Qwilleran could see the Siamese on the back porch, and he walked around to talk to them through the screen. "Are you fellow travelers ready for a can of boned chicken imported from Pickax?"
There were two chairs on the porch, one more comfortable than the other, and with catly instinct they had chosen the better of the two. They were sitting there calmlytoo calmly. It meant that one or both had committed some small misdemeanor of which they were proud. He knew them so well!
Unlocking the front door, he walked into the scene of the crime. The desktop was littered with scraps of paper, and other bits were strewn about the floor. One said: Tuesday. Others were blank squares with numbers in the upper left-hand corner. Someone had attacked the wall calendar hanging above the desk. The glossy, full-color photo of a basset hound and the name of the dogfood manufacturer were still intact, but the month of June had been ripped off piece by piece, or day by day. It was now July in Four Pips.
"Which one of you incorrigible miscreants vandalized this calendar?" he shouted toward the porch. They paid no attention, being occupied with woodland sights and sounds.
He knew the culprit; Koko was the paper shredder in the family, but only when he had a reason. Did he think he could accelerate the passage of time by canceling the month of June? Did he want to get out of this Domino Dump and go home? "Clever thinking," Qwilleran called out to him, "but unfortunately it doesn't work that way."
CHAPTER 4
Days were long in June and even longer in the north country. The sun was still high in the sky as Qwilleran walked downtown for his first dinner at the Pear Island Hotel. On the way, he passed the row of rustic shops on the boardwalk. Their standardized signs were computer-carved from weathered wood. A single generic label identified each establishment: SOUVENIRS, TEA ROOM, ANTIQUES, PIZZA, T-SHIRTS and, of course, FUDGE. He saw something in the window of the antique shop that he liked, but the door was locked, even though the sign in the window said Open. The T-shirt studio offered tie-dyes in garish colors, sweats and tees with slogans printed to order, and the official resort T-shirt with a large blushing pear, the size of a watermelon. Boaters, teens, retirees, couples walking hand in hand, and parents with their broods wandered aimlessly up and down the boardwalk or stood in line at the fudge shop. On the hotel porch they rocked in the fifty rocking chairs, and a few were eating take-outs from the pizza parlor.
The hotel lobby burst upon the senses as a celebration of-piracy. A mural depicted swashbuckling pirates with chests of gold. Banners hanging from the ceiling had the skull-and-crossbones on a field of black. The reservation clerks wore striped shirts, red head bandanas, and a gold hoop in one ear. Qwilleran consulted the directory. There was a bar named the Buccaneer Den. The two dining areas were the Corsair Room and Smugglers" Cove. Glass doors led to the Pirates" Hole, a large swimming pool rimmed with sun lounges and umbrella tables. Youngsters splashed and squealed at the shallow end of the pool, while adults sipped drinks around the rim. The latter kept the barhops busyyoung men and women wearing black T-shirts with the pirate insigne.
Qwilleran ambled into the Buccaneer Den and sat at the bar. Spotlighted on the backbar was a chest of gold coins and the words of a sea chantey: Fifteen men on a dead man's chest! Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! He was comfortable on a bar stool. Before circumstances had changed his habits and hobbies, he had leaned on press club bars all around the country and had developed a barfly's savpir faire that was instantly recognized by the professionals pouring drinks. There were three of them behind the bar in the Buccaneer Den, all wearing the skull-and-crossbones.
He signaled the one who appeared to be in charge and asked, "Is it against the law to order a Bloody Mary without any booze?"
"How hot?" asked the man with expressionless face and voice. He reached for a glass.
"Three-alarm fire." Qwilleran counted the dashes of hot sauce going into the tomato juice, took a critical sip, and nodded his approval. The bartender leaned against the backbar with arms folded, and that was Qwilleran's cue to say, "You run a smooth operation here."
"Keeps us stepping, all right. We service two dining rooms and the pool, as well as this bar and lounge. We've got twenty-five stools here, and on Friday and Saturday night they're double-parked." He had the eyes of a supervisor, roving around the room as he talked.
"I know what it takes," Qwilleran said sympathetically. "I've tended bar myself." He was referring to a Saturday night gig during senior year in college. "Are you from Washington? I seem to remember you at the Mayflower."
"Nope. Wasn't me,"
"The Shoreham! That's where I've seen you."
The man shook his head. "Chicago. I worked the Loop for eighteen years. Poured enough booze to flood Com-miskey Park."
"You get a different class of customer at a place like this."
"You tellin" me? Big crowds, small tabs, smaller tips." He looked hastily up and down the bar before saying, "The cola crowdthey're the worst! Order a soft drink, spike it with their own flask, and fill up on free peanuts." His busy eyes spotted an empty glass, and he signaled to a barhop.
Qwilleran asked, "What's the Pirate Gold drink that you're pushing?"
"All fresh, all natural. Fruit juice with two kinds of rum and a secret ingredient. The health nuts go for it."
Qwilleran gulped the rest of his tomato juice and slid off the stool. "Thanks. What's your name?"
"Bert."
"You mix a helluva good drink, Bert. Wish I'd known you when I was on the hard stuff. I'll be back." He left a tip large enough to be remembered.
In the lobby, a fierce character in pirate garb presided at a reservation desk. Qwilleran asked him, "Do you have a no-smoking section?"
"There's no smoking anywhere in the hotel, sirorders of the fire department."
"Good! Do you have a no-kids section?" The lobby was teeming with vacationing small-fry, whooping and jumping with excitement.
"Yes, sir! The captain in the Corsair Room will seat you."
At that moment a friendly voice boomed across the lobby. "Qwill, you dirty P.O.B.! What are you doing here?" A young man grabbed his arm. Dwight Somers was employed as director of community services for XYZ Enterprises. They had met on a trip to Scotland and had developed an instant camaraderie. Jovially Dwight called Qwilleran a print-oriented bum and was called, in turn, a Ph.D., or doctor of publicity hackery.
"If the piracy doesn't extend to the prices," Qwilleran said, "I intend to take my life in my hands and have dinner here. Want to join me?"
It was quiet in the Corsair Room. The tables, most of them unoccupied, gleamed with white tablecloths, wine glasses, and flowers in crystal vases. "We're making some changes," Dwight said. "This class act intimidates your average tourist. We're down-scaling to vinyl tablecovers and ketchup bottles. Only tank tops will be a no-no. If you look around, you'll see we're the only dudes in club shirts."
A server in the official black-and-bones T-shirt took their order for drinks, and Qwilleran remarked to his dinner partner, "Don't you think you're working the pirate theme overtime?"
The XYZ publicity man shrugged apologetically. "The kids like it, and Don Exbridge says it's a historical reference. The island was a base of operations for lake pirates at one time. They lured ships onto the rocks so they could loot their cargo."
"You should change the name of this place to the Blackbeard Hotel. I hear one of your guests walked the plank last week. And that sea chantey on the backbar is right on target, with fifteen guests poisoned and one guest dead. Who was the guy? Do you know?"