The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"Don't you get claustrophobia?" Riker asked.

The Siamese and Mildred indulged in a display of mutual affection (she had been their cat sitter once for two weeks) and then she said excitedly, "Where did you get those?" She pointed to the gilded leather masks.

"They were a birthday present," Qwilleran said, thinking it better not to tell the truth. "Do you know anything about that kind of work? They're leather."

"Yes, I know," she said. "It's an old Venetian craft that's been revived by a young artist down south. She does excellent work."

Then the Rikers drove back to their B-and-B. Everyone had enjoyed the evening: the usual joshing, frank talk, and exchange of news. To Qwilleran the news about Noisette confirmed his suspicion that she was an impostor. Why was she on the island? He sat on the porch and listened to June Halliburton playing jazz. She had a male visitor again. The voice sounded younger.

The Siamese sat with him; they were friends again. Before going to dinner he had bitten the bullet and given them a can of red salmon. The partying next door was still going on when he retired. It was not until he emptied his pockets that he remembered the scrap of paper from Derek. It was a one-word message: Gumbo. Later, after his lights were out, he heard good nights being said next door, and the beam of a flashlight preceded the departing guest—not to the nature trail but up Pip Court. The tall, lanky scarecrow of a figure was that of Derek Cuttle-brink.

CHAPTER 12

The arrival of two more pounds of meatloaf on Sunday morning steeled Qwilleran's determination, and the standoff between man and cats resumed. "Take it or leave it," he said. They left it.

Sunday was the turning point, however, in Qwilleran's floundering mission. He took tea with the Appelhardts; his undercover agent made his first report; Lyle Compton presented his program on Scotland at the hotel; and Yum Yum found something among the sofa cushions.

While Qwilleran was dressing for breakfast, he heard the musical murmuring that meant Yum Yum was digging a rusty nail out of a crevice, or trying to open a desk drawer, or retrieving a lost toy. She was on the seat of the sofa, thrusting first one paw and then the other behind a cushion. As the mumblings and fumblings became frantic, he went to her aid. As soon as he removed the seat cushion, she pounced on a half-crumpled piece of paper and carried it to the porch in her jaws, to be batted around for a few seconds and then forgotten.

It looked like a piece of music manuscript paper, and he picked it up.

"N-n-now!" she wailed, seeing her prize confiscated.

"N-n-no!" He retorted.

Offended by the mockery, Yum Yum went into a corner and sat with her back toward him.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I won't say that again," he apologized.

She ignored him.

Smoothing the scrap of paper, he found a phone number. The first three digits identified it as a local number—not the cab stand and not the hotel, both of which he would recognize. The style of the numerals had an affectation that he would associate with June Halliburton, and the type of paper confirmed his guess. Obviously she had dropped it while occupying the cottage. Then the question arose: Whom would she be phoning on the island? It was none of his business, but, still, it would be interesting to know. He could call the number and then hang up—or ask to speak to Ronald Frobnitz.

The first time he tried it—when he went to the inn for breakfast—the line was busy. After corned beef hash with a poached egg, plus hominy grits with sausage gravy (Lori was running out of ideas, he thought), he called the number again. It rang several times, and then a gruff voice answered: "The Pines gatehouse."

"Sorry. Wrong number," he said. Why June would be phoning the Appelhardt gatehouse was a question even more puzzling than why she would be making an island call at all. There was a possibility, of course, that he had punched the wrong digits. He tried again and heard the same voice saying, "The Pines gatehouse." This time he hung up without apology.

Qwilleran spent some time that day in deciding what to wear to tea. The role he was playing was not that of an inquiring reporter, nor Sherlock Holmes in disguise, nor a commoner being patronized by the royal family. He was playing a hero who had saved the life (probably) of an only daughter. Furthermore, while Elizabeth was an heiress, he himself was the Klingenschoen heir, and the K Foundation was capable of buying The Pines and the entire Grand Island Club and restoring it to a wild-Life refuge. The idea appealed to him. He would not wear his silk shirt nor even his blue chambray that screamed "designer shirt"—another gift from Polly. No, he would wear his madras plaid that looked as if it had been washed in the Ganges for twenty years and beaten with stones to a muddy elegance.

In this shirt and some British-looking, almost-white, linen pants, he went out to meet the carriage that was picking him up at four o'clock. The conveyance that pulled up to the carriage block in front of the inn caused a murmur of admiration among the guests on the porch. A glossy-coated horse, quite unlike the nags pulling cabs-for-hire, was harnessed to a handsome buggy of varnished wood and leather.

The driver in green livery with an apple logo stepped down and said, "Mr. Qwillum, sir?" He pointed to the passenger seat on the left, then sprang nimbly into the seat behind the reins. He was a young version of the gaunt old islanders who drove the hacks.

As the carriage started up West Beach Road, Qwilleran remarked that it was a nice day.

"Ay-uh," said the driver.

"What's your name?"

"Henry."

"Nice horse."

"Ay-uh."

"What's his name?"

"Skip."

"Do you think we'll have any rain?" It was a brilliant day, with not a cloud in the sky.

"Might."

At The Pines, the carriage rolled through an open gate and past a gatehouse of considerable size, then to the rear of the main lodge. It stopped at a carriage block on the edge of a stone-paved courtyard. Beyond were acres of flawless lawn, a swimming pool with a high-dive board, and a croquet green, where white-clad youths were screaming epithets and swinging mallets at each other. In the foreground was a grassy terrace with verdigris iron furniture and a scattering of adults in the same croquet white. They looked clinical, compared to Qwilleran's mellow nonwhiteness.

One of the men came forward toward him. "Mr, Qwilleran? I'm Elizabeth's brother, Richard. We met last Thursday for about three seconds. We're grateful for your help in the emergency."

"I'm grateful there was a doctor in the house," Qwilleran replied pleasantly. "How is the patient?"

"Right over there, waiting to thank you personally." He waved a hand toward a chaise longue, where a young woman reclined. She wore a flowing garment of some rusty hue, and long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. She was looking eagerly in their direction.

The two men started toward her but were intercepted by an older woman—buxom, regally handsome, and dramatically poised like an opera diva on stage. Gliding forward with outstretched hand, she said in a powerful contralto, "Mr. Qwilleran, I'm Rowena Appelhardt. Welcome to The Pines."

"My pleasure," he murmured courteously but cooly. As a journalist Down Below and abroad, he had been everywhere and seen everything, and he was not awed by the vastness of the estate. Rather, it seemed to be the Appelhardts who were awed. Had they made a quick background check and discovered his Klingenschoen connection and bachelor status? He became warily reserved.

The matriarch introduced the family: Richard was genuinely cordial; William smiled continually and was eager to talk; their wives sparkled with friendliness. Qwilleran suspected the queen mother had briefed them. She herself was an effusive hostess. Only Jack hung back, his face handsome in a bored and dissipated way. Finally there was the undernourished, unmarried daughter. She made a move to rise from her chaise.