As Qwilleran rode home to domino headquarters in a cab, he congratulated himself on lining up Derek Cut-tlebrink as an undercover agent. There were those who thought the young man scatter-brained, but Qwilleran was confident that he had promise. Inside that lanky, goofy kid there was a short, serious young man trying to find himself.
Derek had muttered a cryptic "Ten-fifteen" as Qwilleran passed the reservation desk on the way out. Shortly before that hour Qwilleran took the green-and-white golf umbrella and walked to the wet and deserted porch to meet him. The wooden swings were covered with plastic, and the chairs were leaning against the back wall. Soon a babble of young voices could be heard coming up the beach road. When the troupe reached the Domino Inn, the tallest one peeled off and approached the porch steps, flapping his arms with a surplus of youthful energy. In his yellow slicker, nor'easter rainhat, and muddy boots, Derek looked like a scarecrow.
Qwilleran raised his hand for silence and put an index finger to his lips. "Say nothing," he whispered. "Follow me. This meeting is confidential." He led the way to the dark end of the porch. "Sorry it's too wet to sit down."
"I never sit down," Derek said. "What's it all about?"
"I'll make this brief. Some suspicious incidents have occurred on the island. No doubt you know about the food poisoning."
"Yeah, they crack a lot of chicken jokes in the kitchen."
"Good! I want you to listen to the scuttlebutt and report to me what you hear." He knew that would come naturally for Derek. As a native of Moose County, he had been weaned on gossip. "Another incident was a drowning in the hotel pool. The victim was a guest who had been drinking on the premises. Employees have obviously been instructed not to talk to outsiders, but we can be sure they gossip among themselves. As a newcomer to the staff, you can show a healthy curiosity about the case. Right?"
"Check!" said Derek.
"What was he drinking? Pirate's Gold? How much did he consume? Did he drink in the bar or on the edge of the pool? Who found the body? Was he dressed for a swim or fully clothed? Did anyone see him dive in or fall in?"
"Maybe he was pushed."
"You're getting the idea, Derek," said Qwilleran as he patted his moustache. "I have a hunch there's more to the story than anyone wants to admit. Who was the guy? Why was he there? Was he a registered guest or a drop-in? Was he drinking alone? If not, who was with him? Male or female? One or more companions? I've heard that he was hunting."
"Yeah," said Derek, "it's kind of a singles bar. If we're caught hanging out there, we get fired ... What about the food poisoning?"
"It would be interesting to know who was working in the kitchen that night. Islanders or mainlanders? What was their background? How did they get their jobs? Was anyone fired after the poisoning? Was anyone fired shortly before the poisoning?"
"Yeah, that's a good question."
"You're a good actor, Derek. You can carry this off without blowing your cover, and you make friends easily; people will talk to you. If they know anything, they'll be only too glad to spill it in a safe ear. What hours do you work?"
"Split shift, lunch and dinner. It's a good deal—gives me time to play volleyball, ride a bike, meet girls. How do you want me to report?"
"I'll be in for dinner frequently. Slip me a note."
"Check!"
CHAPTER 8
It rained again on Wednesday. One day of rain at a resort is an adventure, of sorts. Two successive days of rain are a bore. The Siamese were bored and still heavy from the hundred percent humidity. Qwilleran was equally bored and felt heavy mentally and physically.
First he gave the cats their breakfast and their daily grooming. Waving the walnut-handled brush that Polly had given them for Christmas, he announced, "Brush! Brush! Who wants to go first?" Koko always went first, despite efforts to introduce him to precepts of chivalry. Both of them had their ideas about the grooming process. Koko liked to be brushed while walking away, forcing his human valet to follow on his knees. Yum Yum missed the point entirely; she fought the brush, grabbing it, biting the bristles, and kicking the handle. The daily ritual was a farce, but it was an expected prelude to their morning nap.
Qwilleran reported to the inn for his own breakfast with Penguin Island in one pocket of his waterproof jacket; in another pocket he had the pear from his box lunch of the day before. The walk up the lane was surprisingly unmuddy; the sandy island drained like a sieve. Parking his green-and-white umbrella on the porch, he went directly to the sunless sunroom. There were no other guests, and he was able to order both breakfasts without embarrassment: eggs Benedict with Hollandaise sauce and johnnycakes with sausages and apple sauce. On the way out he avoided the domino'players but stopped at the fruit basket, where he exchanged his pear for two apples, one red and one green. So far, so good.
