"What makes me sick," Nick said, "is the thought that ... maybe it wasn't an accident!"
CHAPTER 3
As they stowed the luggage and the cat carrier on the deck of the Double-Six, Nick Bamba said, "It's great of you to do this, Qwill. How long can you stay?"
"A couple of weeks. Officially I'll be researching fresh material for the "Qwill Pen" column."
"You're our guest, you know. Stay as long as you want."
"I appreciate the invitation, but let the newspaper foot the bill. It'll look better, and they can afford it."
As the pilot carried aboard the turkey roaster that had no handles, he said, "What's this for? Are you gonna do some serious cooking? I know the cats are crazy about turkey, but the cottage has all the pots and pans you'll need—or you can borrow from Lori's kitchen."
"That's the cats" commode," Qwilleran said in an offhand way.
"Well, I've gotta say I've never seen one like it, and I've seen a lot of cat potties."
"It's practical."
"I hope Koko and Yum Yum are good sailors."
"They've never had a boat ride, as I recall," said Qwilleran. "I'll throw my jacket over their coop in case there's too much breeze or spray from the wake. The water looks fairly choppy. I hope it won't be a bumpy ride. I don't worry about Koko, but the little one has a delicate stomach."
There was no need to worry about either of them. For the rest of the journey the Siamese were beguiled by the pleasures of the nose, raising their heads like beached seals and sniffing eagerly. During the voyage they registered the assorted smells of lake air, marine life, aquatic weeds, seagulls, and petroleum fumes. Arriving at the island they detected pails of bait, crates of fish, horses, fudge, and newness everywhere: new piers, new hotel, new shops selling new merchandise, new black-top paving, and new bicycles. Also assaulting their inquiring noses was a heady bouquet emanating from the milling mass of tourists—young and old, teen and preteen, washed and unwashed, healthy and unhealthy, tipsy and sober. Perhaps Koko's personal radar picked up friendly and unfriendly, as well, or even innocent and guilty.
As for Qwilleran, he found the island disturbingly different from the primitive scene he remembered. He had seen the photographs in the newspaper, but experiencing the altered environment was entirely unreal. The lake-front was fringed with the masts of sailboats and the superstructures of deepwater trolling vessels. A ferryboat, halfway between a tug and a barge, was unloading vacationers with luggage, and another was returning to the mainland carrying day-trippers with sunburn. Overlooking the marina was the rustic facade of the new Pear Island Hotel, artfully stained to look fifty years old. It was three stories high and a city-block long, with a porch running the entire length. Much had been said in the national publicity about the long porch and its fifty Cocking chairs. Behind the hotel, making a dark-green backdrop, were tall firs and giant oaks that had been there before the first castaways were stranded on the shore.
Qwilleran thought, This is the forest primeval, and the pines and the hemlocks are murmuring "Ye gods! Wha" happened?"
The hotel was flanked by rows of rustic storefronts, each with a hitching post. Window-shoppers strolled along wooden sidewalks called "the boardwalk" in the publicity releases.
Nick said, "This is what the XYZ people call downtown."
"It resembles a movie set," Qwilleran remarked. "At least they had the good taste not to paint yellow lines on the black-top."
"Right! Don Exbridge wants to keep everything as natural as possible. The only motor vehicles permitted are police, ambulance, and fire, and they can't use sirens because of the horses. They use beepers."
There was indeed a unique hush along the waterfront, resulting from the absence of combustion engines—just a murmur of voices, the clop-clop of hooves, and the screams of seagulls and excited youngsters.
Nick hailed a horse-drawn conveyance, loaded the luggage, and said "Domino Inn" to the old man hunched sullenly over the reins. Without answering, he shook the reins, and the horse moved forward.
"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."
