“How wonderful! I want to see them.”
“Unfortunately, they left this morning to return home—Boston, I believe.”
“Why didn’t they let me know they were here?” she said. “When Mother enrolled me in the academy, I was in a very bad state psychologically, and they were so kind! You’re a very kind person, too, Mr. Qwilleran. Am I right in thinking you’re not married?”
“I’m not married at the moment…but I’m committed,” he added quickly.
“What is she like?” Elizabeth asked eagerly.
“She’s intelligent and comfortable to be with and nice-looking, and she has a melodious voice. She’s head of the public library in Pickax City…”
“I’d love to be a librarian,” she said wistfully, “but I don’t have the formal education. Mother convinced me I didn’t have the temperament or the stamina for college.”
They reached the downtown area, and she was appalled. “How could they desecrate this lovely island? Those dreadful shops! Those vulgar rocking chairs!”
To alleviate her horror he said lightly, “I have a vision of all fifty rockers occupied and rocking in unison like a chorus line and creating electromagnetic waves that would bring the entire resort tumbling down.”
She relaxed and laughed a little.
“The worst is yet to come,” he went on. “The lobby is hung with black pirate flags, and we’re lunching in the Corsair Room, the entrance to which is guarded by a swash-buckling pirate.”
At the reservation desk Derek looked at Elizabeth, and then at Qwilleran questioningly, and then back at the woman in the unusual hat. “Hi, Mr. Q! Do you want your usual corner booth?” he asked, adding under his breath, “Hey! Wow!”
When they were seated, Elizabeth said, “That person in the lobby is so tall!”
“That’s Derek Cuttlebrink, a well-known figure in Pickax and an actor in the Theater Club…Would you have a cocktail, Ms. Appelhardt? Or an aperitif?”
“Please call me Elizabeth,” she said.
“Only if you’ll call me Qwill.”
After a moment’s hesitation she asked for a chardonnay spritzer, and he said he would have the same thing without the wine.
“And now I’m dying to know something about your name—James Mackintosh Qwilleran with a QW. Was that your name at birth?”
“As a matter of fact…no. Before I was born, my mother was reading Spenser’s Faerie Queene, and she named me Merlin James. When I was in high school, you can imagine how my peers heckled a first baseman named Merlin! So I changed it when I went to college. My mother was a Mackintosh.”
“That makes a big difference,” she said. “When I charted ‘James Mackintosh Qwilleran,’ I knew something was wrong. First I have to explain how numerology works. Every letter of the alphabet has a corresponding number, beginning with one for the letter A. When you reach ten—for J—you drop the zero and start again with one. To chart a name, you give each letter its numeral equivalent, total them, and reduce the total to a single digit. Is that clear?”
“I think so,” he murmured, although his mind was wandering back forty years to Miss Heath—she of the toothy smile.
“When I charted the name you gave me, the final digit was two, and instinct told me you were not a two type! I had a feeling that you are a five!…So now, if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll chart your birth name.” As she scribbled in a notebook, she mumbled to herself, “Merlin reduces to eight…add three for James and three for Qwilleran…for a total of fourteen…which reduces to five.…I knew it! You’re a five!” she cried in triumph.
“Is that good or bad?”
Excitedly she said, “It means you like freedom, adventure, and change. You’ve probably traveled extensively, because you’re adaptable and have a lively curiosity about new places and new people. And you have ingenuity, which must be useful in your work.”
“In all modesty,” Qwilleran said, “I must say you’ve got it right. But how did you know the previous number was wrong? You don’t know me that well.”
“It’s your aura,” she said seriously. “You have the aura of a five.”
“And what is your digit?”
“I’m a seven, which happens to be the same as your male cat. In charting them I came upon an astounding fact. Kao K’o Kung adds up to seven, and so does Koko. In the case of Yum Yum and Freya, each name comes out to the same digit: one. That means she’s patient and independent, with strong willpower. Koko is aristocratic, scientific, and mentally keen, but rather secretive.”
“Remarkable!” Qwilleran said. Pensively he devoured a bowl of gumbo, while his guest nibbled half a chicken sandwich without mayonnaise. Gradually he led her into a discussion of cooking herbs, then medicinal herbs, and then toxic herbs.
“The islanders would probably know about poisonous plants,” she said. “They make their own folk medicines. Have you ever been to the Dark Village?”
“Is that what the natives call Providence Village?”
“Yes, and it’s a fascinating place. My father used to drive us through the village. If you’d like to rent a carriage after lunch, I could drive.”
“Is it true they resent strangers?”
“Ordinarily, but we were always quiet and respectful of their privacy. The islanders liked my father. He’d talk to the fishermen on the beach and buy some of their catch.”
She lapsed into a thoughtful silence and he left her alone with her memories for a while. Suddenly she said, “Qwill, would you call me Liz? No one but my father ever called me that. He was my best friend and the only one who ever really listened to me.”
“I’d be honored…Liz,” he said. “How long has your father been gone?”
“Six years, and I still feel lonely. I have no rapport with my mother. William and Ricky are good brothers, but they have their own families and their own life.”
“What about Jack?”
“We don’t get along,” she said sharply. “When we were growing up, he used to torment me—paint moustaches on my dolls and glue the pages of my favorite books together.”
“Did your parents let him get away with that?”
“Mother excused him, saying he was naturally playful and didn’t mean any harm, and Father—well…Father never tried to argue with her. You see, Qwill, Jack was such a beautiful boy that he could get away with anything! He’s lost his looks now, from too much partying.”
“Does Jack have a profession?”
“Marriage!” she said acidly. “He’s been divorced three times, and he’s only twenty-six. Mother says she doesn’t care how many women he has, but why does he have to marry them all? It’s like an addiction. Did you ever hear of such a thing? It’s not a subject the family likes to discuss, but I’m sure he’s married again and wants to get out of it. Whenever Jack spends a few weeks at home, he has an ulterior motive. He’s been married to a rock singer, a figure-skater (she was nice), and an Italian actress.”
“Some day he’ll marry a librarian and live happily ever after,” Qwilleran said.
Liz laughed a little. “I’m doing all the talking, Qwill. Tell me about you. Where do you live?”
“I live in a converted apple barn in Pickax City, population 3,000. I used to write for large metropolitan dailies, but now a friend of mine publishes the small local newspaper. I write for it and get involved, somewhat, with small-town life.”
“You seem happy,” Liz said with a touch of envy.
“I’ve achieved contentment, I think. I have friends, and I’m writing a book.”
“I’m not happy,” she said with bitterness. “You were right when you said I need a place of my own. When I’m at home, I lose all my spirit and ambition and appetite.”
“How do you account for that?” he asked gently, although he was eager for particulars. Some day he would actually write that book, and he was always scrounging for material.
“Mother wants to direct my life, choose my friends, and make my decisions. After a while one just…gi
ves up!…There! That’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Let’s visit the Dark Village,” Qwilleran said.
He rented a two-wheeled cart, and they headed toward the east beach with Liz at the reins. It was an expanse of pebbles with picnic tables and rubbish containers at intervals. A few tourists were sunning on beach towels or hunting for agates or sharing picnic lunches with stray cats. Qwilleran said, “I’ve seen feral cats everywhere except at The Pines.”
“No,” she said sadly. “They know they’re not wanted.”
After a while a rutted road forked to the left and plunged into the woods. The hush was almost oppressive.
“The Dark Village,” Liz whispered. “Can’t you feel its spell?”
Ancient trees spread a dense canopy of branches over the road. There were windswept cedars twisted into grotesque shapes and gnarled oaks with trunks five feet in diameter, crusted with lichens. As the horse plodded through the ruts, the wheels of the rented gig creaked noticeably; otherwise, there was a lonely silence. A ramshackle hut or collapsed roof might be seen in the woods, but there was no sign of humanity. Deeper and deeper into the forest the road followed a tortuous path between the arboreal giants. Qwilleran had to remind himself to take a deep breath occasionally.
Farther on, scattered habitations began to appear—pathetic shelters nailed together from fragments of wrecked ships or structures swept away from some distant shore long ago. Some of them had small yards fenced off with misshapen pickets of driftwood, enclosing two or three crude tombstones. Yet, there was evidence of the living as well as the dead. A few pieces of clothing hung forlornly on a clothesline; an old dog slept on a doorstep; hens pecked in the road, and a goat nibbled weeds in a front yard. Once, a wild cat dashed across the road, dodging the horse’s hooves. Some children, playing in a yard, rushed out of sight when the cart approached. Occasionally there was a glimpse of movement in a window, as someone peered out at the strangers. Somewhere a rooster crowed.
At one point the road widened slightly, and there was a small but well-built schoolhouse with outhouses for boys and girls; the siding was government-issue aluminum. Nearby, a weatherbeaten structure looked like the ghost of an old general store; two gaunt old men sat on a bench in front and glared at the cart as it trundled past. One other building made a brave showing with white paint but only on the front; there was a cross above the door.
After that, there were fewer dwellings and more open spaces with more patches of sunlight, until the road came to an end at the mountainous sand dune. Here the road forked right to the pebble beach and left into a tangle of weeds and underbrush.
Liz told the horse to whoa. “It was a hard pull through those ruts. Let him rest awhile.”
Now what? Qwilleran thought; there seemed to be more on her mind than the welfare of the old nag. She was preoccupied. He said, “This has been a spellbinding experience. It’s hard to believe that people live like this. What is that overgrown road to the left?”
“It used to be the villagers’ shortcut to the west beach. It was closed when the Grand Island Club originated.”
He was searching for a topic that would focus her attention. “That must be the sand dune where the fellow was shot last weekend.” Then he told himself, This woman doesn’t even read newspapers; she may not know about the shooting.
Liz turned to him abruptly. “Qwill, I think my guardian angel sent me that snake, so I could meet you.”
“That’s a charming compliment,” he said stiffly, “but you paid a high price for a dubious benefit.” He hoped this avowal would not lead to embarrassment.
Speaking earnestly, she said, “Ever since my father died, I’ve had no one to confide in.”
“Is something troubling you?” he asked cautiously.
“I had a horrible experience right here on this spot a few years ago, and I’ve never been able to tell anyone.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
Qwilleran’s curiosity went into high gear, but he said in an offhand way, “If it will help you to talk about it, I’ll be willing to listen.”
She pondered a few minutes, looking tragic in her father’s old hat. “Well, I was spending the summer here with my mother. Father had just died, and I felt so alone! Then my brother Jack came up for a few weeks. Mother had just paid a big settlement to get rid of his first wife, and now he had married again. Mother was upset, but Jack was her pet and could wheedle her into anything.” Her mind wandered off into realms of family intrigue.
Qwilleran nudged it back on track. “So he came up to The Pines for a few weeks.”
“He was doing penance. He was being sweet to Mother and even to me. We played croquet and went sailing, and one day he took me for a drive through the Dark Village, just as Father had done. We took my favorite carriage and favorite horse and a basket lunch to eat on the south beach. I was so happy! I thought I had finally found a big brother who would be my confidant.”
The rented horse snorted and stamped his hooves, but Liz was consumed by her memories.
“We drove through the Dark Village and when we came to this fork in the road, he turned left into the weeds. I said, ‘Where are you going? This road is closed!’ His mouth turned down with a nasty expression, and I can’t tell you what he said! I can’t tell you what he tried to do! I jumped out of the carriage and ran screaming to the beach road. There were some fishermen beaching their boats, and I told them I was from The Pines. I said my brother had played a trick and driven away without me. They remembered my father and took me home in their boat. It was full of wet, slippery, flopping fish, but I didn’t care. I was grateful.”
“What did you tell your mother?” Qwilleran asked.
“I couldn’t tell her what happened. She wouldn’t have believed me. I told her my mind suddenly went blank. Jack told her I went crazy. Ricky said I was grieving for Father, and the ride through the Dark Village triggered a seizure. I had to have a nurse companion all summer, and Mother sent Jack to Europe while she paid off his second wife. That turned out to be poetic justice, because he met an actress in Italy and married again.”
There was a distant rumble on the horizon, and Qwilleran asked, “Is that thunder? Or is Canada being attacked by missiles?”
“It’s a long way off,” Liz said. “Sometimes we hear distant thunder for two days and nights before the storm reaches us. It’s rather exciting.”
“Nevertheless, we should take this tired nag back to the stable for his afternoon nap,” Qwilleran said.
Downtown he checked the post office—there was no mail from Polly—and hailed a cab to take Liz home.
“I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my mind and my heart,” she said. “Would you be my guest for lunch at the clubhouse some day?”
He agreed, hoping the invitation would be delayed until he was safely back in Pickax. He had done his good deed—two of them, in fact. He had listened sympathetically and allowed himself to be adopted as a godfather of sorts. From a practical point of view, meeting the royal family had been unproductive, supplying no material for his column and no leads in his investigation. Furthermore, if and when he ever wrote his book, it would not be about people like the Appelhardts…What prompted this asocial thinking was an immediate concern of his own, prompted by Lyle Compton’s casual remark that Polly might decide to stay in Oregon. Qwilleran’s uneasiness increased as each day passed without a postcard.
After dropping his lunch date at The Pines, Qwilleran went into the lounge at the Domino Inn to borrow some newspapers. There were few guests in evidence, but that was understandable; it was a weekday, and weather predictions for the next five days were iffy. Thunder still rumbled sporadically. It was not coming any closer; it was simply a warning of something that might never happen.
At the fruit basket he was glad to see that the pears had been replaced by apples. He was helping himself to one red and one green when the vice president in charge of communications and deliv
eries dashed up to him with two slips of paper, a foil-wrapped package the size of a brick, and an excited announcement in the language that Qwilleran was beginning vaguely to understand. As far as he could construe, either Sherman had had kittens, or Sheba was afraid of thunder, or Shoo Shoo had thrown up a hairball. He nodded and thanked Mitchell and then read his two telephone messages:
TO: Mr. Q
FROM: Andrew Brodie
REC’D: Tuesday 1:15 P.M.
MESSAGE: George Dulac. Lake Worth FL
To Qwilleran the name sounded Slavic. This was the ill-fated hotel guest who had conversed with a woman in a foreign language. The other message was from Dwight Somers: “Leaving the island. Information you want is in the mail.” From these few words Qwilleran deduced that the public-relations man had been fired, possibly for snooping in the hotel’s confidential records. If that were the case, Qwilleran rationalized, his friend was better off; he was too good for XYZ; he deserved more civilized working conditions; he could start his own agency.
When Qwilleran returned to Four Pips, he found two restless cats. They could hear the far-off thunder, and they knew instinctively what was in store. They might, in fact, know more than the weather forecasters. Koko was prowling and looking for ways to get into trouble. Yum Yum was murmuring to herself as she tried to open a desk drawer. When Qwilleran opened it to show her that is was empty, that was even more frustrating to her feline sensibility. He tried reading to the Siamese from the editorial page of the Moose County Something, but they were bored. So was he. All three of them were at sixes and sevens.
Polly was on his mind, along with the reasons why she would decide to move to Oregon: Her old school chum pressured her into relocating; the opportunities for birding were irresistible; a suburban library needed a librarian with Polly’s expertise and made her a good offer; she had reached the restless age and was ready for a new challenge. Although he tried to be understanding, Qwilleran found it difficult to imagine life without Polly. True, he had many friends, and two animal companions, and an enviable place to live, and a column to write for the newspaper, and a host of devoted readers, and money to spend. Yet, Polly filled a long-felt need in his life.
The Cat Who Came to Breakfast Page 18
