The Cat Who Came to Breakfast

by Lilian Jackson Braun

Meanwhile, the islanders clung to their simple pioneer lifestyle. Once, when Qwilleran had visited the south end of the island with boating friends, it appeared deserted except for two gaunt old men who materialized out of the woods and stared at them with brooding hostility. That was several years before XYZ Enterprises moved in with their planners and promoters.

  Nick Bamba’s pickup truck pulled into the barnyard exactly on schedule, and a young man with a boat captain’s cap on his curly black hair walked into the barn. With his flashing black eyes roving about the interior, he said what he always said: “Man! What a B-and-B you could make out of this baby!”

  It was an octagonal apple barn, well over a hundred years old, with fieldstone foundation, shingled siding, and windows of various shapes and sizes. The interior was open to the roof, four stories overhead, and a ramp spiraled around the walls, connecting the rooms on three upper levels. On the main floor a large white fireplace cube in dead center divided the open space into areas for lounging, dining, and food preparation. In Qwilleran’s case this meant opening cans, thawing frozen dinners, and pressing the button on the coffeemaker.

  He poured mugs of coffee and ushered his guest into the lounge. Ordinarily Nick radiated vitality; today he looked tired, overworked, and dispirited. To open the conversation on a comfortable note Qwilleran asked him, “Is your entire family on the island?”

  The young man recited in a monotone: “Jason is staying with my mother in Mooseville until school’s out. I take him to the island for weekends. The two young ones are with Lori at the inn. So are the cats. We have five now, one pregnant. The island is overrun with feral cats, so ours don’t go out, but they have the run of the inn. We also have a rent-a-cat service for guests who’d like a cat in their room overnight—just a gimmick—no extra charge.”

  “Can Lori manage the inn and take care of two youngsters?”

  “She employs island women to help.”

  “I hope you’re charging enough to make your venture worthwhile.”

  “Well, Don Exbridge advised us on rates. We’re not cheap, but we’re competitive.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “Seven rooms, two suites, and five housekeeping cottages.”

  Nick’s terse replies reflected his nervousness, so Qwilleran said, “You wanted to see me about something urgent.”

  “Did you hear about the drowning last night?”

  “Only briefly, on the air. What were the circumstances? Do you know?”

  “He’d been drinking in the hotel bar. They’ll have to lock the pool gates after a certain hour or provide better security. But the worst thing was the food poisoning! Contaminated chicken brought in from the mainland! All food has to come by boat.”

  “Did the first incident affect business?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Sure did! Sunday papers around the country had carried all kinds of publicity, so it was hot news when fifteen guests were struck down. Rotten timing! The hotel had wholesale cancellations right away. We had a honeymoon couple booked for the bridal suite in July, and they canceled.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Nick lapsed into rueful silence while Qwilleran refilled the mugs. Then he said, “We had a bummer ourselves last Tuesday.”

  “What happened? I didn’t hear about it.”

  “One of our front steps caved in, and a guest fell and broke a rib. An old man. He was airlifted to the hospital on the mainland. It wasn’t a big enough disaster to make the headlines, but I worry just the same.”

  “Are you afraid of being sued? Who was the victim?”

  “A retired clergyman from Indiana. We’re not worried about a lawsuit. He’s not the type who’d take advantage of our insurance company. We’re paying his medical expenses and giving him free rent, but…Qwill, there was nothing wrong with those steps! I swear! The building was thoroughly inspected before they gave us a license!”

  Qwilleran patted his moustache in self-congratulation; it was just as he had guessed. “Are you suggesting sabotage, Nick?”

  “Well, you know how my mind works, after eight years of working at the prison. I can’t help suspecting dirty tricks. Three incidents right after the grand opening of the resort! It looks fishy to me! How about you?”

  Qwilleran was inclined to agree. A tingling on his upper lip, which was the source of all his hunches, suggested an organized plot to embarrass, discredit, and possibly ruin the Pear Island resort. “Do you have any clues?” he asked.

  “Well, this may sound crazy, and I wouldn’t tell anyone but you.” Nick leaned forward in his chair. “The island is getting a bunch of day-trippers from Lockmaster—dudes swaggering up and down the waterfront in high-heeled boots. They wear Lockmaster T-shirts and baseball caps with six-inch bills and raunchy slogans. They’re just looking for trouble.”

  The enmity between Moose County and the relatively rich county to the south was well known. Violence often broke out at soccer games. Troublemakers periodically invented rumors of border incidents and then took vigilante revenge. Even mature citizens of Lockmaster took pleasure in vaunting their superiority, boasting about their rich horse farms, good schools, winning athletic teams, and fine restaurants. That was before Qwilleran’s fluke inheritance. After that, the Klingenschoen millions began improving the quality of life in Moose County. Besides building a better airport and giving the high school an Olympic-size swimming pool, Klingenschoen money was luring the best teachers, physicians, barbers, and TV repairmen from Lockmaster. And now…Moose County had the Pear Island resort—an economic plum pudding, sauced with the sweet taste of national publicity.

  Nick went on with his story: “Last Sunday three of these goons were actually sitting on our porch swings at the inn, smoking God-knows-what. I pointed to the No Smoking sign and asked if they were taught to read in Lockmaster. They gave me the finger and went on puffing, so I called Island Security. The county doesn’t supply much police protection—Don Exbridge is lobbying for more—so we hire our own weekend security guys. They’re uniformed like Canadian Mounties and look pretty impressive when they ride up on horses. So the hoods took off without any more trouble, but…it makes me wonder, you know?”

  “Have you mentioned your suspicions to Exbridge?”

  “Well, he’s not on the island weekends, and I can’t be there during the week. Besides, I’d feel stupid talking to him when I don’t have anything but a gut feeling. What I wish, Qwill, is that you’d go to the island and snoop around. You’re good at that kind of thing. You might come up with some evidence, or at least a clue. You could stay in one of our cottages. Bring the cats.”

  Qwilleran had an unbridled curiosity and a natural urge to find answers to questions. Also, he had spent years as a crime reporter Down Below. “Hmmm,” he mused, tempted by the prospect of snooping.

  Nick said, “It’s really nice on the island, and you’d like the food. Lori’s breakfasts are super; everybody says so. And the hotel has a chef from New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans?” Qwilleran repeated with growing interest. Food often figured in his decision making. “If I were to go over there, when would you suggest—?”

  “Soon as possible. I have to bring Jason back here tomorrow afternoon, and I could ferry you to the island after that. I have my own boat now. If you meet me at the dock in Mooseville around four o’clock, we’ll reach the island in plenty of time for you to get settled and go to the hotel for a good dinner.”

  “But no chicken!” Qwilleran quipped.

  When Nick said goodbye and jumped into his pickup, there was more buoyancy in his attitude than when he arrived. It was still early, but Qwilleran climbed the ramp to release the Siamese from their loft apartment. Surprised at the early reveille, they staggered out of the room, yawning and stretching and looking glassy-eyed.

  “Breakfast!” he announced, and they hightailed it into the kitchen, bumping into each other in their eagerness. “What would you two carnivores like to eat this morning? I can offer you a succulent rack of
lamb from the famous kitchen of the Old Stone Mill, minced by hand and finished with a delicate sauce of meat juices.” He liked to talk to them in a declamatory voice when he was in a good mood, and the louder his voice, the more excited they became, prancing in circles and figure eights and yowling with ever-increasing volume. The noise stopped abruptly when he placed the plate on the floor, and they attacked it with quivering intensity.

  They were seal-point Siamese with blue eyes, sleek bodies, and light fawn fur shading into dark brown. Yum Yum was a dainty minx with a piquant expression and winning ways. Koko, whose real name was Kao K’o Kung, was the noble male with imperial manner and inscrutable gaze. He was the quintessential Siamese—with some additional talents that were not in the breeders’ manual.

  Qwilleran watched them devour their breakfast, while pondering his next step: how to break the news to Arch Riker without losing face. After blasting the Pear Island resort all evening, he was now joining the enemy for two weeks, that being the length of Polly’s vacation.

  He waited until eight o’clock and then telephoned the Rikers’ beach house. “Great party last night, Arch! Did I make myself a bore?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My tirade against the Pear Island resort must have been somewhat tiresome. Anyway, I’d like to make amends.”

  “Uh-oh! What’s the catch?” asked the man who had known Qwilleran since kindergarten. Their friendship had survived almost half a century of confiding, bantering, arguing, leg-pulling, rib-poking, and caring. “I suspect you have devious intentions.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, Arch, I’m still ticked off about the commercial rape of Breakfast Island, but—without playing politics—I’m willing to go there for a couple of weeks and write about island history, customs, and legends. I’d call it ‘The Other Side of the Island.’ How does it sound?”

  “I’ll tell you how it sounds, you dirty rat! It sounds as if Polly is going out of town for two weeks, and you’re desperate for something to occupy your time! I can always read your hand; I’ve known you too long to fall for a fast shuffle.”

  “Will you okay my expense account?” Qwilleran asked to taunt him.

  There was a moment of silence on the line. Riker was editor and publisher of the Moose County Something, but the Klingenschoen Foundation owned it. “Okay, go ahead,” Riker said. “But it had better be good.”

  “I’ll be staying at the Bambas’ B-and-B. I don’t know the phone number, but they call it the Domino Inn.”

  After that hurdle was cleared, the rest was easy. Qwilleran called his janitor, Mr. O’Dell, who said, “Faith an’ you’ll not catch me settin’ foot on that island no more! What they’re doin’ is ag’in Auld Mither Nature, it is. Nothin’ good’ll come of it, I’m thinkin’.”

  Qwilleran also gave instructions to his secretarial service to forward mail in care of General Delivery at Pear Island—but only letters postmarked Oregon.

  Finally, he phoned Andrew Brodie at home on Saturday evening. Brodie was chief of police in Pickax—a towering, swaggering Scot who played the bagpipe at weddings and funerals. When Mrs. Brodie answered, the inevitable television audio could be heard blatting in the background, and the chief came on the line with the gruffness of a televiewer whose program has been interrupted.

  Amiably, Qwilleran opened with, “Sorry to snatch you away from your favorite cop series.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m watching a nature program. Terrible what’s happening to the rain forest! Last week it was black bears, and before that, oil spills! What’s on your mind? Want me to pipe at your wedding to Polly? For you two I’ll do it for free.”

  “Polly’s going to Oregon and may never return, and I’m going to so-called Pear Island and may never return. They say the fudge fumes are potentially lethal.”

  “What d’you want to go there for? You won’t like what they’ve done to our Breakfast Island,” Brodie predicted.

  “Mainly I’m going to write about island life for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column,” Qwilleran explained glibly, “but I might do a little amateur sleuthing on the side. They’ve had some incidents that raise questions—three in a little over a week.”

  “I only heard about two—the food poisoning and the drowning. The island is the sheriff’s jurisdiction, and he’s welcome to it. He’ll have his hands full this summer, mark my word. All those tourists from Down Below—no good! No good!”

  “How come we never hear any results of the sheriff’s investigations, Andy?”

  “If it’s a big case, he calls in the troopers. If it isn’t…well…no comment. Are you taking your smart cat with you? He’ll show the sheriff’s department a thing or two.”

  “I’m taking both cats. My barn will be unoccupied for two weeks, but Mr. O’Dell has the key and will check it regularly.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on it, too,” said the chief.

  Brodie was one of the few persons who knew about Koko’s investigative abilities. All cats are inquisitive; all cats are endowed with six senses, but Kao K’o Kung had more than the usual feline quota. His unique sensory perception told him when something was wrong. In many cases he knew what had happened, and in some cases he knew what was going to happen. The black nose quivered, the brown ears twitched, the blue eyes stared into space, and the whiskers curled when Koko was getting vibrations.

  It was the whisker factor that tuned into the unknowable, Qwilleran had decided. In fact, his own moustache bristled and his upper lip tingled when he suspected malfeasance. These hunches, coupled with his innate curiosity, often led Qwilleran into situations that were none of his business. The fate of Breakfast Island was none of his business, yet he felt irresistibly drawn to the island, and he patted his moustache frequently.

  Qwilleran’s usual Saturday night dinner date with Polly was canceled, because she had to pack for her trip, but he drove her to the airport Sunday morning without mentioning his own forthcoming excursion he wanted to avoid explaining. “I’ll miss you,” he said, a declaration that was true and required no dissembling. “I suppose you’re taking your binoculars and birdbook.”

  “They were the first things I packed,” she said joyously. “It would be a thrill to add some Pacific species to my lifelist. I’d love to see a puffin bird. My college roommate lives on the shore and is quite knowledgeable about waterfowl.”

  “Is she—or he—also a librarian?”

  Polly patted his knee affectionately. “There were no coed dormitories when I went to the university, dear. She’s a residential architect, and I’m going to show her the snapshots of your barn renovation. She’ll be greatly impressed. And what will you do while I’m away? Perhaps I shouldn’t ask,” she said coyly.

  “I’ll think of something,” he said, “but life will be dull and devoid of pleasure and excitement.”

  “Oh, Qwill! Am I supposed to cry? Or laugh?”

  After Polly had boarded the shuttle plane to Minneapolis, he went home to pack his own luggage. It was June, and the temperature was ideal in Moose County, but an island in the middle of the lake could have unpredictable weather. He packed sweaters and a light jacket as well as shorts and sandals. Not knowing how formal the hotel dining room might be, he packed good shirts and a summer blazer as well as knockabout clothing. He packed his typewriter, radio, tape recorder, and a couple of books from his secondhand collection of classics: Thoreau’s Walden and Anatole France’s Penguin Island. They seemed appropriate.

  The Siamese watched with concern as a bag of cat litter and some canned delicacies went into a carton. Then the cagelike carrier was brought from the broom closet, and Yum Yum took flight. Qwilleran made a grab for her, but she slithered out of his grasp and escaped between his legs. The chase led up the ramp and across the balconies until he trapped her in the guestroom shower. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, lifting her gently, and she went limp.

  Back on the main floor he put her in the carrier and announced, “All aboard for Breakfast Island!”

&n
bsp; “Yow!” said Koko, and he jumped into the carrier. That was unusual. Ordinarily he disliked a change of address. Qwilleran thought, Does he know there’s sabotage on the island? Or does he recognize the word ‘breakfast’?

  With the luggage stowed in the trunk of his sedan, and with the cat carrier on the backseat, Qwilleran drove north to Mooseville—past landmarks that had figured prominently in his recent life: the Dimsdale Diner, Ittibittiwassee Road, the turkey farm (under new management), the extensive grounds of the federal prison, and the significant letter K on a post.

  Nick Bamba was waiting for him at the municipal pier, where a boat named Double-Six was bobbing lazily in the dock, but the young man’s glum expression caused Qwilleran to ask, “Is everything all right?”

  “Another incident!” Nick said. “Just this afternoon! A cabin cruiser blew up at the Pear Island marina. Owner killed.”

  “Any idea what caused it?”

  “Well, he’d just bought this boat—a neat craft only three years old—and filled up at the marina gas pump. The manager thinks he didn’t blow out the fumes before starting the engine.”

  “Inexperienced boater?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Looks like it. When I bought this boat, I took a course in marine safety, but the majority of boaters don’t bother. It’s a bad mistake.”

  “Who owns the marina?”

  “XYZ owns everything on the south beach. There was some damage to the pier and nearby craft, but luckily most boaters were out in the lake, fishing. What depresses me, Qwill, is that the guy was a family man. He came over on the ferry to close the deal on the boat. He paid cash for it and was going back to the mainland to pick up his wife and kids.”

  “A sad situation,” Qwilleran said.

  “What makes me sick,” Nick said, “is the thought that…maybe it wasn’t an accident!”

  As they stowed the luggage and the cat carrier on the deck of the Double-Six, Nick Bamba said, “It’s great of you to do this, Qwill. How long can you stay?”

  “A couple of weeks. Officially I’ll be researching fresh material for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”