The Cat Who Came to Breakfast

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The cynical jest appealed to Lyle. “That would be a juicy rumor to start on the mainland! All I’d have to do is whisper confidentially to my next-door neighbor that XYZ has struck oil behind the swimming pool, and in two days it would be all over Moose County, and Don Exbridge would be denying it in the headlines. Of course, no one would believe him!”

  “It would be just like you to do it, too,” said his wife, “and that’s really sick!”

  “I’ll tell you what’s sick, sweetheart. It’s sick what XYZ did with the new elementary school building. It’s lousy construction! They keep patching it up, but what we really need is one good tornado, so we can start again from scratch—with a different builder.”

  Lisa said, “Be careful what you wish for; you may get your wish! The weatherman says there’s a peculiar front headed this way.” Then the food was served, and she said, “It’s so dark in here, I can’t tell whether this is a burger or chocolate cake.”

  “That’s because people patronize bars for illicit trysts, graft payoffs, and subversive plotting,” her husband informed her. “Nice people like you should eat in the coffee shop.”

  After a while, Qwilleran asked him if he remembered a student named Harriet Beadle, an islander who attended high school on the mainland.

  “No, but we’ve had a pack of Beadles from the island. Another common name is Kale. Another is Lawson. They’re all descended from survivors of the same shipwreck, supposedly. They work hard to get good grades, and some even earn scholarships. Those one-room schools aren’t all bad.”

  “How do the other students treat them?”

  “They taunt them about their so-called pirate ancestry, and there are some bloody fights. And who knows whether it’s true or not? But I’ll tell you one thing for sure: The islanders know more about ecology than we do. They grow up with a respect for the earth and the elements.”

  Over coffee Lisa asked about Polly.

  “She’s in Oregon, visiting an old college chum.”

  “Great country out there!” said Lyle. “Let’s hope she doesn’t decide to stay. She’s a great librarian.”

  “Everybody loves her,” said Lisa.

  “Nobody loves a school superintendent. I’m on everybody’s hit list—board of ed, taxpayers, and parents.”

  Qwilleran asked him, “Do you know that one of your department heads has a summer job over here?”

  “Wish she’d stay on the island permanently,” he grumbled. “June is an independent so-and-so.”

  Lisa said, “She’s certainly not popular with the wives of Moose County. She thinks she’s God’s gift to husbands—mine included, and Lyle is no Robert Redford.”

  “Why,” Qwilleran asked, “does an educator with her credentials choose a rural county like ours?”

  “Horses! She likes to ride. That’s how she landed in Lockmaster after a divorce Down Below. Then we offered her a good contract, and now we’re stuck with her. But she’s good! She sailed through school on scholarships and did a concert tour before coming to us.” The check came to the table, and when Qwilleran reached for it, Lyle said, “Drop it! The hotel’s paying for this one.”

  The Comptons were staying for a nightcap, but Qwilleran groped his way out of the murky bar, bumping into tables and kicking chair legs. In passing the corner booth he squinted into the gloom and saw a man and a woman leaning amorously toward each other. Their faces were in shadow, but he heard the woman say, “Shall we have a replenishment?”

  Before riding home in a cab, Qwilleran picked up some beer for Derek Cuttlebrink, as well as crackers and pickles to go with the meatloaf. On the way he pondered several of Lyle Compton’s remarks, chiefly his hint that Polly might decide to relocate in Oregon. It was a possibility that had never crossed his mind. It made him vaguely uneasy.

  At Four Pips he was met by a highly disturbed cat. Koko was yowling in two-part harmony and running back and forth between sitting room and porch. A casual inspection showed nothing amiss, but after refrigerating the beer Qwilleran investigated with deepening concern. The cat was jumping up and pawing the porch screen as he did when batting down an insect. This time there were no insects—only small holes in the screen. Alarmed, Qwilleran hurried to the inn and confronted Nick in the office.

  “Someone’s been taking pot shots at the cats!” he said with indignation.

  Nick looked up from the bookkeeping. “I can’t believe it! How do you know?”

  Qwilleran described Koko’s behavior and his discovery of the holes. “There’s growing hostility among the islanders, I’m convinced, and someone may have connected me with the financial backers of the resort. Someone may be using this method of harassment!”

  “Did you look for spent shot on the porch?”

  “There was nothing that I could find, but the porch is shaded at this hour.”

  “Which screens had the holes?”

  “Both side panels, east and west.”

  “Birds!” Nick said. “Bird beaks! They try to fly through the porch, not realizing it’s screened. All the cottages have holes in the porch screens.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Well…sorry to bother you, Nick. Now all I have to do is explain it to Koko.”

  Back at Four Pips he prepared for Derek’s visit. He opened a can of mixed nuts and dumped them into a soup bowl, filled another bowl with dill pickle chips, and arranged a platter of crackers and meatloaf slices.

  When the young man arrived, the Siamese gave him the royal welcome, prancing with lofty tails curled like question marks. “They like me,” he said. “I’m getting a standing ovation.”

  “Before you congratulate yourself,” Qwilleran parried, “bear in mind that these opportunists have an instinctive affinity for dairy farmers, fishermen, butchers, and restaurant employees. I leave it to you to figure out.”

  Derek’s height made the ceilings look lower than ever. He walked around, looking at the travel posters. Then he pointed to the tragedy and comedy masks. “I’ll bet those didn’t come with the cottage. Where’d you get them?”

  “In Venice—from a small antique shop near the Accademia delle Belle Arti” was the casual reply. “How about a beer? Sit down and help yourself to the food. What time did you have dinner?”

  “They feed us just before we start the dinner shift, at five o’clock.”

  “Then you must be hungry. Dig in. The meatloaf is homemade.” Then craftily he asked his guest, “Did you have any trouble finding this place?”

  “No. I was down here last night,” Derek said with youthful candor. “Dr. Halliburton wanted me to audition.”

  “Did you read a script? Or sing?”

  “We just rapped. She wanted to know what acting I’d done, and how I felt about theater, and what kind of role I liked to play. I told her what I’d done in Macbeth. We just drank beer and listened to jazz and had a good time. She’s very friendly. I was surprised. She may get me the job of assistant entertainment director. That would pay more money than I’m getting now.”

  Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. “So explain the note you handed me last night, Derek. What’s all this about gumbo?”

  “Yeah…well…I met this girl where I’m rooming, and she kinda likes me. Her name is Merrio.

  How’s that for a name? She’s a waitress in the Corsair Room, but she was hired for the kitchen in the beginning. Then Mr. Ex decided she had a good personality for meeting the public, so now she’s out on the floor, serving.”

  “Did the switch—or promotion, whatever it was—occur after the poisoning incident?”

  “I guess so, because she was still on salads when it happened.”

  “Where does gumbo fit into the picture?”

  “That’s the interesting part,” Derek said. “They had several chicken specials that night, but the only people that got sick were the ones that ordered chicken gumbo. The shrimp gumbo—no trouble!”

  Qwilleran thought, So it wasn’t necessarily contaminated chicken from Lockmaster. It could
have been the fault of the hotel kitchen. “Who was working that night?” he asked.

  “Well, besides the chef and sous chef, they had some college kids from restaurant schools and some islanders for the support staff—that’s what they call the unskilled jobs.”

  “Who was responsible for the gumbo? Was it a single individual, or were others involved? And was it freshly made that day? If so, was it the usual recipe? Did anything unusual happen in the kitchen that night? Had anyone been fired?”

  “I’ll have to get back to Merrio,” Derek said.

  Qwilleran said, “It might stimulate her memory if you showed her a good time and spent a little money. You have an expense account, of course.”

  Derek liked that idea.

  “Okay. Now, what about the guy that drowned. Any luck? Have you found a source?”

  “Yeah. One of the barhops—his name is Kirk—rooms at our place, and he remembers serving them.”

  “Them?”

  “The guy was drinking with some woman. They were sitting by the pool.”

  “What were they drinking?”

  “Wine. He remembers that, because most people want beer or Pirate’s Gold or a straight shot.”

  “Did they seem like friends? Or was it a pickup?”

  “Oh, they knew each other all right. They were arguing. The guy was pretty upset.”

  “Was he a hotel guest or a drop-in? And what about her?”

  “Kirk didn’t know her, but the guy was registered, and the drinks were charged to his room. They had a few rounds, and then Kirk took his break. When he got back, the pool lights were off, and the busboy was cleaning up the rim. He’s the one that saw something floating. He rushed into the bar; the head barman called security; the police came, and the rescue squad; and that was it!”

  “Did the police investigate?” Qwilleran asked.

  “They hung around for a while, asking questions, but the boss told everybody not to talk to outsiders—or even discuss it with other employees—or they’d lose their jobs. When I talked to Kirk, we went down on the beach for privacy. He was glad to get it off his chest. He’d been thinking about it a lot. Because of the secrecy thing, he was suspicious, you know.”

  “What did he remember about the couple who were drinking?”

  “Only that they were sharp-looking—young, but not too young—and they were speaking a foreign language.”

  “That’s a big help,” Qwilleran said. “The last time I counted, there were five thousand foreign languages.”

  Derek had another beer and finished the meatloaf before leaving with some extra money in his pocket. As they stepped out of the cottage, music was coming from Five Pips, and voices could be heard, a male and a female.

  “Sounds like another audition,” Qwilleran said.

  Derek galumphed up the lane, wielding his flashlight and swinging a sack of pears for his fellow roomers.

  Qwilleran went back indoors and immediately stepped on something small and hard. At the same time he caught Koko with his paw in the nutbowl.

  “No!” he yelled. “Bad cat!” he scolded as he gathered up the nuts scattered on the floor. It was no great loss; they were all hazelnuts, and he considered them a waste of chewing time. The walnuts, pecans, almonds, and cashews were untouched.

  “Smart cat!” Qwilleran said, changing his tone. Koko sat up like a kangaroo and laundered a spot on his underside.

  When Qwilleran went to breakfast Monday morning, he first detoured into the office. Lori, of course, was busy in the kitchen, and Nick could be heard hammering nails somewhere, but Jason and Lovey were playing with toy telephones. The two youngsters sat on the floor, three feet apart, holding pink, plastic instruments to their ears.

  The three-year-old said, “Are you there?”

  “You’re supposed to wait till the phone rings and I say hello,” her brother said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “We’re not connected! You didn’t dial!”

  “How are you?”

  “That’s not right, Lovey,” the exasperated six-year-old shouted.

  “You look very nice today,” she said sweetly into the mouthpiece.

  Qwilleran interrupted. “Excuse me, Jason. Would you find your father for me?”

  “Okefenokee!” The boy scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the family quarters.

  Nick soon walked in, wearing his carpenter’s apron. “Hi, Qwill! What’s up?”

  “I’ve received a report that’s somewhat revealing.”

  “You did? Sit down…Jason, take your sister into the other room.”

  “Okefenokee!”

  “Thanks, Nick, but I’m staying only a minute. I want to get into the breakfast room before it closes. Here’s what I heard last night: The guests who were poisoned were not eating Cajun chicken, or chicken étouffée, or chicken Creole. They had all ordered chicken gumbo! It seems to me that an extra ingredient went into the pot, accidentally or on purpose.”

  “You think Don deliberately twisted the truth when he blamed the poultry farm?”

  “Or the kitchen didn’t give him the true facts. It may be that chef—Jean-Pierre Pamplemousse, or whatever his name is—didn’t want his reputation besmirched. So that’s where we stand at the moment.” Qwilleran started toward the door but turned back. “Do you know anything about the woman called Noisette, who runs the antique shop?”

  “No. She hasn’t attended any of Don’s business meetings or get-togethers.”

  “One more question: What happened to the Hardings? I haven’t seen them for the last day or so.”

  “The old gentleman caught cold,” Nick said, “and they wanted to get off the island, so I ferried them across yesterday and put them on a plane.”

  Too bad, Qwilleran thought. They would have enjoyed hearing about the visit to Buckingham Palace, the eccentricities of the royal family, William’s antique carriages, and the fate of the peacocks. The vicar would have had his own sly comments to make, and his wife would have rebuked him gently.

  For breakfast he had pecan pancakes with homemade sausage patties, followed by brioches filled with creamed chipped beef. The sausages were particularly good, and he attributed their distinctive flavor to fresh herbs from Elizabeth’s garden.

  There were things Qwilleran wanted to do that day. He wanted to visit the antique shop once again, have a few words with Dwight Somers, and check the post office for a postcard from Oregon—all errands that were better done in the afternoon. Before leaving the inn, therefore, he picked up a couple of their Sunday papers from Down Below—to read in the privacy of his screened porch.

  It was warm and humid on the porch, and the Siamese had found a cool patch on the concrete slab: Yum Yum lounging like an off-duty sphinx with forelegs fully extended and paws attractively crossed; Koko with hind quarters sitting down and front quarters standing up. His elongated Siamese body made him look like two different cats with a single spine, and the thinking end of the cat was now alert and waiting for something to happen. Suddenly ears pricked, whiskers curled, and nose sniffed. A few moments later Qwilleran caught a whiff of smoke and turned to see June Halliburton approaching through the weeds.

  “Don’t invite me in. I’m just enjoying a legal smoke,” she said, holding a cigarette gracefully in one hand and a saucer in the other. As usual, a limp Panama drooped over her red hair and white complexion. “The esteemed management will have me shot if I smoke indoors or drop live ashes outdoors.”

  “I agree with the esteemed management,” Qwilleran said. “Today’s too warm for anything as uncomfortable as a forest fire.”

  Peering through the screen at the three of them, she said with an arch smile, “What a touching domestic scene! I suppose the demographers have you classified as an untraditional family: one man, two cats.”

  “One man, two animal companions,” he corrected her.

  “And how do you like your cottage?”

  “The roof doesn’t leak, and the refrigerator works,” he s
aid. “What more can one ask?”

  “My refrigerator is full of ice cubes, so join me for a drink, any time.”

  “Yow!” said Koko impatiently, his nose twitching.

  “No one invited you,” she said. Stubbing her cigarette in the saucer, she walked away at a languid pace, and Koko shook himself so vigorously that the flapping of his ears sounded like a rattlesnake. Then he ran indoors and yowled over the domino box.

  “Okay,” Qwilleran agreed, “but this is a whole new ballgame. We don’t add scores any more; we spell words.”

  Koko watched with near-sighted fascination as the dominoes were randomly scattered over the tabletop. Instead of standing on the chair with forepaws on the table, however, he elected to sit on the dominoes like a hen hatching eggs.

  “What’s that all about?” Qwilleran demanded. “Are you getting a gut feeling?”

  The cat seemed to know what he was doing. Suddenly he rose and, with a grunt, pushed several pieces onto the floor. Quickly and with high anticipation Qwilleran retrieved them: 0-2, 1-3, 3-4, 2-6, and 5-6. By adding the pips on each piece he got 2, 4, 7, 8, and 11, which corresponded to B, D, G, H, and K in the alphabet.

  “That won’t fly,” Qwilleran said in disappointment. “We need vowels, the way we did when we played Scrabble.” He asked himself, What does a cat know about vowels? And yet…Koko could read his mind without understanding his speech.

  Either Koko understood, or the next draw was a phenomenal coincidence. It produced 0-1, 0-5, 1-4, 2-3, 4-5, and 3-6, all of which corresponded to the vowels, A, E and I.

  Qwilleran groaned and pounded his forehead with his fists. It was beyond comprehension, but luckily he had learned to take Koko’s actions on faith, and he continued the game. Who would believe, he asked himself, that a grown man in his right mind would participate in such a farce? He took the precaution of drawing the window blind.

  After that, Koko’s efforts were more to the point. Sometimes he swept pieces off the table with a swift flick of his tail, and from the seven or eight designated dominoes Qwilleran was able to spell words like field, beach, baffle and lake. (It could also be leak.) Unfortunately, the operation was limited to the first twelve letters of the alphabet. Nevertheless, he liked the challenge and kept a record: fable, dice, chalk, chick, cackle. Koko pushed dominoes off the table; Qwilleran translated them into words; Yum Yum sat on her brisket and kibitzed.