The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"What's happened now?" Qwilleran asked sympathetically.

"It's a funny thing, Qwill. The chicken incident didn't faze him because he could use his clout to squash the implications, but little things drive him bananas—like the pickets last weekend, and the critical letters to the editor, and the snake-bite item in today's paper. He says, "Who cares if some snooty rich kid gets bitten by a snake?" He says it's not important news. He says it only tarnishes the image of the resort, which is a boon to the community. When the paper reported the county's decision to spray for mosquitoes by plane, he got all kinds of flak, and he blamed you guys for playing it up on page one."

"Are we running a newspaper or a publicity agency?" Qwilleran asked.

"He's not dumb; he knows he can't dictate to the press," said Dwight, "but he has these insane tantrums! If I play Devil's advocate, in the interest of public relations, I get dumped on. Wait'll you hear his latest brainstorm!" He gulped the rest of his drink and waved his glass at the waiter.

Qwilleran advised him to order some food, too. "I'll have coffee and a piece of pie ... Okay, what's his latest noodle?"

"Well, he's afraid we're getting too many families with five kids and a picnic basket, instead of the sophisticated crowd he intended. So he wants to offer a Midsummer Night's Dream weekend package—everything first class and limited to thirty persons, adults only. It includes transportation from the mainland by private boat; flowers and champagne in the rooms; breakfast in bed; and a supper-dance on Midsummer's Eve."

"Sounds okay," Qwilleran said.

"He wants it outdoors, with white tablecloths, fresh flowers on the tables, three wine glasses at every place, hurricane candles, strolling musicians, and waiters in white coats with black bowties. No pirate shirts! That would be okay around the pool; if it rained, we could set up indoors. But here's the fly in the soup: He wants it at the lighthouse!" Dwight took a swig of his second double martini.

"Can you imagine the logistics?" he went on. "First you need a fleet of wagons to transport tables, chairs, portable dance floor, table settings, food warmers, chilled wine, and portable Johns. There are no facilities up there. Then you need a fleet of carriages to transport the guests. The ground behind the lighthouse is uneven, and how do you keep the tables and chairs from wobbling? The wind is capable of whipping the tablecloths around, blowing the napkins away, putting out the candles, breaking the glass chimneys, and even blowing the food off the plates! And suppose it starts to rain!"

"Hasn't Don ever been to Lighthouse Point?"

"Of course he has, but he never lets reality and common sense get in the way of a fanciful idea."

Qwilleran said, "I see a great scenario for a comedy skit. You have all the guests on the rock, getting happily plastered, and it starts to rain. No shelter. No carriages; they've returned to the stables. Everyone's drenched. The steaks are swimming on the plates. Thunder is crashing; lightning is flashing. Then the fog horn starts blatting, fifty feet from everyone's eardrums. The guests riot. Two of them take refuge inside the portable potties and refuse to come out. I think it has infinite possibilities for laughs."

"Not funny," said Dwight, but he laughed just the same and applied himself to his steak. Finally he said to Qwilleran, "And what have you been doing all week?"

"Not much. I rescued a mermaid from certain death, that's all." He described the incident with more detail than he had wasted on other listeners.

"It figures," Dwight said with envy. "The guy who has an indecent fortune of his own is the lucky one who rescues an heiress. What's she like?"

"She has the svelte figure of a rainbow trout, the hair of a mermaid, and flowing garments that probably hide a tail. Want me to line her up for you? In case you get fired, it would be useful to have an heiress on the string."

"No, thanks. Finders keepers," said Dwight. "What do you hear from Polly?"

"She hasn't even sent a postcard, but I bet she phones Pickax every night and talks to Bootsie."

"I'm envious of your relationship with Polly, Qwill. You're comfortable friends, and you keep your independence. I've been in Moose County almost a year without any luck. I've bought dinner for every unattached female within fifty miles, except Amanda Goodwinter, and I may get around to her yet. So far, no one has passed the litmus test. Hixie Rice is my type, if you want to know, but she's tied up with that doctor."

"It won't last long," Qwilleran reassured him. "No one ever lasts long with Hixie, and that would go for you, too."

Dwight said sheepishly, "I even took June Halliburton to dinner at the Palomino Paddock and spent half a week's salary. It was a bust!"

"What happened?" Qwilleran asked, although he could guess.

"You know how she is! She has looks, talent, and credentials, but she says the damnedest things! We were drinking seventy-dollar champagne, and she looked at me with those suggestive eyes and said, "You're a handsome, intelligent man, Dwight, with a wonderful personality. Why don't you shave off that scruffy beard and invest in a good toupee?" That's typical of that woman. She pursues guys as if she likes them, and then stomps on "em. How well do you know her?"

"Well enough to know I don't want to know her any better."

"I think of her as a predatory misanthrope."

"That'll do until a stronger word comes along,"

Qwilleran said. "At the Hikers" wedding she was coming on to every man at the reception, including the bridegroom. Polly can't stand her. When they meet, you could light a cigarette from the sparks."

"Did you ever write June up in your column?" "Almost. I intended to interview her about music in the schools, but she wanted to make it a social occasion at her apartment. When I insisted on an office appointment, she proved impossible to interview. It was verbal football. She called the plays, carried the ball, straight-armed questions, and made end runs around the subject. The way it ended, she scored all the points, but I won the game. I never wrote the column."

"You media types always get the last word. I'm in the wrong business."

Qwilleran said, "Another time, I invited the Comptons over for a drink after the theater, and they brought June. She didn't stay long. She said the circular building and diagonal ramps gave her a headache. Actually it was Koko giving her the whammy. When he stares at someone's forehead, it's like a gimlet boring into the brain." "What was his problem?" Dwight asked. "Apparently he didn't like her scent." "Starting this weekend, she'll be here for the whole summer."

"I know," Qwilleran said. "I saw her getting off the ferry with a lot of luggage—and an eye for the mounted security men in red coats. Was she another of Exbridge's bright ideas?"

"No, she approached him with the proposition." "What is she doing in this remote part of the country anyway? With all her talents she belongs in a major city Down Below. I'll have to ask Lyle Compton how she landed in Moose County. He's the one who hired her."

"Lyle will be here Sunday night, doing his talk on Scotland. Do you have any big plans for the weekend?"

"Just dining with Arch and Mildred tomorrow night," Qwilleran said, "and avoiding my musical neighbor."

As Qwilleran walked back to the Domino Inn, he had to stand aside for emergency vehicles speeding up the beach road. He could imagine that a member of the Grand Island Club had a heart attack, or a carriageful of tourists overturned, or the kid who was leaning over the ferry railing fell over the cliff at the lighthouse. By the time he reached the inn, the vehicles were speeding back downtown, and the sheriff's helicopter could be heard.

The guests sitting in porch swings were all agog when Qwilleran walked up the driveway. Someone called out, "Mitchell, he came back!" The four-year-old rushed indoors and rushed out again to hand him an envelope with an important crest on the flap.