The Cat Who Came to Breakfast

by Lilian Jackson Braun

“Well, that was last Tuesday. Nick wasn’t here, so I had to find an islander to fix it—an old man. He looked a hundred years old, but he did a good job and didn’t charge too much.”

  “Did he say what had happened to the step?”

  “They’re not very communicative—these islanders—but he said the nails were rusty. He reinforced the whole flight with new nails and braces of some kind.”

  “And yet, the county inspector okayed the building before you opened for business,” Qwilleran said.

  “That’s right. It makes you wonder how good the inspection was. The county commissioners, you know, were pushing to get the resort open by mid-May, because they wanted those tax dollars. I’ll bet they told the inspectors not to be too fussy.”

  Qwilleran glanced at his watch. “Do I need a reservation for dinner at the hotel? Should I wear a coat and tie?”

  “Heavens, no! Everything’s informal, but I’ll call the hotel and tell them you’re coming. They’ll put out the red carpet for the popular columnist from the Moose County Something.”

  “No! Not that!” he protested. “I’m keeping a low profile during this visit.”

  “Okay. Shall I call a horse cab?”

  “I think not. I’d like to walk. But thanks just the same.”

  “Walk on the edge of the road,” Lori advised. “The horses, you know.”

  On the way back to the cottage to feed the cats and change into a fresh club shirt, Qwilleran met the elderly couple from Three Pips. “Don’t miss the sunset tonight,” said the man, who wore a black French beret at a jaunty angle. “We always order a special performance for a new guest.”

  Qwilleran could see the Siamese on the back porch, and he walked around to talk to them through the screen. “Are you fellow travelers ready for a can of boned chicken imported from Pickax?”

  There were two chairs on the porch, one more comfortable than the other, and with catly instinct they had chosen the better of the two. They were sitting there calmly—too calmly. It meant that one or both had committed some small misdemeanor of which they were proud. He knew them so well!

  Unlocking the front door, he walked into the scene of the crime. The desktop was littered with scraps of paper, and other bits were strewn about the floor. One said: Tuesday. Others were blank squares with numbers in the upper left-hand corner. Someone had attacked the wall calendar hanging above the desk. The glossy, full-color photo of a basset hound and the name of the dogfood manufacturer were still intact, but the month of June had been ripped off piece by piece, or day by day. It was now July in Four Pips.

  “Which one of you incorrigible miscreants vandalized this calendar?” he shouted toward the porch. They paid no attention, being occupied with woodland sights and sounds.

  He knew the culprit; Koko was the paper shredder in the family, but only when he had a reason. Did he think he could accelerate the passage of time by canceling the month of June? Did he want to get out of this Domino Dump and go home? “Clever thinking,” Qwilleran called out to him, “but unfortunately it doesn’t work that way.”

  Days were long in June and even longer in the north country. The sun was still high in the sky as Qwilleran walked downtown for his first dinner at the Pear Island Hotel. On the way, he passed the row of rustic shops on the boardwalk. Their standardized signs were computer-carved from weathered wood. A single generic label identified each establishment: SOUVENIRS, TEA ROOM, ANTIQUES, PIZZA, T-SHIRTS and, of course, FUDGE. He saw something in the window of the antique shop that he liked, but the door was locked, even though the sign in the window said Open. The T-shirt studio offered tie-dyes in garish colors, sweats and tees with slogans printed to order, and the official resort T-shirt with a large blushing pear, the size of a watermelon. Boaters, teens, retirees, couples walking hand in hand, and parents with their broods wandered aimlessly up and down the boardwalk or stood in line at the fudge shop. On the hotel porch they rocked in the fifty rocking chairs, and a few were eating take-outs from the pizza parlor.

  The hotel lobby burst upon the senses as a celebration of piracy. A mural depicted swashbuckling pirates with chests of gold. Banners hanging from the ceiling had the skull-and-crossbones on a field of black. The reservation clerks wore striped shirts, red head bandanas, and a gold hoop in one ear. Qwilleran consulted the directory. There was a bar named the Buccaneer Den. The two dining areas were the Corsair Room and Smugglers’ Cove. Glass doors led to the Pirates’ Hole, a large swimming pool rimmed with sun lounges and umbrella tables. Youngsters splashed and squealed at the shallow end of the pool, while adults sipped drinks around the rim. The latter kept the barhops busy—young men and women wearing black T-shirts with the pirate insigne.

  Qwilleran ambled into the Buccaneer Den and sat at the bar. Spotlighted on the backbar was a chest of gold coins and the words of a sea chantey: Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest! Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! He was comfortable on a bar stool. Before circumstances had changed his habits and hobbies, he had leaned on press club bars all around the country and had developed a barfly’s savoir faire that was instantly recognized by the professionals pouring drinks. There were three of them behind the bar in the Buccaneer Den, all wearing the skull-and-crossbones.

  He signaled the one who appeared to be in charge and asked, “Is it against the law to order a Bloody Mary without any booze?”

  “How hot?” asked the man with expressionless face and voice. He reached for a glass.

  “Three-alarm fire.” Qwilleran counted the dashes of hot sauce going into the tomato juice, took a critical sip, and nodded his approval. The bartender leaned against the backbar with arms folded, and that was Qwilleran’s cue to say, “You run a smooth operation here.”

  “Keeps us stepping, all right. We service two dining rooms and the pool, as well as this bar and lounge. We’ve got twenty-five stools here, and on Friday and Saturday night they’re double-parked.” He had the eyes of a supervisor, roving around the room as he talked.

  “I know what it takes,” Qwilleran said sympathetically. “I’ve tended bar myself.” He was referring to a Saturday night gig during senior year in college. “Are you from Washington? I seem to remember you at the Mayflower.”

  “Nope. Wasn’t me,”

  “The Shoreham! That’s where I’ve seen you.”

  The man shook his head. “Chicago. I worked the Loop for eighteen years. Poured enough booze to flood Commiskey Park.”

  “You get a different class of customer at a place like this.”

  “You tellin’ me? Big crowds, small tabs, smaller tips.” He looked hastily up and down the bar before saying, “The cola crowd—they’re the worst! Order a soft drink, spike it with their own flask, and fill up on free peanuts.” His busy eyes spotted an empty glass, and he signaled to a barhop.

  Qwilleran asked, “What’s the Pirate Gold drink that you’re pushing?”

  “All fresh, all natural. Fruit juice with two kinds of rum and a secret ingredient. The health nuts go for it.”

  Qwilleran gulped the rest of his tomato juice and slid off the stool. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

  “Bert.”

  “You mix a helluva good drink, Bert. Wish I’d known you when I was on the hard stuff. I’ll be back.” He left a tip large enough to be remembered.

  In the lobby, a fierce character in pirate garb presided at a reservation desk. Qwilleran asked him, “Do you have a no-smoking section?”

  “There’s no smoking anywhere in the hotel, sir—orders of the fire department.”

  “Good! Do you have a no-kids section?” The lobby was teeming with vacationing small-fry, whooping and jumping with excitement.

  “Yes, sir! The captain in the Corsair Room will seat you.”

  At that moment a friendly voice boomed across the lobby. “Qwill, you dirty P.O.B.! What are you doing here?” A young man grabbed his arm. Dwight Somers was employed as director of community services for XYZ Enterprises. They had met on a trip to Scotland and had developed an i
nstant camaraderie. Jovially Dwight called Qwilleran a print-oriented bum and was called, in turn, a Ph.D., or doctor of publicity hackery.

  “If the piracy doesn’t extend to the prices,” Qwilleran said, “I intend to take my life in my hands and have dinner here. Want to join me?”

  It was quiet in the Corsair Room. The tables, most of them unoccupied, gleamed with white tablecloths, wine glasses, and flowers in crystal vases. “We’re making some changes,” Dwight said. “This class act intimidates your average tourist. We’re down-scaling to vinyl tablecovers and ketchup bottles. Only tank tops will be a no-no. If you look around, you’ll see we’re the only dudes in club shirts.”

  A server in the official black-and-bones T-shirt took their order for drinks, and Qwilleran remarked to his dinner partner, “Don’t you think you’re working the pirate theme overtime?”

  The XYZ publicity man shrugged apologetically. “The kids like it, and Don Exbridge says it’s a historical reference. The island was a base of operations for lake pirates at one time. They lured ships onto the rocks so they could loot their cargo.”

  “You should change the name of this place to the Blackbeard Hotel. I hear one of your guests walked the plank last week. And that sea chantey on the backbar is right on target, with fifteen guests poisoned and one guest dead. Who was the guy? Do you know?”

  “Just some lush from Down Below, looking for girls, or whatever.”

  “I’d question the secret ingredient in your Pirate Gold,” Qwilleran advised.

  The drinks came to the table, and Dwight said, “Where’ve you been? Don asked me why you didn’t attend the press preview.”

  “I prefer to sneak around incognito and dig up my own stories. I’ll be here a couple of weeks.”

  “Where are you staying? I know you’re not on the hotel register, unless you’re using an alias. I check daily arrivals.”

  “I’m at the Domino Inn.”

  “How come? There’s a posh bed-and-breakfast on the west beach—called the Island Experience. It’s run by two widows. Expensive, of course, but a lot better than where you’re staying.”

  “Well, you see, I had to bring my cats,” Qwilleran explained. “The Bambas are letting me have a catproof cottage.”

  “That makes sense, but isn’t the Domino Inn the most godawful dump you ever saw? Still, it gets mentioned in all the national publicity, so maybe the Bambas knew what they were doing…I’m hungry. What are you going to eat?”

  “Not chicken! Where has the hotel been getting its poultry?”

  “From a chicken factory in Lockmaster. It’s being investigated by the board of health. The hotel is absolved of blame. Don Exbridge has been in Pickax, smoothing things over. In the matter of the drowning, our head bartender is being fined for serving the guy too much liquor.”

  Qwilleran nodded and thought, The hotel pays his fine, and Exbridge gives him a bonus for keeping quiet. The menu featured Creole and Cajun specialties, and he ordered a gumbo described as “an incredibly delicious mélange of shrimp, turkey, rice, okra, and the essence of young sassafras leaves.” “Turkey” was inked in where a previous ingredient had been inked out.

  “You’ll like it,” said the enthusiastic waitress. “Everyone in the kitchen is giving it raves!” The waitstaff consisted of college men and women, who breezed around the dining room in a festive mood—all smiles, quips, and fast service.

  Dwight, who had ordered a steak, said, “Okra! How can you eat that mucilaginous goo?”

  “Are you aware that gumbo is the African word for okra?” Qwilleran asked with the lifted eyebrows of a connoisseur.

  “By any other name it’s still slimy.” The two men concentrated on chomping their salads for a while, and then Dwight said, “How do you like the generic signs on the strip mall? There’s a big turnover in resort businesses, and if Luigi’s pizza parlor doesn’t make a profit this summer, he can be replaced by Giuseppe next summer.”

  “Sounds like Exbridge’s idea.”

  “Yeah, he comes up with some good ones, and others not so good—like his helicopter stunt. There’s a landing pad behind the rescue station, and Don wants to rent a chopper and offer sightseeing trips over the island.”

  “If he does that,” Qwilleran said with a threatening scowl, “the islanders will shoot it down with their rabbit guns; the private club will take him to court; and I’ll personally crucify XYZ in my column! I don’t care how much advertising revenue they pour into our coffers.”

  “I don’t like it either,” said Dwight, “but my boss is a hard guy to reason with, and now he’s in a bad mood because of the boat explosion and the pickets that were parading in front of the hotel this weekend.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Just kids from the mainland, protesting the name change from Breakfast Island, but it ruined the view for guests sitting in the porch rockers, and the chanting drowned out the seagulls and frightened the horses.”

  Qwilleran said, “Downtown isn’t the only target. Did you hear about the accident at the Domino Inn?”

  Dwight snapped to attention. “What kind of accident?” He listened to Qwilleran’s description of the broken step and the injury to the elderly guest. “If you ask me, Qwill, that whole building will collapse one day like the One Hoss Shay.”

  “Does the island have a voice on the board of commissioners? Or is it a case of exploitation without representation?”

  “Well, there’s a so-called Island Commissioner, but he lives in Pickax and has never been to the island. He gets seasick on the lake. He’s very cooperative, though, and Don has a good rapport with him.”

  The waitress interrupted with the entrées and a flutter of bonhomie: “The gumbo looks so good, and the cornbread is right out of the oven!…And look at this steak! Yum! Yum!”

  When she was out of earshot, Qwilleran asked Dwight, “Do you write her script? Or is she a graduate of the Exbridge Charm School?”

  After a few moments of serious eating, Dwight said, “The initial response to the resort has been largely motivated by curiosity, we can assume, so my job is to keep interest alive—bike races, kite-flying contests, prizes for the biggest fish, and all that hoopla, but we also need some indoor programs for the rocking chair crowd—and for rainy days, heaven forbid! The conservation guys will show videos on wildlife and boat safety. How would you like to give a talk on our trip to Scotland?”

  “I wouldn’t. Get Lyle Compton. He tells hair-raising tales about Scottish history.”

  “Good idea!” Dwight scribbled in a pocket notebook. “Any more suggestions? We can offer an overnight and dinner for two, plus a small honorarium.”

  “How about Fran Brodie? She gives a talk on interior design that’s entertaining as well as informative, and she’s attractive.”

  Dwight made another note. “That’ll be something for the wives while their husbands are out fishing.”

  “Or vice versa.”

  “You’re really clicking tonight, Qwill. Does okra stimulate the brain cells? It might be worth the yucky experience.”

  “Then there’s Mildred Hanstable Riker,” Qwilleran suggested. “She gives talks about cats and shows a video.”

  “Scratch that one. My boss hates cats. There are wild ones hanging around the hotel all the time.”

  For dessert Qwilleran ordered sweet potato pecan pie, which the waitress delivered with a rah-rah flourish, and he asked Dwight, “Where do you get these cheerleaders to wait on tables? When I was in college, I didn’t have half that much bounce. Does your boss put steroids in their gumbo?”

  “Aren’t they great kids? We’re planning to use them for a Saturday night cabaret show. All they have to do is sing loud and kick high. Vacation audiences aren’t too critical of the entertainment at a resort. You said you used to write stuff for college revues. Would you like to write a skit for us?”

  Qwilleran said he could write a song parody, such as, Fudge, your magic smell is everywhere. “But Riker wants me to bear down
on writing more copy for the paper.”

  “I see…Well, you’re welcome to use the hotel fax machine for filing your copy, Qwill.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

  Then Dwight made a startling announcement. “Don has hired Dr. Halliburton as our summer director of music and entertainment.”

  “Dr. who?”

  “June Halliburton, head of music for the Moose County schools.”

  “Yes, I know,” Qwilleran said impatiently. “I didn’t realize she had a doctorate.”

  “Oh, sure! She has lots of degrees and lots of talent, as well as sexy good looks. She’ll be here all summer after school’s out. Right now she’s spending only weekends and getting the feel of the resort.”

  Qwilleran cleared his throat. “I believe I saw her driving to the ferry today, when I was arriving.”

  “Then you know her! That’s great! You’ll be neighbors, in case you want to collaborate on something for the cabaret. She’ll be staying at the Domino Inn.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Why not the hotel?”

  “She wants housekeeping facilities and a studio; we’re sending a small piano to her cottage. But I think the real reason is that she likes her cigarettes, and Don has outlawed smoking anywhere on the hotel grounds.”

  On this sour musical note the dinner ended. Leaving the hotel, Qwilleran was in a bad humor, contemplating two weeks in confined space plus a next-door neighbor he actively disliked. There was nothing to improve his mood when he explored the strip mall on the far side of the hotel: VIDEO, DELI, CRAFTS, POST OFFICE, FUDGE again, and GENERAL. The general store sold chiefly fishing tackle, beach balls, and paperback romances. He turned around and headed for home—or what he was to consider home for the next two painful weeks.

  At the antique shop he had another look at the display window. There it was—something he had always wanted—the classic pair of theater masks called Tragedy and Comedy. They had a mellow gilded finish and could be, he thought, ceramic, metal, or carved wood. Also in the window were pieces of glass, china, brass, and copper, plus a tasteful sign on a small easel: