the sofa.

"You ruffian! What's the matter with you?" Qwilleran scolded. Patiently he put the room in order. Nothing was broken. The lamp shade had flown off, and the harp was bent, but there was no harm done. The dominoes scattered about the floor were found; only the cover of the maroon velvet box was missing. It would show up somewhere. He put the dominoes in a desk drawer. Then he went into the bedroom to change clothes.

First he noticed a sock on the floor. Next he saw his trousers crumpled on the floor behind the bedside table. And where was his silk shirt? Hunting for it on hands and knees, he found it wadded up under the dresser.

"You fiend!" Qwilleran exploded. "I just had this washed and pressed! I can't wear any of this now."

Koko stood in the doorway, looking impudent—with legs splayed, tail stiffly curled, and ears pointed in two directions.

Qwilleran sat down abruptly on the bed. Could it be that Koko did not want him to visit the Island Experience? The cat knew nothing about the inn, or the women who ran it, or the reason for going there! Or did he? Something was going on in that little cat brain!

Qwilleran shrugged in resignation. No one would believe that a man of his size, intelligence, education, and wealth could be tyrannized by a ten-pound animal. Now he had lost the wherewithal and the incentive to visit the Island Experience.

He brought a bottle of club soda from the refrigerator and took it to the porch to drink while he simmered down. It was calm on the porch. The woods were beautiful after the rain. He saw some yellow flowers outside the screens that had not been there before. When a rabbit hopped out of the underbrush and came close to the porch, Qwilleran remained quiet and motionless. And then he witnessed the incredible. The Siamese came out of the house and ambled toward the rabbit. There was no stealth, no stalking, no hostile posturing. They looked at the visitor, and the rabbit looked at them with his nose twitching. Then he hopped away.

Qwilleran finished his drink and then changed clothes. He put on some lightweight jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and his yellow baseball cap. "I'll be back after a while," he told the Siamese. He found the mosquito repellent and beaded for the nature trail.

There was a wagon in front of Five Pips, delivering a small barroom piano. Lori had unlocked the door for the deliverymen, but the window shades were still drawn. "Hi, Qwill!" she said. "The hotel is lending her a piano. Isn't that nice? She'll be here starting this weekend."

"Have you ever taken the nature trail?" he asked.

"I haven't had time, but I hear it's lovely."

The approach to the trail was mysteriously inviting. The path was thick with pine needles and spongy after the rain. On either side there were tall, straight pines with lofty branches admitting shafts of sunlight, while oaks and graceful birches dappled the path with shade. At intervals, small paths led into the underbrush on the left, each marked by a name painted on a shingle or small boulder: SEAGULL INN ... ISLAND EXPERIENCE. Farther along there was a larger marker: GRAND ISLAND CLUB—PRIVATE, followed by the elegantly simple names of summer estates like SEVEN OAKS and THE BIRCHES. Narrower trails, darkly forbidding, led into dense woods on the right; an occasional sign said KEEP our ... or simply DOGS.

Qwilleran never attempted to identify flora and fauna. Through painful experience he knew poison ivy when he saw it, and he knew which small animals had long ears and which had bushy tails. Otherwise he was botanically and zoologically illiterate. He merely enjoyed being alone in the forest with his thoughts. No one else was abroad after the recent deluge. He was in a small, green, private world of sights and sounds, plus the occasional prick of a proboscis on the back of his neck. The trail went on and on. He climbed over hillocks and trotted down into bosky gullies. At one time he asked himself, Will I be able to write a thousand words about this?

Eventually the fresh, verdant aroma mingled with another—the dark muskiness of marshland. Once more he misted his clothing with mosquito spray. When he passed a boulder marked THE PINES, he knew he would soon reach the sand dune and the end of the trail. He would round one more bend and then turn back.

As he skirted a large shrub, however, he caught a glimpse of an apparition on the path ahead. He stepped back out of sight to assess the situation, then cautiously peered through the shrub's branches. It was a woman on the path ahead ... with fluttering garments of pale green ... and long, lank hair like a mermaid. In a flash of nonthink he imagined a lacustrine creature washed ashore in the recent rain. The notion soon vanished. This woman was real, and she was apparently studying the low-growing plant life. He found himself thinking, Watch out for poison ivy, lady! She would stoop to touch a leaf, rise to write in a book, then turn to the other side of the trail to examine another specimen. It was odd garb for a botanist, Qwilleran thought; when Polly went birding, she wore hiking boots and jeans. This woman's movements were graceful, and her apparel added to the enchantment. He felt like a mythic satyr spying on a woodland nymph.

A sudden scream brought him back to reality. She had been reaching into the ground cover when she shrieked and recoiled in horror!

Without thinking, he rushed forward, shouting inanely, "Hello! Hello!"

"Ricky! Ricky!" she screamed in panic.

"What's the trouble?" he called out as he ran toward her.

"A snake!" she cried hysterically. "I'm bitten! I think it was a cottonmouth! ... Ricky! Ricky!"

"Where is he?"

She pointed vaguely with her left hand, dropping her sook. "At home," she groaned between sobs. I'll help you. Where d'you live?" "The Pines." Then she cried in a weaker voice, "Ricky!

"Take it easy! I'll get you there." Scooping her up in his arms, he started backtracking toward the boulder that narked the right path, keeping his pace fast but smooth. She was surprisingly lightweight; the voluminous garments covered an emaciated frame. She clutched her right wrist, which was swelling rapidly. "Let your arm hang down," he ordered.

"The pain!" she moaned. "My whole arm!"

He broke into a gliding trot. "You'll be okay . . . I'll get you home." They had reached the boulder and turned down the private path. "Won't be long now," he managed to say between heavy breathing. "We'll get a doctor."

"Ricky's a doctor ... I feel sick!" Then she fell ominously silent, her thin face pale. The path was ending. He could see green grass ahead. Two men were standing on the grass.

"Ricky!" Qwilleran shouted with almost his last breath.

Startled, they looked up. One ran forward. "Elizabeth! What happened?"

"Snake bite," Qwilleran gasped.

"I'll take her!" The man named Ricky gathered her up and ran to a golf cart nearby. As the cart headed toward a clump of buildings in the distance, he was talking on a portable phone.

The other man calmly finished a maneuver with a croquet mallet. "Bonkers!" he announced with satisfaction. Turning to Qwilleran, he said, "I suppose I should thank you for rescuing my baby sister. She's been warned to stay out of the woods . . . I'm Jack Appelhardt. And you're ... ?"

"Jim Qwilleran. Staying at the Domino Inn. I happened to be—"

"What?" the man interrupted with an unpleasant smile. "Does anyone actually stay at that place?" His remark was meant to be jocular.

Qwilleran was not amused. Gruffly he replied, "Hope she'll be all right." He turned away and walked up the access path as briskly as his lungs would permit. He could hear a motorized vehicle beeping in the languid atmosphere. It grew louder, then stopped. He could visualize the rescue squad running with a stretcher, loading the victim into the ambulance, radioing for the helicopter. "Ricky" would accompany the patient; it helped to have a doctor in the house. This was one island incident that Qwilleran could not attribute to foul play.

Reaching the main trail, he sat on the boulder to catch his breath before starting home. Then a prick on the back of his neck made him realize he had lost his mosquito spray. He returned to the scene of the rescue and retrieved not only the spray can but a silver pen and a leatherbound book stamped in gold: "E. C. Appelhardt." It contained lists of botanical names, along with dates and places. The latest entry was: Dionaea muscipula (Venus's flytrap).

He returned home with the lost articles and a potpourri of thoughts: Strange woman ... so thin ... how old?... Could be young ... face full of pain ... why so thin?... who was the doctor?... strange brother ... very strange woman ... unusual clothing ... hair like a mermaid ...

As he reached the end of the trail and turned into Pip Court, he remembered the last-minute catfit that had raised havoc with a silk shirt and a good pair of pants. Otherwise, he Would have been having refreshments in a gazebo with two widows instead of risking a heart attack to rescue a not-so-fair damsel in distress ... And then he thought, Was the cat's tantrum just a coincidence? Or what?

He could never be sure whether Koko's catfits were the result of a stitch in the side, a twitch in a nerve end, or an itch in the tail. Sometimes the cat had an ulterior motive. Sometimes he was trying to communicate.