The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

Qwilleran asked him, "Do you know that one of your department heads has a summer job over here?"

"Wish she'd stay on the island permanently," he grumbled. "June is an independent so-and-so."

Lisa said, "She's certainly not popular with the wives of Moose County. She thinks she's God's gift to husbands— mine included, and Lyle is no Robert Redford."

"Why," Qwilleran asked, "does an educator with her credentials choose a rural county like ours?"

"Horses! She likes to ride. That's how she landed in Lockmaster after a divorce Down Below. Then we offered her a good contract, and now we're stuck with her. But she's good! She sailed through school on scholarships and did a concert tour before coming to us." The check came to the table, and when Qwilleran reached for it, Lyle said, "Drop it! The hotel's paying for this one."

The Comptons were staying for a nightcap, but Qwilleran groped his way out of the murky bar, bumping into tables and kicking chair legs. In passing the corner booth he squinted into the gloom and saw a man and a woman leaning amorously toward each other. Their faces were in shadow, but he heard the woman say, "Shall we have a replenishment?"

Before riding home in a cab, Qwilleran picked up some beer for Derek Cuttlebrink, as well as crackers and pickles to go with the meatloaf. On the way he pondered several of Lyle Compton's remarks, chiefly his hint that Polly might decide to relocate in Oregon. It was a possibility that had never crossed his mind. It made him vaguely uneasy.

At Four Pips he was met by a highly disturbed cat. Koko was yowling in two-part harmony and running back and forth between sitting room and porch. A casual inspection showed nothing amiss, but after refrigerating the beer Qwilleran investigated with deepening concern. The cat was jumping up and pawing the porch screen as he did when batting down an insect. This time there were no insects—only small holes in the screen. Alarmed, Qwilleran hurried to the inn and confronted Nick in the office.

"Someone's been taking pot shots at the cats!" he said with indignation.

Nick looked up from the bookkeeping. "I can't believe it! How do you know?"

Qwilleran described Koko's behavior and his discovery of the holes. "There's growing hostility among the islanders, I'm convinced, and someone may have connected me with the financial backers of the resort. Someone may be using this method of harassment!"

"Did you look for spent shot on the porch?"

"There was nothing that I could find, but the porch is shaded at this hour."

"Which screens had the holes?"

"Both side panels, east and west."

"Birds!" Nick said. "Bird beaks! They try to fly through the porch, not realizing it's screened. All the cottages have holes in the porch screens."

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Well . . . sorry to bother you, Nick. Now all I have to do is explain it to Koko."

Back at Four Pips he prepared for Derek's visit. He opened a can of mixed nuts and dumped them into a soup bowl, filled another bowl with dill pickle chips, and arranged a platter of crackers and meatloaf slices.

When the young man arrived, the Siamese gave him the royal welcome, prancing with lofty tails curled like question marks. "They like me," he said. "I'm getting a standing ovation."

"Before you congratulate yourself," Qwilleran parried, "bear in mind that these opportunists have an instinctive affinity for dairy farmers, fishermen, butchers, and restaurant employees. I leave it to you to figure out."

Derek's height made the ceilings look lower than ever. He walked around, looking at the travel posters. Then he pointed to the tragedy and comedy masks. "I'll bet those didn't come with the cottage. Where'd you get them?"

"In Venice—from a small antique shop near the Accademia delle Belle Arti" was the casual reply. "How about a beer? Sit down and help yourself to the food. What time did you have dinner?"

"They feed us just before we start the dinner shift, at five o'clock:"

"Then you must be hungry. Dig in. The meatloaf is homemade." Then craftily he asked his guest, "Did you have any trouble finding this place?"

"No. I was down here last night," Derek said with youthful candor. "Dr. Halliburton wanted me to audition."

"Did you read a script? Or sing?"

"We just rapped. She wanted to know what acting I'd done, and how I felt about theater, and what kind of role I liked to play. I told her what I'd done in Macbeth. We just drank beer and listened to jazz and had a good time. She's very friendly. I was surprised. She may get me the job of assistant entertainment director. That would pay more money than I'm getting now."

Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought. "So explain the note you handed me last night, Derek. What's all this about gumbo?"

"Yeah . . . well ... I met this girl where I'm rooming, and she kinda likes me. Her name is Merrio. How's that for a name? She's a waitress in the Corsair Room, but she was hired for the kitchen in the beginning. Then Mr. Ex decided she had a good personality for meeting the pub-be, so now she's out on the floor, serving."

"Did the switch—or promotion, whatever it was— occur after the poisoning incident?"

"I guess so, because she was still on salads when it happened."

"Where does gumbo fit into the picture?"

"That's the interesting part," Derek said. "They had several chicken specials that night, but the only people that got sick were the ones that ordered chicken gumbo. The shrimp gumbo—no trouble!"

Qwilleran thought, So it wasn't necessarily contaminated chicken from Lockmaster. It could have been the fault of the hotel kitchen. "Who was working that night?" he asked.

"Well, besides the chef and sous chef, they had some college kids from restaurant schools and some islanders for the support staff—that's what they call the unskilled jobs."

"Who was responsible for the gumbo? Was it a single individual, or were others involved? And was it freshly made that day? If so, was it the usual recipe? Did anything unusual happen in the kitchen that night? Had anyone been fired?"

"I'll have to get back to Merrio," Derek said.

Qwilleran said, "It might stimulate her memory if you showed her a good time and spent a little money. You have an expense account, of course."

Derek liked that idea.

"Okay. Now, what about the guy that drowned. Any luck? Have you found a source?"

"Yeah. One of the barhops—his name is Kirk—rooms at our place, and he remembers serving them."

"Them?"

"The guy was drinking with some woman. They were sitting by the pool."

"What were they drinking?"

"Wine. He remembers that, because most people want beer or Pirate's Gold or a straight shot."

"Did they seem like friends? Or was it a pickup?"

"Oh, they knew each other all right. They were arguing. The guy was pretty upset."

"Was he a hotel guest or a drop-in? And what about her?"

"Kirk didn't know her, but the guy was registered, and the drinks were charged to his room. They had a few rounds, and then Kirk took his break. When he got back, the pool lights were off, and the busboy was cleaning up the rim. He's the one that saw something floating. He rushed into the bar; the head barman called security; the police came, and the rescue squad; and that was it!"

"Did the police investigate?" Qwilleran asked.

"They hung around for a while, asking questions, but die boss told everybody not to talk to outsiders—or even discuss it with other employees—or they'd lose their jobs. When I talked to Kirk, we went down on the beach for privacy. He was glad to get it off his chest. He'd been thinking about it a lot. Because of the secrecy thing, he was suspicious, you know."

"What did he remember about the couple who were drinking?"

"Only that they were sharp-looking—young, but not too young—and they were speaking a foreign language."

"That's a big help," Qwilleran said. "The last time I counted, there were five thousand foreign languages."