He was glad to get away from the chatter of the tea table. “This will be highly educational,” he said to the eldest brother. “I don’t know anything about America’s wheels prior to Henry Ford.”
“Wheels built the country,” William said. “There were carriage makers everywhere, always improving and innovating. In the early 1900s, there were dozens of models shown in the Sears Roebuck catalogue.”
“How do you bring them to the island?”
“Disassembled—on my boat. To restore a vehicle you have to take it apart completely in order to strip and sand the wood parts. It takes hours of sanding to make a finish that looks like glass.”
The physician’s phaeton stood in the courtyard with empty shafts resting on the pavement. Two other four-wheelers were inside the barn, one of them enameled in glossy yellow with black striping and a fringed canopy.
“We use the surrey to drive to the club for lunch or dinner,” William said. “The red wagon is for a pack of kids. I personally like the two-wheeled carts—light and easy to drive and safe. You can make a sudden turn without upsetting. If you ever turned over in a carriage with a frightened horse fighting to get free, you’d know why I stress the safety factor. Here…sit in this one.”
Qwilleran climbed into a bright green dogcart with carriage lanterns and seats perched high over a box intended for hunting dogs.
“Do you think you might get interested in driving?” William asked. “There’s a driving club in Lockmaster—and driving competitions. Are you anywhere near Lockmaster?”
“Yes. Good horse country. I’d like to sit down with you and a tape recorder some day and do an interview,” Qwilleran said. “This is good material for my newspaper.”
William hesitated. “I’d like that, but…it’s like this: Mother is adamant about avoiding publicity. I wish we could, but no way!”
“How did you learn this craft?”
“Believe it or not, our steward was my mentor, beginning when I was a kid. He’s an islander and a rustic Renaissance man—no formal education, but he can do anything. He taught us kids how to drive, sail, fish, hunt—”
“I’m doing a series on islanders for my column,” Qwilleran said, “and he sounds like a good character study.”
“I’m afraid Mother would never okay it. Other families would try to get him away from us. Sorry to have to say that.”
They started walking back to the terrace, and Qwilleran asked him how much time he spent on the island. “I personally? No more than I have to. There’s a limit to the amount of croquet a sane person can play, as someone once said.”
“Dorothy Parker, but not in those exact words. How do you feel about the new resort development?”
“It’s inevitable, if you want my personal opinion. That’s the way our country is going. Mother is vastly unhappy, of course. She wants the islanders to file a class-action suit against the resort, and she’ll cover the legal fees, but it’s a lost cause, and attorneys avoid lost causes. The courts have ruled again and again that the owner of property can use it in any way that’s not illegal.”
As they returned to the terrace, he said to Qwilleran, “Talking to you has been a distinct pleasure. If you ever get down to the Chicago area, I’d like to show you the vehicles on my farm.” They both looked up in surprise; Elizabeth had dared to rise from her chaise and was approaching them.
She said, “I forgot to thank you, Mr. Qwilleran, for finding the things I lost on the trail.”
“I couldn’t help noticing the entries in your book. You must be a botanist.”
“Just an amateur. I’m fascinated by plant life. Would you like to see the herb garden I’ve planted?”
Qwilleran appreciated herbs in omelettes, but that was as far as his interest extended. Nevertheless, he acquiesced, and she asked her mother for permission to take him away from the party.
The queen mother said, “Promise not to tire yourself, Elizabeth.”
On the way to the herb garden near the kitchen door, Qwilleran might be said to amble while the amateur botanist wafted in her long flowing robe. “Herbs thrive in the island sun and air,” she said.
He stared blankly at two wooden tubs, a stone planter, and some large, clay pots, holding plants of various sizes, shapes, and colors. Finally he ventured, “What are they?”
She pointed out sage, rosemary, sweet basil, mint, lemon balm, chives, dill, and more, explaining, “There’s something mysterious about herbs. For centuries they’ve been used for healing, and when they’re used in food, something lovely happens to your senses.”
He asked about the tea they had been drinking. To him it tasted and smelled like a product of the stables. It was Lapsang souchong, she said.
“Do you grow catnip?” he asked. “I have two Siamese cats.”
“I adore Siamese!” she cried. “I’ve always wanted one, but Mother…” Suddenly she appeared weary, and he suggested sitting on a stone bench near the herbs, which were aromatic in their way.
He asked, “Where do you live when you’re not on the island?”
“Mother likes to spend autumn at our farm, the holidays in the city, and winters in Palm Beach.”
“Have you always lived with your mother?”
“Except when I was away at school.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, but her eyes wandered, and her thoughts were almost audible. She had an intelligent face, delicate but wide-browed.
Speaking like a kindly uncle, he said, “Did you ever think you’d like a place of your own?”
“Oh, Mother would not approve, and I doubt whether I’d have the courage to break away or the strength to face responsibility. My two older brothers have suggested it, but…”
“Do you have money of your own?”
“A trust fund from my father—quite a good one. Mother is trustee, but it’s mine, legally.”
“Have you ever contemplated a career?”
“Mother says I’m not cut out for anything requiring sustained commitment. She says I’m a dilettante.”
“You do have a college degree, don’t you?”
She shook her head sheepishly. He felt she was going to say, Mother didn’t think it was necessary, or Mother didn’t think I could stand the pressure, or Mother-this or Mother-that. To spare her the embarrassment he stood up and said, “Time for me to go home and feed the cats.”
They returned to the terrace, and Qwilleran thanked Mrs. Appelhardt for a pleasant afternoon; he commented that she had an interesting family. She mentioned that tea was always poured at four o’clock, and he was always welcome.
Unexpectedly Elizabeth spoke up. “I’ll drive you home, Mr. Qwilleran, and we’ll take some fresh herbs for the cook at your inn.”
“Henry will drive our guest home,” her mother corrected her.
Flinging the hair away from her face, the young woman raised her voice bravely. “Mother, I wish to drive Mr. Qwilleran myself. He has two Siamese cats that I’d like to see.”
Other members of the clan listened in hushed wonder.
“Elizabeth, you’re not quite yourself,” Mrs. Appelhardt said forcefully, “and certainly in no condition to drive. We prefer not to take chances. You’re so sensitive to medication…Richard, don’t you agree?”
Before the elder brother could reply, Jack raised his voice. “For God’s sake, Mother, let her do what she wants—for once in her life! If the buggy turns over and she breaks her neck, so be it! It’s karma! That’s what she’s always telling us.”
Qwilleran, a reluctant witness to this embarrassing moment in family history, walked over to the daughters-in-law and asked if they had heard about the unsolved lighthouse mystery. Fortunately they had not, so he recounted the story in detail, with a few embellishments of his own. By the time his listeners had speculated on the fate of the lightkeepers, Elizabeth reappeared in culottes, boots, straw sailor hat, and tailored shirt. “The groom is bringing the phaeton around,” she said in a voice that trembled slightly.
Qwilleran thought, All we need for this climactic scene is some melodramatic background music with full orchestra, as we drive away into the sunset. And what a cast of characters! Autocratic mother, timid daughter, two obedient sons, plus one who’s sufficiently cavalier to deliver the defiant punch line.
Seated alongside the frail driver, he said, “Are you sure your injured wrist can handle that whip?”
“It’s only a symbol,” she replied. “Skip responds to the reins and the driver’s voice. Our steward happens to be a wonderful trainer.” They had stopped at the gate before turning into the procession of Sunday sightseers. “Walk on, Skip!” Nodding his head as if acknowledging the request, the horse moved forward into a left turn.
“Mother says you write for a newspaper. Which one?” Elizabeth asked.
“The Moose County Something on the mainland.”
“Is that really its name? I don’t read newspapers. They’re too upsetting. What do you write?”
“A column about this and that…If I may ask, where were the peacocks today? It was my understanding that you have peacocks.”
“Mother sold them to a zoo after Father died. Their screams made her nervous. Actually they were Father’s pets. She sold his telescopes and astronomy books, too. That was his hobby. Did you ever see a UFO? Father said they hang over large bodies of water If he spotted one, he’d wake us up in the middle of the night, and we’d all go out on the roof with binoculars—except Mother and Jack. She said it was foolish; Jack said it was boring. Jack is easily bored.”
Elizabeth was more talkative than Qwilleran had expected. As she rambled on, he silently classified the family he had just met. Jack and his mother had the same assertive manner, good looks, and inverted smile. It was a safe bet that he was her favorite. He caused her trouble with his marrying addiction, but she kept on bailing him out. The three other siblings probably favored their male parent. They had wide brows, delicate features, and a gentler personality.
Elizabeth was still talking about her father. “He taught me proper driving form when I was quite little. It’s more fun than driving a car.” She identified two private vehicles returning from the Grand Island Club: a Brewster and a spider phaeton, both restored by William. When they reached the commercial strip, she expressed surprise and sadness at the conversion of private lodges.
Qwilleran said, “You probably remember the birchbark lodge. It’s now the Domino Inn, and I’m staying in a cottage at the rear. It’s small and quite confining, but I tell the cats to be patient; it’s better than a tent.”
“Do you really talk to them like that?”
“All the time. The more you talk to cats, the smarter they become, but it has to be intelligent conversation.”
In front of Four Pips, Qwilleran handed her down from the driver’s seat. “I hear lovely music! A flute with harp!” Her face was suddenly radiant.
“My next-door neighbor is a musician, and if she isn’t playing the piano, she’s playing recorded music.”
“I wanted so badly to play the flute. I had visions of piping on the nature trail and luring small animals out of the woods. But my mother insisted on piano lessons. I wasn’t very—” She stopped and squealed with delight as she saw two pairs of blue eyes watching from the front window. Koko and Yum Yum were sitting tall on the domino table with ears alert and eyes popping at the sight of a large beast outside their cottage. Indoors, Elizabeth extended her left hand to them, and they sniffed the fingers that had held the reins.
Qwilleran made the introductions, mentioning that Koko was unusually smart; his latest interest was dominoes.
“He feels the power of numbers,” Elizabeth said seriously. “Cats are tuned into mystic elements, and there’s magic in numbers. Pythagoras discovered that thousands of years ago. Do you know anything about numerology? I’ve made an informal study of it. If you write down your full name for me, I’ll tell you something about yourself. I don’t do fortune-telling—just character delineation. Write down the cats’ names, too, in block letters.”
Qwilleran thought, Wait till Mildred hears about this! Riker’s new wife was involved in tarot cards and other occult sciences. Soberly he did what Elizabeth requested:
JAMES MACKINTOSH QWILLERAN
KAO K’O RUNG a.k.a. KOKO
YUM YUM, formerly called FREYA
“Notice,” he pointed out, “that my name is spelled with a QW.”
“That’s important,” she said. “Each letter has a corresponding number. I’ll take them home and work on them. And now I must drive back to The Pines, or Mother will fret. Your little friends are so beautiful. I hope we’ll meet again.”
“Yow!” came a stentorian voice from the desk.
“He’s thanking you for the compliment,” Qwilleran explained.
Koko had something else in mind, however. As soon as he had their attention, he nosed the maroon velvet box across the desk until it fell to the floor.
Qwilleran picked it up. “He has a parlor trick he performs. If I place the dominoes facedown on the table, he can make a blind draw and come up with high-scoring pieces, like double-six and double-five. You sit down and watch quietly.” He spread the entire set on the table and encouraged Koko to draw.
The four dominoes that landed on the floor were not high-scoring pieces; they were 0-1, 1-2, 1-4, and 3-4. Elizabeth laughed merrily. It was the first time Qwilleran had heard her laugh. “Do you think cats have a sense of humor?” she asked.
“I think Koko gets a kick out of making me look like a fool.”
She was toying with the four dominoes Koko had selected. “He’s smarter than you think,” she said. “If you add the spots on each one, you get one, three, five and seven. If you match them with the letters of the alphabet, you get A, C, E and G. And if you shuffle them, you get Cage. That’s my middle name.”
Qwilleran felt goosebumps on the back of his neck. It had to be pure coincidence, he thought. And yet he said, “I’d like to hear more about numerology. Would you have lunch with me at the hotel some day this week?”
“I’d be delighted!” she said, and her eyes sparkled.
He thought, There’s nothing wrong with this girl that can’t be cured by a reduction in motherpower and a few chocolate malts.
On the way out, Elizabeth caught sight of the gilded leather masks over the sofa. “Your theater masks are stunning!” she said and then she giggled. “One looks like my brother William, and one looks like Jack.”
After the phaeton had rolled away from Four Pips, Qwilleran remembered an episode in his early school years. His teacher, Miss Heath, had a toothy and ambiguous smile that could mean either good news or bad news. Being a domino player at home, although a reluctant one, his private name for her was Miss Double-six. The class was seated alphabetically, and James Qwilleran was assigned to sit in front of a fat kid named Archibald Riker. In dull moments they amused each other by exchanging notes in secret code. It was nothing that would stump a cryptographer—or even Miss Double-six if she had caught them; the letters of the alphabet were numbered 1 to 26. One day, while her back was turned, Qwilleran tossed a wad of paper over his shoulder: 13-9-19-19 8-5-1-20-8 8-1-19 2-9-7 20-5-5-20-8. Arch decoded it and laughed so hard that he choked and was sent into the hall for a drink of water. Forty years later, he still quaked with internal laughter whenever he saw someone with prominent dentition.
And now, after all those years, Qwilleran had a cat who was interested in double-six—most of the time. That was the name of Nick’s boat; did it mean that Koko wanted to go home? Or did the twelve pips signify the letter L? And if so, what did the letter L have to do with anything? Kao K’o Kung had some obscure ways of communicating
. Often it was merely a matter of nudging Qwilleran’s thought processes. In this case, nothing clicked.
The morning plate of meatloaf was still untouched, and Qwilleran’s determination to win the argument struggled with his humane instincts—and lost. Just because he had been impulsive enough to pay for ten pounds of meatloaf up front, he could not let them starve. He opened a can of boned chicken. The breakfast that the Siamese had ignored was carried to the trash cans for the strays.
Nick was there, working on the foundation of the building. “Mildew’s a problem,” he explained. “I’m taking a week of my vacation and trying to catch up on the maintenance…Say, Qwill, does the music from Five Pips bother you?”
“It’s a little mind-numbing when she practices technique, but I’ve learned to wear ear plugs for catfights, fog horns, and finger exercises.”
“I had to speak to her about smoking this afternoon,” said the hard-working innkeeper. “I was repairing one of her porch screens and saw a saucerful of butts. She thinks she’s a privileged character because Exbridge pays her rent…How about you? Is everything okay?”
“So far, so good. Tonight I meet with my undercover man. Right now I’m on my way downtown for something to eat.”
At the hotel he waited for the Comptons to come out of the small auditorium where Lyle had delivered his lecture on “Bloody Scotland.” The superintendent of schools had a perverse sense of humor that Qwilleran enjoyed, and Lisa’s agreeable disposition was a foil for her husband’s orneriness.
She said, “We had a good crowd, with lots of young people. They like blood, and Lyle always pours it on: the massacre at Glen Coe, the atrocities of the Highland Clearances, and the slaughter at the Battle of Culloden.”
They took a booth in the Buccaneer Den and ordered burgers, and Qwilleran said, “You talk about the farmers being cleared out of the Scottish Highlands and replaced by corporate flocks of sheep. It wouldn’t surprise me if the natives were driven from Breakfast Island and replaced by something like corporate oil wells.”
The Cat Who Came to Breakfast Page 15
