“That’s a cheap racket.”
“Your promotional theme is responsible. Why not taper off a little?”
Dwight said, “XYZ has invested a bundle in the pirate gimmick.”
“My heart bleeds for XYZ,” Qwilleran said.
“Well, shed a few drops for me, too. Don’s a great boss as long as things are going right, but when something backfires, he goes berserk, and I get hell!”
With a surge of sympathy for his friend, Qwilleran said, “Are you still looking for material for your cabaret? I have an idea for a humorous skit, although it might not appeal to your literal-minded boss.”
“Write it anyway,” Dwight said. “Write it!”
As Qwilleran rode home to domino headquarters in a cab, he congratulated himself on lining up Derek Cuttlebrink as an undercover agent. There were those who thought the young man scatter-brained, but Qwilleran was confident that he had promise. Inside that lanky, goofy kid there was a short, serious young man trying to find himself.
Derek had muttered a cryptic “Ten-fifteen” as Qwilleran passed the reservation desk on the way out. Shortly before that hour Qwilleran took the green-and-white golf umbrella and walked to the wet and deserted porch to meet him. The wooden swings were covered with plastic, and the chairs were leaning against the back wall. Soon a babble of young voices could be heard coming up the beach road. When the troupe reached the Domino Inn, the tallest one peeled off and approached the porch steps, flapping his arms with a surplus of youthful energy. In his yellow slicker, nor’easter rainhat, and muddy boots, Derek looked like a scarecrow.
Qwilleran raised his hand for silence and put an index finger to his lips. “Say nothing,” he whispered.
“Follow me. This meeting is confidential.” He led the way to the dark end of the porch. “Sorry it’s too wet to sit down.”
“I never sit down,” Derek said. “What’s it all about?”
“I’ll make this brief. Some suspicious incidents have occurred on the island. No doubt you know about the food poisoning.”
“Yeah, they crack a lot of chicken jokes in the kitchen.”
“Good! I want you to listen to the scuttlebutt and report to me what you hear.” He knew that would come naturally for Derek. As a native of Moose County, he had been weaned on gossip. “Another incident was a drowning in the hotel pool. The victim was a guest who had been drinking on the premises. Employees have obviously been instructed not to talk to outsiders, but we can be sure they gossip among themselves. As a newcomer to the staff, you can show a healthy curiosity about the case. Right?”
“Check!” said Derek.
“What was he drinking? Pirate’s Gold? How much did he consume? Did he drink in the bar or on the edge of the pool? Who found the body? Was he dressed for a swim or fully clothed? Did anyone see him dive in or fall in?”
“Maybe he was pushed.”
“You’re getting the idea, Derek,” said Qwilleran as he patted his moustache. “I have a hunch there’s more to the story than anyone wants to admit. Who was the guy? Why was he there? Was he a registered guest or a drop-in? Was he drinking alone? If not, who was with him? Male or female? One or more companions? I’ve heard that he was hunting.”
“Yeah,” said Derek, “it’s kind of a singles bar. If we’re caught hanging out there, we get fired…What about the food poisoning?”
“It would be interesting to know who was working in the kitchen that night. Islanders or mainlanders? What was their background? How did they get their jobs? Was anyone fired after the poisoning? Was anyone fired shortly before the poisoning?”
“Yeah, that’s a good question.”
“You’re a good actor, Derek. You can carry this off without blowing your cover, and you make friends easily; people will talk to you. If they know anything, they’ll be only too glad to spill it in a safe ear. What hours do you work?”
“Split shift, lunch and dinner. It’s a good deal—gives me time to play volleyball, ride a bike, meet girls. How do you want me to report?”
“I’ll be in for dinner frequently. Slip me a note.”
“Check!”
It rained again on Wednesday. One day of rain at a resort is an adventure, of sorts. Two successive days of rain are a bore. The Siamese were bored and still heavy from the hundred percent humidity. Qwilleran was equally bored and felt heavy mentally and physically.
First he gave the cats their breakfast and their daily grooming. Waving the walnut-handled brush that Polly had given them for Christmas, he announced, “Brush! Brush! Who wants to go first?” Koko always went first, despite efforts to introduce him to precepts of chivalry. Both of them had their ideas about the grooming process. Koko liked to be brushed while walking away, forcing his human valet to follow on his knees. Yum Yum missed the point entirely; she fought the brush, grabbing it, biting the bristles, and kicking the handle. The daily ritual was a farce, but it was an expected prelude to their morning nap.
Qwilleran reported to the inn for his own breakfast with Penguin Island in one pocket of his waterproof jacket; in another pocket he had the pear from his box lunch of the day before. The walk up the lane was surprisingly unmuddy; the sandy island drained like a sieve. Parking his green-and-white umbrella on the porch, he went directly to the sunless sunroom. There were no other guests, and he was able to order both breakfasts without embarrassment: eggs Benedict with Hollandaise sauce and johnnycakes with sausages and apple sauce. On the way out he avoided the domino players but stopped at the fruit basket, where he exchanged his pear for two apples, one red and one green. So far, so good.
At Four Pips the boredom descended more heavily with every bucket of rain. He tried to read; he paced the floor; he ate an apple; he took a nap; he made a cup of instant coffee; he tried to write something trenchant. All his typewriter could produce was “The rain in the lane goes mainly to the brain.” It was still only one o’clock, and out of sheer boredom he ate his box lunch from the Vacation Helpers. It was not bad for day-old food. The meatloaf, in fact, was very well flavored. When the Siamese finally struggled out of their somnolence, he offered them a morsel, but they were not interested.
“Good! All the more for me!” he said. “How about a stimulating game of dominoes?”
They recognized the maroon velvet box and took their places: Yum Yum crouching on the table as referee; Koko standing on the chair, ready to push dominoes onto the floor.
In the interest of scientific research and the hope that it might make a trenchant subject for his column, Qwilleran was keeping a daily record of Koko’s selections. Strangely, one of his draws duplicated the first one of the day before, although in a different order: 5-6, 0-1, 6-6, 2-3.
Also, the cat won again. Did he sense that certain black rectangles had more white pips than others? If so, what did he know—or care—about winning? Was he trying to convey a message? Double-six! Double-five! There was usually a message in his madness. Or was he making a contribution to parapsychology? In some ways, Qwilleran was convinced, Koko knew more than he did.
When the game was over and Qwilleran was boxing the dominoes, he felt a pang of loneliness. There was no one with whom he could discuss these abstruse theories seriously. Polly listened politely; Riker kidded him; even the police chief talked about Koko’s proven exploits with tongue in cheek. Perhaps one had to be a trifle odd to believe in the cat’s ESP. Perhaps the Hardings—
His ruminations were interrupted by an urgent hammering on the door. Opening it, he found himself looking down on an open umbrella, from under which a small hand extended, holding a note.
“Thank you,” Qwilleran said. “Are you Mitchell, vice president in charge of communications?”
The messenger jabbered something and ran back to the inn.
The note was a message from Lori: “Arch Riker phoned. Call him at the office. Urgent.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. What could be so urgent? He had faxed his copy yesterday, and it was already past the Wednesday deadlin
e. Furthermore, it was still raining hard. He would have to change his shoes and put on his waterproof jacket…Then it occurred to him that the apple barn might have been damaged by the storm. There had been flashes of lightning over the mainland. He pulled on his duck boots and grabbed his umbrella.
Most of the guests were in the lounge, playing dominoes or snoozing in their chairs; even Koko and Yum Yum went to sleep after a domino session. Qwilleran strode purposefully up the stairs to the phone booth on the landing and called the newspaper office, collect.
An annoyingly cheerful voice came on the line. “How’re things on the island with four names?”
“Wet!” Qwilleran answered curtly. “What’s on your mind, Arch?”
“I like your column in today’s paper. No one but you can write a thousand words about nothing and make it sound interesting.”
“Some of my readers consider my stuff trenchant and not just interesting.”
“So be it. When can we expect your next copy?”
“Is that all you called about? I risked drowning to get to this blasted phone!…But to answer your question: I’ve talked to an island woman who dismisses the pirate myth completely.”
“Soft-pedal that aspect,” the editor advised. “It’s the main theme of the hotel.”
“I know Don Exbridge has invested his life savings in black T-shirts, but the natives object. I don’t see why we should support a commercial gimmick and reinforce a spurious legend because of an advertiser’s ignorant whim.”
“Cool it, Qwill. Isn’t the native community called Piratetown?”
“Only by ignorant outsiders. Officially it’s Providence Village, and trespassers are not welcome. In fact, I suspect a covert hostility that may explain the so-called accidents. The boat explosion was the fourth, and the people in charge of the waterfront are doing a lot of fast talking, so no one will get the idea it was a bomb. I’ll tell you more when I see you.”
“Which is why I called, Qwill,” said the editor. “Mildred and I want to spend a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast before the resort gets crowded—this weekend, if it isn’t too short a notice. The weather’s due to clear up tomorrow and stay nice for a while. Would you make a reservation for us? Mildred wants you to pick out a B-and-B with a little class.”
That eliminates the Domino Inn, Qwilleran thought. “Do you trust my judgment?”
“No, but Mildred apparently does. We plan to arrive late Friday, and we hope you’ll have dinner with us Saturday night.”
“I’ll see what I can find. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Great! How are the mosquitoes?”
“Not too bad if you stay out of the woods. In the tourist area, they’re automatically gassed by the fudge fumes.”
Qwilleran walked slowly downstairs from the phone booth, regretting that he had mentioned the pirate controversy prematurely. Harriet may have been lying. She might not know the real truth about her heritage. The island might very well have been a pirate stronghold in prehistoric times. (Prehistoric in Moose County was anything before the War of 1812.) There was a hotel owner on the mainland who boasted of his pirate ancestry; why were the islanders so sensitive about the possibility?
He was intercepted at the foot of the stairs by Lori. “Is everything all right, Qwill?”
“Just a misplaced comma in my copy,” he said archly. He opened his mouth to mention the Rikers’ impending visit but closed it again; he could hardly ask the owner of the Domino Inn to recommend a B-and-B with more class!
Later, he remembered seeing a bed-and-breakfast brochure near the cash register at Harriet’s café. He went there for dinner and ordered vegetable soup, two hot dogs with everything, and apple pie with ice cream. He could hear Harriet shouting orders in the kitchen like a drill sergeant. While eating, he read the advertising blurbs in the brochure: The Domino Inn was described as “Absolutely unique, with hearty, delicious breakfasts lovingly prepared. Newly redecorated with original 1920s furniture.” The Seagull Inn featured brass beds and a billiard room. The B-and-B called Yesteryear-by-the-Lake had a cobblestone fireplace and a collection of toy trains. None of these would thrill the Rikers.
Then he read about the Island Experience: “Charming ambiance and gracious hospitality, with antique furnishings and gourmet breakfasts! Canopied beds have eyelet-embroidered bedlinens and handmade quilts. Complimentary champagne in the gazebo every afternoon.”
Mildred would swoon over such amenities. Arch would prefer complimentary Scotch in the gazebo but would appreciate the antiques; he and his first wife Down Below had been experienced collectors. It was the bottom line that interested Qwilleran personally: Innkeepers Carla Helmuth and Trudy Feathering are former members of the Grand Island Club. With no motive other than curiosity about the private estates, he determined to check out the Island Experience the next day, rain or shine. He went home and trimmed his moustache.
The sun was shining Thursday morning. Before going to breakfast, Qwilleran laid out his clothing for the visit with the former members of the Grand Island Club: a brushed silk shirt that Polly had given him for Sweetest Day, his new khaki twill trousers, and his British tan loafers.
The Hardings were leaving the breakfast room as he arrived. “Lovely day for the nature trail!” Mrs. Harding told him. “The wildflowers will be at their best, but don’t forget the mosquito repellent. Spray and pray, as Arledge says.”
“With emphasis on the latter,” said her husband. “After a heavy rain, their buzzing sounds like a pondful of bullfrogs.”
“By the way,” Qwilleran asked them, “when you used to visit the Ritchies, did you meet any clubmembers named Feathering or Helmuth?”
The couple searched each other’s eyes for answers, then admitted that the names were only vaguely familiar. “We didn’t know any of the clubmembers well. The Ritchies were not what you would call clubby.”
“It’s not important,” he said. “I merely heard that their widows were running a bed-and-breakfast here.”
“How interesting,” murmured Mrs. Harding, although it was clear that she was not interested at all.
After smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, followed by ham-and-potato cakes with chutney, Qwilleran returned to Four Pips to dress for his visit with the widows. As he unlocked the door he heard sounds of commotion; when he walked in, he saw a scene of disaster: table lamp on the floor, chair knocked over, desk papers scattered. He stepped on something; it was a domino. He kicked something; it was his green apple. Koko was circling the room wildly, jumping over furniture, ricocheting off the walls, and yowling with pain—or glee. He was having a catfit. “Stop! Stop!” Qwilleran yelled.
Koko made a few more turns about the room before stopping and licking his battered body. Yum Yum came crawling out from under the sofa.
“You ruffian! What’s the matter with you?” Qwilleran scolded. Patiently he put the room in order. Nothing was broken. The lamp shade had flown off, and the harp was bent, but there was no harm done. The dominoes scattered about the floor were found; only the cover of the maroon velvet box was missing. It would show up somewhere. He put the dominoes in a desk drawer. Then he went into the bedroom to change clothes.
First he noticed a sock on the floor. Next he saw his trousers crumpled on the floor behind the bedside table. And where was his silk shirt? Hunting for it on hands and knees, he found it wadded up under the dresser.
“You fiend!” Qwilleran exploded. “I just had this washed and pressed! I can’t wear any of this now.”
Koko stood in the doorway, looking impudent—with legs splayed, tail stiffly curled, and ears pointed in two directions.
Qwilleran sat down abruptly on the bed. Could it be that Koko did not want him to visit the Island Experience? The cat knew nothing about the inn, or the women who ran it, or the reason for going there! Or did he? Something was going on in that little cat brain!
Qwilleran shrugged in resignation. No one would believe that a man of his size, intelligence, education, and wealt
h could be tyrannized by a ten-pound animal. Now he had lost the wherewithal and the incentive to visit the Island Experience.
He brought a bottle of club soda from the refrigerator and took it to the porch to drink while he simmered down. It was calm on the porch. The woods were beautiful after the rain. He saw some yellow flowers outside the screens that had not been there before. When a rabbit hopped out of the underbrush and came close to the porch, Qwilleran remained quiet and motionless. And then he witnessed the incredible. The Siamese came out of the house and ambled toward the rabbit. There was no stealth, no stalking, no hostile posturing. They looked at the visitor, and the rabbit looked at them with his nose twitching. Then he hopped away.
Qwilleran finished his drink and then changed clothes. He put on some lightweight jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and his yellow baseball cap. “I’ll be back after a while,” he told the Siamese. He found the mosquito repellent and headed for the nature trail.
There was a wagon in front of Five Pips, delivering a small barroom piano. Lori had unlocked the door for the deliverymen, but the window shades were still drawn. “Hi, Qwill!” she said. “The hotel is lending her a piano. Isn’t that nice? She’ll be here starting this weekend.”
“Have you ever taken the nature trail?” he asked.
“I haven’t had time, but I hear it’s lovely.”
The approach to the trail was mysteriously inviting. The path was thick with pine needles and spongy after the rain. On either side there were tall, straight pines with lofty branches admitting shafts of sunlight, while oaks and graceful birches dappled the path with shade. At intervals, small paths led into the underbrush on the left, each marked by a name painted on a shingle or small boulder: SEAGULL INN…ISLAND EXPERIENCE. Farther along there was a larger marker: GRAND ISLAND CLUB—PRIVATE, followed by the elegantly simple names of summer estates like SEVEN OAKS and THE BIRCHES. Narrower trails, darkly forbidding, led into dense woods on the right; an occasional sign said KEEP OUT…or simply DOGS.
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