As Qwilleran walked back to the Domino Inn, he had to stand aside for emergency vehicles speeding up the beach road. He could imagine that a member of the Grand Island Club had a heart attack, or a carriageful of tourists overturned, or the kid who was leaning over the ferry railing fell over the cliff at the lighthouse. By the time he reached the inn, the vehicles were speeding back downtown, and the sheriff's helicopter could be heard.
The guests sitting in porch swings were all agog when Qwilleran walked up the driveway. Someone called out, "Mitchell, he came back!" The four-year-old rushed indoors and rushed out again to hand him an envelope with an important crest on the flap.
Mrs. Harding said, "It was delivered by a man in green livery, driving a very handsome buggy with a beautiful horse!"
At Four Pips the Siamese were allowed to sniff the envelope, and their noses registered excitement. The note read:
Dear Mr. Qwilleran,
Please honor us by having tea at The Pines Sunday afternoon. We wish to thank you in person for coming to the rescue of our daughter Elizabeth after her unfortunate mishap. She is out of danger, we are glad to say, and returns to the island tomorrow. It will be our pleasure to send a carriage for you at four o'clock Sunday.
It was signed "Rowena Appelhardt." She was the queen mother, Qwilleran guessed, and this was to be a command appearance at Buckingham Palace. At least, he would see the peacocks, and Mrs. Harding said the refreshments were commendable.
The Siamese were prowling and yowling and looking lean and hungry. He checked their feeding station. The plate was empty, but the cubes of meatloaf had merely been scattered about the floor of the kitchenette. They looked dry and unappetizing.
"Shame on you!" he said. "There are homeless cats that would kill for a taste of this meatloaf! And it behooves you to get used to it, because we have another eight pounds coming."
He shoveled up the rejected delicacy and took it up the lane to the old glazed birdbath that served as a feeding station for the wild cats. Before he could even empty his bowl, three of them came from nowhere to fight for their share. Then he saw Nick Bamba, home for the weekend and hammering nails into a wooden contraption.
"What are you doing?" Qwilleran asked.
"Building a rack to keep the trash barrels off the ground. It's neater, and the strays can sleep underneath. Lori's idea."
"You never quit, do you, Nick?"
"Compared to my job at the prison, this is R-and-R. Did you have a good week? Did you find out anything?"
"So far I've been feeling my way and making contacts. Stop in tomorrow, and we'll talk."
Qwilleran went into the lounge for an apple and found that the basket was filled with pears! While there he heard a radio newscast coming from an alcove, where a family of three were playing dominoes. He walked over and said, "Mind if I listen? I'm interested in tomorrow's weather."
"You've just missed it," said the father. He turned to his son. "Do you remember what they said about the weather, Brad?"
The boy was about ten years old and looked too intelligent for his age; he wore a T-shirt printed with the words: Ask Me. He said, "Moderately high winds subsiding at midnight. Waves three to four feet. Tomorrow sunny and warm with light winds from the southeast, veering to southwest by afternoon. High tomorrow: seventy-five. Low—"
"Hush," his father said, holding up a hand and inclining his head toward the radio. The announcer was saying:
"... police bulletin from Pear Island, where a shooting claimed the life of a vacationer this evening. The victim, an adult male, was hang gliding on the sand dune at the north end of the island when his companions heard a gunshot and the kite fell into the shallow water of the lake. Suffering from hypothermia as well as loss of blood, he was given emergency aid at the scene by the volunteer rescue squad before being airlifted by sheriff's helicopter to the mainland. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the Pickax General Hospital. Gunfire, not unusual on the island, had been noted throughout the day and evening. The fatal bullet is thought to be a stray shot fired by a varmint hunter, according to the sheriff's department. The victim's name has not been released at this time, but police say he was not a resident of Moose County."
"Nobody told us about gunfire on the island!" said the mother. "I hate guns!"
As Qwilleran walked back to Four Pips, he thought, Another incident! . . . Nick will spend a sleepless night, worrying about the future of the inn . . . The woman who hates guns will convince her husband to cut their visit short . . . The Moseley sisters will be glad they're canceling . . . The two men who look like detectives, having left, will come back.
