Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"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.

As Qwilleran understood its history, the island had been populated for generations by the descendents of shipwrecked sailors and travelers. According to popular legend, some of the early castaways on this deserted shore turned to piracy in order to survive, luring other ships onto the rocks to be looted. That was only hearsay, however; historians had found no proof. One fact was known: Subsequent generations lived in privation, hauling nets in summer and living on salt-dried fish and wild rabbits in winter, eked out by goat's milk and whatever would grow in the rocky, sandy terrain. Through the years, many islanders had moved to the mainland, but those who remained were independent and fiercely proud of their heritage. This much Qwilleran had learned from Homer Tibbitt, the Moose County historian.

In the 1920s, according to Tibbitt, affluent families from Down Below discovered the island. Railroad czars, mercantile kings, beer barons, and meat-packing tycoons were attracted by the sport fishing, healthful atmosphere, and utter seclusion. They built fishing lodges on the west beach—rustic pavilions large enough to accommodate their families, guests, and servants. Native islanders did the menial work for them, and for a while local goat cheese was all the rage at parties on the west beach. Then came the 1929 Stock Market Crash, and suddenly there were no more yachts moored offshore, no gin and badminton parties on the terraces. Not until after World War II did descendents of the czars and tycoons return to the family lodges to escape allergies and the stress of high-tech life Down Below.

Meanwhile, the islanders clung to their simple pioneer lifestyle. Once, when Qwilleran had visited the south end of the island with boating friends, it appeared deserted except for two gaunt old men who materialized out of the woods and stared at them with brooding hostility. That was several years before XYZ Enterprises moved in with their planners and promoters.

Nick Bamba's pickup truck pulled into the barnyard exactly on schedule, and a young man with a boat captain's cap on his curly black hair walked into the barn. With his flashing black eyes roving about the interior, he said what he always said: "Man! What a B-and-B you could make out of this baby!"

It was an octagonal apple barn, well over a hundred years old, with fieldstone foundation, shingled siding, and windows of various shapes and sizes. The interior was open to the roof, four stories overhead, and a ramp spi-raled around the walls, connecting the rooms on three upper levels. On the main floor a large white fireplace cube in dead center divided the open space into areas for lounging, dining, and food preparation. In Qwilleran's case this meant opening cans, thawing frozen dinners, and pressing the button on the coffeemaker.

He poured mugs of coffee and ushered his guest into the lounge. Ordinarily Nick radiated vitality; today he looked tired, overworked, and dispirited. To open the conversation on a comfortable note Qwilleran asked him, "Is your entire family on the island?"

The young man recited in a monotone: "Jason is staying with my mother in Mooseville until school's out. I take him to the island for weekends. The two young ones are with Lori at the inn. So are the cats. We have five now, one pregnant. The island is overrun with feral cats, so ours don't go out, but they have the run of the inn. We also have a rent-a-cat service for guests who'd like a cat in their room overnight—just a gimmick—no extra charge."

"Can Lori manage the inn and take care of two youngsters?"

"She employs island women to help."

"I hope you're charging enough to make your venture worthwhile."

"Well, Don Exbridge advised us on rates. We're not cheap, but we're competitive."

"How many rooms?"

"Seven rooms, two suites, and five housekeeping cottages."

Nick's terse replies reflected his nervousness, so Qwil-leran said, "You wanted to see me about something urgent."

"Did you hear about the drowning last night?"

"Only briefly, on the air. What were the circumstances? Do you know?"

"He'd been drinking in the hotel bar. They'll have to lock the pool gates after a certain hour or provide better security. But the worst thing was the food poisoning! Contaminated chicken brought in from the mainland! All food has to come by boat."

"Did the first incident affect business?" Qwilleran asked.

"Sure did! Sunday papers around the country had carried all kinds of publicity, so it was hot news when fifteen guests were struck down. Rotten timing! The hotel had wholesale cancellations right away. We had a honeymoon couple booked for the bridal suite in July, and they canceled."

"Sorry to hear that."

Nick lapsed into rueful silence while Qwilleran refilled rhe mugs. Then he said, "We had a bummer ourselves last Tuesday."

"What happened? I didn't hear about it."

"One of our front steps caved in, and a guest fell and broke a rib. An old man. He was airlifted to the hospital on the mainland. It wasn't a big enough disaster to make the headlines, but I worry just the same."

"Are you afraid of being sued? Who was the victim?"

"A retired clergyman from Indiana. We're not worried about a lawsuit. He's not the type who'd take advantage of our insurance company. We're paying his medical expenses and giving him free rent, but ... Qwill, there was nothing wrong with those steps! I swear! The building was thoroughly inspected before they gave us a license!"

Qwilleran patted his moustache in self-congratulation; it was just as he had guessed. "Are you suggesting sabotage, Nick?"

"Well, you know how my mind works, after eight years of working at the prison. I can't help suspecting dirty tricks. Three incidents right after the grand opening of the resort! It looks fishy to me! How about you?"

Qwilleran was inclined to agree. A tingling on his upper lip, which was the source of all bis hunches, suggested an organized plot to embarrass, discredit, and possibly ruin the Pear Island resort. "Do you have any clues?" he asked.

"Well, this may sound crazy, and I wouldn't tell anyone but you." Nick leaned forward in his chair. "The island is getting a bunch of day-trippers from Lockmaster—dudes swaggering up and down the waterfront in high-heeled boots. They wear Lockmaster T-shirts and baseball caps with six-inch bills and raunchy slogans. They're just looking for trouble."