At Four Pips the boredom descended more heavily with every bucket of rain. He tried to read; he paced the floor; he ate an apple; he took a nap; he made a cup of instant coffee; he tried to write something trenchant. All his typewriter could produce was "The rain in the lane goes mainly to the brain." It was still only one o'clock, and out of sheer boredom he ate his box lunch from the Vacation Helpers. It was not bad for day-old food. The meatloaf, in fact, was very well flavored. When the Siamese finally struggled out of their somnolence, he offered them a morsel, but they were not interested.
"Good! All the more for me!" he said. "How about a stimulating game of dominoes?"
They recognized the maroon velvet box and took their places: Yum Yum crouching on the table as referee; Koko standing on the chair, ready to push dominoes onto the floor.
In the interest of scientific research and the hope that it might make a trenchant subject for his column, Qwilleran was keeping a daily record of Koko's selections. Strangely, one of his draws duplicated the first one of the day before, although in a different order: 5-6, 0-1, 6-6, 2-3.
Also, the cat won again. Did he sense that certain black rectangles had more white pips than others? If so, what did he know—or care—about winning? Was he trying to convey a message? Double-six! Double-five! There was usually a message in his madness. Or was he making a contribution to parapsychology? In some ways, Qwilleran was convinced, Koko knew more than he did.
When the game was over and Qwilleran was boxing the dominoes, he felt a pang of loneliness. There was no one with whom he could discuss these abstruse theories seriously. Polly listened politely; Riker kidded him; even the police chief talked about Koko's proven exploits with tongue in cheek. Perhaps one had to be a trifle odd to believe in the cat's ESP. Perhaps the Hardings—
His ruminations were interrupted by an urgent hammering on the door. Opening it, he found himself looking down on an open umbrella, from under which a small hand extended, holding a note.
"Thank you," Qwilleran said. "Are you Mitchell, vice president in charge of communications?"
The messenger jabbered something and ran back to the inn.
The note was a message from Lori: "Arch Riker phoned. Call him at the office. Urgent."
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. What could be so urgent? He had faxed his copy yesterday, and it was already past the Wednesday deadline. Furthermore, it was still raining hard. He would have to change his shoes and put on his waterproof jacket... Then it occurred to him that the apple barn might have been damaged by the storm. There had been flashes of lightning over the mainland. He pulled on his duck boots and grabbed his umbrella.
Most of the guests were in the lounge, playing dominoes or snoozing in their chairs; even Koko and Yum Yum went to sleep after a domino session. Qwilleran strode purposefully up the stairs to the phone booth on the landing and called the newspaper office, collect.
An annoyingly cheerful voice came on the line. "How're things on the island with four names?"
"Wet!" Qwilleran answered curtly. "What's on your mind, Arch?"
"I like your column in today's paper. No one but you can write a thousand words about nothing and make it sound interesting."
"Some of my readers consider my stuff trenchant and not just interesting."
"So be it. When can we expect your next copy?"
"Is that all you called about? I risked drowning to get to this blasted phone! . . . But to answer your question: I've talked to an island woman who dismisses the pirate myth completely."
"Soft-pedal that aspect," the editor advised. "It's the main theme of the hotel."
"I know Don Exbridge has invested his life savings in black T-shirts, but the natives object. I don't see why we should support a commercial gimmick and reinforce a spurious legend because of an advertiser's ignorant whim."
"Cool it, Qwill. Isn't the native community called Piratetown?"
"Only by ignorant outsiders. Officially it's Providence Village, and trespassers are not welcome. In fact, I suspect a covert hostility that may explain the so-called accidents. The boat explosion was the fourth, and the people in charge of the waterfront are doing a lot of fast talking, so no one will get the idea it was a bomb. I'll tell you more when I see you."
"Which is why I called, Qwill," said the editor. "Mildred and I want to spend a weekend at a bed-and-breakfast before the resort gets crowded—this weekend, if it isn't too short a notice. The weather's due to clear up tomorrow and stay nice for a while. Would you make a reservation for us? Mildred wants you to pick out a B-and-B with a little class."
That eliminates the Domino Inn, Qwilleran thought. "Do you trust my judgment?"
"No, but Mildred apparently does. We plan to arrive late Friday, and we hope you'll have dinner with us Saturday night."
"I'll see what I can find. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Great! How are the mosquitoes?"
