For his own breakfast he had ham biscuits with cheese sauce and then codfish cakes with scrambled eggs. It was late, and only one other table was taken. The family who had checked into Two Pips had an infant in a highchair and a tot who was attracted to Qwilleran's moustache. When he inadvertently made eye contact, she squirmed out of her chair and toddled to his table, offering him a piece of toast, partly masticated.
"Sandra, don't bother the man," her father said.
"She's very friendly," her mother explained.
Qwilleran groaned inwardly. He felt besieged by finicky cats, pushy piano players, and now gregarious youngsters. When he returned to Four Pips, the piano player was doing scales and finger exercises, a monotonous recital that made it difficult to concentrate on reading or writing. Eventually there was a pause. It felt good when she stopped! Then there was a knock on the front door. Irritably he yanked it open.
"Morning, Qwill," said Nick Bamba. He had two of his children by the hand. "Lovey wants to see your kitties, and this is Jason, who just graduated from first grade. He's our vice president in charge of waste baskets and litter boxes."
"We learned about Indians and squabs and cabooses," said the blond boy. "They lived in wigs with a hole for the smoke."
Qwilleran said, "And how is the future Madame President this morning?"
"Two in April," she said and lunged after Yum Yum, who slithered under the sofa. Koko looked on with haughty disapproval.
"The kitties are bashful," her father said, "but you've seen them now, and you can go home . . . Jason, take your sister back. Mr. Qwilleran and I have business to discuss."
"Okefenokee!" said Jason. He grabbed his sister's hand, and the two of them trudged up the lane, Lovey gazing back longingly.
Nick handed Qwilleran a plastic sack. "Here's some pears, Qwill. I bought a bushel on sale, but they have to be eaten right away."
"Thanks. Shall we sit on the porch?"
"Better sit indoors. The air is still this morning, and voices carry. Have you been downtown yet? The pickets came over on the firsr ferry, and they're marching again. They don't want the mosquitoes sprayed."
"What do you think about the hang-glider shooting?" Qwilleran asked.
"The sheriff blames a stray shot from a hunting gun. I say the sheriff is full of it! ... So what's with you, Qwill?"
"I've lined up an undercover agent who can work from the inside. It's my contention that there's covert hostility among the natives. They don't come out punching, but they've infiltrated the resort as kitchen helpers, hack drivers, servants, busboys, dockworkers, handymen, and plenty we don't know about. They're silent. They're shadowy. I'm convinced your front steps were okay until one of these silent, shadowy islanders tampered with them— perhaps pulled a few nails under cover of darkness. Unfortunately I have no evidence ... Is there any more news about the poultry farm in Lockmaster?"
"That investigation fizzled out," said Nick. "Nobody died. Everybody wants to forget it. Food poisoning is something that just happens."
"How will Exbridge react to the shooting last night?"
"This is not for publication, Qwill, but he's lobbying to get hunting banned on the island. The sound of gunfire makes tourists nervous, he says, especially those from big cities."
Qwilleran said, "The pickets will have a grand old time with that issue! Rabbit is a staple of the islanders" diet, and a mainstay of their economy."
"Want to hear something else, off the record? Don wants the county to pave the beach roads and cut through the sand dune to make it a ring road."
"The environmentalists are hypersensitive about sand dunes, you know, and the summer people will fight the paving project to the last drop of their blue blood. How do you and Lori feel about all these changes?"
"Well, it isn't the dream we had—not by a long shot— but now we're in it with both feet and every dollar we have, plus some we don't have."
"Nick, I hate to be a pessimist, but I bet Exbridge will want a golf course next. Then the ordinance against motor vehicles will be rescinded. There'll be RVs, motorcycles, bumper-to-bumper traffic and a gas station on Lighthouse Point. Emissions will kill the wildlife and defoliate the woods, and Piratetown will go condo. The island will be so honeycombed with wells and septic tanks that it'll sink like a sieve to the bottom of the lake."
"Qwill, I hope you're not gonna write anything crazy like that for your column. This was all confidential, you know." Nick stood up. "I've gotta go and do my chores . . . G'bye, kids," he said to the Siamese.
Qwilleran walked with him up the lane. The strays were hanging around the trash cans as usual. "They're all over," Nick said. "They're around restaurants, picnic tables, docks—wherever there's food. Exbridge wants the board of health to exterminate them."
"If he proposes that, he'll have another American Revolution on his hands."
"For God's sake, don't mention it!"
