"It belongs to the Appelhardts, who founded the private club and were the first to build in the 1920s. The Ritchies called them the royal family and their estate, Buckingham Palace ... What brings you to the island, Mr. Qwilleran?"
"A working vacation. I'm staying in one of the cottages because my cats are with me, a pair of Siamese."
"Indeed! We once had a Siamese in the vicarage. His name was Holy Terror."
Mrs. Harding suddenly appeared. "A breeze has sprung up, and I'm afraid it's too chilly for you, Arledge."
"Yes, a storm is brewing. I feel it in my bones, and one bone in particular." The three of them went into the lounge and found comfortable seating in an alcove, whereupon the vicar asked his wife, "Should I tell Mr. Qwilleran the story about Holy Terror and the bishop?"
"Do you think it would be entirely suitable, Arledge?"
"The bishop has been entertaining the civilized world with the story for twenty years."
"Well ... you wouldn't put it in the paper, would you, Mr. Qwilleran?"
"Of course not. I never mention cats and clergymen in the same column."
"Very well, then," she agreed and sat nervously clutching her handbag as her husband proceeded:
"It was a very special occasion," Mr. Harding said with a twinkle in his left eye. "The bishop was coming to luncheon at the vicarage, and we discovered that he enjoyed a Bloody Mary at that time of day. This required much planning and research, I assure you. After consulting all available experts, we settled upon the perfect recipe and took pains to assemble the correct ingredients. On the appointed day our distinguished guest arrived and was duly welcomed, and then I repaired to the kitchen to mix the concoction myself. As I carried the tray into the living room, Holy Terror went into one of his Siamese tizzies, flying up and down stairs and around the house at great speed until he swooped over my shoulder and landed in the tray. Glasses catapulted into space, and the Bloody Mary flew in all directions, spraying tomato juice over the walls, furniture, carpet, ceiling, and the august person of the bishop."
The gentle Mr. Harding rocked back and forth with unholy mirth until his wife said, "Do try to control yourself, Arledge. You're putting a strain on your rib." Then she turned to Qwilleran and asked the inevitable question: "Do you play dominoes?"
"I'm afraid I have to say no, and I suppose I should go home and see what profane terrors my two companions have devised."
Gasping a little, Mr. Harding said, "I would deem it ... a privilege and a pleasure ... to introduce you to a game that promotes tranquility."
Sooner or later, Qwilleran knew, he would have to play dominoes with someone, and he could use a little tranquility after the events of the day. He followed the Hardings to a card table under a bridge lamp. When the old man was properly seated, his wife excused herself, saying the best game was two-handed.
The vicar opened a box of dominoes and explained that there were twenty-eight'pieces in the set, having pips similar to the spots on dice. "Why the one game is considered nice and the other is considered naughty, I am unable to fathom, especially since the naughty game is so often played on one's knees with certain prayerful exhortations. Or so I am told," he added with a twinkle in his good eye. "You might address that weighty question in your column some day. As a clue, let me mention that a domino was originally a hood worn by a canon in a cathedral."
The two men began matching pips in geometric formations, and Qwilleran began thinking longingly about a chocolate sundae, a symptom of boredom in his case. When the game ended, and the Hardings retired to their cottage, he found Lori and asked if Harriet's Family Cafe would be open at that hour.
"She'll be open, but she may not be serving the regular menu. If you're starving, though, she'll scramble some eggs for you."
"All I want is some ice cream."
Before walking to the restaurant, Qwilleran picked up his tape recorder and a flashlight at the cottage, moving quietly to avoid waking the Siamese. They were sleeping blissfully in the bowl-shaped leatherette cushion of the lounge chair. Groggy heads raised indifferently, with eyes open to slits, and then fell heavily back to sleep.
The cafe occupied one of the more modest lodges, built when the west beach was being invaded by the lower upperclass and even the upper middleclass. Whatever residential refinements had been there were now superseded by a bleak practicality: fluorescent lights that made it easy to clean the floor; dark, varnished paneling that would not show grease spots; tables with stainproof, plastic tops and kickproof, metal legs. It had been a busy evening, judging by the number of highchairs scattered among the tables. The last customer stood at the cash register, counting his change, and the cashier was clearing tables and sweeping up jettisoned food.
"Sorry to bother you," Qwilleran said. "Am I too late for an ice cream sundae?"
