Qwilleran mumbled something about the luncheon set and his sister and edged out of the shop. He was convinced that this was the woman he had seen, and heard, in the Buccaneer Den. A ripple of sensation in the roots of his moustache told him that she was also the woman drinking with the man who drowned.
Qwilleran's next stop was the post office. He was sure that Polly would have mailed a postcard the day after she arrived. Then, he figured cynically, it would go from her friend's country address to the General Mail Facility in Portland and then across the country to the General Mail Facility in Minneapolis, from which it would be delivered to Pickax and forwarded by his secretarial service to the island, via the General Mail Facility in Milwaukee, which would have no "Breakfast Island" in the computer, so Polly's postcard would go to the dead letter office in Chicago. At least, he thought that was the way it worked. Only one thing was certain: It had not arrived at Pear Island.
At the hotel he found Dwight Somers in his office and asked to have a few private words. They sauntered out to the farthest rim of the pool.
"Something on your mind?" Dwight asked.
"I'd like to ask a favor," Qwilleran said. "I need to know the last name of Noisette, who runs the antique shop. She must have signed a lease or other contract with the hotel. Would it be in the hotel files?" "Probably, but I wouldn't have access to them." "You could wangle your way into the vault." "Is it that important? Okay, I'll give it a try." "Do that, and I'll owe you one," Qwilleran said. "By the way, I'm bringing the mermaid to lunch at the Corsair Room tomorrow, in case you want to size her up."
Dwight asked, "How are you getting along with your next-door neighbor?"
"I avoid her, but I found out why she's working 400 miles north of everywhere. She came up to Lockmaster because it's horse country, and she's fond of riding."
"Are you sure?" Dwight asked. "When we had dinner at the Palomino Paddock, surrounded by bales of hay, saddles, and photos of famous horses, she never once said anything about riding, and that pale face doesn't belong on an outdoorswoman."
"Something's wrong somewhere," Qwilleran acknowledged. "How's your boss's disposition lately?"
"He's hot under the collar today. A photojournalist from your paper has been over here, questioning hotel guests about how they feel about feral cats on the island. Don had him thrown out and refused to speak for publication."
On the way out of the hotel Qwilleran saw a towering figure occupying one of the rocking chairs on the porch and rocking vigorously. He had to look twice; he had never seen the Pickax police chief dressed in anything but the official uniform or full Scottish kit. He dropped into a rocker next to Brodie and said, "Andy! What are you doing here?" v.
"It's my day off, and we came over for the ferry ride— the wife and me. I'm cooling my heels while she's off buying T-shirts for the grandkids."
"What does she think of the resort?"
"Same as we all think: too expensive and too built up!" Brodie said. "Nobody on the mainland likes what they've done to our Breakfast Island. We used to bring our three girls over here for picnics when they were growing up. It was a wild and lonely beach then."
"Did the islanders object?"
"Naw, we didn't bother them. We weren't rowdy, and we didn't spoil anything."
As they talked, Qwilleran noticed listening ears in the nearby rocking chairs. "Let's walk down to the docks, Andy," he suggested.
One of the piers, damaged by the boat explosion, was closed for repairs. They walked to the end of the longest pier and looked back at the flat-roofed hotel, the strip malls on either side, and the dense forest beyond. The ancient evergreens were so tall, they dwarfed the man-made structures.
Brodie said, "What's going to happen to that flat roof when they get tons of snow this winter? You know why they made it flat, don't you? Exbridge wanted to be able to land a helicopter on top of the hotel, but he found out they'd have to have special roof construction, and his partners at XYZ didn't want to pay for it. So now there's a pad behind the rescue headquarters, for when they have to chopper out an emergency case. They've had quite a few of those lately. I'll tell you one thing: I wouldn't want to be in that hotel during a bad wind storm. See all those tall trees? You can bet that their roots are drying out because of the drain on available ground water. It takes a lot of water to service the hotel, twelve stores, a big swimming pool, and all those food operations. A tall tree with a dry root system is a pushover in a big blow. No, sir! I wouldn't want to be here. How about you, Qwill?"
"Ditto."
Brodie said, "There was anothe* incident this weekend—the shooting. That was a strange one, if you ask me."
"That makes five incidents," Qwilleran said, "and they have five logical explanations."
"Have you come up with any theories?"
