"What prompted the name of your inn?" Qwilleran asked.
"Well, it was a private lodge in the Twenties, and the family that owned it was nuts about dominoes. We bought it completely furnished, including a couple-dozen sets of dominoes. My name is really Dominic, you know, so Lori thought we were destined to own the place and call it the Domino Inn. It's different, anyway."
The downtown pavement and boardwalk ended, and the road became a dusty mix of sand, gravel, and weeds. "This is called West Beach Road," Nick went on. "It should be sprayed with oil, but the county is tight-fisted. They're getting all the new tax money, but they don't want to supply any services." He waved to a mounted security officer in red coat and stiff-brimmed hat. "We get spectacular sunsets on the west beach. Farther up the road is the exclusive Grand Island Club, where the rich folks have always had their clubhouse, private marina, and big summer estates. Where we are, the lodges are outside the Golden Curtain, as it's called, and they've been rezoned commercial. There are three B-and-Bs. We get a nice class of people at our innquietvery friendly. Do you play dominoes?"
"No!" Qwilleran replied promptly and with resolve.
"I know you like exercise. We have a sandy beach for walking, or you can rent a bike and pedal up to Lighthouse Point. It's all uphill, but is it great coasting down! Try it! There's also a nature trail through the woods. If you like hunting for agates, go to the public beach on the other side of the island. It's all pebbles, no sand."
"Can you keep the public off this beach? I thought the law had been changed in this state."
"The public-access ordinance applies only to new owners like us," Nick explained. "Members of the Grand Island Club come under a grandfather clause, or so they say. I don't know how legal it is, but they get away with it."
"Where do the natives live?"
"In Piratetown, back in the woods, very isolated. Tourists are discouraged from going there."
There were fewer vehicles, cyclists, and joggers on West Beach Road than Qwilleran expected, leading him to ask, "How's business?"
"Well, it started off with a bang, but it's slowing down. Lori says people are busy with weddings and graduations in June. It'll pick up in July. We hope. We don't know, yet, how harmful the negative publicity is going to be."
They passed six hikers with oversize backpacks, trudging single-file on their way to the ferry, and Nick said they had been hang gliding on the sand dune near the lighthouse.
The Siamese had been quiet in their carrier, which was on the floor of the wagon, close by Qwilleran's feet, but now there was a rumble of discontent. Before he could give them any soothing reassurances, a two-wheeled horse cab passed them, headed for downtown, and the passengera woman in a floppy-brimmed sunhat waved and gave him a roguish smile. Taken by surprise, he only nodded in her direction.
"Who was that woman?" he asked Nick, although he thought he recognized the white makeup and red hair.
"Who? Where? I didn't notice. I was looking at the backpackers. They've got some healthy-looking girls in that group. I'm not good at names and faces, anyway. Lori says I've got to work on that if I'm gonna be an innkeeper. In my job, people are just numbers."
Qwilleran was hardly listening to the rambling discourse. The redhead was one person whom he actively disliked, and Polly shared his sentiments. Fortunately she was going in the opposite direction, and there was luggage piled in the cab. He allowed himself to wonder what she had been doing at Pear Island; it was hardly her kind of resort. Perhaps she had been a guest behind the Golden Curtain; that was more likely.
They had been ascending gradually after leaving downtown, and now the beach was below them, reached by steps, and the woods loomed on the other side. The road curved in and out along the natural shoreline, and when the wagon rounded a bend and stopped, Qwilleran let out a yelp. "Is that yours, Nick? I don't believe it! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Wanted to surprise you. It's the only one on the islandmaybe the only one in the world!"
Domino Inn was a large ungainly building with small windows, completely sided with a patchwork of white birchbark. Qwilleran thought, Why would anyone strip a whole forest of white birches to produce such an eyesore? How could they get away with it? He answered his own question: Because no one cared, back in the Twenties. Then he asked himself, Why would they buy such a thing? Why would the K Foundation finance it?
Misconstruing his silence for awe, Nick said proudly, "I thought you'd be impressed. It was written up in most of the out-of-state publicity."
To Qwilleran it looked vaguely illegal. It looked like a firetrap. It could be, or should be, riddled with termites. Mentally he renamed it the Little Inn of Horrors.
The wagon turned into the driveway and stopped at a flight of wooden steps that led up to a long porch. There were no rocking chairs, but there were porch swings hanging from chains. Immediately the front door flew open, and Lori came bounding down the steps to give Qwilleran a welcoming hug. His former secretary was now an innkeeper and mother of three, but she still wore her long golden hair in girlish braids tied with blue ribbons.
"I could barely wait for you to see it!" she cried with excitement. "Wait till you see the inside! Come on in!"
"If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like to unload the cats first. They might express their emotions in some unacceptable way, if they don't de-coop soon. I'll feed them and then come in to register."
"Do you need catfood? Do you need litter?"
"No, thank you. We're well equipped."
Nick instructed the driver to continue around to the rear and then down the lane to the fourth cottage. The sandy lane was marked with a rustic street sign: PIP COURT. It reminded Qwilleran of a poultry disease and other illnesses, and he inquired about it. The spots on dominoes are called pips, he was told.
The five cottages, hardly larger than garages, were stained a somber brown, and the door of each was painted black with white pips. The fourth cottage was identified with a double-two.
"Yours is called "Four Pips," and it's deeper in the woods than the first three. The cats can watch birds and rabbits from the screened porch in back. Here's the key. You go in, and I'll offload everything."
The doorstep was hardly large enough to accommodate a size-twelve shoe, and when Qwilleran unlocked the giant domino, he stepped into the smallest living quarters he had experienced since an army tent. He was a big man, accustomed to living in a four-story barn, and here he was faced with a tiny sitting room, snug bedroom, mini-kitchen, and pocket-size bathroom. True, there was a screened porch, but it was minuscule and rather like a cage. How could he exist in these cramped quarters for two weeks with a pair of active animals?
There was more. Someone had painted the walls white and dressed them up with travel posters. Then someone had gone berserk and camouflaged furniture, bed, and windows with countless yards of fabric in a splashy pattern of giant roses, irises, and ferns.
"How do you like everything?" Nick asked as he looked for places to put the luggage. "Not much extra floor space," he admitted, "and the place gets a little musty when it's closed up." He rushed around opening windows. The kitchenette was new, he said, and the plumbing was new, although it took a while for the water to run hot. The cottages had originally been built for servants.
"Did I hear a gunshot?" Qwilleran asked.
"Just rabbit hunters in the woods. From Piratetown ... If there's anything else you want, just whistle."
Qwilleran switched on two lamps and mentioned that he could use a higher wattage for reading.
"Will do. And now I've got to take Jason back to the mainland. I'll see you next weekend ... G'bye, kids," he said to the occupants of the portable cage.