Mist was rising from the lake and shrouding the dark beach road. Darting lights in the distance, like a swarm of fireflies, were the flashlights of hotel employees returning to their dormitories. Yelling, laughing, singing, they were a different breed from the shy, tongue-tied, sober-faced islanders.
A storm was on its way, no doubt about it. Mr. Harding could feel it in his bones; Koko and Yum Yum could feel it in their fur. As soon as Qwilleran, arriving at the cottage, slid cautiously into his lounge chair, both cats clomped to his side, looking heavy; then they landed in his lap like two sacks of cement. Even Koko, not normally a lap sitter, felt the need for propinquity. As barometers, the Siamese could predict "too wet" and "too windy." A heavy cat meant a muggy downpour; a crazy cat meant an approaching hurricane
Now they sank ponderously into his lap, and he sank into the seat cushion with his feet up and his head back, thinking great thoughts: What would Lori serve for breakfast on Tuesday? When would he hear from Polly? Who won the ballgame in Minneapolis?... From there he progressed to deeper speculation: Why was the classy Noisette doing business in this backwoods resort? More to the point, what kind of business was she doing? Was the boat explosion really an accident? Who had been drinking with the hotel guest found floating in the pool? How could contaminated chicken sneak past the nose of a good chef? Wouldn't it smell? Where could one find an informant—an insider—who could ask gossipy questions without being suspected?
Before he could think of answers, he dozed off and slept soundly until shocked awake by a terrifying roar, as if a locomotive were crashing through the house! It was followed by a hollow silence. Had it been an audio dream? The cats had heard it, too. Both were on top of the wallcabinet in the kitchenette. Then the empty silence was broken by another bellowing blast. It was the Breakfast Island foghorn on Lighthouse Point. It could be heard thirty miles out in the lake, and on Pip Court it sounded as if it were in the backyard. Now Qwilleran understood the ear plugs on the emergency list. The Siamese came down from their perch and slept peacfully throughout the booming night. Lori, in her infinite wisdom about cats, explained to Qwilleran the next day that they associated the regular bleating of the horn with their mother's heartbeat when they were in the womb.
Reporting for breakfast, he appreciated the green-and-white golf umbrella that came with the cottage. Two others were dripping on the front porch of the inn, and his neighbors from Pip Court were seated at a large, round table.
"Please honor us with your company," said Mr. Harding, his dignified stiffness aggravated by the dampness. He introduced the other couple as the newlyweds in Two Pips.
"We're checking out today," they said. "We have to bike back to Ohio before the weekend."
"In this weather?" Qwilleran questioned.
"We have raingear. No problem."
"Can you tell me anything about the nature trail at the end of the lane"
"Super!" said the young woman. "It goes all the way to the sand dune, and there's a hidden pond with a beaver dam and all kinds of wildflowers."
"It's really a swamp with all kinds of mosquitoes," said the young man, a realist.
"Is the trail well marked?" Qwilleran asked. "Last year I lost my way on a mountain and would still be wandering in circles if it weren't for a rescue dog."
"Stay on the main path; you can't go wrong. Just be alert for snakes, wood ticks, and bush shooters. The rabbit hunters shoot at anything that moves, so wear bright colors." The bikers stood up. "We've got to catch the ten o'clock ferry. Have a nice day, you guys." This was said with a humorous nod at the rain-drenched windows.
"Deck thyself in gladness," Mr. Harding said with ecclesiastical pomp and a twinkle in his good eye.
"Charming young people," Mrs. Harding muttered when they had loped with athletic grace from the breakfast room. "There should be more like them on Pear Island."
Qwilleran said, "Are you aware that this island has three names? It's Pear Island on the map, Breakfast Island to mainlanders, and Providence Island to the natives."
"There is yet another name," said the vicar. "When the millionaires built their stately mansions—for their souls and their social prestige, we presume—they considered "Pear Island" incompatible with their delusions of grandeur, so they renamed it. Perhaps you've seen the sign:
GRAND ISLAND CLUB."
Qwilleran ate slowly and prolonged his first breakfast, hoping the elderly couple would leave and allow him to order a second breakfast without embarrassment.
They lingered, however. "Good day for a friendly game of dominoes, if you feel so inclined," the vicar said.
"Unfortunately I have a deadline to meet," Qwilleran replied, and he excused himself from the table, having had the souffleed ham and eggs with fresh pineapple, but not the waffles with ricotta cheese and strawberries. He felt deprived.
