He counted on his fingers: One, food poisoning. Two, drowning. Three, bad fall. Four, explosion. Five, shooting ... He was impressed by the diversity of the mishaps. There was no pattern, except that they all targeted tourists at regularly spaced intervals. Qwilleran pictured a consortium of saboteurs, each performing his own specialty. The islanders were crafty, skilled, and knowledgeable as a result of the hard life they lived. What mystified him was Koko's lack of interest and cooperation. In the past he had sensed the presence of crime and sniffed for clues. Perhaps the island atmosphere dulled his senses. True, he had staged a catfit that caused Qwilleran to be the right person in the right place at the right time, but that had nothing to do with the five suspicious incidents.
At Four Pips the Siamese continued to look at Qwilleran reproachfully and hungrily, and it required great fortitude to hold out against their wiles. He would give them their crunchy bedtime snack, but that was all; for breakfast he would serve meatloaf again on a take-it-or-leave-it basis.
After dark the three of them liked to sit on the screened porch, listening to mysterious sounds in the trees and underbrush, but tonight there was competition from Five Pips: piano playing, voices, recorded music, laughter. Qwilleran sorted out the voices: two of them, one female, one male. Later, the music stopped and the voices were muffled. He went indoors, read for a while, gave the cats their treat, and then retired.
He fell asleep easily and had one of his fanciful dreams: The natives living on Pear Island were penguins, and the tourists were puffin birds. A great bald eagle appeared and attempted to tow the island to the mainland, but he was shot down by a rabbit hunter, and the island sank to the bottom of the lake.
"Whew!" Qwilleran gasped, waking and sitting up in bed. He could hear happy voices next door, saying good night. The male guest was leaving with a flashlight, and Qwilleran hoped it would illuminate the man's face when he passed Four Pips—not that it was any of Qwilleran's business, but he was observant by nature and by profession. His curiosity was aroused, however, when the visitor left by way of the nature trail.
CHAPTER 11
Qwilleran may not have known it, but he wa losing the Battle of the Meatloaf. Two hungry and indig nant cats started yowling outside his bedroom door a six A.M. Saturday. He endured it for almost an hour ani then—in bare feet and pajama bottoms—went to th kitchen to prepare another plate of meatloaf for the un grateful wretches. They were quiet as he cut the fooc mincing it this time instead of cubing it. They were quit when he placed the plate on the floor. They looked at in disbelief, as if to say, What is this stuff? . . . Are w supposed to eat this dog dinner? Just as they were shal ing their paws exquisitely and walking away from th plate, there was a knock on the front door.
Qwilleran's watch said seven-fifteen. It must b Mitchell—who else? He might be bringing a messag from the Rikers. Perhaps they had not arrived last nigh Perhaps some emergency had arisen. He pulled the doc open with anxiety.
To his embarrassment it was June Halliburton, fully clothed and squinting through the smoke of a cigarette that she held gracefully in one hand. She appraised his rumpled pajama bottoms and uncombed hair and grinned impishly. "Want to go to breakfast with me? Come as you are."
"Sorry," he said. "I won't be ready for food for another couple of hours. Go along without me. They serve an excellent breakfast."
"I'm aware of that," she said loftily. "I spent two weekends in this cottage, keeping your bed warm for you. Did anyone tell you I'm handling the entertainment for the hotel? While you're sitting around doing nothing, you might try writing some material for me. I can't guarantee I'll use it, but it should be good practice for you." These typically shabby remarks were made with the insolent smile that was her trademark.
Qwilleran had been writing college revues when she was still sucking teething rings. Before he could think of a retort within the bounds of civility, Koko came up behind and swooped to his shoulder, teetering there as if ready to spring and fixing the intruder with his laser stare.
"Well," she said, "come over to Five Pips for a drink, or some music, or anything—anytime." She flicked her cigarette, tossed her glistening red hair, and sauntered away.
Koko jumped to the floor, and Qwilleran said, "Thanks. You're a good egg! Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'll chop some smoked oysters and add them to the meatloaf."
Both cats went to work on the exotic hash and extracted the oyster while avoiding the meatloaf.
"Cats!" Qwilleran said. "You can't win!"
