ANTIQUES BY NOISETTE
PARIS…PALM BEACH
The sign piqued his curiosity. Why would a dealer with Paris and Palm Beach credentials choose Pear Island as a summer venue?
There were other signs that interested him. The one in the window that had said Open when the shop was closed had now been turned around to read Closed when the shop was open. Taped on the glass panel of the door was another piece of information:
No Children Allowable If Not
in Chargement of an Adult
There were no customers in the store, and he could understand why. Noisette sold only antiques—no postcards, fudge, or T-shirts. He sauntered into the shop in slow motion to disguise his eagerness about the masks; that was the first rule of standard antiquing procedure, he had been told. First he examined the bottom of a plate and held a piece of crystal to the light as if he knew what he was doing.
From the corner of his eye he saw a woman sitting at a desk and reading a French magazine. She was hardly the friendly, folksy dealer one would expect on an island 400 miles north of everywhere. She had the effortless chic that he associated with Parisian women: dark hair brushed back to emphasize a handsomely boned face; lustrous eyes of an unusual brown; tiny diamond earrings.
“Good evening,” he said in the mellifluous voice he reserved for women he wanted to impress.
“Oh! Pardon!” she said. “I did not see you enter.” Her precise speech said “Paris,” and when she stood up and came forward, her jade silk shirt and perfectly cut white trousers said “Florida.”
“You have some interesting things here,” he said, mentally comparing them with the plastic pears and bawdy bumper stickers in the shop next door.
“Ah! What is it that you collect?”
“Nothing in particular. I walked past earlier and your door was locked.”
“I was taking some sustainment, I regret.” She walked to a locked vitrine that had small figures behind glass. “Are you interested in pre-Columbian? I take them out of the case.”
“No, thanks. Don’t bother. I’m just looking.” He did some more aimless wandering before saying, “Those masks in the window—what are they made of?”
“They are fabrications of leather, a very old Venetian craft, requiring great precisement. I have them from the collection of a famous French film actor, but I have not the liberty to use his name, I regret.”
“Hmmm,” said Qwilleran without any overt enthusiasm. He then picked up an ordinary-looking piece of green glass. “And what is this?”
“It is what one calls Depression glass.”
The rectangular tray of green glass was stirring vague memories. His mother used to have one on her dresser when he was young. She would say, “Jamesy, please bring my reading glasses from the pin tray on my bureau—that’s a good boy.” He had never seen any pins on the pin tray, but he definitely remembered the pattern pressed into the glass.
“How much are you asking for this?” he asked.
“Twenty-five dollars. I have a luncheon set in the same pattern—sixteen pieces—and I make you a very good price if you take the entirement.”
“And how much are you asking for the masks?”
“Three hundred. Are you a theater activist?”
“I’m a journalist, but I have an interest in drama.
I’m here to write some features about the island. How’s business?”
“Many persons come in for browsement, but it is too early. The connoisseurs, they are not yet arrived.”
With studied nonchalance Qwilleran suggested, “You might let me have a closer look at the masks.”
She brought Comedy from the window display, and he was surprised to find it lightweight (when it looked heavy) and soft to the touch (when it looked hard). He avoided making any comment or altering his expression.
“If you really like them,” the dealer said, “I make you a little reducement.”
“Well…let me think about it. May I ask what brought you to the island?”
“Ah, yes. I have a shop in Florida. My customers fly north in the summer, so I fly north.”
“Makes good sense,” he said agreeably. After a measured moment he asked, “What is the very best you can do on the masks?”
“For you, two seventy-five, because I think you appreciate.”
He hesitated. “What will you take for the piece of green glass?”
“Fifteen.”
He hesitated.
Then Noisette said, “If you take the masks, I give you the piece of glass.”
“That’s a tempting offer,” he said.
“Then in probability you will come back and take the luncheon set.”
“Well…” he said reluctantly. “Will you take a personal check?”
“With the producement of a driver’s license.”
“To whom do I make the check payable?”
“Antiques by Noisette.”
“Are you Noisette?”
“That is my name.” She wrapped the masks and the tray in tissue and put them in an elegant, glossy paper totebag.
As he was leaving, he remarked, “You and your shop would make an interesting feature for my newspaper—the Moose County Something on the mainland. Might we arrange an interview?”
“Ah! I regret I do not like personal publicity. But thank you, with apologies.”
“That’s perfectly all right. I understand. Do you have a business card?”
“But no. I have ordered some cards, and they have not yet arrived. How to explain the delayment, I do not know.”
As Qwilleran walked up West Beach Road with his totebag he frequently touched his moustache; his curiosity about Noisette was turning into suspicion. Any individual in the business world who declined free publicity in his column was suspect. Her stock was scant; customers were few, if any; she was out of place on Pear Island, where a flea market would be more appropriate; her prices seemed high, although…what did he know about prices? He knew what he liked, that was all, and he liked those masks.
On West Beach Road the sky was gearing up for a spectacular sunset. Even the Domino Inn looked less objectionable in the rosy glow, and all the porch swings were occupied by swingers waiting for the color show. The wooden two-seaters squeaked on their chains, musically but out of tune. As Qwilleran crossed the porch on the way to see Lori, two white-haired women smiled at him sweetly, and the Hardings waved.
“How was your dinner?” Lori asked.
“Excellent! I had shrimp gumbo, and I stopped in the antique shop and bought you a pencil tray for your desk—Depression glass, circa 1930.”
“Oh, thank you! My grandmother used to collect this!”
“I also bought a couple of masks I’d like to hang on my sitting room wall, if it’s permissible.”
“Sure,” she said. “Two more holes in those old walls won’t hurt. I’ll give you a hammer and some nails. How do the cats like the cottage?”
“I believe they’re victims of culture shock.” Gallantly he refrained from mentioning the slipcovers that discomforted all three of them with their pattern if not their odor.
“Cats sense when they are surrounded by water,” Lori said with assurance. “But in three days they can get used to anything.”
Qwilleran said, “Koko has vandalized your wall calendar, but I’ll buy you a new one and take it out of his allowance. He tore off the month of June, and now…” He stopped abruptly as the roots of his moustache tingled. “By the way, who are my next-door neighbors on Pip Court?”
“In Three Pips we have Mr. and Mrs. Harding, a darling elderly couple. Five Pips is rented for the season to June Halliburton from the mainland. I’m sure you know her.”
“I do indeed,” he said crisply. “Did anyone occupy Four Pips before we arrived?”
“As a matter of fact, she used it the first two weekends but asked to move to the end of the row. She was afraid her music would disturb the Hardings. It was very thoughtful of her…Are you going to watch the sunse
t from the porch, Qwill?”
“I have something to do first,” he said as he hurried from the office.
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 if 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 and 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 over 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 corner, 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 Sautéed 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 annoyingly 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 café for tourists—with financial aid from the K Foundation, of course. You probably know about Harriet’s Family Café.”
“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 bête 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 allterrain 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 Café, 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.
The Cat Who Came to Breakfast Page 6