The Cat Who Came to Breakfast

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  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 book. “At home,” she groaned between sobs.

  “I’ll help you. Where d’you live?”

  “The Pines.” Then she cried in a weaker voice, “Ricky! Ricky!”

  “Take it easy! I’ll get you there.” Scooping her up in his arms, he started backtracking toward the boulder that marked 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.

  When Qwilleran arrived at Four Pips following the episode on the nature trail, the Siamese were playing a cozy domestic scene in the lounge chair, which they had commandeered as their own. Koko was biting Yum Yum’s neck, and she was slobbering in his ear.

  “Disgusting!” Qwilleran said to them.

  He stripped off his clothes and took a shower. Despite the arduous detour through the woods, he still had to check the Island Experience and make a reservation for the Rikers. He took a rest and revived himself with some packaged snacks before dressing in his second-best shirt and pants. His crumpled duds he stuffed into a plastic bag for another trip to the Vacation Helpers.

  On the way he could not resist stopping at the inn to report his adventure to the Hardings. They were sitting in their favorite swing, close to the front door, where they could see everyone coming and going.

  “I’ve just met some members of the royal family,” he told them as he walked up the steps.

  “The Appelhardts?” the vicar said in surprise. “Dare one inquire how that came about?”

  Qwilleran related the story without mentioning his aerobic feat with an armful of hysterical botanist. “She said she lived at The Pines, and I helped her get home. Two men were playing croquet, and one of them happened to be a doctor. He took her away in a golf cart, and I would guess she was airlifted to the mainland.”

  “Well, well, well!” Mrs. Harding exclaimed.

  “Three holes in the ground,” her husband said mockingly.

  “Oh, Arledge!” She slapped his wrist. “He always says that,” she complained to Qwilleran fussily.

  The vicar said, “We haven’t seen the royal family since the Ritchies disposed of their property. As their house guests we were invited to garden parties at The Pines. The matriarch of the Appelhardts always presided like the dowager queen mother.”

  “The refreshments were sumptuous,” Mrs. Harding recalled, “and there were peacocks strutting around the garden, spreading their tails and making horrendous noises when one least expected it.”

  “
Alas, the Ritchies are gone, and the royal family is still with us,” the vicar said in a grieving tone. “If you are interested in a little authentic history, Mr. Qwilleran—”

  “I’m very interested!” He pulled up a chair.

  “In the 1920s, the Appelhardts bought the western half of the island from the government and displaced the islanders, who had been tolerated as squatters. They established the Grand Island Club for millionaires who enjoy nature—if not too uncomfortably natural. According to widespread belief, they bought the land for ten dollars an acre and sold it to club members for ten dollars a square foot. I suspect it is now worth ten dollars a square inch.” He finished with a chuckle that developed into a coughing spell.

  Mrs. Harding rummaged in her handbag. “Here, Arledge, take this lozenge, and do be careful!”

  Qwilleran said, “I had only a brief glimpse of their estate from the rear, but it seems extensive.”

  “Oh, yes!” she said. “Besides the main lodge there are smaller lodges for the married sons, cottages for the help, stables for the horses, a large swimming pool with pool house, tennis courts—”

  “My dear, you sound like a real-estate agent,” her husband chided.

  She gave him a reproving glance and continued. “The married sons are professional men. The young woman you met is their only daughter. She never married. There’s also a very handsome son—married several times, I believe. He appears to have no serious calling.”

  “The prodigal son,” Mr. Harding explained. “Inevitable in every family of means.”

  His wife said, “The Moseley sisters will want to hear about this, Mr. Qwilleran. The daughter was a student at the school where they taught. I’m sure you’ve met Edith and Edna, haven’t you?”

  “I met one of them at the fruit basket, but I don’t know whether it was Edna or Edith. She was promoting bananas as a source of something-or-other.”

  “That was Edna. She’s the taller of the two and wears glasses.”

  “It’s Edith who wears glasses,” her husband corrected her. “Edna wears corrective shoes and speaks with a soft voice. Edith taught dramatic arts and always projects from the diaphragm. Edna taught science, I believe. She’s the prettier of the two—”

  “Well, you must excuse me,” Qwilleran said as Mr. Harding paused for breath. “I have an important errand to do. We’ll continue this later.”

  His next stop was the Vacation Helpers service center, where he dropped off his clothes to be pressed. Shelley greeted the silk shirt like an old friend. “You’re really hard on your clothes,” she said.

  “Don’t blame me. My roommate flew off the handle.”

  “Do you let her get away with that?”

  “My roommate is a male with four legs and a tail and sharp teeth,” he explained.

  “Oh, don’t tell me! Let me guess! You have a German shepherd.…No? A Weimaraner?”

  “You’re not even warm. I’ll give you a clue. He has a dark mask.”

  “A Boxer!”

  “No. I’ll tell you what,” Qwilleran said. “I’ll pick up my pressing in an hour or so, and you think about it in the meantime.”

  The Island Experience was the last in the row of commercial establishments on West Beach Road, and it was the most imposing. The rustic lodge was landscaped with taste and money. Instead of the traditional porch, a contemporary deck spanned the front elevation, overlooking the lake. There were tubs of salmon-pink geraniums to match the salmon-pink umbrella tables, but there were no guests in the salmon-pink canvas chairs.

  Qwilleran assumed they were all in the gazebo, drinking the complimentary champagne. He rang the bell.

  The woman who greeted him was a handsome, well-dressed, mature woman with a sparkling smile. “Welcome to Island Experience! I’m Carla, your merry innkeeper.”

  “I’m Jim Qwilleran, a bad-humored traveler from the mainland.”

  “Trudy!” she called over her shoulder. “Guess who just walked in! The Qwill Pen himself!”

  Another woman with designer-style appearance and personality came briskly into the foyer, smiling and extending both hands in welcome. “We’ve been reading your column in the little newspaper here, and it’s enchanting! We remember your by-line from Chicago, too. Are you looking for a place to stay? Be our guest!”

  “To tell the truth, I’ve been on the island since Sunday,” he said. “I’m traveling with pets, so I’m obliged to stay in one of the cottages at Domino Inn.”

  “Why don’t you stay here and let the animals have the cottage? The Vacation Helpers will feed them and walk them for you.”

  “It’s not so simple as that,” he objected. “I appreciate the suggestion, but my purpose here at the moment is to find lodgings for a couple of friends. Arch Riker and his wife—he’s publisher of the ‘little newspaper’—want to spend this weekend on the island. I believe they’d enjoy your inn.”

  While standing in the foyer he had scanned the adjoining rooms and had noted the impressive antiques and impressive decor and also the lack of guests. Someone was hovering in the living room, but she wore a salmon-pink uniform and was dusting the bric-a-brac.

  “Let us show you around,” Carla offered. “It took nerve to paint the plank paneling white, but I think it enhances our country antiques, don’t you?”

  There were loungy sofas in the living room, foils for the expensively severe tables, desks and cupboards. In the dining room Windsor chairs surrounded a long trestle table; its pedigree was palpable even to Qwilleran. Upstairs, only one door was closed; open doors revealed perfectly appointed bedrooms and sitting rooms that seemed to be waiting for a magazine photographer.

  “Do you think your friends would like a suite?” Trudy asked as she handed him a card listing the rates.

  There were four bedrooms and two suites. The Garden Suite was twice the price of a bedroom, and the English Suite was the most expensive of all, having a Jacobean canopy bed with twisted posts.

  “I think Mr. and Mrs. Riker would like the English Suite,” he said, chuckling inwardly at the thought of his friend’s indignation. Arch could afford it, but he always played the tightwad. Furthermore, he had been goading Qwilleran for his Scottish thrift for four decades. It was time for sweet revenge.

  “We put fresh flowers in the English Suite,” one of the women said. “Do you happen to know what the lady likes?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Perfect! Yellow looks lovely with the dark oak. We’ll phone the mainland and have them shipped over by ferry.”

  With the arrangements completed, Qwilleran was invited to have champagne in the gazebo. “Make mine a soft drink, and I’ll accept with pleasure,” he said.

  The gazebo was screened, not only against mosquitoes but against wandering cats. Several healthy specimens, two of them pregnant, were prowling about the backyard, waiting for the hors d’oeuvres.

  “Everyone feeds them,” Trudy said. “The island is really overcatted.”

  They sat in white wicker chairs while a timorous young island woman in salmon pink brought the champagne bucket, glasses, and a flavored mineral water for Qwilleran. He proposed a toast to the two merry innkeepers and then asked the standard question: What had brought them to the island? The women looked at each other briefly for cues and then began an overlapping dialogue:

  Carla: “Both our families have been members of the Grand Island Club since it began, so we’ve been summer neighbors all our lives, until—”

  Trudy: “Our husbands died, and our children thought the Caymans were more exciting, so—”

  Carla: “We sold our memberships and—”

  Trudy: “Started traveling together, buying antiques and staying at country inns.”

  Carla: “We collected so much stuff, we had two options—”

  Trudy: “To open an antique shop or start a bed-and-breakfast, so—”

  Carla: “We decided we’d like an inn, because we love meeting people and playing the host.”

  Trudy: “And then
we heard about the Pear Island opportunity. Imagine our surprise when—”

  Carla: “We realized it was our own Grand Island with a different name.”

  Trudy: “Actually, we’re delighted, because—”

  Carla: “There’s something about this island that gets into the blood.”

  As they stopped for breath, Qwilleran blinked his eyes and shook his head. Seated between them, he was turning rapidly from side to side to keep up with their dizzying recital. “May I change my seat in order to see both of you lovely ladies?” he asked. It was no exaggeration; he wondered how many hairdressers, masseuses, dressmakers, cosmetic surgeons, orthodontists, and voice coaches had labored to produce these perfect womanworks. Their well-modulated voices assumed a higher pitch, however, with each pouring from the bottle.

  A tray of canapes was brought to the gazebo by the painfully awkward server, who was trying hard to do everything right. When she had gone, Qwilleran asked, “Do you staff your inn with islanders?”

  “We debated that. Don Exbridge wanted us to hire students from the mainland, but our families always hired islanders, and we felt comfortable with them. They’re part of the island experience, you know.”

  Another chilled bottle of champagne arrived, and another bottle of kiwi-flavored mineral water, and Qwilleran said, “You mentioned that you sold your memberships. Not your real estate?”

  The women exchanged a glance that said, Shall we tell him? Then they succumbed to his sincere gaze and sympathetic manner. They were relaxing. They were eager to talk.

  “Well,” Trudy began, “when we decided to sell our property—which our families had held since the 1920s—we learned we had to sell it back to the club at their price, which was much less than market value. It was in the original contract. Nothing we could do about it.”

  Carla interrupted with belligerence, “If my husband had been alive, he’d have found a loophole, believe me!”

  “The Grand Island Club is controlled by the Appelhardt family, who founded it, and Mrs. Appelhardt, the mother, is a hard woman,” Trudy said.