Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

The enmity between Moose County and the relatively rich county to the south was well known. Violence often broke out at soccer games. Troublemakers periodically invented rumors of border incidents and then took vigilante revenge. Even mature citizens of Lockmaster took pleasure in vaunting their superiority, boasting about their rich horse farms, good schools, winning athletic teams, and fine restaurants. That was before Qwilleran's fluke inheritance. After that, the Klingenschoen millions began improving the quality of life in Moose County. Besides building a better airport and giving the high school an Olympic-size swimming pool, Klingenschoen money was luring the best teachers, physicians, barbers, and TV repairmen from Lockmaster. And now ... Moose County had the Pear Island resort—an economic plum pudding, sauced with the sweet taste of national publicity.

Nick went on with his story: "Last Sunday three of these goons were actually sitting on our porch swings at the inn, smoking God-knows-what. I pointed to the No Smoking sign and asked if they were taught to read in Lockmaster. They gave me the finger and went on puffing, so I called Island Security. The county doesn't supply much police protection—Don Exbridge is lobbying for more—so we hire our own weekend security guys. They're uniformed like Canadian Mounties and look pretty impressive when they ride up on horses. So the hoods took off without any more trouble, but ... it makes me wonder, you know?"

"Have you mentioned your suspicions to Exbridge?"

"Well, he's not on the island weekends, and I can't be there during the week. Besides, I'd feel stupid talking to him when I don't have anything but a gut feeling. What I wish, Qwill, is that you'd go to the island and snoop around. You're good at that kind of thing. You might come up with some evidence, or at least a clue. You could stay in one of our cottages. Bring the cats."

Qwilleran had an unbridled curiosity and a natural urge to find answers to questions. Also, he had spent years as a crime reporter Down Below. "Hmmm," he mused, tempted by the prospect of snooping.

Nick said, "It's really nke on the island, and you'd like the food. Lori's breakfasts are super; everybody says so. And the hotel has a chef from New Orleans."

"New Orleans?" Qwilleran repeated with growing interest. Food often figured in his decision making. "If I were to go over there, when would you suggest—?"

"Soon as possible. I have to bring Jason back here tomorrow afternoon, and I could ferry you to the island after that. I have my own boat now. If you meet me at the dock in Mooseville around four o'clock, we'll reach the island in plenty of time for you to get settled and go to the hotel for a good dinner."

"But no chicken!" Qwilleran quipped.

When Nick said goodbye and jumped into his pickup, there was more buoyancy in his attitude than when he arrived. It was still early, but Qwilleran climbed the ramp to release the Siamese from their loft apartment. Surprised at the early reveille, they staggered out of the room, yawning and stretching and looking glassy-eyed.

"Breakfast!" he announced, and they hightailed it into the kitchen, bumping into each other in their eagerness. "What would you two carnivores like to eat this morning? I can offer you a succulent rack of lamb from the famous kitchen of the Old Stone Mill, minced by hand and finished with a delicate sauce of meat juices." He liked to talk to them in a declamatory voice when he was in a good mood, and the louder his voice, the more excited they became, prancing in circles and figure eights and yowling with ever-increasing volume. The noise stopped abruptly when he placed the plate on the floor, and they attacked it with quivering intensity.

They were seal-point Siamese with blue eyes, sleek bodies, and light fawn fur shading into dark brown. Yum Yum was ,a dainty minx with a piquant expression and winning ways. Koko, whose real name was Kao K'o Kung, was the noble male with imperial manner and inscrutable gaze. He was the quintessential Siamese—with some additional talents that were not in the breeders" manual.

Qwilleran watched them devour their breakfast, while pondering his next step: how to break the news to Arch Riker without losing face. After blasting the Pear Island resort all evening, he was now joining the enemy for two weeks, that being the length of Polly's vacation.

He waited until eight o'clock and then telephoned the Rikers" beach house. "Great party last night, Arch! Did I make myself a bore?"

"What do you mean?"

"My tirade against the Pear Island resort must have been somewhat tiresome. Anyway, I'd like to make amends."

"Uh-oh! What's the catch?" asked the man who had known Qwilleran since kindergarten. Their friendship had survived almost half a century of confiding, bantering, arguing, leg-pulling, rib-poking, and caring. "I suspect you have devious intentions."

"Well, to tell the truth, Arch, I'm still ticked off about the commercial rape of Breakfast Island, but—without playing politics—I'm willing to go there for a couple of weeks and write about island history, customs, and legends. I'd call it "The Other Side of the Island." How does it sound?"

"I'll tell you how it sounds, you dirty rat! It sounds as if Polly is going out of town for two weeks, and you're desperate for something to occupy your time! I can always read your hand; I've known you too long to fall for a fast shuffle."

"Will you okay my expense account?" Qwilleran asked to taunt him.

There was a moment of silence on the line. Riker was editor and publisher of the Moose County Something, but the Klingenschoen Foundation owned it. "Okay, go ahead," Riker said. "But it had better be good."

"I'll be staying at the Bambas" B-and-B. I don't know the phone number, but they call it the Domino Inn."

After that hurdle was cleared, the rest was easy. Qwilleran called his janitor, Mr. O'Dell, who said, "Faith an" you'll not catch me settin" foot on that island no more! What they're doin" is ag'in Auld Mither Nature, it is. Nothin" good'll come of it, I'm thinkin'."

Qwilleran also gave instructions to his secretarial service to forward mail in care of General Delivery at Pear Island—but only letters postmarked Oregon.

Finally, he phoned Andrew Brodie at home on Saturday evening. Brodie was chief of police in Pickax—a towering, swaggering Scot who played the bagpipe at weddings and funerals. When Mrs. Brodie answered, the inevitable television audio could be heard blatting in the background, and the chief came on the line with the gruffness of a televiewer whose program has been interrupted.

Amiably, Qwilleran opened with, "Sorry to snatch you away from your favorite cop series."

"Are you kidding? I'm watching a nature program. Terrible what's happening to the rain forest! Last week it was black bears, and before that, oil spills! What's on your mind? Want me to pipe at your wedding to Polly? For you two I'll do it for free."

"Polly's going to Oregon and may never return, and I'm going to so-called Pear Island and may never return. They say the fudge fumes are potentially lethal."

"What d'you want to go there for? You won't like what they've done to our Breakfast Island," Brodie predicted.

"Mainly I'm going to write about island life for the "Qwill Pen" column," Qwilleran explained glibly, "but I might do a little amateur sleuthing on the side. They've had some incidents that raise questions—three in a little over a week.""