Mrs. Harding said, "It was delivered by a man in green livery, driving a very handsome buggy with a beautiful horse!"
At Four Pips the Siamese were allowed to sniff the envelope, and their noses registered excitement. The note read:
Dear Mr. Qwilleran,
Please honor us by having tea at The Pines Sunday afternoon. We wish to thank you in person for coming to the rescue of our daughter Elizabeth after her unfortunate mishap. She is out of danger, we are glad to say, and returns to the island tomorrow. It will be our pleasure to send a carriage for you at four o'clock Sunday.
It was signed "Rowena Appelhardt." She was the queen mother, Qwilleran guessed, and this was to be a command appearance at Buckingham Palace. At least, he would see the peacocks, and Mrs. Harding said the refreshments were commendable.
The Siamese were prowling and yowling and looking lean and hungry. He checked their feeding station. The plate was empty, but the cubes of meatloaf had merely been scattered about the floor of the kitchenette. They looked dry and unappetizing.
"Shame on you!" he said. "There are homeless cats that would kill for a taste of this meatloaf! And it behooves you to get used to it, because we have another eight pounds coming."
He shoveled up the rejected delicacy and took it up the lane to the old glazed birdbath that served as a feeding station for the wild cats. Before he could even empty his bowl, three of them came from nowhere to fight for their share. Then he saw Nick Bamba, home for the weekend and hammering nails into a wooden contraption.
"What are you doing?" Qwilleran asked.
"Building a rack to keep the trash barrels off the ground. It's neater, and the strays can sleep underneath. Lori's idea."
"You never quit, do you, Nick?"
"Compared to my job at the prison, this is R-and-R. Did you have a good week? Did you find out anything?"
"So far I've been feeling my way and making contacts. Stop in tomorrow, and we'll talk."
Qwilleran went into the lounge for an apple and found that the basket was filled with pears! While there he heard a radio newscast coming from an alcove, where a family of three were playing dominoes. He walked over and said, "Mind if I listen? I'm interested in tomorrow's weather."
"You've just missed it," said the father. He turned to his son. "Do you remember what they said about the weather, Brad?"
The boy was about ten years old and looked too intelligent for his age; he wore a T-shirt printed with the words: Ask Me. He said, "Moderately high winds subsiding at midnight. Waves three to four feet. Tomorrow sunny and warm with light winds from the southeast, veering to southwest by afternoon. High tomorrow: seventy-five. Low"
"Hush," his father said, holding up a hand and inclining his head toward the radio. The announcer was saying:
"... police bulletin from Pear Island, where a shooting claimed the life of a vacationer this evening. The victim, an adult male, was hang gliding on the sand dune at the north end of the island when his companions heard a gunshot and the kite fell into the shallow water of the lake. Suffering from hypothermia as well as loss of blood, he was given emergency aid at the scene by the volunteer rescue squad before being airlifted by sheriff's helicopter to the mainland. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the Pickax General Hospital. Gunfire, not unusual on the island, had been noted throughout the day and evening. The fatal bullet is thought to be a stray shot fired by a varmint hunter, according to the sheriff's department. The victim's name has not been released at this time, but police say he was not a resident of Moose County."
"Nobody told us about gunfire on the island!" said the mother. "I hate guns!"
As Qwilleran walked back to Four Pips, he thought, Another incident! . . . Nick will spend a sleepless night, worrying about the future of the inn . . . The woman who hates guns will convince her husband to cut their visit short . . . The Moseley sisters will be glad they're canceling . . . The two men who look like detectives, having left, will come back.
He counted on his fingers: One, food poisoning. Two, drowning. Three, bad fall. Four, explosion. Five, shooting ... He was impressed by the diversity of the mishaps. There was no pattern, except that they all targeted tourists at regularly spaced intervals. Qwilleran pictured a consortium of saboteurs, each performing his own specialty. The islanders were crafty, skilled, and knowledgeable as a result of the hard life they lived. What mystified him was Koko's lack of interest and cooperation. In the past he had sensed the presence of crime and sniffed for clues. Perhaps the island atmosphere dulled his senses. True, he had staged a catfit that caused Qwilleran to be the right person in the right place at the right time, but that had nothing to do with the five suspicious incidents.
At Four Pips the Siamese continued to look at Qwilleran reproachfully and hungrily, and it required great fortitude to hold out against their wiles. He would give them their crunchy bedtime snack, but that was all; for breakfast he would serve meatloaf again on a take-it-or-leave-it basis.
After dark the three of them liked to sit on the screened porch, listening to mysterious sounds in the trees and underbrush, but tonight there was competition from Five Pips: piano playing, voices, recorded music, laughter. Qwilleran sorted out the voices: two of them, one female, one male. Later, the music stopped and the voices were muffled. He went indoors, read for a while, gave the cats their treat, and then retired.
He fell asleep easily and had one of his fanciful dreams: The natives living on Pear Island were penguins, and the tourists were puffin birds. A great bald eagle appeared and attempted to tow the island to the mainland, but he was shot down by a rabbit hunter, and the island sank to the bottom of the lake.
"Whew!" Qwilleran gasped, waking and sitting up in bed. He could hear happy voices next door, saying good night. The male guest was leaving with a flashlight, and Qwilleran hoped it would illuminate the man's face when he passed Four Pipsnot that it was any of Qwilleran's business, but he was observant by nature and by profession. His curiosity was aroused, however, when the visitor left by way of the nature trail.
CHAPTER 11
Qwilleran may not have known it, but he wa losing the Battle of the Meatloaf. Two hungry and indig nant cats started yowling outside his bedroom door a six A.M. Saturday. He endured it for almost an hour ani thenin bare feet and pajama bottomswent to th kitchen to prepare another plate of meatloaf for the un grateful wretches. They were quiet as he cut the fooc mincing it this time instead of cubing it. They were quit when he placed the plate on the floor. They looked at in disbelief, as if to say, What is this stuff? . . . Are w supposed to eat this dog dinner? Just as they were shal ing their paws exquisitely and walking away from th plate, there was a knock on the front door.
Qwilleran's watch said seven-fifteen. It must b Mitchellwho else? He might be bringing a messag from the Rikers. Perhaps they had not arrived last nigh Perhaps some emergency had arisen. He pulled the doc open with anxiety.
To his embarrassment it was June Halliburton, fully clothed and squinting through the smoke of a cigarette that she held gracefully in one hand. She appraised his rumpled pajama bottoms and uncombed hair and grinned impishly. "Want to go to breakfast with me? Come as you are."
"Sorry," he said. "I won't be ready for food for another couple of hours. Go along without me. They serve an excellent breakfast."
"I'm aware of that," she said loftily. "I spent two weekends in this cottage, keeping your bed warm for you. Did anyone tell you I'm handling the entertainment for the hotel? While you're sitting around doing nothing, you might try writing some material for me. I can't guarantee I'll use it, but it should be good practice for you." These typically shabby remarks were made with the insolent smile that was her trademark.