"Aren't they great kids? We're planning to use them for a Saturday night cabaret show. All they have to do is sing loud and kick high. Vacation audiences aren't too critical of the entertainment at a resort. You said you used to write stuff for college revues. Would you like to write a skit for us?"
Qwilleran said he could write a song parody, such as, Fudge, your magic smell is everywhere. "But Riker wants me to bear down on writing more copy for the paper."
"I see ... Well, you're welcome to use the hotel fax machine for filing your copy, Qwill."
"Thanks. I'll remember that."
Then Dwight made a startling announcement. "Don has hired Dr. Halliburton as our summer director of music and entertainment."
"Dr. who?"
"June Halliburton, head of music for the Moose County schools."
"Yes, I know," Qwilleran said impatiently. "I didn't realize she had a doctorate."
"Oh, sure! She has lots of degrees and lots of talent, as well as sexy good looks. She'll be here all summer after school's out. Right now she's spending only weekends and getting the feel of the resort."
Qwilleran cleared his throat. "I believe I saw her driving to the ferry today, when I was arriving."
"Then you know her! That's great! You'll be neighbors, in case you want to collaborate on something for the cabaret. She'll be staying at the Domino Inn."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Why not the hotel?"
"She wants housekeeping facilities and a studio; we're sending a small piano to her cottage. But I think the real reason is that she likes her cigarettes, and Don has outlawed smoking anywhere on the hotel grounds."
On this sour musical note the dinner ended. Leaving the hotel, Qwilleran was in a bad humor, contemplating two weeks in confined space plus a next-door neighbor be actively disliked. There was nothing to improve his mood when he explored the strip mall on the far side of the hotel: VIDEO, DELI, CRAFTS, POST OFFICE, FUDGE again, and GENERAL. The general store sold chiefly fishing tackle, beach balls, and paperback romances. He turned around and headed for home—or what he was to consider home tor the next two painful weeks.
At the antique shop he had another look at the display window. There it was—something he had always wanted—the classic pair of theater masks called Tragedy and Comedy. They had a mellow gilded finish and could be, he thought, ceramic, metal, or carved wood. Also in the window were pieces of glass, china, brass, and copper, plus a tasteful sign on a small easel:
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ANTIQUES BY NOISETTE
PARIS . . . PALM BEACH
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The sign piqued his curiosity. Why would a dealer with Paris and Palm Beach credentials choose Pear Island as a summer venue?
There were other signs that interested him. The one in the window that had said Open when the shop was dosed had now been turned around to read Closed when die shop was open. Taped on the glass panel of the door was another piece of information:
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No Children Allowable
If Not in Chargement of an Adult
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There were no customers in the store, and he could understand why. Noisette sold only antiques—no postcards, fudge, or T-shirts. He sauntered into the shop in slow mo-tion to disguise his eagerness about the masks; that was the first rule of standard antiquing procedure, he had been told. First he examined the bottom of a plate and held a piece of crystal to the light as if he knew what he was doing.
From the corner of his eye he saw a woman sitting at a desk and reading a French magazine. She was hardly the friendly, folksy dealer one would expect on an island 400 miles north of everywhere. She had the effortless chic that he associated with Parisian women: dark hair brushed back to emphasize a handsomely boned face; lustrous eyes of an unusual brown; tiny diamond earrings.
"Good evening," he said in the mellifluous voice he reserved for women he wanted to impress.
"Oh! Pardon!" she said. "I did not see you enter." Her precise speech said "Paris," and when she stood up and came forward, her jade silk shirt and perfectly cut white trousers said "Florida."
"You have some interesting things here," he said, mentally comparing them with the plastic pears and bawdy bumper stickers in the shop next door.
"Ah! What is it that you collect?"
"Nothing in particular. I walked past earlier and your door was locked."
"I was taking some sustainment, I regret." She walked to a locked vitrine that had small figures behind glass. "Are you interested in pre-Columbian? I take them out of the case."
"No, thanks. Don't bother. I'm just looking." He did some more aimless wandering before saying, "Those masks in the window—what are they made of?"
"They are fabrications of leather, a very old Venetian" craft, requiring great precisement. I have them from the collection of a famous French film actor, but I have not the liberty to use his name, I regret."
