§ § § - December 1, 1979
About an hour later, Leslie found out how right her guardian was when they found Harold and Amanda DeHaven already on the beach. A tote bag sat beside Harold's feet, while Amanda gazed out to sea. Roarke called out, "Ah, Professor DeHaven, Mrs. DeHaven…please." He beckoned at them when they turned at the sound of his voice, and Harold picked up the tote and accompanied his wife toward them. When they got close enough, he advised, "I wouldn't stand too close to the sea in this area. The tides are powerful and unpredictable."
"Oh, well, I'm not afraid of the ocean," Harold remarked genially. "You might even say it's my textbook."
"And you are eager to read the next chapter, are you not?" Roarke noted, smiling. DeHaven, grinning broadly back, nodded. "Good. There is a hidden cove," Roarke continued, turning to gesture to their left where an outcropping of jagged black volcanic rock jutted into the water and split the beach in half, "near those rocks over there, do you see? I am told that exotic specimens of marine life are often trapped in its tidepools. So it may prove an interesting starting point to your quest."
"Oh, thank you, I hope it is." DeHaven turned to his wife, whose expression was less than enthusiastic. "Um…I'll be back for dinner." He dropped a small kiss just in front of her ear and started toward the rocks Roarke had pointed out.
"Uh, professor, one word of caution," Roarke put in, stopping the man. "The sea can be a source of life…or a producer of death." He paused to take in the DeHavens' stares, then warned gently, "Your fantasy may contain more than you bargained for."
DeHaven absorbed that for a moment, then said cheerily, "I'll take my chances." He grinned again, then struck out for the rocks once more.
"Good luck," Amanda DeHaven called after him, and he glanced back long enough to smile and nod, without breaking stride. Still gazing after him, she asked, "Mr. Roarke, is he in any real danger?"
"Perhaps," Roarke allowed. When he'd caught her attention with this, he stepped forward once or twice. "Why don't you go along, Mrs. DeHaven? When two share an experience or burden, its weight can be reduced by much more than half."
"I'm afraid it's not so simple," she said distantly, staring after the man retreating down the beach. "You see, he goes his way…" She turned back to Roarke. "…and I go mine."
"Mrs. DeHaven, on Fantasy Island, more than anyplace else on earth, it is extremely unwise to play it safe," Roarke told her.
Leslie eyed him in surprise, finding this statement somewhat stranger than most she'd heard from him. Mrs. DeHaven's expression became guarded. "Mr. Roarke, what are you trying to tell me?"
"If you still have any love for your husband," he said, "you two may have to take some unusual chances in the near future." She stared blankly at him, and he smiled. "Good day, Mrs. DeHaven. Leslie?" He beckoned to his ward, who trotted alongside him back toward the Ring Road where the rover waited.
"That was a really weird remark," she ventured.
"Was it?" Roarke inquired and smiled at her, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes. "Would it be any less strange to you if I told you that Mrs. DeHaven is going to find herself more involved in her husband's fantasy than she thinks?"
"Not really," she said candidly, and he laughed.
"That's all right, you'll see. We'd better not be late for our appointment."
They pulled up in front of Julie Brett's bungalow and Roarke knocked on the door; there was an instant response inviting them to come in, and Roarke let Leslie in first before entering himself. Julie Brett was already emerging from the bedroom. "Good afternoon, Miss Brett," Roarke said.
"Hi, Mr. Roarke," their guest replied, just as a native woman came in behind them and draped a length of gold satin over a chair. Julie Brett gasped. "Oh…is that for me?"
"Yes," Roarke assured her. "It arrived from Paris just this morning."
She picked up the garment and saw the tag inside the collar, then gaped at Roarke in astonishment. "An Yves DuPrix original?" Leslie recognized the designer's name; he was one of the hottest fads going right now among the jet set. Roarke nodded, and Julie crossed the room to the mirror, holding the gown up against her. "Oh, it's beautiful! I don't know how to thank you!"
"That isn't necessary," Roarke said dismissively, his demeanor sobering, "but I do wonder…how much do you know about Michael Duval?"
The woman looked almost transported. "He is the most wonderful, charming man I've ever met."
Roarke drew in a breath. "Are you aware that he is not a resident of Fantasy Island? In fact, he lives on a nearby island, and, uh…I have no authority there."
"A man who lives on a tropical island…how chic," Julie said with a grin. "He's sounding better all the time."
"Miss Brett," Roarke said finally, "Michael Duval does not live here on Fantasy Island because I won't allow it."
"What?" she blurted.
"That's right. I've permitted him on my island for today only." Roarke fielded her disbelieving stare and said gravely, "I believe—without proof, I admit—that Michael Duval is a dangerous man. And I am not sure I should allow you to go through with this fantasy."
Julie gaped. "Mr. Roarke…I had dreamed about Michael Duval for four years—I mean, the very thought of just seeing him again one day has kept me going." She turned back to him and smiled. "I do think I know what he's like."
Roarke approached her while Leslie hovered near the door, looking on, wondering whether she'd learn any more about this Michael Duval. "Miss Brett, at the risk of sounding repetitious, I must caution you not to leave Fantasy Island. At 1 AM, I shall have a car pick you up at his suite and return you here."
Her expression grew stubborn and annoyed. "Mr. Roarke," she said crisply, "I do not want to hear anything bad about Michael Duval, and I do not need your interference, so I insist that you give me my fantasy."
Roarke eyed her. "Well, in that case, if that is your wish—"
"It is," Julie announced flatly.
He nodded, worry gleaming from his eyes. "I can only hope you have a lovely evening, Ms. Brett." He gathered himself; his voice was still cool, but he was ever the gracious host. "Now I suggest you open the door." At that, Leslie ducked fully inside the room and edged closer to Roarke; she wasn't sure why she suddenly felt nervous, but her guardian's dire warnings and deep concern were apparently contagious.
Julie studied Roarke for a moment, then went to the door and pulled it open. On the small front porch stood a handsome dark man with a welcoming smile. "Hello, Julie."
"Michael!" she gasped. Leslie frowned up at Roarke, who glanced at her and then took a slightly closer look before briefly quirking the tiniest of smiles. He clearly knew she'd have something to say later. He then started for the door with Leslie at his side, catching Duval's attention.
"Mr. Roarke," the man said, his smile fading only slightly.
"Mr. Duval," responded Roarke coldly and turned back to Julie. "Will you excuse us, please. Come, Leslie." He went so far as to slip an arm around the girl's shoulders and all but tow her out the door alongside him.
Leslie, nearly running to keep up with Roarke's stride, heard the bungalow door close behind them and for some reason felt a surge of fear. "Mr. Roarke," she burst out, desperate to get him to stop.
He paused beside the rover only long enough to look at her with some urgency. "Get inside, Leslie," he prompted.
"I just have a question," she insisted. "Why are all the bad guys named Michael?"
Roarke stared at her for a second, then unexpectedly released a laugh of genuine amusement. "Forgive me, Leslie. When we're back at the main house, I'll try to answer any questions you have. Our day will be free from now on, so if you like, after lunch you can meet your friends."
Tattoo met them for the noon meal, and laughed when Roarke told him what Leslie's question had been. "I can't blame her for asking that. What I'd like to know is what makes Michael Duval a bad guy in the first place."
"Ah, yes." Roarke nodded at Mana'olana, who had just placed a tureen on the table and was retreating. "Thank you. I can prove nothing, you understand, but I have very good reason to believe that Michael Duval is…" He glanced at Leslie, then sighed very quietly and said in a low voice, "…operating a house of ill repute."
"Ill repute?" Leslie repeated blankly. "What's that mean?"
Tattoo made a face and suggested ironically, "Say, boss, you might want to be a little less decorous with the descriptions."
Roarke gave him a dirty look that merely made him grin, and looked at Leslie with an air of gentle resignation about him. "I apologize, Leslie, it's an old-fashioned term. In this case, a house of ill repute refers to a brothel. I believe Mr. Duval owns such a place."
"How do you know?" Leslie asked.
Roarke busied himself filling his soup bowl from the tureen while he spoke. "A couple of years ago or so, another young lady with much the same fantasy as Miss Brett's came to the island, asking me to locate Michael Duval and set up a date with him. Her name was Annie Wilcox…a very lovely and articulate young lady. One of my employees happened to be passing by the suite where Mr. Duval and Miss Wilcox were having dinner; the door was open and he heard the young lady say something like, 'What are you doing to me?' He told me later she sounded slurred, as if she were intoxicated. It was then that she stumbled out the door, saw my employee there and begged him to help her, so he took her back to her own bungalow and advised her to lock herself inside."
"But that sounds like she got away from him," Leslie said.
Roarke smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, no. She barely made it to the bungalow before collapsing inside. My employee could not awaken her, so he carried her to the bed and then took care to lock her in. It was to no avail; he failed to notice that one of the windows had been left open just enough to allow someone to break in and take the lady before she had awakened. The following evening, I saw Mr. Duval and Miss Wilcox in the pond restaurant with an older man, a very wealthy business tycoon of some note. They were boarding a yacht at the Enclave marina, and I could see that Miss Wilcox was struggling in Mr. Duval's grasp. The yacht began to cast off the moment they were fully aboard, and there was nothing I could do. I was able to ascertain that Mr. Duval has an estate on a small island about ten miles southwest of here, but that island is owned by a foreign government and I therefore have no jurisdiction there."
Leslie made a face. "That's really disgusting. And you're still gonna let Julie Brett have her date with that creep?"
"She insisted," Roarke said. Then he met her incredulous gaze and smiled at her. "It's my hope, in spite of my very strong misgivings, that perhaps Miss Brett—once she discovers his true nature—will be the one to expose Michael Duval for what he really is."
"But how?" Leslie and Tattoo asked together.
"If she can do it before he has a chance to take her off the island, then it will make things much easier for me," Roarke said and frowned a little. "I'm afraid, however, that it will take something much more drastic to make Miss Brett see Duval's true nature."
Leslie nodded. "Yeah, I see what you mean. She was so crazy about him, she's totally blind to any faults he has." She peered at her guardian. "There was something about that guy that kind of gave me the creeps when I first saw him. I mean, he was polite enough when he spoke to you, but…his smile had changed. There was a weird sort of…of sneer to it, I thought."
Roarke studied her with interest and remarked, "Well observed, Leslie. Let's only hope that Miss Brett sees something similar before it's too late."
The rest of the day was startlingly uneventful; Leslie, unused to a lack of interruptions from their guests, actually got bored enough to call a couple of her friends and ask if they were busy. As a result she ended up spending some time on the beach with Michiko and Myeko, who naturally asked about the fantasies. She couldn't tell them much, but she did expound a bit on what she'd learned about Michael Duval. "He sounds like a first-class scum-sucking cockroach," was Myeko's opinion.
Michiko was grinning. "You just hate the guy because he has the same name as your father, I bet."
Leslie grinned sheepishly back. "Well, maybe. I actually asked Mr. Roarke why all the bad guys are named Michael, and you should've heard him laugh. I mean, as soon as I realized what the guy was like, it reminded me of my stupid father, and the question just sort of fell out of me."
"Sheer coincidence, that's all," Myeko said with a shrug. "What'd he look like?"
"Really good-looking," Leslie admitted, making a face. "You know the old cliché, tall, dark and handsome. He had one of those snowy-white smiles that you know he wasn't born with—the kind you pay for at the dentist's office. He was just so suave and charming and great-looking, and boom, she just fell for it. Both then and now."
Myeko nodded. "In my experience, all good-looking guys know they're good-looking, so they act like total jerks. They know being good-looking will get them out of any trouble on earth. All they have to do is flash that fake-white smile you mentioned and the women just melt into puddles of goop, and they're off the hook. They think they can get away with anything, and they're spoiled and vain. In my experience."
"What experience?" Michiko shot out, and all three girls burst out laughing. "Let's get off that subject. What do you think that professor might find on this island that'll get him noticed by the academic community, I wonder?"
Myeko rolled her eyes. "It could be anything. I think I'll vote for a sea dragon."
"I bet it'll be a kappa," Michiko said playfully, and then had to explain what a kappa was when she saw Leslie's blank look. "They're trouble, you don't want anything to do with them, according to legend. What do you think he'll find?"
"For all I know, it'll be Poseidon," Leslie said, and they laughed again. "I guess you just never know. All I know is, it'll be something that isn't supposed to really exist."
§ § § - December 2, 1979
At breakfast Roarke was looking troubled, and when Leslie asked why, he gave a slight start as if coming out of deep thought. "My apologies. I am afraid it's Miss Brett. I sent a driver to pick her up at the appointed time last night, but he came back and informed me that when he got to Mr. Duval's suite and knocked, there was no reply. He tells me he then tried the door and discovered that it was unlocked, and the place was deserted. Miss Brett's purse lay on the sofa, and the dinner dishes were still on the table."
"Then he did take her off the island," Leslie guessed, horrified. "I mean, what else could've happened? It was the middle of the night, so he could've easily got away with her without anyone seeing him."
Roarke nodded. "I think you're right. Later today I will call the authorities on that island and explain my suspicions, and ask if they can possibly keep an eye on Duval's estate. They dismissed me previously when Miss Wilcox was abducted, and then again six months later when another young lady named Frances McCracken disappeared from here while in Duval's company; but the third time may be the charm. For now, finish your breakfast, and we'll make some rounds afterward."
About forty-five minutes later, with Tattoo handling business at the hotel, the restaurants and various other business amenities, Roarke and Leslie detoured down to the beach from their runs through Amberville and the marina. "The air sure smells good here," Leslie observed, stretching her arms high over her head and taking as deep a breath of the clean sea air as she could drag into her lungs. "Doesn't it, Mr. Roarke?"
"Indeed," Roarke said and smiled. "Somehow it seems to be fresher in the morning…" His voice trailed off as he spied two small objects bobbing in the water some distance out from the sand. Leslie finished her stretch and noticed him staring, then followed his gaze and caught sight of the objects as well. They regularly popped up from the water's surface and then sank down again, in turns; smaller objects kicked rhythmically up some little distance behind the larger ones.
"That's two people out there, isn't it?" Leslie asked.
"Yes," her guardian said, shading his eyes with one hand. Leslie caught his movement, then looked again as well, squinting in an attempt to figure out what he thought he saw and wishing she had a pair of binoculars to aid her vision. But one of the smaller objects in the water didn't look quite right, somehow…
Roarke chuckled beside her. "This way, Leslie," he said and started along the sand in the general direction of the path that would eventually lead them back home. Leslie would have preferred to stay and find out who—or maybe what—was in the water, but she gave in and came along anyway.
They hadn't gone far when a voice called out, "Mr. Roarke?" Roarke and Leslie both stopped, and Amanda DeHaven emerged from the nearby jungle, wreathed in smiles. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Roarke. Hello, Leslie."
"Good morning," Roarke and Leslie chorused.
"I was wondering, have you seen my husband?" Mrs. DeHaven inquired. "When I woke up this morning, he'd already left."
"Yes, I just saw him," Roarke replied warmly. "I believe he went for a swim." So saying, he turned and indicated the two figures still clearly visible in the shallows.
"Oh, thank you very much," said Mrs. DeHaven brightly and started toward the waterline; Roarke and Leslie paused to look on, and again Leslie peered out into the water. Mrs. DeHaven was in her line of sight, and just as Leslie realized what she was really seeing, the woman faltered after only a few steps and then stopped entirely, apparently having discerned it as well. Leslie's mouth fell open just a little: there was no mistaking it, that was definitely a fish tail flapping in and out of the water behind one of the bobbing heads.
"It can't be," she whispered, so softly she barely heard herself, but Roarke heard her all the same and cast her an amused look.
"Mr. Roarke?…" Mrs. DeHaven called back, her voice uncertain this time.
"Yes?" he responded.
For a moment Mrs. DeHaven was silent; Leslie could just see her chin working up and down, as if she were trying to form some jaw-breaking linguistic construction. Roarke moved up to stand behind her, and automatically Leslie drifted alongside him, her gaze sliding back to the water as if magnetically attracted. Finally Mrs. DeHaven said with some shock, "He's out there with a m…mermaid!"
"Oh, come now, Mrs. DeHaven…mermaids aren't real," Roarke said, audibly amused. Leslie stared at him in disbelief. There was one right there before their eyes; couldn't he see her, for crying out loud? "How could you have seen your husband with something that doesn't exist?"
At this Mrs. DeHaven turned to stare at him too; it was plain that she didn't honestly believe what he said any more than Leslie did, and that neither hers nor Leslie's eyes were playing tricks on them. Roarke smiled reassuringly, and Mrs. DeHaven turned back to take one more look. Professor DeHaven and his companion were much closer to shore now, though neither of them seemed to notice the three onlookers standing there watching them; and at this distance there was just no way to take the female swimmer for anything but the mermaid she had to be, not with that tail so plainly sticking out of the water. At last Amanda DeHaven shook her head once, let out a plaintive noise that sounded like the precursor to tears, and fled the beach without another word.
Leslie, now certain of what she was seeing, turned to her guardian. "I can't believe you said that," she exclaimed. "You can see it too, I know you can. That's a mermaid, Mr. Roarke, you know it is. It can't be anything else. Look at that tail, and look at the size of it! It's a mermaid!"
"It's trouble," Roarke responded tersely. "Come, Leslie, we'd better go."