Driveways were marked with discreet, rustic signs identifying the estates as RED OAKS or WHITE SANDS or CEDAR GABLES. The last and largest was THE PINES, protected by a high iron fence similar to that in front of Buckingham Palace.
How, Qwilleran wondered, were these elite vacationers reacting to the increased traffic on the beach road? On weekends there would be a continual parade of cyclists pedaling to the lighthouse. Carriageloads of gawking sightseers would stop in front of the grandest lodges to take pictures and listen to the guides spieling about family scandals.
By the same token, how would the reclusive islanders react to the noisy strangers, the aroma of fudge polluting their lake-washed air, and brash cityfolk wearing clown colors and trespassing on their sacred privacy? Would these rugged natives resent the intrusion strongly enough to retaliate? They might be an underground army of little Davids aiming slingshots at a well-capitalized Goliath who was getting a tax break.
After The Pines, the lush woods dwindled to stunted, windswept vegetation atop a mountain of sand. Beyond could be seen the lighthouse, a pristine white against a blue sky. For the last few hundred yards the road was steep, but Qwilleran bore down on the pedals resolutely. He was breathing hard when he reached the summit, but he was in better shape than he had realized.
Lighthouse Point was a desolate promontory overlooking an endless expanse of water to the north, east, and west. The tower itself was dazzlingly white in the strong sunlight, and adjacent buildings were equally well maintained. There was no sign of life, however. Such romantic figures as the lighthousekeeper and the lighthousekeeper’s daughter had been made obsolete by automation. A high, steel fence surrounded the complex. Inside the fence, but visible to visitors, a bronze plaque was a reminder of the old days:
IN MEMORY OF THREE LOYAL LIGHTKEEPERS
WHO SAVED HUNDREDS OF LIVES BY
KEEPING THE BEACON BURNING BUT
LOST THEIR OWN IN THE LINE OF DUTY
There followed the names of the three men—typical north-country names that could be found in the old cemeteries of Moose County; Trevelyan…Schmidt…Mayfus. Yet, for some reason they were considered heroes. Qwilleran asked himself: What did they do to earn this recognition? Were there three isolated incidents over a period of years? Or were they swept off the rock in a storm? Why is none of this in the county history? He made a mental note to discuss the oversight with Homer Tibbitt.
On the public side of the fence the ground was a plateau of stones and weeds that showed evidence of unauthorized picnicking. There were no picnic tables or rubbish containers provided. Empty bottles were scattered about the site of a campfire, and food wrappers had blown against the fence and over the edge of the cliff. Down below were the treacherous rocks, where old wooden sailing ships had been dashed to pieces in the days before the lighthouse was built.
Moose County, in its nineteenth-century boom years, had been the richest in the state. Every month hundreds of vessels passed the island, transporting lumber, ore, gold coins, and rum, according to Mr. Tibbitt. Hundreds of wrecks now lay submerged and half buried in sand under those deep waters.
Today the lake could only gurgle and splash among the boulders, but the wind was chill on top of the cliff, and Qwilleran soon coasted back down the hill. He gripped the handlebars and clenched his jaw in concentration as the bike loped recklessly over rocks and ruts. Two young athletes in helmets and stretch pants were pedaling their thirty-speed bikes easily up the slope that had caused him so much effort. They even had breath enough to shout “Hi, neighbor! Nice goin’” as they passed.
After returning his own bike to the rental rack, he bought a supply of snacks and beverages at the deli—for himself and possible visitors. There were two large shopping bags, and he hailed a horse cab to carry them home. Without even greeting the Siamese, he checked the bedroom closet. The slipcovers had been removed, as Lori had promised, but the same odor rushed out to meet his offended nose; it had permeated his clothing.
“That woman!” Qwilleran bellowed. “May her piano always be out of tune!” Without a word to the bewildered cats, he stuffed his belongings into the two shopping bags and hiked up the beach road to Vacation Helpers.
The enterprise occupied the main floor of the former fishing lodge. In one large, open space there were work tables and such equipment as washer, dryer, ironing board, sewing machine, word processor, and child’s playpen.
When Qwilleran dumped the contents of his shopping bags on one of the tables, the young woman in charge sniffed and said, “Mmm! Someone lovely has been hanging around you!”
“That’s what you think,” he said grouchily. “How fast can you do this stuff? I need some of it to wear to dinner.”
“One shirt is silk, and it’ll need special care, but most of it’s wash-and-wear. I can have everything ready by…six o’clock?”
“Make it five-thirty. I’ll pick it up.” Without any of his usual pleasantries he started for the door.
“Sir! Shall I give your bundle to anyone with a big moustache?” she asked playfully. “Or do you want to leave your name?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I had something on my mind. The name’s Qwilleran. That’s spelled with a QW.”
“I’m Shelley, and my partners are Mary and Midge.”
“How’s business?” he asked, noticing that none of the roomful of equipment was in use.
“We’re just getting organized. The rush won’t start till July. Our picnic lunches are the most popular so far. Want to try one?”
He was going out to dinner, but it appeared that they needed the business, so he paid his money and took home a box that proved to contain a meatloaf sandwich, coleslaw, cookies, and…a pear! He put it in the refrigerator and dropped into his lounge chair. Oops! He had forgotten the broken spring. He seated himself again, this time with circumspection.
Then: What are those cats doing? he asked himself.
Koko was on the porch, trying to catch mosquitoes on the screen, the problem being that they were all on the outside.
“And you’re supposed to be a smart cat,” Qwilleran said.
Yum Yum was in the tiny kitchen area, fussing. When Yum Yum fussed, she could work industriously and stubbornly for an hour without any apparent purpose and without results. In Qwilleran’s present mood he found the unexplained noises nerve-wracking—the bumping, clicking, thudding, and skittering.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing?” he finally said in exasperation.
She had found a rusty nail in a crevice and, having worked and worked and worked to get it out, she pushed it back into another crevice.
“Cats!” he said, throwing up his hands.
Nevertheless, the rusty nail brought to mind the front steps of the Domino Inn. The aged carpenter blamed the collapse of the steps on rusty nails. Lori blamed a careless inspection. Nick wanted to blame the troublemakers from Lockmaster. Qwilleran favored the David-and-Goliath theory. Meanwhile, it was advisable to return to the Buccaneer Den while the bartender still remembered him and his magnanimous tip.
The bartender’s craggy face—hardened after eighteen years in Chicago’s Loop—brightened when Qwilleran slid onto a bar stool. “Have a good day?” he asked jovially as he toweled the bartop.
“Not bad. Has the bar been busy?”
“Typical Monday.” Bert waggled a double old-fashioned glass. “Same?”
“Make it a four-alarm this time. Gotta rev up for one of those Cajun specials in the Corsair Room.”
“Yep, pretty good cook we’ve got. I send a Sazerac to the kitchen several times a day.” He placed the blood-red glassful on the bar and waited for Qwilleran’s approval. “How long y’here for?”
“Coupla weeks.”
“Staying in the hotel?”
“No. At the Domino Inn. Friend of mine owns it.”
“Sure, I know him. Short fella, curly black hair. Nice guy. Family man.”
“What do you think of his inn?”
“Sensat
ional!” said Bert. “That treebark siding has acid in it that keeps insects out. That’s why it’s lasted. Besides that, it looks terrific!”
“Have you been to the lighthouse?” Qwilleran asked.
“Sure. A bunch of us went up there in a wagon before the hotel opened. Mr. Exbridge arranged it. He’s a good boss. Very human. Owns a third of XYZ, but you’d never know it from his attitude. Pleasure to work for him.”
“I’ve heard he’s a good guy. Too bad about the food poisoning and the drowning. Were they accidents? Or did someone have it in for XYZ?”
Bert paused before answering. “Accidents.” Then he became suddenly busy with bottles and glasses.
Qwilleran persisted. “The guy that drowned—do you remember serving him?”
“Nope.”
“Was he drinking in the lounge or by the pool?”
The bartender shrugged.
“Do any of the poolside waiters remember him?”
Bert shook his head. He was looking nervously up and down the bar.
“Was he a boater or a guest at the hotel? It would be interesting to know who was drinking with him.”
Bert moved away and went into a huddle with his two assistants, who turned and looked anxiously at the customer with a sizable moustache. Then all three of them stayed at the far end of the bar.
So Exbridge had imposed the gag rule. Qwilleran had guessed as much when having dinner with Dwight Somers. Finishing his drink, he went to the Corsair Room for jambalaya, a savory blend of shrimp, ham, and sausage. He had been on the island twenty-four hours, although it seemed like a week. There was something about an island that distorted time. There was also something about jambalaya that made one heady.
He hailed a cab for the ride home—a spidery vehicle with a small body slung between two large spoked wheels that looked astonishingly delicate. He climbed in beside the lumpish old man holding the reins and said, “Do you know the Domino Inn on the west beach?”
“Ay-uh,” said the cabbie. He was wearing the shapeless, colorless clothes of the islanders. “Giddap.” The gig moved slowly behind a plodding horse with a swayback.
“Nice horse,” Qwilleran said amiably.
“Ay-uh.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bob.”
“How old is he?”
“Pretty old.”
“Does he belong to you?”
“Ay-uh.”
“Where do you keep him?”
“Yonder.”
“How do you like this weather?” Qwilleran wished he had brought his tape recorder.
“Pretty fair.”
“Is business good?”
“Pretty much.”
“Have you always lived on the island?”
“Ay-uh.”
“Do you get a lot of snow in winter?”
“Enough.”
“Where is Piratetown?”
“Ain’t none.”
Eventually the cab reached the Domino Inn, and Qwilleran paid his fare plus a sizable tip. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“John.”
“Thanks, John. See you around.”
The old man shook the reins, and the horse moved on.
It was sunset time. Guests filled the porch swings as Qwilleran walked up the front steps of the inn.
“Beautiful evening,” said the man who wore a French beret indoors and out. He spoke with a pleasant voice and a warmly benign expression on his wrinkled face.
“Yes, indeed,” Qwilleran replied with a special brand of courtesy that he reserved for his elders.
“I’m Arledge Harding, and this is my wife, Dorothy.”
“My pleasure. My name is Qwilleran—Jim Qwilleran.”
The retired vicar moved with a physical stiffness that added to his dignity. “We’re quite familiar with your name, Mr. Qwilleran, being privileged to read your column in the Moose County newspaper. It’s most refreshing! You write extremely well.”
“Thank you. I was sorry to hear about your accident. Which was the faulty step?”
“The third from the top, alas.”
“Were you walking down or coming up?”
“He was going down,” said Mrs. Harding. “Fortunately he had hold of the railing. I always remind him to grip the handrail. It’s strange, though. Arledge weighs like a feather, and that husky young man who rides a bicycle runs up and down the steps all the time—”
“But in the middle, my dear. I stepped on the end of the step, and the other end flew up in a seesaw effect. The carpenter blamed it on rusty nails, and I do believe the nails in this building are even older than I am.”
His wife squirmed to get out of the wooden swing. “Do sit here, Mr. Qwilleran.”
“Don’t let me disturb you,” he protested.
“Not at all. I have things to do indoors, and I’ll leave my husband in your good hands…Arledge, come inside if you feel the slightest chill.”
When she had bustled away, Qwilleran said, “A charming lady. I didn’t mean to chase her away.”
“Have no compunction. My dear wife will be glad of a moment’s respite. Since my accident she feels an uxorial obligation to attend me twenty-four hours a day—and this for a single fractured rib. I tremble to think of her ceaseless attention if I were to break a leg. Such is the price of marital devotion. Are you married, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“Not any more, and not likely to try it again,” said Qwilleran, taking the vacant seat in the creaking swing. “I understand you have visited the island in the past.”
“Yes, Mrs. Harding and I are fond of islands, which is not to imply that we’re insular in our thinking—just a little odd. Individuals who are attracted to islands, I have observed, are all a little odd, and if they spend enough of their lives completely surrounded by water, they become completely odd.”
“I daresay you’ve noted many changes here.”
“Quite! We were frequently guests of an Indianapolis family by the name of Ritchie—in the decades B.C. Before commercialization, I might add. The Ritchies would have deplored the current development. They were a mercantile family, good to their friends and employees and generous to the church, rest their souls.”
Qwilleran said, “The name of Ritchie is connected with the Mackintosh clan. My mother was a Mackintosh.”
“I recognized a certain sly Scottish wit in your writing, Mr. Qwilleran. I mentioned it to Mrs. Harding, and she agreed with me.”
“What was this island like in the years B.C.?
Mr. Harding paused to reflect. “Quiet…in tune with nature…and eminently restorative.”
“Did the Ritchies have the lodge behind the high iron fence?”
“Gracious me! No!” the vicar exclaimed. “They were not at all pretentious, and they found delight in poking fun at those who were.”
“Then who is the owner of The Pines? It looks like quite a compound.”
“It belongs to the Appelhardts, who founded the private club and were the first to build in the 1920s. The Ritchies called them the royal family and their estate, Buckingham Palace…What brings you to the island, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“A working vacation. I’m staying in one of the cottages because my cats are with me, a pair of Siamese.”
“Indeed! We once had a Siamese in the vicarage. His name was Holy Terror.”
Mrs. Harding suddenly appeared. “A breeze has sprung up, and I’m afraid it’s too chilly for you, Arledge.”
“Yes, a storm is brewing. I feel it in my bones, and one bone in particular.” The three of them went into the lounge and found comfortable seating in an alcove, whereupon the vicar asked his wife, “Should I tell Mr. Qwilleran the story about Holy Terror and the bishop?”
“Do you think it would be entirely suitable, Arledge?”
“The bishop has been entertaining the civilized world with the story for twenty years.”
“Well…you wouldn’t put it in the paper, would you, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“Of course no
t. I never mention cats and clergymen in the same column.”
“Very well, then,” she agreed and sat nervously clutching her handbag as her husband proceeded:
“It was a very special occasion,” Mr. Harding said with a twinkle in his left eye. “The bishop was coming to luncheon at the vicarage, and we discovered that he enjoyed a Bloody Mary at that time of day. This required much planning and research, I assure you. After consulting all available experts, we settled upon the perfect recipe and took pains to assemble the correct ingredients. On the appointed day our distinguished guest arrived and was duly welcomed, and then I repaired to the kitchen to mix the concoction myself. As I carried the tray into the living room, Holy Terror went into one of his Siamese tizzies, flying up and down stairs and around the house at great speed until he swooped over my shoulder and landed in the tray. Glasses catapulted into space, and the Bloody Mary flew in all directions, spraying tomato juice over the walls, furniture, carpet, ceiling, and the august person of the bishop.”
The gentle Mr. Harding rocked back and forth with unholy mirth until his wife said, “Do try to control yourself, Arledge. You’re putting a strain on your rib.” Then she turned to Qwilleran and asked the inevitable question: “Do you play dominoes?”
“I’m afraid I have to say no, and I suppose I should go home and see what profane terrors my two companions have devised.”
Gasping a little, Mr. Harding said, “I would deem it…a privilege and a pleasure…to introduce you to a game that promotes tranquility.”
Sooner or later, Qwilleran knew, he would have to play dominoes with someone, and he could use a little tranquility after the events of the day. He followed the Hardings to a card table under a bridge lamp. When the old man was properly seated, his wife excused herself, saying the best game was two-handed.
The vicar opened a box of dominoes and explained that there were twenty-eight pieces in the set, having pips similar to the spots on dice. “Why the one game is considered nice and the other is considered naughty, I am unable to fathom, especially since the naughty game is so often played on one’s knees with certain prayerful exhortations. Or so I am told,” he added with a twinkle in his good eye. “You might address that weighty question in your column some day. As a clue, let me mention that a domino was originally a hood worn by a canon in a cathedral.”
The Cat Who Came to Breakfast Page 7
