"Did they think the islanders had murdered the men? What would be the motive?"
"The guv'ment thought the islanders really wanted ships to be wrecked so they could rob them. They believed the old lie about pirate blood. That was a hundred years ago, and people still believe it! Makes me boiling mad!"
"Old legends never die," Qwilleran said. (They only get made into movies, he thought.) "Were the bodies ever found?"
"Never. The police suspected my great-grampa and took him to the mainland for questioning."
"Why? Because he climbed over the fence?"
"Because he could read and write. They thought he was dangerous."
"Incredible! Are you sure this story is true, Harriet?"
She nodded soberly. "He kept a diary and wrote everything down. My ma has it hidden away."
Qwilleran said, "I'd give a lot to see that diary!" He was thinking, What a story this will make!... Homer Tibbitt, eat your heart out!
"Ma won't show the diary to anybody," Harriet said. "She's afraid it'll be stolen."
"Haven't you ever seen it?"
"Only once, when I was in seventh grade. I had to be in a program for Heritage Day, so my ma let me see it. It had some weird things."
"Like what?" he asked.
"I remember one page, because I had to memorize it for the program. August 7. Fine day. Lake calm. Light wind from southeast. Hauled nets all day. Mary died in childbirth. Baby is fine, thank the Lord ... August 8. Cool. Some clouds. Wind shifting to northeast. Three rabbits in traps. Buried Mary after supper. Baby colicky. A few days after, the light burned out," Harriet concluded, "and the soldiers dug up the grave."
"Ghastly!" Qwilleran said. "How could your greatgrandfather write about such things without emotion?"
"Islanders don't cry. They just do what they have to do," said Harriet, "and it doesn't matter how hard it is."
Qwilleran thought, They never laugh either. He asked her, "Had the islanders been on friendly terms with the lightkeepers?"
"Ay-uh. They celebrated feast days together, and Grampa took them fresh fish sometimes. They'd give him some hardtack. The islanders couldn't go inside the fence, but the keepers could come out."
"Were there any changes in the system after the disappearance?"
"Well, the guv'ment kept on sending three men from the mainland to do the job, but they had big dogs."
"Congratulations, Harriet. You report the facts as if you were actually there."
"I've heard it so many times," she said modestly.
"It'll make a sensational piece for the "Qwill Pen" column. Is it okay to quote you?"
Her pleasure at being complimented turned to sudden alarm. "Which do you mean? Not the lighthouse story!"
"Especially the lighthouse mystery," he corrected her. "This is the first I've heard of such an incident, and I've read a lot of county history."
Harriet put her hands to her face in chagrin. "No! No! You can't write anything about that! I just told you because I thought you'd be personally interested. I didn't know ..."
Why, Qwilleran wondered, do people give journalists sensational information or personal secrets that they don't want published? And why are they so surprised when it appears in print? What would happen if I ran this story anyway? Historical data obtained from an anonymous source ... And then he thought, The lighthouse story might be a hoax. Does she know it's not true? It might be a family fiction invented to go with the ambiguous bronze plaque in the lighthouse compound. As for the diary, that's probably a myth, too. To Harriet he said, "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't publish the lighthouse story. Your reason will be confidential."
"It'll make trouble. It'll make trouble in the village." She moistened her lips anxiously.
"What kind of trouble?"
"Don't you know what happened Memorial weekend? I think Mr. Exbridge stopped it from getting in the paper. Some men from the mainlandfrom Lockmastercame to the village with shovels and started digging for buried pirate treasure. They dug big holes in front of Ma's house and near the school. They had a map that they'd bought for fifty dollars from some man in a bar."
Qwilleran suppressed an urge to chuckle. "How did the villagers get rid of them?"
"Some rabbit hunters chased them out. The diggers complained to the sheriff's deputy about harassment, but he laughed and told them to go home and say nothing about it, or they'd look like fools. He reported it to Mr. Exbridge, though, and Mr. Exbridge said he'd done right."
Qwilleran said, "I'm sure it was annoying to the villagers, but I don't blame the deputy for laughing. The question is: What does this have to do with my running the lighthouse mystery?"
"Don't you see?" she said angrily. "Someone would sell maps, and the men would be back, digging for bones!"
CHAPTER 7
On the way home from Harriet's Family Cafe, Qwilleran's mind was busy filming mental images: Harriet built like a Mack truck, working like a Trojan, and apparently happy as a lark .. . Harriet in her drooping chef's hat ... Young Harriet piling into a bunch of kids with her fists flying. Was she honest? Were any of the islanders honest? They never cry, she had said; they do what they have to do. Were they capable of committing the perfect crime a hundred years ago? Generations of hardship would make them crafty. They could lure the lightkeepers to their deaths under the pretext of friendship. (A few cups of island coffee would do it!) But what was their motive? And where were the bodies?
Mist was rising from the lake and shrouding the dark beach road. Darting lights in the distance, like a swarm of fireflies, were the flashlights of hotel employees returning to their dormitories. Yelling, laughing, singing, they were a different breed from the shy, tongue-tied, sober-faced islanders.
A storm was on its way, no doubt about it. Mr. Harding could feel it in his bones; Koko and Yum Yum could feel it in their fur. As soon as Qwilleran, arriving at the cottage, slid cautiously into his lounge chair, both cats clomped to his side, looking heavy; then they landed in his lap like two sacks of cement. Even Koko, not normally a lap sitter, felt the need for propinquity. As barometers, the Siamese could predict "too wet" and "too windy." A heavy cat meant a muggy downpour; a crazy cat meant an approaching hurricane
Now they sank ponderously into his lap, and he sank into the seat cushion with his feet up and his head back, thinking great thoughts: What would Lori serve for breakfast on Tuesday? When would he hear from Polly? Who won the ballgame in Minneapolis?... From there he progressed to deeper speculation: Why was the classy Noisette doing business in this backwoods resort? More to the point, what kind of business was she doing? Was the boat explosion really an accident? Who had been drinking with the hotel guest found floating in the pool? How could contaminated chicken sneak past the nose of a good chef? Wouldn't it smell? Where could one find an informantan insiderwho could ask gossipy questions without being suspected?
Before he could think of answers, he dozed off and slept soundly until shocked awake by a terrifying roar, as if a locomotive were crashing through the house! It was followed by a hollow silence. Had it been an audio dream? The cats had heard it, too. Both were on top of the wallcabinet in the kitchenette. Then the empty silence was broken by another bellowing blast. It was the Breakfast Island foghorn on Lighthouse Point. It could be heard thirty miles out in the lake, and on Pip Court it sounded as if it were in the backyard. Now Qwilleran understood the ear plugs on the emergency list. The Siamese came down from their perch and slept peacfully throughout the booming night. Lori, in her infinite wisdom about cats, explained to Qwilleran the next day that they associated the regular bleating of the horn with their mother's heartbeat when they were in the womb.
Reporting for breakfast, he appreciated the green-and-white golf umbrella that came with the cottage. Two others were dripping on the front porch of the inn, and his neighbors from Pip Court were seated at a large, round table.