"I'm serious. It's easy to second-guess, of course, but it now becomes clear to me that XYZ should have done a feasibility study before launching this project. They might have discovered that the pirate legend has no historical verification and that the islanders resent the implication. It's my belief that the hotel's celebration of the pirate myth is creating hostility."
"It's all in fun. It's just fantasy."
"The islanders have no sense of humor. Neither would you, if you lived in Providence Village."
"But what harm can it do?"
"Do you realize a con artist was selling Pear Island treasure-hunting maps for fifty dollars in bars on the mainland? Dunderheads are coming over on the ferry with shovels."
"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 Cut-tlebrink 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 dealgives 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!"
CHAPTER 8
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 knowor careabout 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