The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"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 tlie 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 melange 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 scowll, "the islanders will shoot it down with their rabbit 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 entrees and a flutter of bonhomie: "The gumbo looks so good, and the corn bread 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 be actively disliked. There was nothing to improve his mood when he explored the strip mall on the far side of the hoteclass="underline" 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 tor the next two painful weeks.