The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

Riker said, "Toulouse is a nice cat, but he has one bad habit. He pounces on the kitchen counter when Mildred is cooking and steals a shrimp or a pork chop, right from under her nose. When I lived Down Below, we had a cat who was a counter-pouncer, and we cured his habit with a spray bottle of water. We had a damp pet for a couple of weeks (that's spelled d-a-m-p), but he got the message and was a model of propriety for the rest of his life— except when we weren't looking."

The evening ended earlier than usual, because Polly was working the next day. No one else had any Saturday commitments. Riker, following his recent marriage, no longer spent seven days a week at the office, and Qwilleran's life was unstructured, except for feeding and brushing the Siamese and servicing their commode. "My self-image," he liked to say, "was formerly that of a journalist; now I perceive myself as handservant to a pair of cats—also tailservant."

He and Polly drove back to Pickax, where she had an apartment on Goodwinter Boulevard, not far from his converted apple barn. As soon as they pulled away from the beach house he popped the question: "What's all this about going to Oregon? You never told me."

"I'm sorry, dear. My old roommate phoned just before you picked me up, and the invitation was so unexpected, I hardly knew how to decide. But I have two weeks more of vacation time, and I've never seen Oregon. They say it's a beautiful state."

"Hmmm," Qwilleran murmured as he considered all the aspects of this sudden decision. Once she had gone to England alone and had become quite ill. Once she had gone to Lockmaster for a weekend and had met another man. At length he asked, "Shall I feed Bootsie while you're away?"

"That's kind of you to offer, Qwill, but he really needs a live-in companion for that length of time. My sister-in-law will be happy to move in. When I return, we should think seriously about spending a weekend on the island at an interesting bed-and-breakfast."

"A weekend of inhaling fudge fumes could be hazardous to our health," he objected. "It would be safer to fly down to Minneapolis with the Rikers. You and Mildred could go shopping, and Arch and I could see a ballgame."

He stroked his moustache in indecision, wondering how much to tell her. He had an uneasiness about the present situation that was rooted in the old days, when he and Riker worked for large newspapers Down Below. They kept a punctilious distance from advertisers, lobbyists, and politicians as a matter of policy. Now, Riker was getting too chummy with Don Exbridge. XYZ Enterprises was a heavy advertiser in the Moose County Something; Exbridge had lent the Rikers a cottage for their honeymoon; and he had expedited the building of an addition to their beach house.

To Qwilleran it looked bad. And yet, he tried to tell himself, this was a small town, and everything was different. There were fewer people, and they were constantly thrown together at churches, fraternal lodges, business organizations, and country clubs. They were all on first-name terms and mutually supportive. And there were times when they covered up for each other. He had met Don Exbridge socially and at the Pickax Boosters Club and found him a hearty, likable man, ever ready with a handshake and a compliment. His cheerful face always looked scrubbed and polished; so did the top of his head, having only a fringe of brown hair over his ears. Exbridge was the idea man for the XYZ firm, and he said his cranium could sprout either ideas or hair but not both.

Polly said, "You're quiet tonight. Did you have a good time? You look wonderful—ten years younger than your age." Under his blazer he was wearing her birthday gift—a boldly striped shirt with white collar and a patterned tie.

"Thanks. You're looking pretty spiffy yourself. I'm glad to see you wearing bright colors. I assume it means you're happy."

"You know I'm happy, dear—happier than I've ever been in my life!... What did you think of Mildred's decorating?"

"I'm glad she got rid of all those quilts. The yellow's okay, I guess."

They turned into Goodwinter Boulevard, an avenue of old stone mansions that would soon be the campus of the new community college. The Klingenschoen Foundation had bought the property and donated it to the city. Currently there was some debate as to whether the institution should be named after the Goodwinters, who had founded the city, or after the original Klingenschoen, who was a rascally old saloonkeeper. Polly's apartment occupied a carriage house behind one of the mansions— within walking distance of the public library—and she was assured of a leasehold.

"Things will get lively here when the college opens," Qwilleran reminded her.

"That's all right. I like having young people around," she said, adding slyly, "Would you like to come upstairs and say goodnight to Bootsie?"

Afterward, driving home to his barn, Qwilleran considered the hazards of letting Polly out of his sight for two weeks. She was a perfect companion for him, being a loving, attractive, intelligent woman of his own age, with a gentle voice that never ceased to thrill him.

Anything could happen in Oregon, he told himself as he turned on the car radio. After the usual Friday night rundown on the soccer game between Moose County and Lockmaster, the WPKX announcer said:

"Another serious incident has occurred at the Pear Island Hotel, the second in less than a week. An adult male was found drowned in the hotel pool at eleven-fifteen this evening. The name of the victim is being withheld, but police say he was not a resident of Moose County. This incident follows on the heels of the food poisoning that caused fifteen hotel guests to become ill, three of them critically. Authorities have given the cause as contaminated chicken."

As soon as Qwilleran reached the barn, he telephoned Riker. "Did you hear the midnight news?"

"Damn shame!" said the publisher. "The island's been getting so much national coverage that the media will pounce on these accidents with perverse glee! What concerns me is the effect the bad publicity will have on the hotel and other businesses. They've gambled a helluva lot of money on these projects."

"Do you really think the incidents are accidents?" Qwilleran asked pointedly.

"Here we go again! With your mind-set, everything's foul play," Riker retorted. "Wait a minute. Mildred's trying to tell me something." After a pause he came back on the line. "She wishes you'd reconsider the idea of a weekend on the island—the four of us—when Polly returns from vacation. She thinks it would be fun."

"Well ... you know, Arch ... I don't go for resorts or cruises or anything like that."

"I know. You like working vacations. Well, sleep on the idea anyway. It would please the girls . . . and since you're such a workaholic, how about writing three columns a week instead of two during the summer? Staff members will be taking vacations, and we'll be short-handed."

"Steer them away from Pear Island resort," Qwilleran said. "I have a hunch the ancient gods of the island are frowning."

CHAPTER 2

The morning after the drowning in the hotel pool, Qwilleran was roused from sleep at an early hour by the ringing of the telephone. After a glance at his watch, he answered gruffly.

"Sorry to call so early," said a familiar voice, "but I need to see you about something."

"Where are you?"

"In Mooseville, but I can be in Pickax in half an hour."

"Come on down," Qwilleran said curtly. Then, grumbling to himself, he pressed the button on the computerized coffeemaker, threw on some clothes, and ran a wet comb through his hair. There was no sound from the loft, where the Siamese had their private quarters, so he decided to let sleeping cats lie. His mind was on Nick Bamba, who had phoned so urgently.

In Qwilleran's book, Nick and Lori were an admirable young couple. She had been postmaster in Mooseville until she retired to raise a family. Nick was head engineer at the state prison. It had been their dream to own and operate a bed-and-breakfast, in the hope that he could quit his well-paying but demoralizing job. Thanks to a low-interest loan from the Klingenschoen Foundation, they had bought an old fishing lodge on Breakfast Island. Before they could open their inn, however, they found themselves involved in the wholesale commercialization of the primitive island.