The two men began matching pips in geometric formations, and Qwilleran began thinking longingly about a chocolate sundae, a symptom of boredom in his case. When the game ended, and the Hardings retired to their cottage, he found Lori and asked if Harriet’s Family Café would be open at that hour.
“She’ll be open, but she may not be serving the regular menu. If you’re starving, though, she’ll scramble some eggs for you.”
“All I want is some ice cream.”
Before walking to the restaurant, Qwilleran picked up his tape recorder and a flashlight at the cottage, moving quietly to avoid waking the Siamese. They were sleeping blissfully in the bowl-shaped leatherette cushion of the lounge chair. Groggy heads raised indifferently, with eyes open to slits, and then fell heavily back to sleep.
The café occupied one of the more modest lodges, built when the west beach was being invaded by the lower upperclass and even the upper middleclass. Whatever residential refinements had been there were now superseded by a bleak practicality: fluorescent lights that made it easy to clean the floor; dark, varnished paneling that would not show grease spots; tables with stainproof, plastic tops and kickproof, metal legs. It had been a busy evening, judging by the number of highchairs scattered among the tables. The last customer stood at the cash register, counting his change, and the cashier was clearing tables and sweeping up jettisoned food.
“Sorry to bother you,” Qwilleran said. “Am I too late for an ice cream sundae?”
“You can sit down,” she said in a flat voice. “What kind?”
“Can you rustle up some chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce?”
She left the dining room and returned, saying, “Vanilla is all.”
“That’ll do, if you have chocolate sauce.” He sat at a table near the kitchen to save the weary employee a long trek. To his surprise, another woman burst through the kitchen door, carrying his sundae. She was a husky woman of about forty, wearing a chef’s hat (unstarched) and a large canvas apron (streaked with tomato sauce). She had the lean face and stony expression typical of island women, and she walked with a lumbering gait.
Plunking the dish down in front of the customer, she said, “I know you—from Pickax. You came into the Old Stone Mill to eat. I worked in the kitchen. Derek would come back and say, ‘He’s here with his girlfriend.’ Or he’d say, ‘He’s here with a strange woman, much younger.’ Then we’d peek through the kitchen door, and we’d put an extra slice of pork or turkey on your plate. We always had a doggie bag ready for you…Eat your ice cream before it melts.”
“Thank you,” he said, plunging his spoon into the puddle of chocolate sauce.
“How come you didn’t ask for hot fudge? I can cook some up if you want. I know you like it.”
“This is fine,” he said, “and it’s late, and you must be tired.”
“I’m not tired. When you have your own business, you don’t get tired. Funny, isn’t it?”
“You must be Harriet Beadle. I’m staying at the Domino Inn, and Lori told me you helped her find a carpenter when she was in trouble.”
“Lori’s nice. I like her…Want some coffee?”
“I’ll take a cup, if you’ll have one with me.”
Harriet sent her helper home, saying she’d finish the cleanup herself. Then she brought two cups of coffee and sat down, having removed her soiled apron and limp headgear. Her straight, colorless hair had been cut in the kitchen, Qwilleran guessed, with poultry shears and a mixing bowl. “I know you like it strong,” she said. “This is island coffee. We don’t make it like this for customers.”
He could understand why; he winced at the first sip. “What brought you back to the island?”
“There’s something about the island—always makes you want to come back. I always wanted to run my own restaurant and do all the cooking. Then Mr. Exbridge told me about this and told me how to go about it—borrow the money, buy secondhand kitchen equipment, and all that. He’s a nice man. I s’pose you know him. What are you doing here? Writing for the paper?”
“If I can find anything to write about. Perhaps you could tell me something about island life.”
“You bet I could!”
He placed his recorder on the table. “I’d like to tape our conversation. Don’t pay any attention to it. Just talk.”
“What about?”
“Breakfast Island when you were growing up.”
“It was hard. No electricity. No bathrooms. No clocks. No phones. No money. We don’t call it Breakfast Island over here. It’s Providence Island.”
“Who gave it that name?”
“The first settlers. A divine providence cast ’em up on the beach after their ship was wrecked.”
“You say you had no money. How did you live?”
“On fish. Wild rabbit. Goat’s milk.” She said it proudly.
“What about necessities like shoes and flour and ammunition for hunting rabbits?”
“They used traps, back then. Other things they needed, they got by trading on the mainland. They traded fish, mostly, and stuff that washed up on the beach. My pa built a boat with wood that washed up.”
“Is he still living?” Qwilleran asked, thinking he might be one of the unsociable cab drivers.
“He drowned, trying to haul his nets before a storm.” She said it without emotion.
“And your mother?”
“Ma’s still here. Still using oil lamps. Never left the island—not even for a day. She’d just as soon go to the moon.”
“But surely electricity is now available to islanders. The resort has it. The summer estates have had it a long time.”
“Ay-uh, but a lot of people here can’t afford it. A lot of em still make their own medicines from wild plants. My ma remembers when there was no school. Now we have a one-room schoolhouse. I went through eight grades there—everybody in one room with one teacher.” She said it boastfully.
“How did you arrange to go to high school?”
“Stayed with a family on the mainland.”
“Did you have any trouble adapting to a different kind of school?”
“Ay-uh. Sure did. It was hard. I was ahead of the mainland kids in some things, the teachers said, but islanders were supposed to be dumb, and we got called all kinds of names.”
“How did you feel about that?” Qwilleran asked sympathetically.
“Made me mad! Had to beat up on ’em a coupla times.” Harriet clenched a capable fist.
He regarded this Amazon with astonishment and grudging admiration. “You must be very strong.”
“Gotta be strong to live here.”
“Where do the islanders live? I don’t see any houses.”
“In Providence Village, back in the woods.”
“Is that what the mainlanders call Piratetown?”
“Ay-uh. Makes me mad!” The clenched fist hit the tabletop and made the dishes dance.
“How do your people feel about the new resort?”
“They’re afraid. They think they’ll be chased off the island, like they were chased off the west beach when the rich folks came.”
“What do they think about the tourists?”
“They don’t like ’em. Some of the tourists are cocky…rowdy…half-naked. Last coupla weekends, a bunch of ’em camped near the lighthouse and flew kites big enough to ride in.”
“Hang gliders,” Qwilleran said, nodding. “Was that considered objectionable?”
“Well…they sat around with no clothes on, drinking beer and playing the radio loud.”
“How do you know?”
“Some rabbit hunters saw ’em…Want more coffee?”
For the first time in his life Qwilleran declined a second cup; he could feel drums beating in his head. “What’s your personal opinion of the Pear Island Hotel?” he asked her.
“Too much stuff about pirates. Makes me mad!”
“Are you saying that there were no pirates in the history of the island? Maybe they were here before
your ancestors came.”
Harriet looked fierce and banged the table. “It’s all lies! Made-up lies!”
He thought it a good idea to change the subject. “There’s a plaque at the lighthouse, honoring three lightkeepers. Do you know what happened to them?”
“Nobody knows,” she said mysteriously. “I could tell you the story if you want to hear it.”
The drums stopped beating in Qwilleran’s head, and he snapped to attention. “I’d like to hear it, but you’ve had a long hard day. You probably want to go home.”
“I don’t go home. I have a bed upstairs.”
“Then let me take you to lunch on your day off. We’ll eat in the Corsair Room.”
“I don’t take a day off. I work seven days a week. Wait’ll I get another cup of coffee. Sure you don’t want some?”
Qwilleran had a feeling that he had just found buried treasure. The lighthouse mystery had never been mentioned by Homer Tibbitt.
Harriet returned. “My grampa told this story over and over again, so I practically know it by heart. My great-grampa was mixed up in it.”
“Is that so? Was he a lightkeeper himself?”
“No, the guv’ment never hired islanders. That made ’em mad! It was like saying they were too dumb, or couldn’t be trusted. The guv’ment hired three men from the mainland to live on the rock and keep the light burning. It was an oil lamp in those days, you know. Every so often a guv’ment boat delivered oil for the beacon and food for the keepers, and it was all hauled up the cliff by rope. There were some zigzag steps chiseled in the side of the cliff—you can see ’em from the lake—but they were slippery and dangerous. Still are! When the guv’ment boat brought a relief man, he was hauled up like the groceries, by rope.”
“How did your great-grandfather become involved, Harriet?”
“Well, he was kind of a leader, because he could read and write.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Ay-uh. They didn’t have a school. The settlers were kind of a forgotten colony—not only forgotten but looked down on.”
“Where did your great-grandfather get his learning, then?”
“His pa taught him. His pa was kind of a preacher, but that’s another whole story.”
Qwilleran said impatiently, “Don’t keep me in suspense, Harriet. What happened?”
“Well, one dark night my great-grampa woke up suddenly and didn’t know why. It was like a message from the Lord. Wake up! Wake up! He got out of bed and looked around outside, and he saw that the beacon wasn’t burning. That was bad! He put on his boots and took a lantern and went to the lighthouse, to see what was wrong. It was about a mile off. When he got there, there weren’t any men around, and then he shouted—no answers! The fence gate was locked, so he climbed over. The door on the keepers’ cottage was standing open, but there was nobody there. He thought of trying to light the beacon himself, but the door to the tower was locked. He didn’t know what to do.”
“There was no wireless at that time?” Qwilleran asked.
“No wireless—no radio—no telephone. That was a long time ago, Mr. Q. So…my great-grampa went home. Passing ships must’ve reported the beacon being out, because…pretty soon the island was swarming with constables and soldiers, arresting people, searching houses, and even digging up backyard graves. They didn’t have regular cemeteries then.”
“Did they think the islanders had murdered the men? What would be the motive?”
“The guv’ment thought the islanders really wanted ships to be wrecked so they could rob them. They believed the old lie about pirate blood. That was a hundred years ago, and people still believe it! Makes me boiling mad!”
“Old legends never die,” Qwilleran said. (They only get made into movies, he thought.) “Were the bodies ever found?”
“Never. The police suspected my great-grampa and took him to the mainland for questioning.”
“Why? Because he climbed over the fence?”
“Because he could read and write. They thought he was dangerous.”
“Incredible! Are you sure this story is true, Harriet?”
She nodded soberly. “He kept a diary and wrote everything down. My ma has it hidden away.”
Qwilleran said, “I’d give a lot to see that diary!” He was thinking, What a story this will make!…Homer Tibbitt, eat your heart out!
“Ma won’t show the diary to anybody,” Harriet said. “She’s afraid it’ll be stolen.”
“Haven’t you ever seen it?”
“Only once, when I was in seventh grade. I had to be in a program for Heritage Day, so my ma let me see it. It had some weird things.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“I remember one page, because I had to memorize it for the program. August 7. Fine day. Lake calm. Light wind from southeast. Hauled nets all day. Mary died in childbirth. Baby is fine, thank the Lord…August 8. Cool. Some clouds. Wind shifting to northeast. Three rabbits in traps. Buried Mary after supper. Baby colicky. A few days after, the light burned out,” Harriet concluded, “and the soldiers dug up the grave.”
“Ghastly!” Qwilleran said. “How could your great-grandfather write about such things without emotion?”
“Islanders don’t cry. They just do what they have to do,” said Harriet, “and it doesn’t matter how hard it is.”
Qwilleran thought, They never laugh either. He asked her, “Had the islanders been on friendly terms with the lightkeepers?”
“Ay-uh. They celebrated feast days together, and Grampa took them fresh fish sometimes. They’d give him some hardtack. The islanders couldn’t go inside the fence, but the keepers could come out.”
“Were there any changes in the system after the disappearance?”
“Well, the guv’ment kept on sending three men from the mainland to do the job, but they had big dogs.”
“Congratulations, Harriet. You report the facts as if you were actually there.”
“I’ve heard it so many times,” she said modestly.
“It’ll make a sensational piece for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column. Is it okay to quote you?”
Her pleasure at being complimented turned to sudden alarm. “Which do you mean? Not the lighthouse story!”
“Especially the lighthouse mystery,” he corrected her. “This is the first I’ve heard of such an incident, and I’ve read a lot of county history.”
Harriet put her hands to her face in chagrin. “No! No! You can’t write anything about that! I just told you because I thought you’d be personally interested. I didn’t know…”
Why, Qwilleran wondered, do people give journalists sensational information or personal secrets that they don’t want published? And why are they so surprised when it appears in print? What would happen if I ran this story anyway? Historical data obtained from an anonymous source…And then he thought, The lighthouse story might be a hoax. Does she know it’s not true? It might be a family fiction invented to go with the ambiguous bronze plaque in the lighthouse compound. As for the diary, that’s probably a myth, too. To Harriet he said, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t publish the lighthouse story. Your reason will be confidential.”
“It’ll make trouble. It’ll make trouble in the village.” She moistened her lips anxiously.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Don’t you know what happened Memorial weekend? I think Mr. Exbridge stopped it from getting in the paper. Some men from the mainland—from Lockmaster—came to the village with shovels and started digging for buried pirate treasure. They dug big holes in front of Ma’s house and near the school. They had a map that they’d bought for fifty dollars from some man in a bar.”
Qwilleran suppressed an urge to chuckle. “How did the villagers get rid of them?”
“Some rabbit hunters chased them out. The diggers complained to the sheriff’s deputy about harassment, but he laughed and told them to go home and say nothing about it, or they’d look like fools. He reported it to Mr. Exbridge, thoug
h, and Mr. Exbridge said he’d done right.”
Qwilleran said, “I’m sure it was annoying to the villagers, but I don’t blame the deputy for laughing. The question is: What does this have to do with my running the lighthouse mystery?”
“Don’t you see?” she said angrily. “Someone would sell maps, and the men would be back, digging for bones!”
On the way home from Harriet’s Family Café, Qwilleran’s mind was busy filming mental images: Harriet built like a Mack truck, working like a Trojan, and apparently happy as a lark…Harriet in her drooping chef’s hat…Young Harriet piling into a bunch of kids with her fists flying. Was she honest? Were any of the islanders honest? They never cry, she had said; they do what they have to do. Were they capable of committing the perfect crime a hundred years ago? Generations of hardship would make them crafty. They could lure the lightkeepers to their deaths under the pretext of friendship. (A few cups of island coffee would do it!) But what was their motive? And where were the bodies?
Mist was rising from the lake and shrouding the dark beach road. Darting lights in the distance, like a swarm of fireflies, were the flashlights of hotel employees returning to their dormitories. Yelling, laughing, singing, they were a different breed from the shy, tongue-tied, sober-faced islanders.
A storm was on its way, no doubt about it. Mr. Harding could feel it in his bones; Koko and Yum Yum could feel it in their fur. As soon as Qwilleran, arriving at the cottage, slid cautiously into his lounge chair, both cats clomped to his side, looking heavy; then they landed in his lap like two sacks of cement. Even Koko, not normally a lap sitter, felt the need for propinquity. As barometers, the Siamese could predict “too wet” and “too windy.” A heavy cat meant a muggy downpour; a crazy cat meant an approaching hurricane
Now they sank ponderously into his lap, and he sank into the seat cushion with his feet up and his head back, thinking great thoughts: What would Lori serve for breakfast on Tuesday? When would he hear from Polly? Who won the ballgame in Minneapolis?…From there he progressed to deeper speculation: Why was the classy Noisette doing business in this backwoods resort? More to the point, what kind of business was she doing? Was the boat explosion really an accident? Who had been drinking with the hotel guest found floating in the pool? How could contaminated chicken sneak past the nose of a good chef? Wouldn’t it smell? Where could one find an informant—an insider—who could ask gossipy questions without being suspected?
The Cat Who Came to Breakfast Page 8
