"They hung around for a while, asking questions, but die boss told everybody not to talk to outsiders—or even discuss it with other employees—or they'd lose their jobs. When I talked to Kirk, we went down on the beach for privacy. He was glad to get it off his chest. He'd been thinking about it a lot. Because of the secrecy thing, he was suspicious, you know."
"What did he remember about the couple who were drinking?"
"Only that they were sharp-looking—young, but not too young—and they were speaking a foreign language."
"That's a big help," Qwilleran said. "The last time I counted, there were five thousand foreign languages."
Derek had another beer and finished the meatloaf before leaving with some extra money in his pocket. As they stepped out of the cottage, music was coming from Five Pips, and voices could be heard, a male and a female.
"Sounds like another audition," Qwilleran said.
Derek galumphed up the lane, wielding his flashlight and swinging a sack of pears for his fellow roomers.
Qwilleran went back indoors and immediately stepped on something small and hard. At the same time he caught Koko with his paw in the nutbowl.
"No!" he yelled. "Bad cat!" he scolded as he gathered up the nuts scattered on the floor. It was no great loss; they were all hazelnuts, and he considered them a waste of chewing time. The walnuts, pecans, almonds, and cashews were untouched.
"Smart cat!" Qwilleran said, changing his tone. Ko-ko sat up like a kangaroo and laundered a spot on his underside.
CHAPTER 14
When Qwilleran went to breakfast Monda] morning, he first detoured into the office. Lori, of course was busy in the kitchen, and Nick could be heard ham mering nails somewhere, but Jason and Lovey were play ing with toy telephones. The two youngsters sat on thi floor, three feet apart, holding pink, plastic instruments t< their ears.
The three-year-old said, "Are you there?"
"You're supposed to wait till the phone rings and I sa; hello," her brother said.
"Who's this?"
"We're not connected! You didn't dial!"
"How are you?"
"That's not right, Lovey," the exasperated six-year-oli shouted.
"You look very nice today," she said sweetly into th mouthpiece.
Qwilleran interrupted. "Excuse me, Jason. Would you find your father for me?"
"Okefenokee!" The boy scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the family quarters.
Nick soon walked in, wearing his carpenter's apron. "Hi, Qwill! What's up?"
"I've received a report that's somewhat revealing."
"You did? Sit down . . . Jason, take your sister into the other room."
"Okefenokee!"
"Thanks, Nick, but I'm staying only a minute. I want to get into the breakfast room before it closes. Here's what I heard last night: The guests who were poisoned were not eating Cajun chicken, or chicken etouffee, or chicken Creole. They had all ordered chicken gumbo! It seems to me that an extra ingredient went into the pot, accidentally or on purpose."
"You think Don deliberately twisted the truth when he blamed the poultry farm?"
"Or the kitchen didn't give him the true facts. It may be that chef—Jean-Pierre Pamplemousse, or whatever his name is—didn't want his reputation besmirched. So that's where we stand at the moment." Qwilleran started toward the door but turned back. "Do you know anything about the woman called Noisette, who runs the antique shop?"
"No. She hasn't attended any of Don's business meetings or get-togethers."
"One more question: What happened to the Hardings? I haven't seen them for the last day or so."
"The old gentleman caught cold," Nick said, "and they wanted to get off the island, so I ferried them across yesterday and put them on a plane."
Too bad, Qwilleran thought. They would have enjoyed hearing about the visit to Buckingham Palace, the eccentricities of the royal family, William's antique carriages, and the fate of the peacocks. The vicar would have had his own sly comments to make, and his wife would have rebuked him gently.
For breakfast he had pecan pancakes with homemade sausage patties, followed by brioches filled with creamed chipped beef. The sausages were particularly good, and he attributed their distinctive flavor to fresh herbs from Elizabeth's garden.
There were things Qwilleran wanted to do that day. He wanted to visit the antique shop once again, have a few words with Dwight Somers, and check the post office for a postcard from Oregon—all errands that were better done in the afternoon. Before leaving the inn, therefore, he picked up a couple of their Sunday papers from Down Below—to read in the privacy of his screened porch.
