The Cat Who Came to Breakfast

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “No, she approached him with the proposition.”

  “What is she doing in this remote part of the country anyway? With all her talents she belongs in a major city Down Below. I’ll have to ask Lyle Compton how she landed in Moose County. He’s the one who hired her.”

  “Lyle will be here Sunday night, doing his talk on Scotland. Do you have any big plans for the weekend?”

  “Just dining with Arch and Mildred tomorrow night,” Qwilleran said, “and avoiding my musical neighbor.”

  As Qwilleran walked back to the Domino Inn, he had to stand aside for emergency vehicles speeding up the beach road. He could imagine that a member of the Grand Island Club had a heart attack, or a carriageful of tourists overturned, or the kid who was leaning over the ferry railing fell over the cliff at the lighthouse. By the time he reached the inn, the vehicles were speeding back downtown, and the sheriff’s helicopter could be heard.

  The guests sitting in porch swings were all agog when Qwilleran walked up the driveway. Someone called out, “Mitchell, he came back!” The four-year-old rushed indoors and rushed out again to hand him an envelope with an important crest on the flap.

  Mrs. Harding said, “It was delivered by a man in green livery, driving a very handsome buggy with a beautiful horse!”

  At Four Pips the Siamese were allowed to sniff the envelope, and their noses registered excitement. The note read:

  Dear Mr. Qwilleran,

  Please honor us by having tea at The Pines Sunday afternoon. We wish to thank you in person for coming to the rescue of our daughter Elizabeth after her unfortunate mishap. She is out of danger, we are glad to say, and returns to the island tomorrow. It will be our pleasure to send a carriage for you at four o’clock Sunday.

  It was signed “Rowena Appelhardt.” She was the queen mother, Qwilleran guessed, and this was to be a command appearance at Buckingham Palace. At least, he would see the peacocks, and Mrs. Harding said the refreshments were commendable.

  The Siamese were prowling and yowling and looking lean and hungry. He checked their feeding station. The plate was empty, but the cubes of meatloaf had merely been scattered about the floor of the kitchenette. They looked dry and unappetizing.

  “Shame on you!” he said. “There are homeless cats that would kill for a taste of this meatloaf! And it behooves you to get used to it, because we have another eight pounds coming.”

  He shoveled up the rejected delicacy and took it up the lane to the old glazed birdbath that served as a feeding station for the wild cats. Before he could even empty his bowl, three of them came from nowhere to fight for their share. Then he saw Nick Bamba, home for the weekend and hammering nails into a wooden contraption.

  “What are you doing?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Building a rack to keep the trash barrels off the ground. It’s neater, and the strays can sleep underneath. Lori’s idea.”

  “You never quit, do you, Nick?”

  “Compared to my job at the prison, this is R-and-R.

  Did you have a good week? Did you find out anything?”

  “So far I’ve been feeling my way and making contacts. Stop in tomorrow, and we’ll talk.”

  Qwilleran went into the lounge for an apple and found that the basket was filled with pears! While there he heard a radio newscast coming from an alcove, where a family of three were playing dominoes. He walked over and said, “Mind if I listen? I’m interested in tomorrow’s weather.”

  “You’ve just missed it,” said the father. He turned to his son. “Do you remember what they said about the weather, Brad?”

  The boy was about ten years old and looked too intelligent for his age; he wore a T-shirt printed with the words: Ask Me. He said, “Moderately high winds subsiding at midnight. Waves three to four feet. Tomorrow sunny and warm with light winds from the southeast, veering to southwest by afternoon. High tomorrow: seventy-five. Low—”

  “Hush,” his father said, holding up a hand and inclining his head toward the radio. The announcer was saying:

  “…police bulletin from Pear Island, where a shooting claimed the life of a vacationer this evening. The victim, an adult male, was hang gliding on the sand dune at the north end of the island when his companions heard a gunshot and the kite fell into the shallow water of the lake. Suffering from hypothermia as well as loss of blood, he was given emergency aid at the scene by the volunteer rescue squad before being airlifted by sheriff’s helicopter to the mainland. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the Pickax General Hospital. Gunfire, not unusual on the island, had been noted throughout the day and evening. The fatal bullet is thought to be a stray shot fired by a varmint hunter, according to the sheriff’s department. The victim’s name has not been released at this time, but police say he was not a resident of Moose County.”

  “Nobody told us about gunfire on the island!” said the mother. “I hate guns!”

  As Qwilleran walked back to Four Pips, he thought, Another incident!…Nick will spend a sleepless night, worrying about the future of the inn…The woman who hates guns will convince her husband to cut their visit short…The Moseley sisters will be glad they’re canceling…The two men who look like detectives, having left, will come back.

  He counted on his fingers: One, food poisoning. Two, drowning. Three, bad fall. Four, explosion. Five, shooting…He was impressed by the diversity of the mishaps. There was no pattern, except that they all targeted tourists at regularly spaced intervals. Qwilleran pictured a consortium of saboteurs, each performing his own specialty. The islanders were crafty, skilled, and knowledgeable as a result of the hard life they lived. What mystified him was Koko’s lack of interest and cooperation. In the past he had sensed the presence of crime and sniffed for clues. Perhaps the island atmosphere dulled his senses. True, he had staged a catfit that caused Qwilleran to be the right person in the right place at the right time, but that had nothing to do with the five suspicious incidents.

  At Four Pips the Siamese continued to look at Qwilleran reproachfully and hungrily, and it required great fortitude to hold out against their wiles. He would give them their crunchy bedtime snack, but that was all, for breakfast he would serve meatloaf again on a take-it-or-leave-it basis.

  After dark the three of them liked to sit on the screened porch, listening to mysterious sounds in the trees and underbrush, but tonight there was competition from Five Pips: piano playing, voices, recorded music, laughter. Qwilleran sorted out the voices: two of them, one female, one male. Later, the music stopped and the voices were muffled. He went indoors, read for a while, gave the cats their treat, and then retired.

  He fell asleep easily and had one of his fanciful dreams: The natives living on Pear Island were penguins, and the tourists were puffin birds. A great bald eagle appeared and attempted to tow the island to the mainland, but he was shot down by a rabbit hunter, and the island sank to the bottom of the lake.

  “Whew!” Qwilleran gasped, waking and sitting up in bed. He could hear happy voices next door, saying good night. The male guest was leaving with a flashlight, and Qwilleran hoped it would illuminate the man’s face when he passed Four Pips—not that it was any of Qwilleran’s business, but he was observant by nature and by profession. His curiosity was aroused, however, when the visitor left by way of the nature trail.

  Qwilleran may not have known it, but he was losing the Battle of the Meatloaf. Two hungry and indignant cats started yowling outside his bedroom door at six A.M. Saturday. He endured it for almost an hour and then—in bare feet and pajama bottoms—went to the kitchen to prepare another plate of meatloaf for the ungrateful wretches. They were quiet as he cut the food, mincing it this time instead of cubing it. They were quiet when he placed the plate on the floor. They looked at it in disbelief, as if to say, What is this stuff?…Are we supposed to eat this dog dinner? Just as they were shaking their paws exquisitely and walking away from the plate, there was a knock on the front door.

  Qwilleran’s watch said seven-fifteen. It must be Mit
chell—who else? He might be bringing a message from the Rikers. Perhaps they had not arrived last night. Perhaps some emergency had arisen. He pulled the door open with anxiety.

  To his embarrassment it was June Halliburton, fully clothed and squinting through the smoke of a cigarette that she held gracefully in one hand. She appraised his rumpled pajama bottoms and uncombed hair and grinned impishly. “Want to go to breakfast with me? Come as you are.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I won’t be ready for food for another couple of hours. Go along without me. They serve an excellent breakfast.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she said loftily. “I spent two weekends in this cottage, keeping your bed warm for you. Did anyone tell you I’m handling the entertainment for the hotel? While you’re sitting around doing nothing, you might try writing some material for me. I can’t guarantee I’ll use it, but it should be good practice for you.” These typically shabby remarks were made with the insolent smile that was her trademark.

  Qwilleran had been writing college revues when she was still sucking teething rings. Before he could think of a retort within the bounds of civility, Koko came up behind and swooped to his shoulder, teetering there as if ready to spring and fixing the intruder with his laser stare.

  “Well,” she said, “come over to Five Pips for a drink, or some music, or anything—anytime.” She flicked her cigarette, tossed her glistening red hair, and sauntered away.

  Koko jumped to the floor, and Qwilleran said, “Thanks. You’re a good egg! Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll chop some smoked oysters and add them to the meatloaf.”

  Both cats went to work on the exotic hash and extracted the oyster while avoiding the meatloaf.

  “Cats!” Qwilleran said. “You can’t win!”

  For his own breakfast he had ham biscuits with cheese sauce and then codfish cakes with scrambled eggs. It was late, and only one other table was taken. The family who had checked into Two Pips had an infant in a highchair and a tot who was attracted to Qwilleran’s moustache. When he inadvertently made eye contact, she squirmed out of her chair and toddled to his table, offering him a piece of toast, partly masticated.

  “Sandra, don’t bother the man,” her father said.

  “She’s very friendly,” her mother explained.

  Qwilleran groaned inwardly. He felt besieged by finicky cats, pushy piano players, and now gregarious youngsters. When he returned to Four Pips, the piano player was doing scales and finger exercises, a monotonous recital that made it difficult to concentrate on reading or writing. Eventually there was a pause. It felt good when she stopped! Then there was a knock on the front door. Irritably he yanked it open.

  “Morning, Qwill,” said Nick Bamba. He had two of his children by the hand. “Lovey wants to see your kitties, and this is Jason, who just graduated from first grade. He’s our vice president in charge of waste baskets and litter boxes.”

  “We learned about Indians and squabs and cabooses,” said the blond boy. “They lived in wigs with a hole for the smoke.”

  Qwilleran said, “And how is the future Madame President this morning?”

  “Two in April,” she said and lunged after Yum Yum, who slithered under the sofa. Koko looked on with haughty disapproval.

  “The kitties are bashful,” her father said, “but you’ve seen them now, and you can go home…Jason, take your sister back. Mr. Qwilleran and I have business to discuss.”

  “Okefenokee!” said Jason. He grabbed his sister’s hand, and the two of them trudged up the lane, Lovey gazing back longingly.

  Nick handed Qwilleran a plastic sack. “Here’s some pears, Qwill. I bought a bushel on sale, but they have to be eaten right away.”

  “Thanks. Shall we sit on the porch?”

  “Better sit indoors. The air is still this morning, and voices carry. Have you been downtown yet? The pickets came over on the first ferry, and they’re marching again. They don’t want the mosquitoes sprayed.”

  “What do you think about the hang-glider shooting?” Qwilleran asked.

  “The sheriff blames a stray shot from a hunting gun. I say the sheriff is full of it!…So what’s with you, Qwill?”

  “I’ve lined up an undercover agent who can work from the inside. It’s my contention that there’s covert hostility among the natives. They don’t come out punching, but they’ve infiltrated the resort as kitchen helpers, hack drivers, servants, busboys, dockworkers, handymen, and plenty we don’t know about. They’re silent. They’re shadowy. I’m convinced your front steps were okay until one of these silent, shadowy islanders tampered with them—perhaps pulled a few nails under cover of darkness. Unfortunately I have no evidence…Is there any more news about the poultry farm in Lockmaster?”

  “That investigation fizzled out,” said Nick. “Nobody died. Everybody wants to forget it. Food poisoning is something that just happens.”

  “How will Exbridge react to the shooting last night?”

  “This is not for publication, Qwill, but he’s lobbying to get hunting banned on the island. The sound of gunfire makes tourists nervous, he says, especially those from big cities.”

  Qwilleran said, “The pickets will have a grand old time with that issue! Rabbit is a staple of the islanders’ diet, and a mainstay of their economy.”

  “Want to hear something else, off the record? Don wants the county to pave the beach roads and cut through the sand dune to make it a ring road.”

  “The environmentalists are hypersensitive about sand dunes, you know, and the summer people will fight the paving project to the last drop of their blue blood. How do you and Lori feel about all these changes?”

  “Well, it isn’t the dream we had—not by a long shot—but now we’re in it with both feet and every dollar we have, plus some we don’t have.”

  “Nick, I hate to be a pessimist, but I bet Exbridge will want a golf course next. Then the ordinance against motor vehicles will be rescinded. There’ll be RVs, motorcycles, bumper-to-bumper traffic and a gas station on Lighthouse Point. Emissions will kill the wildlife and defoliate the woods, and Piratetown will go condo. The island will be so honeycombed with wells and septic tanks that it’ll sink like a sieve to the bottom of the lake.”

  “Qwill, I hope you’re not gonna write anything crazy like that for your column. This was all confidential, you know.” Nick stood up. “I’ve gotta go and do my chores…G’bye, kids,” he said to the Siamese.

  Qwilleran walked with him up the lane. The strays were hanging around the trash cans as usual. “They’re all over,” Nick said. “They’re around restaurants, picnic tables, docks—wherever there’s food. Exbridge wants the board of health to exterminate them.”

  “If he proposes that, he’ll have another American Revolution on his hands.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t mention it!”

  Qwilleran looked up sharply. “What’s all that noise?”

  “They’re picnickers and day-trippers,” Nick said. “They’re supposed to use the public beach on the other side of the island, but they like our sand. You can’t blame them.”

  Qwilleran left him and ambled across the road to the beach, where children were screaming and throwing sand and having a wonderful time; young adults were rocking to boom boxes; and volleyball players were yelling good-natured threats and insults. The scene gave him an idea for a satire on tourism, and he went back to Four Pips to set up his typewriter on the snack table. What he had in mind was a skit spoofing package weekends. It would require a cast of two: a tourist couple in shorts, sandals, and Pear Island T-shirts. The scene would be the hotel porch with rocking chairs. The tourists would be rocking, eating a box lunch, and reading aloud from an advertising flyer.

  FANTASTIC FUN-FILLED WEEKEND

  ON WONDERFUL PEAR ISLAND

  ONLY $149.50

  (Children under 12, 15% extra)

  Friday Afternoon…You are met at the jetport by our friendly guide, who will give you a pear-shaped luggage tag (one per person) and a disc
ount coupon for a T-shirt. Depart promptly for enchanting Moose County aboard a deluxe single-engine prop aircraft with seat belts and headrests. Peanuts will be served in flight, with only one scheduled stop for refueling, repairs, and use of facilities. Arrive at Moose County airport and proceed in the comfort of a converted school bus to an all-night restaurant famous for pirogi and boiled cabbage. After a delicious repast, continue to the historic Hotel Booze in the unspoiled lakeside town of Brrr, where you will spend your first exciting night.

  Saturday…After a complimentary breakfast (choice of biscuit or muffin), you depart on a delightfully quaint coal-burning ferry for the voyage to the island. (Life preservers provided, but passengers are advised to use facilities before leaving hotel.) Enjoy the rare thrill of feeding the seagulls that follow the boat. (Bird bread not included.) Folding chairs available for passengers over 75. (Birth certificate required.)

  On arrival at fabulous Pear Island, transfer to the spectacular Pear Island Hotel to register and receive your generous sample of mosquito spray. Your first day is entirely free—for walking around, splashing in the hotel pool, and rocking in the hotel’s fifty rocking chairs. Watch the ferries unload; write postcards; shop for T-shirts; buy fudge; and thoroughly enjoy yourself. Feeling adventurous? Walk to the Riviera-type stone beach to hunt for agates. (Not included in the package: carriage rides, bike rentals, fishing parties, or lunch.)

  Your exciting, fun-filled evening begins with a memorable dinner featuring the hotel’s Very Special Chicken and a choice of sinfully delicious desserts: pears Romano, pears Chantilly, or pears Escoffier. Live entertainment follows, headlining the celebrated “Maestro of Moose County” and his accordion. When you retire after your full day of fun, you will find an individually wrapped square of fudge on your pillow. Sweet dreams!

  Sunday…The excitement begins with a sumptuous breakfast buffet offering 85 items. (Choose any four.) Then it’s “all aboard” a specially prepared hay wagon for a ride to Lighthouse Point via the exclusive West Beach Road. See the summer homes of the rich and famous! Photograph the picturesque lighthouse! See where hundreds of ships sank and thousands of persons drowned! Thrill to the sound of gunfire in the woods! After lunch (not included), you board the ferry and bid a reluctant farewell to magical Pear Island, an experience you will never forget…And only $149.50, based on triple occupancy! Price includes a short-term life insurance policy plus a free cat for each and every visitor to take home. Choice of colors. (Black-and-whites temporarily out of stock.)