Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"They're the real thing—one of the wonders of the world, I think. And I hope you're impressed by the slipcovers." All the furniture in the lounge was covered in the same overscale pattern of roses and irises, but with the three-foot tree trunks, they looked good. "I made them all myself. It took six months. I bought an entire factory closeout for practically nothing."

They were glad to get rid of it, Qwilleran thought.

The boy who had summoned his mother was back again, and he said something to Qwilleran in the same mystifying language.

Lori came to the rescue. "Mitchell wants you to know he saw a flying saucer over the lake last week."

"Good for you, son!"

"Mitchell is four years old, and he's in charge of deliveries and communications. He's very enthusiastic about his job," she said. They went into the office to register. "I hope you like your cottage, Qwill. We also have a bridal suite upstairs, in case you and Polly ever make up your minds."

"We've made up our minds. Polly and I are happily unmarried until death do us part," he said gruffly. Then, pleasantly, he asked, "Who painted the cottage doors like dominoes?"

She raised her right hand. "Guilty! They needed refin-ishing, so I thought it would be fun to paint them black with white pips. Nick thought I was crazy, but Don Exbridge is pushing the fun ethic. What do you think, Qwill?"

"I think it's crazy ... and fun. And what is the purpose of the big bell?"

"Oh, that! That's to alert everyone in case of fire. There's a volunteer fire department—Nick's on call weekends—but so far, there's been no alarm—knock on wood."

"Nick mentioned that one of your elderly guests took a tumble on the front steps."

Lori nodded contritely. "I feel terrible about that! Mr. Harding in Three Pips. He was vicar of a small church in Indiana before he retired. He and Mrs. Harding are such a sweet couple. He's back from the hospital now and insists he'll heal faster here than Down Below."

"Who repaired the step?" Qwilleran asked.

"Well, that was last Tuesday. Nick wasn't here, so I had to find an islander to fix it—an old man. He looked a hundred years old, but he did a good job and didn't charge too much."

"Did he say what had happened to the step?"

"They're not very communicative—these islanders— but he said the nails were rusty. He reinforced the whole flight with new nails and braces of some kind."

"And yet, the county inspector okayed the building before you opened for business," Qwilleran said.

"That's right. It makes you wonder how good the inspection was. The county commissioners, you know, were pushing to get the resort open by mid-May, because they wanted those tax dollars. I'll bet they told the inspectors not to be too fussy."

Qwilleran glanced at his watch. "Do I need a reservation for dinner at the hotel? Should I wear a coat and tie?"

"Heavens, no! Everything's informal, but I'll call the hotel and tell them you're coming. They'll put out the red carpet for the popular columnist from the Moose County Something."

"No! Not that!" he protested: "I'm keeping a low profile during this visit."

"Okay. Shall I call a horse cab?"

"I think not. I'd like to walk. But thanks just the same."

"Walk on die edge of the road," Lori advised. "The horses, you know."

On the way back to the cottage to feed the cats and change into a fresh club shirt, Qwilleran met the elderly couple from Three Pips. "Don't miss the sunset tonight," said the man, who wore a black French beret at a jaunty angle. "We always order a special performance for a new guest."

Qwilleran could see the Siamese on the back porch, and he walked around to talk to them through the screen. "Are you fellow travelers ready for a can of boned chicken imported from Pickax?"

There were two chairs on the porch, one more comfortable than the other, and with catly instinct they had chosen the better of the two. They were sitting there calmly—too calmly. It meant that one or both had committed some small misdemeanor of which they were proud. He knew them so well!

Unlocking the front door, he walked into the scene of the crime. The desktop was littered with scraps of paper, and other bits were strewn about the floor. One said: Tuesday. Others were blank squares with numbers in the upper left-hand corner. Someone had attacked the wall calendar hanging above the desk. The glossy, full-color photo of a basset hound and the name of the dogfood manufacturer were still intact, but the month of June had been ripped off piece by piece, or day by day. It was now July in Four Pips.

"Which one of you incorrigible miscreants vandalized this calendar?" he shouted toward the porch. They paid no attention, being occupied with woodland sights and sounds.

He knew the culprit; Koko was the paper shredder in the family, but only when he had a reason. Did he think he could accelerate the passage of time by canceling the month of June? Did he want to get out of this Domino Dump and go home? "Clever thinking," Qwilleran called out to him, "but unfortunately it doesn't work that way."

CHAPTER 4

Days were long in June and even longer in the north country. The sun was still high in the sky as Qwilleran walked downtown for his first dinner at the Pear Island Hotel. On the way, he passed the row of rustic shops on the boardwalk. Their standardized signs were computer-carved from weathered wood. A single generic label identified each establishment: SOUVENIRS, TEA ROOM, ANTIQUES, PIZZA, T-SHIRTS and, of course, FUDGE. He saw something in the window of the antique shop that he liked, but the door was locked, even though the sign in the window said Open. The T-shirt studio offered tie-dyes in garish colors, sweats and tees with slogans printed to order, and the official resort T-shirt with a large blushing pear, the size of a watermelon. Boaters, teens, retirees, couples walking hand in hand, and parents with their broods wandered aimlessly up and down the boardwalk or stood in line at the fudge shop. On the hotel porch they rocked in the fifty rocking chairs, and a few were eating take-outs from the pizza parlor.

The hotel lobby burst upon the senses as a celebration of-piracy. A mural depicted swashbuckling pirates with chests of gold. Banners hanging from the ceiling had the skull-and-crossbones on a field of black. The reservation clerks wore striped shirts, red head bandanas, and a gold hoop in one ear. Qwilleran consulted the directory. There was a bar named the Buccaneer Den. The two dining areas were the Corsair Room and Smugglers" Cove. Glass doors led to the Pirates" Hole, a large swimming pool rimmed with sun lounges and umbrella tables. Youngsters splashed and squealed at the shallow end of the pool, while adults sipped drinks around the rim. The latter kept the barhops busy—young men and women wearing black T-shirts with the pirate insigne.

Qwilleran ambled into the Buccaneer Den and sat at the bar. Spotlighted on the backbar was a chest of gold coins and the words of a sea chantey: Fifteen men on a dead man's chest! Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! He was comfortable on a bar stool. Before circumstances had changed his habits and hobbies, he had leaned on press club bars all around the country and had developed a barfly's savpir faire that was instantly recognized by the professionals pouring drinks. There were three of them behind the bar in the Buccaneer Den, all wearing the skull-and-crossbones.