The Siamese and Mildred indulged in a display of mutual affection (she had been their cat sitter once for two weeks) and then she said excitedly, "Where did you get those?" She pointed to the gilded leather masks.
"They were a birthday present," Qwilleran said, thinking it better not to tell the truth. "Do you know anything about that kind of work? They're leather."
"Yes, I know," she said. "It's an old Venetian craft that's been revived by a young artist down south. She does excellent work."
Then the Rikers drove back to their B-and-B. Everyone had enjoyed the evening: the usual joshing, frank talk, and exchange of news. To Qwilleran the news about Noisette confirmed his suspicion that she was an impostor. Why was she on the island? He sat on the porch and listened to June Halliburton playing jazz. She had a male visitor again. The voice sounded younger.
The Siamese sat with him; they were friends again. Before going to dinner he had bitten the bullet and given them a can of red salmon. The partying next door was still going on when he retired. It was not until he emptied his pockets that he remembered the scrap of paper from Derek. It was a one-word message: Gumbo. Later, after his lights were out, he heard good nights being said next door, and the beam of a flashlight preceded the departing guest—not to the nature trail but up Pip Court. The tall, lanky scarecrow of a figure was that of Derek Cuttle-brink.
CHAPTER 12
The arrival of two more pounds of meatloaf on Sunday morning steeled Qwilleran's determination, and the standoff between man and cats resumed. "Take it or leave it," he said. They left it.
Sunday was the turning point, however, in Qwilleran's floundering mission. He took tea with the Appelhardts; his undercover agent made his first report; Lyle Compton presented his program on Scotland at the hotel; and Yum Yum found something among the sofa cushions.
While Qwilleran was dressing for breakfast, he heard the musical murmuring that meant Yum Yum was digging a rusty nail out of a crevice, or trying to open a desk drawer, or retrieving a lost toy. She was on the seat of the sofa, thrusting first one paw and then the other behind a cushion. As the mumblings and fumblings became frantic, he went to her aid. As soon as he removed the seat cushion, she pounced on a half-crumpled piece of paper and carried it to the porch in her jaws, to be batted around for a few seconds and then forgotten.
It looked like a piece of music manuscript paper, and he picked it up.
"N-n-now!" she wailed, seeing her prize confiscated.
"N-n-no!" He retorted.
Offended by the mockery, Yum Yum went into a corner and sat with her back toward him.
"Sorry, sweetheart. I won't say that again," he apologized.
She ignored him.
Smoothing the scrap of paper, he found a phone number. The first three digits identified it as a local number—not the cab stand and not the hotel, both of which he would recognize. The style of the numerals had an affectation that he would associate with June Halliburton, and the type of paper confirmed his guess. Obviously she had dropped it while occupying the cottage. Then the question arose: Whom would she be phoning on the island? It was none of his business, but, still, it would be interesting to know. He could call the number and then hang up—or ask to speak to Ronald Frobnitz.
The first time he tried it—when he went to the inn for breakfast—the line was busy. After corned beef hash with a poached egg, plus hominy grits with sausage gravy (Lori was running out of ideas, he thought), he called the number again. It rang several times, and then a gruff voice answered: "The Pines gatehouse."
"Sorry. Wrong number," he said. Why June would be phoning the Appelhardt gatehouse was a question even more puzzling than why she would be making an island call at all. There was a possibility, of course, that he had punched the wrong digits. He tried again and heard the same voice saying, "The Pines gatehouse." This time he hung up without apology.
Qwilleran spent some time that day in deciding what to wear to tea. The role he was playing was not that of an inquiring reporter, nor Sherlock Holmes in disguise, nor a commoner being patronized by the royal family. He was playing a hero who had saved the life (probably) of an only daughter. Furthermore, while Elizabeth was an heiress, he himself was the Klingenschoen heir, and the K Foundation was capable of buying The Pines and the entire Grand Island Club and restoring it to a wild-Life refuge. The idea appealed to him. He would not wear his silk shirt nor even his blue chambray that screamed "designer shirt"—another gift from Polly. No, he would wear his madras plaid that looked as if it had been washed in the Ganges for twenty years and beaten with stones to a muddy elegance.
