"It's not the idyllic spot we expected," said Edna ruefully. "The Bambas are a lovely family, but we doubt that we'll stay our full two weeks."
"The island isn't even pear-shaped," Edith said. "We've taken carriage rides on both beaches, and it's an isosceles triangle!"
Edna said, "You should put that in your column, Mr. Qwilleran."
As he ambled back to Four Pips, he was painting a mental picture of the royal family, brushstroke by brushstroke: the daughter who wouldn't eat ... the son who couldn't stop marrying ... the law graduate who couldn't (or wouldn't) pass the bar exam ... the doctor who preferred to treat animals ... the autocratic mother who was said to be a Harpy.
Upon arriving home he immediately wrote a brief note to Mrs. Appelhardt: "Found these on the nature trail. Hope your daughter recovers swiftly." He signed it "J. Qwil-leran." Then he set out for the Vacation Helpers once more, carrying the botany book and the silver pencil.
Shelley was at the counter. "Back again?" she said in surprise. "Was the pressing okay?"
"No complaint," he said, "except for the scorch marks on the back of the shirt."
Her look of horror melted quickly to a smile. "Oh, you're a male chauvinist comic! What can we do for you now?"
"Could you wrap these two articles and deliver them to an address on West Beach Road? Tomorrow will do."
"We'll be happy to. I have a nice box and some seagull giftwrap."
"This is not a gift," he said. "On the other hand, I don't want it to look like a homemade bomb. Here's the note to go with it, and here's the address." He looked over her shoulder to the rear of the room. "Is your cat supposed to be scratching himself in the baby's playpen?"
"No! No! Out! Out!" she screamed, chasing him and slamming a door. "Somebody left the door open. That's Hannibal, one of our resident strays."
"A "resident stray" sounds like an oxymoron," he said.
"Hannibal is foxy, but he's no moron," she quipped. "He knows a good place to eat. How did you like your box lunch?"
"The meatloaf was excellent. Could you deliver a whole one to me, say, every other day? I'd pay in advance."
"Absolutely}" said Shelley. "We'll start tomorrow. Midge makes four-pounders for sandwiches and two-pounders for snacks."
"Two-pounders will be ample."
"Is it for your roommate?" she asked, looking him stead-ily in the eye. "Your roommate is a raccoon, isn't he?"
Shelley looked so triumphant, so pleased with herself, that he said mildly, "How did you guess?"
CHAPTER 10
On Friday morning Qwilleran opened a can of lobster for the cats" breakfast. "This is the last junk food you're going to get for a while. For the rest of our stay here, you'll have homemade meatloaf, delivered fresh, every other day, by bicycle. That's the good news. The bad news is that you are now raccoons."
Through long association with this pair of connoisseurs, he knew their favorites: freshly roasted turkey, homemade meatloaf, and canned red salmon, top grade. Nevertheless, they gobbled the lobster with rapturous slurping, waving of tails, and clicking of fangs on the plate. Yum Yum looked up after each swallow to confirm that Qwilleran was still there. Afterward, she jumped onto his lap while he drank his coffee, stroked her fur, and paid her extravagant compliments. He called it their apres-breakfast schmooz.
Their dinner was served earlier than usual that evening, because Qwilleran wanted to check the post office before it closed. He cubed the meatloaf preciselyfive-sixteenths of an inch, he estimated. "Don't say I never do anything for you," he said to the waiting cats. They were quieter than usual, and they were sitting a little farther away. After placing a generous plateful on the floor, he stepped back to enjoy their ecstasy. They approached it stealthily and backed away. He sampled a cube himself. There was nothing wrong with it; in fact, it might be described as ... tasty. "Try it! You'll like it!" They walked away with heads lowered and tails drooping.
"Well, I'm not going to stand here and do catfood commercials for you brats!" He left the plate on the floor and dressed for his trip downtown.
The resort area was gearing up for what everyone hoped would be a busy weekend, although the atmosphere was more wishful than confident. Horse cabs lined up at the ferry dock. Cargo was being offloaded for the deli and general storemostly beer. In an extra bid for business, the T-shirt studio was hanging choice designs on clotheslines strung across the front of the shop.
In the same spirit of hopeful doubt, Qwilleran checked the post office, but there was no news from Oregon. He assumed Polly was having a rollicking vacationlooking for puffin birds, giggling with her college roommate, and talking about him.
For a while he watched vacationers disembarking with bevies of children, their shouts punctuating the waterfront hush: "Junior, don't hang over the railing! . . , Mom, did you bring my rollerblades?... Lookit all the horses! What are they for?... Hey, Dad, could this island sink?"
Among the arrivals were six backpackers. The size oi their gear suggested they were the crew who had beer camping at the lighthouse on weekends and hang gliding on the dune. They were attractive young people, Qwil-leran thought: the women, healthy; the men, athletic; and all exposed skin, enviably suntanned. Also arriving, with luggage to be loaded into a carriage, was Dr. June Halliburton with a limp-brimmed sunhat shading her white skin and red hair.
In the hotel lobby Qwilleran picked up a copy of Friday's Moose County Something and was surprised to find the following item on page one:
SNAKE-BITE VICTIM
AIRLIFTED FROM ISLAND.
The sheriff's helicopter evacuated a victim of snake bite from Pear Island to the Pickax General Hospital Thursday. Elizabeth C. Appel-hardt, 23, a summer resident of the Grand Island Club, was in good condition today after treatment, according to a hospital spokesperson. This is the third medical emergency handled by the sheriff's airborne division this month.
Only the sheriff would like the coverage, Qwilleran mused; he was always campaigning for re-election or lobbying for more funds to buy rescue equipment. The queen mother would dislike the publicity because it invaded her family's Olympian privacy. The victim would take umbrage at the mention of her age. Don Exbridge would explode because the report made the island sound hazardous to one's health.
There was already a commotion erupting in the manager's office, and Qwilleran caught sight of a bald head and waving arms as Exbridge shouted, "Get those damned T-shirts off the front of the store! What do they think this is? A Persian bazaar?"
As soon as the dining room opened, Qwilleran presented himself at the reservation desk.
"Hi, Mr. Q! You're early," said Derek Cuttlebrink, resplendent in pirate's tricorne and one gold earring. "Are you all alone tonight?"
"No, I've brought my friend, Anatole France." He held up his copy of Penguin Island. "I'd like a quiet table where I can readalso a reservation for tomorrow night at eight o'clockthree persons." In a lower voice he asked, "Any luck with your assignment?"
Derek nodded importantly. "Gotta contact," he mumbled while appearing to study his reservation chart. "How about Sunday night? I'm off early."
"Come to the fourth cottage behind the inn."
Over shrimp bisque and Cajun pork chops Qwilleran finished reading his book and was leaving the dining room when another blowup occurred in the manager's office. There was a torrent of invective, and Dwight Somers came rushing out. He caught sight of Qwilleran. "I need a drink! Come into the bar."
He led the way to a secluded booth and ordered a double martini. "That guy's a madman when things don't go the way he planned. And don't try to reason with him, or you'll get your head lopped off. If I'm still here by the Fourth of July, I'll be surprised. Either I'll be fired, or I'll be in jail for murder."