The Cat Who Came to Breakfast

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Before he could think of answers, he dozed off and slept soundly until shocked awake by a terrifying roar, as if a locomotive were crashing through the house! It was followed by a hollow silence. Had it been an audio dream? The cats had heard it, too. Both were on top of the wallcabinet in the kitchenette. Then the empty silence was broken by another bellowing blast. It was the Breakfast Island foghorn on Lighthouse Point. It could be heard thirty miles out in the lake, and on Pip Court it sounded as if it were in the backyard. Now Qwilleran understood the ear plugs on the emergency list. The Siamese came down from their perch and slept peacefully throughout the booming night. Lori, in her infinite wisdom about cats, explained to Qwilleran the next day that they associated the regular bleating of the horn with their mother’s heartbeat when they were in the womb.

  Reporting for breakfast, he appreciated the green-and-white golf umbrella that came with the cottage. Two others were dripping on the front porch of the inn, and his neighbors from Pip Court were seated at a large, round table.

  “Please honor us with your company,” said Mr. Harding, his dignified stiffness aggravated by the dampness. He introduced the other couple as the newly weds in Two Pips.

  “We’re checking out today,” they said. “We have to bike back to Ohio before the weekend.”

  “In this weather?” Qwilleran questioned.

  “We have raingear. No problem.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the nature trail at the end of the lane.”

  “Super!” said the young woman. “It goes all the way to the sand dune, and there’s a hidden pond with a beaver dam and all kinds of wildflowers.”

  “It’s really a swamp with all kinds of mosquitoes,” said the young man, a realist.

  “Is the trail well marked?” Qwilleran asked. “Last year I lost my way on a mountain and would still be wandering in circles if it weren’t for a rescue dog.”

  “Stay on the main path; you can’t go wrong. Just be alert for snakes, wood ticks, and bush shooters. The rabbit hunters shoot at anything that moves, so wear bright colors.” The bikers stood up. “We’ve got to catch the ten o’clock ferry. Have a nice day, you guys.” This was said with a humorous nod at the rain-drenched windows.

  “Deck thyself in gladness,” Mr. Harding said with ecclesiastical pomp and a twinkle in his good eye.

  “Charming young people,” Mrs. Harding muttered when they had loped with athletic grace from the breakfast room. “There should be more like them on Pear Island.”

  Qwilleran said, “Are you aware that this island has three names? It’s Pear Island on the map, Breakfast Island to mainlanders, and Providence Island to the natives.”

  “There is yet another name,” said the vicar. “When the millionaires built their stately mansions—for their souls and their social prestige, we presume—they considered ‘Pear Island’ incompatible with their delusions of grandeur, so they renamed it. Perhaps you’ve seen the sign: GRAND ISLAND CLUB.”

  Qwilleran ate slowly and prolonged his first breakfast, hoping the elderly couple would leave and allow him to order a second breakfast without embarrassment.

  They lingered, however. “Good day for a friendly game of dominoes, if you feel so inclined,” the vicar said.

  “Unfortunately I have a deadline to meet,” Qwilleran replied, and he excused himself from the table, having had the souffléed ham and eggs with fresh pineapple, but not the waffles with ricotta cheese and strawberries. He felt deprived.

  On the way out he was selecting a couple of apples from the communal fruit basket when a sweet voice at his elbow said, “You should take a banana.” She was one of the two white-haired women who always smiled at him in unison when he crossed the porch or entered the lounge.

  “An apple a day keeps the rain away,” he said.

  “But bananas, you know, are an excellent source of potassium.”

  “The banana,” he declaimed facetiously, “was invented as a base for three scoops of ice cream, three sundae toppings, two dollops of whipped cream, a sprinkling of nuts, and a maraschino cherry. Other uses are marginal.”

  “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran,” she said with a delighted smile, “you sound just like your column! We’ve been reading it in the local paper. You should be syndicated. It’s so trenchant!”

  “Thank you,” he said with a gracious bow. He liked compliments on his writing.

  “I’m Edna Moseley, and I’m here with my sister Edith. We’re retired teachers.”

  “A pleasure to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying your stay. Let’s hope the weather clears shortly.” Taking two apples and a banana, he edged away. She and her sister were domino players, as were the Hardings. He had classified most of the guests. The newlyweds had been jigsaw puzzlers. Two older men played chess; probably retired teachers. A young couple with a well-behaved child played Scrabble.

  Then there was an attractive young woman who read magazines or talked to two men who were traveling together. None of them looked like a vacationer or showed any interest in dominoes, puzzles, sunsets, or the fruit basket. Qwilleran suspected they were a detective team from the state police. All three left the next day. Back at Four Pips Qwilleran tried to write a trenchant column, but the pelting rain and fretting Siamese disturbed him. He empathized with the cats. They had no room to practice their fifty-meter dash or their hurdles or broad jumps. For a while he amused Yum Yum by flipping a belt around for her to chase and grab. Floor space was limited, however. The sport entertained her briefly; Koko, not at all. He watched the performance as if they were both numbskulls. Koko preferred pastimes that challenged his sentience. It was that understanding that gave Qwilleran his next idea—one that would prove more significant than he expected.

  “Okay, old boy, how about a friendly game of dominoes?” he proposed. He remembered Koko’s interest in Scrabble and his fascination with a dictionary game they had invented Down Below. “Cats,” he had written in his column, “are ingenious inventors of pastimes. Even a kitten with a ball of yarn can play an exciting game of solitaire with original rules.” That column had brought him a bushel basket full of fan mail.

  On that rainy day in June he and Koko collaborated on a new version of dominoes, predicated ostensibly on blind chance. First, the contents of the maroon velvet box were emptied onto the small oak table in the front window, where they were spread at random, facedown. Then Qwilleran pulled up two oak chairs facing each other. Koko enjoyed moving any small object around with his paw, whether bottlecap or wrist-watch, and there were twenty-eight small objects. He stood on his hind legs on the chair, placed his forepaws on the table, and studied the black rectangles with eyes that were wide, intensely blue, and concentrated. A faltering paw reached out, touching first one domino and then another until, with a swift movement, he knocked one off the table.

  “Interesting,” said Qwilleran as he picked it up and found it to be 6-6. The name painted on Nick’s boat was Double-Six, and it happened to be the highest scoring piece in the set. “That was only a test. Now we start to play.” He found paper and pen for scoring and shuffled the dominoes facedown. “Your draw.”

  Koko looked down at the jumbled mass in his studious way, then swiped one off the table. It was 6-6 again.

  “Amazing!” Qwilleran said. “That’s twelve points for you. You’re entitled to four draws, then it’s my turn. It’s not necessary or desirable to knock everything on the floor. Just draw, like this.”

  Nevertheless, Koko enjoyed shoving a small object from a high place, peering over the edge to see it land. His second draw was also high-scoring, 5-6, but the next to land on the floor were 2-3 and 0-1, reassuring Qwilleran that it was the luck of the draw. When all the pieces had been drawn, the fourteen on the floor totaled 90 pips; Qwilleran’s score was 78. The game proved only one thing: Cats like to knock things down.

  The game had been stimulating enough to satisfy Koko’s needs, and he joined Yum Yum in her leatherette nest, while Qwilleran set up his typewriter on the oak table. T
he thousand words he wrote for his “Qwill Pen” column were about the island with four names and four cultures: the natives, who had lived on Providence Island for generations; the mainlanders who knew Breakfast Island as a haunt for fishermen; the summer residents from Down Below, pursuing their affluent lifestyle on Grand Island; and now the tourists, bent on having a good time on Pear Island, as it was named on the map. He called the demographic situation “a heady mix on a few square miles of floating real estate.”

  When he finished his column, it was still raining, and he rode downtown in a horse cab to fax his copy. In the hotel lobby, bored tourists were milling aimlessly, or they were slumped in lobby chairs, reading comic books. From adjacent rooms came electronic sounds mingling in jarring dissonance: television, video games, and bar music.

  Qwilleran spotted a conservation officer in a Boat Patrol uniform, and he asked him. “Shouldn’t you be out on the lake, protecting the fish from the fishermen?”

  The officer acknowledged the quip with a dour grimace. “In this weather, who’s crazy enough to be out fishing? I’m showing educational videos in the TV room.”

  “Has the influx of boaters increased your work?”

  “You can bet it has! We chug around the lake counting poles and writing up violations. The law allows two poles per licensed fisherman, you know. Coupla days ago we saw a sport-fishing craft with eight poles and only three men visible on deck. We stopped them and asked to see their fishing licenses. When they could show us only two, they explained that the third guy wasn’t fishing; he just came along for the ride. That was a big laugh. Now they had eight poles and only two fishermen! But that wasn’t the end of it. We did a safety check, and their fire extinguisher wasn’t charged! We sent ’em back to shore to get it recharged and face a hefty fine for illegal lines.”

  “How about the sport divers?” Qwilleran asked. “Are they giving you any trouble?”

  “They’re the sheriff’s responsibility. He has divers and patrol boats that keep tabs on them. Divers aren’t supposed to take artifacts from wrecks, but they’re crazy about those brass portholes!”

  Qwilleran asked, “Do you know what caused the explosion at the marina last weekend?”

  “Sure. The usual. Carelessness and ignorance. Landlubbers know they have to take a road test and written exam to drive a car, but they buy a $25,000 boat and think it’s just a toy.” He looked at his watch. “Gotta grab something to eat, then do another video for this captive audience. When it rains, they’re so bored, they’ll watch anything!”

  While Qwilleran was waiting for the dining room to open, he looked at the Tuesday edition of the Moose County Something. On the editorial page there were several letters from readers regarding Pear Island.

  To the Editor:

  My family and I just spent a wonderful weekend at Pear Island. We are so fortunate to have such an exciting playground, just a short ferry ride away. We rode bikes, swam in the hotel pool, and hunted for agates on the beach. It was super fun!

  —Cassie Murdoch

  Pickax

  Qwilleran assumed that Cassie was Exbridge’s secretary or sister or mother-in-law.

  To the Editor:

  Pear Island is okay for people who have money to spend, but what it needs is a campground for tents and cookouts. I’d like to see a tent city where you could meet people. All they’d have to do is cut down some trees in the center of the island.

  —Joe Ormaster

  North Kennebeck

  Qwilleran thought, No one’s going to love you, Joe. Not XYZ. Not the environmentalists. Not the islanders.

  To the Editor:

  I took my elderly mother to Pear Island for the day, and she was shocked by some of the distasteful slogans on shirts and caps worn by some of the other visitors. Also, the restrooms are too far from the ferry dock, and the smell of fudge everywhere made her sick, but we had a good time. She enjoyed the ferry ride, although all the benches were taken, and no one offered her a seat. She is 84.

  —Mrs. Alfred Melcher

  Mooseville

  To the Editor:

  My husband and I had a lovely time on Pear Island. But why do they allow those people to march back and forth in front of the hotel, carrying signs and yelling? It spoils the happy vacation mood for the rest of us who pay good money to sit in the rocking chairs and enjoy the view.

  —Mrs. Graham MacWhattie

  Toronto, Canada

  When it was time for the dining room to open, Qwilleran reported to the reservation desk in the lobby. To his surprise, the new captain was seven feet tall, if one included the black pirate tricorne. “Derek! Glad to see you got the job!” Qwilleran greeted him.

  “How d’you like my costume?” Derek asked. “I think I should have one gold earring.” As a member of the Pickax Theater Club, Derek liked roles that required spectacular costumes.

  “You’re perfect. Don’t change a thing.”

  “Are you staying at the hotel?”

  “No, I merely came for dinner. I’m lodging at the Domino Inn.”

  “I get a room at the Vacation Helpers, rent paid. That’s one of the perks. The job only pays minimum wage, but it’ll look good on a resume, and I get to meet a lot of girls,” Derek said.

  In a lower voice Qwilleran asked, “Would you be interested in doing some undercover work for an investigative reporter—as a side job?”

  “Who? You?”

  “I’m the go-between.”

  “Any risks? How much does it pay?”

  A line was beginning to form behind Qwilleran, and he said loudly, “I’d like a table for one in the Corsair Room.” In a conspiratorial whisper he added, “Stop at Domino Inn on your way home tonight. We’ll talk.”

  Qwilleran hurried through dinner and was ordering a horse cab for the ride home when Dwight Somers hailed him. “Are you here for dinner, Qwill?”

  “Just finished.”

  “Come into the lounge and have a drink.”

  “I can stand another cup of coffee and some dessert.”

  They sat in a booth to assure conversational privacy, and Dwight said, “Just got some good news. Don Exbridge has been in Pickax lobbying to get the island sprayed for mosquitoes, and the county’s going to do it.”

  “That’s good news for tourists,” Qwilleran said, “but the ecologists will hit the ozone layer.”

  “By the way, Qwill, we don’t call them tourists any more; it has a negative connotation. They’re vacationers, by decree from the boss. He’s also twisting some political arms to get the beach road paved all around the island, with a strip for bikers and joggers.”

  “I hate to be a wet blanket, Dwight, but the summer people will fight it to the last drop of their blue blood. The natives won’t be so hot for it, either.”

  “The natives are against any kind of progress. They almost rioted when the post office was moved downtown. It had been in some woman’s kitchen in Piratetown for years.”

  “We don’t call it Piratetown any more, Dwight; it has a negative connotation. It’s Providence Village.”

  Dwight ordered a burger and beer. Their booth was within sight of the bar, and Qwilleran noticed the head bartender eying him strangely as he talked with the hotel’s publicity chief. “What do you think of this rain?” Dwight asked. “It wasn’t predicted.”

  “The ancient gods of the island are not only frowning, they’re weeping. Maybe your boss is lobbying the wrong hierarchy. In less than two weeks you’ve had two deaths, one broken rib, a wrecked boat, fifteen stomach aches, and unscheduled rain. Someone is trying to tell you something.”

  “Well, those are the bugs you have to expect in new operations. Did you see the letters to the editor today? We’re batting about .200.”

  “What kind of response are the merchants getting? I never see any customers in the antique shop.”

  “Her stuff is too good for this place. A flea market would be more in line.”

  “Why would someone like Noisette choose to come h
ere? Or did Exbridge party in Palm Beach last winter and invite her?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Not only are her prices high, but she has a very limited inventory. I recall a similar instance Down Below; it was a front for something else. Maybe that’s the situation here.”

  “Please! Not that!” Dwight pleaded. “We’ve got problems enough! The latest is bird droppings. The—uh—vacationers sit on the porch and throw bread to the seagulls. Then the stray cats come around for the crumbs. The birds make a mess. The cats fight…Honestly and confidentially, Qwill, how do you size up this whole project?”

  “I think you’ve got a tiger by the tail. A resort should be a happy place. XYZ has created a rat’s nest of conflict, culture clash, and—if you’ll pardon my frank opinion—sabotage.”

  “You’re not serious,” Dwight said.

  “I’m serious. It’s easy to second-guess, of course, but it now becomes clear to me that XYZ should have done a feasibility study before launching this project. They might have discovered that the pirate legend has no historical verification and that the islanders resent the implication. It’s my belief that the hotel’s celebration of the pirate myth is creating hostility.”

  “It’s all in fun. It’s just fantasy.”

  “The islanders have no sense of humor. Neither would you, if you lived in Providence Village.”

  “But what harm can it do?”

  “Do you realize a con artist was selling Pear Island treasure-hunting maps for fifty dollars in bars on the mainland? Dunderheads are coming over on the ferry with shovels.”