It was late, and there were no customers. "Just a chocolate sundae," he said to the island woman who was waitress, cashier, and busgirl.
As soon as his order was placed in the kitchen, Harriet came through the swinging doors. "I knew it was you, Mr. Q. Would you rather have hot fudge? I know you like it, and I can boil some up, if you don't mind waiting a bit."
"I appreciate that," he said, "but you look tired. Just sit down with me and have a cup of coffee."
Her plain face looked drawn, and her shoulders drooped. "Yes, I'm beat tonight . .. Hettie, dish up a chocolate sundae and bring us two cups of coffee. Then go home. I'll clean up. Thanks for staying late."
Qwilleran said, "Your long hours are getting you down. Why don't you take some time off once in a while?"
"It's not that so much," she said as she dropped into a chair. "I'm discouraged about business. All those accidents are scaring people away, and the radio is saying it'll be a bad summer—rain, high winds, and low temperatures. The B-and-Bs aren't getting reservations for the holiday weekend—not what they expected, anyway. And the hotel is cutting down on help. Some of my roomers upstairs have been laid off, and they're going back to the mainland. And then ..." She stopped and heaved a long tired sigh. "Yesterday I heard something that upset me."
"Is it something you can tell me?" he asked.
"I don't know. It's something I heard when I visited my ma yesterday. I just don't know what to do. I always thought islanders were good people who wouldn't hurt a soul, but now ..." She shook her head in despair.
"It might help you to talk about it," he said, mixing genuine sympathy with rampant curiosity.
"Maybe you're right. Will you promise not to say anything?"
"If that's what you want me to do."
"Well ... one of our people was involved in the accidents."
"Do you know who it is?"
She nodded.
"Those are serious crimes, Harriet. This person must be stopped."
"But how can I squeal, Mr. Q?" she said in desperation. "We've always stuck together, here on the island, but I'm getting to feel more like a mainlander. I lived there so long."
"It's not a case of islander against mainlander," he said. "It's a matter of right and wrong. You're a good person, Harriet. Don't wait until someone else is killed or injured. If that happens, you'll never forgive yourself. You'll feel guilty for the rest of your life."
"I wish I hadn't come back to the island," she moaned. "Then I wouldn't be faced with this terrible decision."
"That's understandable, but it doesn't solve any problems. You're here now, and you're involved, and it's your duty to come forward."
"My ma thinks I should keep my mouth shut. She's afraid something will happen to me."
"You won't be at any risk. I've been doing some snooping myself, and if you tell me what you know, I'll be the one to blow the whistle. No one will be the wiser."
"I've got to think about it," she said, wringing her hands.
Qwilleran's moustache bristled, as it did at moments of suspicion or revelation. This was a breakthrough waiting to break through, and it was a delicate situation. These islanders required special handling. He had to be at his sympathetic best.
"More coffee?" she asked.
"No, thanks," he said. Already the drums were beating in his head. There was no telling what wild-growing leaf, root, flower, or grass the islanders put in their coffee. "I think you should call it a day and get some rest. In the morning you'll be thinking clearly, and you'll make the right decision."
"Yes," she agreed with a sigh of relief. "I just have to clean up a bit, and then I'll go upstairs."
"What has to be done?"
"I always sweep the floor, straighten the chairs, and tidy up the kitchen."
"I'll help you," he said. "Where's the broom?" Gripped by the immediacy of the situation, Qwilleran forgot to mention his peat bog theory.
CHAPTER 15
Qwilleran greeted Tuesday with the feeling that it would be momentous, and so it proved to be, although not in the way he expected. As he envisioned the day's prospects, Harriet would agree to tell all; the post office would have a postcard for him; and Koko would unearth a blockbuster of a clue. To start with, breakfast was auspicious: French toast with apple butter and bacon strips, then a poached egg on corned beef hash. Afterward, the Siamese were in the mood for dominoes: Koko as player, Yum Yum as devoted spectator.
Koko started conservatively, flooring only four or five dominoes with each swish of the tail, thus limiting the play to short words: lie, die, bad, egg, cad ... or gaff, jail, lice, dead.
The connotation was generally negative, and it caused Qwilleran to wonder. He said, "Loosen up, old boy. Put more swish in your tail."
After that, words of special relevance cropped up: bleak, as in Four Pips; bald, like Exbridge; and fake, like the antique shop. Certain pairs were linked in tandem: black followed by flag, and head followed by ache. If Koko really knew what he was doing, the last one meant he'd had enough!
