The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

At the antique shop he had another look at the display window. There it was—something he had always wanted—the classic pair of theater masks called Tragedy and Comedy. They had a mellow gilded finish and could be, he thought, ceramic, metal, or carved wood. Also in the window were pieces of glass, china, brass, and copper, plus a tasteful sign on a small easeclass="underline"

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ANTIQUES BY NOISETTE

PARIS . . . PALM BEACH

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The sign piqued his curiosity. Why would a dealer with Paris and Palm Beach credentials choose Pear Island as a summer venue?

There were other signs that interested him. The one in the window that had said Open when the shop was dosed had now been turned around to read Closed when die shop was open. Taped on the glass panel of the door was another piece of information:

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No Children Allowable

If Not in Chargement of an Adult

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There were no customers in the store, and he could understand why. Noisette sold only antiques—no postcards, fudge, or T-shirts. He sauntered into the shop in slow mo-tion to disguise his eagerness about the masks; that was the first rule of standard antiquing procedure, he had been told. First he examined the bottom of a plate and held a piece of crystal to the light as if he knew what he was doing.

From the corner of his eye he saw a woman sitting at a desk and reading a French magazine. She was hardly the friendly, folksy dealer one would expect on an island 400 miles north of everywhere. She had the effortless chic that he associated with Parisian women: dark hair brushed back to emphasize a handsomely boned face; lustrous eyes of an unusual brown; tiny diamond earrings.

"Good evening," he said in the mellifluous voice he reserved for women he wanted to impress.

"Oh! Pardon!" she said. "I did not see you enter." Her precise speech said "Paris," and when she stood up and came forward, her jade silk shirt and perfectly cut white trousers said "Florida."

"You have some interesting things here," he said, mentally comparing them with the plastic pears and bawdy bumper stickers in the shop next door.

"Ah! What is it that you collect?"

"Nothing in particular. I walked past earlier and your door was locked."

"I was taking some sustainment, I regret." She walked to a locked vitrine that had small figures behind glass. "Are you interested in pre-Columbian? I take them out of the case."

"No, thanks. Don't bother. I'm just looking." He did some more aimless wandering before saying, "Those masks in the window—what are they made of?"

"They are fabrications of leather, a very old Venetian" craft, requiring great precisement. I have them from the collection of a famous French film actor, but I have not the liberty to use his name, I regret."

"Hmmm," said Qwilleran without any overt enthusi-He then picked up an ordinary-looking piece of green glass. "And what is this?" "It is what one calls Depression glass." The rectangular tray of green glass was stirring vague memories. His mother used to have one on her dresser then he was young. She would say, "Jamesy, please bring my reading glasses from the pin tray on my bureau— that's a good boy." He had never seen any pins on the pin tray, but he definitely remembered the pattern pressed into the glass.

"How much are you asking for this?" he asked. "Twenty-five dollars. I have a luncheon set in the same pattern—sixteen pieces—and I make you a very good price if you take the entirement." "And how much are you asking for the masks?" "Three hundred. Are you a theater activist?" "I'm a journalist, but I have an interest in drama. I'm here to write some features about the island. How's business?"

"Many persons come in for browsement, but it is too early. The connoisseurs, they are not yet arrived."

With studied nonchalance Qwilleran suggested, "You might let me have a closer look at the masks."

She brought Comedy from the window display, and he was surprised to find it lightweight (when it looked heavy) and soft to the touch (when it looked hard). He avoided making any comment or altering his expression. "If you really like them," the dealer said, "I make you a little reducement."

"Well ... let me think about it. May I ask what brought you to the island?"

"Ah, yes. I have a shop in Florida. My customers fly north in the summer, so I fly north."

"Makes good sense," he said agreeably. After a measured moment he asked, "What is the very best you can do on the masks?"

"For you, two seventy-five, because I think you appreciate."

He hesitated. "What will you take for the piece of green glass?"

"Fifteen."

He hesitated.

Then Noisette said, "If you take the masks, I give you the piece of glass."

"That's a tempting offer," he said.

"Then in probability you will come back and take the luncheon set."

"Well ..." he said reluctantly. "Will you take a personal check?"

"With the producement of a driver's license."

"To whom do I make the check payable?"

"Antiques by Noisette."

"Are you Noisette?"

"That is my name." She wrapped the masks and the tray in tissue and put them in an elegant, glossy paper totebag.

As he was leaving, he remarked, "You and your shop would make an interesting feature for my newspaper— the Moose County Something on the mainland. Might we arrange an interview?"

"Ah! I regret I do not like personal publicity. But thank you, with apologies."

"That's perfectly all right. I understand. Do you have a business card?"

"But no. I have ordered some cards, and they have not yet arrived. How to explain the delayment, I do not know."

As Qwilleran walked up West Beach Road with his totebag he frequently touched his moustache; his curiosity about Noisette was turning into suspicion. Any individual in the business world who declined free publicity in his column was suspect. Her stock was scant; customers were few, if any; she was out of place on Pear Island, where a flea market would be more appropriate; her prices seemed high, although ... what did he know about prices? He knew what he liked, that was all, and he liked those masks.

On West Beach Road the sky was gearing up for a spectacular sunset. Even the Domino Inn looked less objectionable in the rosy glow, and all the porch swings were occupied by swingers waiting fof the color show. The wooden two-seaters squeaked on their chains, musically but out of tune. As Qwilleran crossed the porch on the way to see Lori, two white-haired women smiled at him sweetly, and the Hardings waved.

"How was your dinner?" Lori asked.

"Excellent! I had shrimp gumbo, and I stopped in the antique shop and bought you a pencil tray for your desk—Depression glass, circa 1930."

"Oh, thank you! My grandmother used to collect this!"

"I also bought a couple of masks I'd like to hang on my sitting room wall, if it's permissible."

"Sure," she said. "Two more holes in those old walls won't hurt. I'll give you a hammer and some nails. How do the cats like the cottage?"

"I believe they're victims of culture shock." Gallantly he refrained from mentioning the slipcovers that discomforted all three of them with their pattern if not their odor.

"Cats sense when they are surrounded by water," Lori said with assurance. "But in three days they can get used to anything."

Qwilleran said, "Koko has vandalized your wall calendar, but I'll buy you a new one and take it out of his allowance. He tore off the month of June, and now ..." He stopped abruptly as the roots of his moustache tingled. "By the way, who are my next-door neighbors on Pip Court?"