The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"They were the first things I packed," she said joyously. "It would be a thrill to add some Pacific species to my lifelist. I'd love to see a puffin bird. My college roommate lives on the shore and is quite knowledgeable about waterfowl."

"Is she—or he—also a librarian?"

Polly patted his knee affectionately. "There were no coed dormitories when I went to the university, dear. She's a residential architect, and I'm going to show her the snapshots of your barn renovation. She'll be greatly impressed. And what will you do while I'm away? Perhaps I shouldn't ask," she said coyly.

"I'll think of something," he said, "but life will be dull and devoid of pleasure and excitement."

"Oh, Qwill! Am I supposed to cry? Or laugh?"

After Polly had boarded the shuttle plane to Minneapolis, he went home to pack his own luggage. It was June, and the temperature was ideal in Moose County, but an island in the middle of the lake could have unpredictable weather. He packed sweaters and a light jacket as well as shorts and sandals. Not knowing how formal the hotel dining room might be, he packed good shins and a summer blazer as well as knockabout clothing. He packed his typewriter, radio, tape recorder, and a couple of books from his secondhand collection of classics: Thoreau's Walden and Anatole France's Penguin Island. They seemed appropriate.

The Siamese watched with concern as a bag of cat litter and some canned delicacies went into a carton. Then the cagelike carrier was brought from the broom closet, and Yum Yum took flight. Qwilleran made a grab for her, but she slithered out of his grasp and escaped between his legs. The chase led up the ramp and across the balconies until he trapped her in the guestroom shower. "Come on, sweetheart," he said, lifting her gently, and she went limp.

Back on the main floor he put her in the carrier and announced, "All aboard for Breakfast Island!"

"Yow!" said Koko, and he jumped into the carrier. That was unusual. Ordinarily he disliked a change of address. Qwilleran thought, Does he know there's sabotage on the island? Or does he recognize the word "breakfast'?

With the luggage stowed in the trunk of his sedan, and with the cat carrier on the backseat, Qwilleran drove north to Mooseville—past landmarks that had figured prominently in his recent life: the Dimsdale Diner, Ittibittiwassee Road, the turkey farm (under new management), the extensive grounds of the federal prison, and the significant letter K on a post.

Nick Bamba was waiting for him at the municipal pier, where a boat named Double-Six was bobbing lazily in the dock, but the young man's glum expression caused Qwilleran to ask, "Is everything all right?"

"Another incident!" Nick said. "Just this afternoon! A cabin cruiser blew up at the Pear Island marina. Owner killed."

"Any idea what caused it?"

"Well, he'd just bought this boat—a neat craft only three years old—and filled up at the marina gas pump. The manager thinks he didn't blow out the fumes before starting the engine."

"Inexperienced boater?" Qwilleran asked.

"Looks like it. When I bought this boat, I took a course in marine safety, but the majority of boaters don't bother. It's a bad mistake."

"Who owns the marina?"

"XYZ owns everything on the south beach. There was some damage to the pier and nearby craft, but luckily most boaters were out in the lake, fishing. What depresses me, Qwill, is that the guy was a family man. He came over on the ferry to close the deal on the boat. He paid cash for it and was going back to the mainland to pick up his wife and kids."

"A sad situation," Qwilleran said.

"What makes me sick," Nick said, "is the thought that ... maybe it wasn't an accident!"

CHAPTER 3

As they stowed the luggage and the cat carrier on the deck of the Double-Six, Nick Bamba said, "It's great of you to do this, Qwill. How long can you stay?"

"A couple of weeks. Officially I'll be researching fresh material for the "Qwill Pen" column."

"You're our guest, you know. Stay as long as you want."

"I appreciate the invitation, but let the newspaper foot the bill. It'll look better, and they can afford it."

As the pilot carried aboard the turkey roaster that had no handles, he said, "What's this for? Are you gonna do some serious cooking? I know the cats are crazy about turkey, but the cottage has all the pots and pans you'll need—or you can borrow from Lori's kitchen."

"That's the cats" commode," Qwilleran said in an offhand way.

"Well, I've gotta say I've never seen one like it, and I've seen a lot of cat potties."

"It's practical."

"I hope Koko and Yum Yum are good sailors."

"They've never had a boat ride, as I recall," said Qwilleran. "I'll throw my jacket over their coop in case there's too much breeze or spray from the wake. The water looks fairly choppy. I hope it won't be a bumpy ride. I don't worry about Koko, but the little one has a delicate stomach."

There was no need to worry about either of them. For the rest of the journey the Siamese were beguiled by the pleasures of the nose, raising their heads like beached seals and sniffing eagerly. During the voyage they registered the assorted smells of lake air, marine life, aquatic weeds, seagulls, and petroleum fumes. Arriving at the island they detected pails of bait, crates of fish, horses, fudge, and newness everywhere: new piers, new hotel, new shops selling new merchandise, new black-top paving, and new bicycles. Also assaulting their inquiring noses was a heady bouquet emanating from the milling mass of tourists—young and old, teen and preteen, washed and unwashed, healthy and unhealthy, tipsy and sober. Perhaps Koko's personal radar picked up friendly and unfriendly, as well, or even innocent and guilty.

As for Qwilleran, he found the island disturbingly different from the primitive scene he remembered. He had seen the photographs in the newspaper, but experiencing the altered environment was entirely unreal. The lake-front was fringed with the masts of sailboats and the superstructures of deepwater trolling vessels. A ferryboat, halfway between a tug and a barge, was unloading vacationers with luggage, and another was returning to the mainland carrying day-trippers with sunburn. Overlooking the marina was the rustic facade of the new Pear Island Hotel, artfully stained to look fifty years old. It was three stories high and a city-block long, with a porch running the entire length. Much had been said in the national publicity about the long porch and its fifty Cocking chairs. Behind the hotel, making a dark-green backdrop, were tall firs and giant oaks that had been there before the first castaways were stranded on the shore.

Qwilleran thought, This is the forest primeval, and the pines and the hemlocks are murmuring "Ye gods! Wha" happened?"

The hotel was flanked by rows of rustic storefronts, each with a hitching post. Window-shoppers strolled along wooden sidewalks called "the boardwalk" in the publicity releases.

Nick said, "This is what the XYZ people call downtown."

"It resembles a movie set," Qwilleran remarked. "At least they had the good taste not to paint yellow lines on the black-top."

"Right! Don Exbridge wants to keep everything as natural as possible. The only motor vehicles permitted are police, ambulance, and fire, and they can't use sirens because of the horses. They use beepers."

There was indeed a unique hush along the waterfront, resulting from the absence of combustion engines—just a murmur of voices, the clop-clop of hooves, and the screams of seagulls and excited youngsters.

Nick hailed a horse-drawn conveyance, loaded the luggage, and said "Domino Inn" to the old man hunched sullenly over the reins. Without answering, he shook the reins, and the horse moved forward.