Only the sheriff would like the coverage, Qwilleran mused; he was always campaigning for re-election or lobbying for more funds to buy rescue equipment. The queen mother would dislike the publicity because it invaded her family's Olympian privacy. The victim would take umbrage at the mention of her age. Don Exbridge would explode because the report made the island sound hazardous to one's health.
There was already a commotion erupting in the manager's office, and Qwilleran caught sight of a bald head and waving arms as Exbridge shouted, "Get those damned T-shirts off the front of the store! What do they think this is? A Persian bazaar?"
As soon as the dining room opened, Qwilleran presented himself at the reservation desk.
"Hi, Mr. Q! You're early," said Derek Cuttlebrink, resplendent in pirate's tricorne and one gold earring. "Are you all alone tonight?"
"No, I've brought my friend, Anatole France." He held up his copy of Penguin Island. "I'd like a quiet table where I can read—also a reservation for tomorrow night at eight o'clock—three persons." In a lower voice he asked, "Any luck with your assignment?"
Derek nodded importantly. "Gotta contact," he mumbled while appearing to study his reservation chart. "How about Sunday night? I'm off early."
"Come to the fourth cottage behind the inn."
Over shrimp bisque and Cajun pork chops Qwilleran finished reading his book and was leaving the dining room when another blowup occurred in the manager's office. There was a torrent of invective, and Dwight Somers came rushing out. He caught sight of Qwilleran. "I need a drink! Come into the bar."
He led the way to a secluded booth and ordered a double martini. "That guy's a madman when things don't go the way he planned. And don't try to reason with him, or you'll get your head lopped off. If I'm still here by the Fourth of July, I'll be surprised. Either I'll be fired, or I'll be in jail for murder."
"What's happened now?" Qwilleran asked sympathetically.
"It's a funny thing, Qwill. The chicken incident didn't faze him because he could use his clout to squash the implications, but little things drive him bananas—like the pickets last weekend, and the critical letters to the editor, and the snake-bite item in today's paper. He says, "Who cares if some snooty rich kid gets bitten by a snake?" He says it's not important news. He says it only tarnishes the image of the resort, which is a boon to the community. When the paper reported the county's decision to spray for mosquitoes by plane, he got all kinds of flak, and he blamed you guys for playing it up on page one."
"Are we running a newspaper or a publicity agency?" Qwilleran asked.
"He's not dumb; he knows he can't dictate to the press," said Dwight, "but he has these insane tantrums! If I play Devil's advocate, in the interest of public relations, I get dumped on. Wait'll you hear his latest brainstorm!" He gulped the rest of his drink and waved his glass at the waiter.
Qwilleran advised him to order some food, too. "I'll have coffee and a piece of pie ... Okay, what's his latest noodle?"
"Well, he's afraid we're getting too many families with five kids and a picnic basket, instead of the sophisticated crowd he intended. So he wants to offer a Midsummer Night's Dream weekend package—everything first class and limited to thirty persons, adults only. It includes transportation from the mainland by private boat; flowers and champagne in the rooms; breakfast in bed; and a supper-dance on Midsummer's Eve."
"Sounds okay," Qwilleran said.
"He wants it outdoors, with white tablecloths, fresh flowers on the tables, three wine glasses at every place, hurricane candles, strolling musicians, and waiters in white coats with black bowties. No pirate shirts! That would be okay around the pool; if it rained, we could set up indoors. But here's the fly in the soup: He wants it at the lighthouse!" Dwight took a swig of his second double martini.
"Can you imagine the logistics?" he went on. "First you need a fleet of wagons to transport tables, chairs, portable dance floor, table settings, food warmers, chilled wine, and portable Johns. There are no facilities up there. Then you need a fleet of carriages to transport the guests. The ground behind the lighthouse is uneven, and how do you keep the tables and chairs from wobbling? The wind is capable of whipping the tablecloths around, blowing the napkins away, putting out the candles, breaking the glass chimneys, and even blowing the food off the plates! And suppose it starts to rain!"
"Hasn't Don ever been to Lighthouse Point?"
"Of course he has, but he never lets reality and common sense get in the way of a fanciful idea."
