"Are you staying at the hotel?"
"No, I merely came for dinner. I'm lodging at the Domino Inn."
"I get a room at the Vacation Helpers, rent paid. That's one of the perks. The job only pays minimum wage, but it'll look good on a resume, and I get to meet a lot of girls," Derek said.
In a lower voice Qwilleran asked, "Would you be interested in doing some undercover work for an investigative reporter—as a side job?"
"Who? You?"
"I'm the go-between."
"Any risks? How much does it pay?"
A line was beginning to form behind Qwilleran, and he said loudly, "I'd like a table for one in the Corsair Room." In a conspiratorial whisper he added, "Stop at Domino Inn on your way home tonight. We'll talk."
Qwilleran hurried through dinner and was ordering a horse cab for the ride home when Dwight Somers hailed him. "Are you here for dinner, Qwill?"
"Just finished."
"Come into the lounge and have a drink."
"I can stand another cup of coffee and some dessert."
They sat in a booth to assure conversational privacy, and Dwight said, "Just got some good news. Don Exbridge has been in Pickax lobbying to get the island sprayed for mosquitoes, and the county's going to do it."
"That's good news for tourists," Qwilleran said, "but the ecologists will hit the ozone layer."
"By the way, Qwill, we don't call them tourists any more; it has a negative connotation. They're vacationers, by decree from the boss. He's also twisting some political arms to get the beach road paved all around the island, with a strip for bikers and joggers."
"I hate to be a wet blanket, Dwight, but the summer people will fight it to the last drop of their blue blood. The natives won't be so hot for it, either."
"The natives are against any kind of progress. They almost rioted when the post office was moved downtown. It had been in some woman's kitchen in Piratetown for years."
"We don't call it Piratetown any more, Dwight; it has a negative connotation. It's Providence Village."
Dwight ordered a burger and beer. Their booth was within sight of the bar, and Qwilleran noticed the head bartender eying him strangely as he talked with the hotel's publicity chief. "What do you think of this rain?" Dwight asked. "It wasn't predicted."
"The ancient gods of the island are not only frowning, they're weeping. Maybe your boss is lobbying the wrong hierarchy. In less than two weeks you've had two deaths, one broken rib, a wrecked boat, fifteen stomach aches, and unscheduled rain. Someone is trying to tell you something."
"Well, those are the bugs you have to expect in new operations. Did you see the letters to the editor today? We're batting about .200."
"What kind of response are the merchants getting? I never see any customers in the antique shop."
"Her stuff is too good for this place. A flea market would be more in line."
"Why would someone like Noisette choose to come here? Or did Exbridge party in Palm Beach last winter and invite her?"
"Don't ask me."
"Not only are her prices high, but she has a very limited inventory. I recall a similar instance Down Below; it was a front for something else. Maybe that's the situation here."
"Please! Not that!" Dwight pleaded. "We've got problems enough! The latest is bird droppings. The—uh— vacationers sit on the porch and throw bread to the seagulls. Then the stray cats come around for the crumbs. The birds make a mess. The cats fight ... Honestly and confidentially, Qwill, how do you size up this whole project?"
"I think you've got a tiger by the tail. A resort should be a happy place. XYZ has created a rat's nest of conflict, culture clash, and—if you'll pardon my frank opinion— sabotage."
"You're not serious," Dwight said.
"I'm serious. It's easy to second-guess, of course, but it now becomes clear to me that XYZ should have done a feasibility study before launching this project. They might have discovered that the pirate legend has no historical verification and that the islanders resent the implication. It's my belief that the hotel's celebration of the pirate myth is creating hostility."
"It's all in fun. It's just fantasy."
"The islanders have no sense of humor. Neither would you, if you lived in Providence Village."
"But what harm can it do?"
"Do you realize a con artist was selling Pear Island treasure-hunting maps for fifty dollars in bars on the mainland? Dunderheads are coming over on the ferry with shovels."
"That's a cheap racket."
"Your promotional theme is responsible. Why not taper off a little?"
Dwight said, "XYZ has invested a bundle in the pirate gimmick."
"My heart bleeds for XYZ," Qwilleran said.
"Well, shed a few drops for me, too. Don's a great boss as long as things are going right, but when something backfires, he goes berserk, and I get hell!"
With a surge of sympathy for his friend, Qwilleran said, "Are you still looking for material for your cabaret? I have an idea for a humorous skit, although it might not appeal to your literal-minded boss."
"Write it anyway," Dwight said. "Write it!"
