"One of our front steps caved in, and a guest fell and broke a rib. An old man. He was airlifted to the hospital on the mainland. It wasn't a big enough disaster to make the headlines, but I worry just the same."
"Are you afraid of being sued? Who was the victim?"
"A retired clergyman from Indiana. We're not worried about a lawsuit. He's not the type who'd take advantage of our insurance company. We're paying his medical expenses and giving him free rent, but ... Qwill, there was nothing wrong with those steps! I swear! The building was thoroughly inspected before they gave us a license!"
Qwilleran patted his moustache in self-congratulation; it was just as he had guessed. "Are you suggesting sabotage, Nick?"
"Well, you know how my mind works, after eight years of working at the prison. I can't help suspecting dirty tricks. Three incidents right after the grand opening of the resort! It looks fishy to me! How about you?"
Qwilleran was inclined to agree. A tingling on his upper lip, which was the source of all bis hunches, suggested an organized plot to embarrass, discredit, and possibly ruin the Pear Island resort. "Do you have any clues?" he asked.
"Well, this may sound crazy, and I wouldn't tell anyone but you." Nick leaned forward in his chair. "The island is getting a bunch of day-trippers from Lockmaster—dudes swaggering up and down the waterfront in high-heeled boots. They wear Lockmaster T-shirts and baseball caps with six-inch bills and raunchy slogans. They're just looking for trouble."
The enmity between Moose County and the relatively rich county to the south was well known. Violence often broke out at soccer games. Troublemakers periodically invented rumors of border incidents and then took vigilante revenge. Even mature citizens of Lockmaster took pleasure in vaunting their superiority, boasting about their rich horse farms, good schools, winning athletic teams, and fine restaurants. That was before Qwilleran's fluke inheritance. After that, the Klingenschoen millions began improving the quality of life in Moose County. Besides building a better airport and giving the high school an Olympic-size swimming pool, Klingenschoen money was luring the best teachers, physicians, barbers, and TV repairmen from Lockmaster. And now ... Moose County had the Pear Island resort—an economic plum pudding, sauced with the sweet taste of national publicity.
Nick went on with his story: "Last Sunday three of these goons were actually sitting on our porch swings at the inn, smoking God-knows-what. I pointed to the No Smoking sign and asked if they were taught to read in Lockmaster. They gave me the finger and went on puffing, so I called Island Security. The county doesn't supply much police protection—Don Exbridge is lobbying for more—so we hire our own weekend security guys. They're uniformed like Canadian Mounties and look pretty impressive when they ride up on horses. So the hoods took off without any more trouble, but ... it makes me wonder, you know?"
"Have you mentioned your suspicions to Exbridge?"
"Well, he's not on the island weekends, and I can't be there during the week. Besides, I'd feel stupid talking to him when I don't have anything but a gut feeling. What I wish, Qwill, is that you'd go to the island and snoop around. You're good at that kind of thing. You might come up with some evidence, or at least a clue. You could stay in one of our cottages. Bring the cats."
Qwilleran had an unbridled curiosity and a natural urge to find answers to questions. Also, he had spent years as a crime reporter Down Below. "Hmmm," he mused, tempted by the prospect of snooping.
Nick said, "It's really nke on the island, and you'd like the food. Lori's breakfasts are super; everybody says so. And the hotel has a chef from New Orleans."
"New Orleans?" Qwilleran repeated with growing interest. Food often figured in his decision making. "If I were to go over there, when would you suggest—?"
"Soon as possible. I have to bring Jason back here tomorrow afternoon, and I could ferry you to the island after that. I have my own boat now. If you meet me at the dock in Mooseville around four o'clock, we'll reach the island in plenty of time for you to get settled and go to the hotel for a good dinner."
"But no chicken!" Qwilleran quipped.
When Nick said goodbye and jumped into his pickup, there was more buoyancy in his attitude than when he arrived. It was still early, but Qwilleran climbed the ramp to release the Siamese from their loft apartment. Surprised at the early reveille, they staggered out of the room, yawning and stretching and looking glassy-eyed.
