Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"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 hotel: 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.

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 easel:

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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."