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 deadline. 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 crowdedthis 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 cafe. 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 Carlo 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 k 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 be 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 painor 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.