§ § § - October 13, 2006

Later in the day Leslie would look back on the moments at the plane dock and realize that Roarke had never once let on that he was about to drop a small bomb. There was no sense of foreboding or any other negative emotion about him as the rover dropped them off in their usual spot and Roarke reminded everyone to smile for the new arrivals before signaling at the band. This year's welcoming music was new, a slow but cheerful Hawaiian tune accompanied by three hula dancers who swayed gracefully back and forth, smiling benignly all the while.

First to step out of the plane's hatch were a couple. The male half was a somewhat weatherbeaten-looking youngish man, with an already receding hairline. He was whipcord-thin, and what parts of his head still bore hair sported sparse black tufts. There were deep squint lines bracketing his eyes, and long vertical dents enclosed his thin lips like parentheses. At his side was a curvaceous redhead looking barely out of college, wearing shorts and a Hawaiian-print halter top, in sharp contrast to the man, who wore a plain white T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans with irregular bleach spots dotting the legs. "They're not exactly a matched set, are they?" Leslie commented.

Roarke smiled faintly. "No, they don't appear so, but they are together. That is Johnny Farquharson, a race-car driver from Atchison, Kansas; and with him is his girlfriend of four years, Miss Glory McConnell."

Leslie peered at them. "If Johnny Farquharson has the fantasy, then I'll take a shot in the dark and say he wants to win a major race."

"Very good, Leslie, you're correct," Roarke said, smiling fully this time. "Mr. Farquharson is thirty-four years old and has been involved in the professional racing circuit since he was nineteen. He has won several minor races, just enough to keep him among the perennial hopefuls, but has never achieved better than twentieth place in a major race. So he has high hopes of winning this weekend's charity race, the Fantasy Island Drivers' Invitational, which is to be held tomorrow. The charities the race is to benefit include UNICEF and your friend Michiko's Worldwide Orphans Fund, among others."

"Well, I guess it's for a decent cause, then," Leslie mused, frowning. She had never been a fan of auto racing, feeling it wasted valuable fuel, particularly in this energy-conscious day and age. But she knew racing was still popular and kept her views to herself. "But that's very interesting, how the guy's been in this for fifteen years without winning even one big race. He must suffer from phenomenal bad luck."

"So it would seem. And now Miss McConnell is showing signs of restlessness. In fact, the young lady has issued an ultimatum: he must win a race, or she will leave him."

Leslie scowled at the woman but decided to withhold her opinion; she was afraid she'd say something overly incendiary. Roarke looked at her with mild surprise at her lack of comment, but let it go and instead shifted his attention to the dock, where another couple were just climbing through the hatch. The man was almost as lean as Johnny Farquharson but considerably taller, with windblown ash-blond hair and a perpetually searching look about him. Though he was dressed in a business suit, the jacket was open and the knot in his tie was loose; he looked rumpled, as though he'd slept in his clothes. The woman was clad in a pale-yellow linen pantsuit, and her dark hair was caught back in a wildly curly ponytail; she squinted in the sunlight, hesitated when offered a drink and then accepted, after shooting the man one surprisingly fulminating glance.

"Mr. Douglas Grunewald," Roarke introduced them, "an accomplished journalist from Washington, D.C., and his wife Karen, an English professor at Georgetown University."

"Who has the fantasy?" Leslie asked.

"Mr. Grunewald. He has worked for the Washington Post for the last two decades, and has won several newspaper awards, one of which is the Pulitzer Prize for an article he wrote five years ago. Now his ambition is to research, write and publish a significant book, one that he hopes will make him a best-selling household name."

"How do you mean, 'significant'?" Leslie asked.

Roarke frowned, his face seeming slightly weary somehow. "Recent events have caught his interest; he has diligently reported on them for his newspaper, keeping careful track of everything that took place. Now that he's armed with all his research and interviews, he wants to take the next step and explore the subject to great depth in his planned book. All he needs is access to the proper people."

"I see. And are they here?"

"Indeed they are," Roarke said slowly, glancing at her and then fixing a penetrating gaze on Douglas Grunewald. "They arrived a mere ten days ago."

Something about his tone and those words warned Leslie, and she let her eyeballs slip in his direction before turning her head and regarding him with dread. "What subject, exactly, does he want to write his book about?"

Briefly Roarke closed his eyes before he spoke. "The attempts of Vikslund Oil to gain drilling rights off the coast of Lilla Jordsö, Esbjörn Lagnebring's kidnapping and captivity…and, in particular, the involvement of King Arnulf I and King Arnulf II."

Leslie gasped. "Oh my God, Father…and you're letting him have his fantasy?"

Roarke said nothing, only stood in silence for a moment or two, before the native girl brought his champagne flute and he toasted his guests, with the cheery, welcoming façade that so expertly hid all his other emotions. Leslie had no such dexterity; she found herself wondering how intrusive Douglas Grunewald would turn out to be, and how big an effect his fantasy was going to have on her husband and his family.

‡ ‡ ‡

Johnny Farquharson was a hyperactive sort, Roarke and Leslie shortly discovered; he simply couldn't sit still. Even seated, he kept moving in some way—twitching his fingers, shifting his weight, rolling his shoulders, tapping his foot. When he spoke, he gesticulated with the enthusiasm of a Grateful Dead fan with a backstage pass. "I love racing, Mr. Roarke, always have and always will. Racing's my life. I've watched races on TV as far back as I can remember, and from the time I was four or five, I wanted to be a driver. My mother says I used to walk around the house pretending to drive—I'd use a hanger or a Frisbee for a steering wheel." Roarke smiled, and even Leslie had to chuckle at the image. "So when I got my driver's license, I started training right then and there to become a pro. I've always been focused on this one thing, that's how I got started only three years after I got into training. And I love the circuit. Nothing like it."

Roarke nodded. "I must confess, Mr. Farquharson, that I'm surprised you haven't become discouraged over the years, with only a few wins to your credit."

Johnny shrugged his shoulders amiably, still rocking back and forth with overflowing nervous energy while he spoke. "I suppose it'd be easy for somebody with less focus and ambition than I have. Somebody with…uh, pardon the pun—with less drive." His hosts provided the requisite polite smiles. "But this is all I've ever wanted to do. I have plenty of good racing years left in me yet, and I figure the more races I participate in, the more training and experience I get under my belt. And when the time's right, I'll start getting the wins." He sighed and slumped in his chair, letting his hands dangle off the arms. "But it's Glory who pushed me into this, y'see. Met her five years ago at the second race I won, and we got together about a year later. We've been good together, and we've talked marriage a few times. Just never quite had the chance to stop long enough to make plans for a wedding. But the last time we discussed it was months ago, and then all of a sudden she comes up with this bombshell—win a race or she walks out."

Leslie could no longer hold back her idea of that. "Sounds pretty shallow to me."

Johnny sat up, eager to defend his girlfriend. "She's just frustrated, Mrs. Enstad, that's all. I don't blame her a bit—I get that way myself sometimes. The difference is, I'm more patient than she is. I guess she just wants to be seen as the consort of a winner. She wants to bask in the reflected limelight, I suppose. Heck, we've both seen the perks that the top drivers and their wives and children get. She's just looking for some of her own."

"So what you're saying is that this is really more Glory's fantasy than yours," Leslie said, frowning. "Is that it?"

"Yeah, I guess it is," Johnny said, shrugging again and fitting his fingertips together before tapping them in rapid sequence against each other. "She's been carrying on like this for a couple or three months now, y'see. Then we got word about the Fantasy Island Drivers' Invitational, and she just seized on that. She says, 'Let's go for it, Johnny, let's ask Mr. Roarke to let you win this race,' she says. 'Then you'll really be somebody,' she says." He looked up at their silence. "To tell you the truth, as much as I love racing, I love Glory, too. Racing'll always be there, but Glory won't. So I want this win for her."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other; then Roarke addressed Johnny with, "Has it occurred to you to wonder about Miss McConnell's true motives, Mr. Farquharson? Forgive me for suggesting this possibility, but it seems to me that she is simply looking for some measure of celebrity, and if she can't find it with you, she is willing to look for someone with better fortune."

Johnny made an impatient gesture. "Yeah, well, she's been loyal so far, and I saw no reason not to agree when she asked. She hasn't let me down yet. Just one win, that's all I'm asking. It'll renew her faith in me, give us both confidence in me, let me give her all the things she deserves. She's a good girl, Mr. Roarke, she really is. And I love her."

Roarke thought this over for a couple of minutes, then smiled a little. "Very well. You must understand, of course, that once the fantasy and the race are under way, I cannot do anything to control them." Johnny nodded, and Roarke arose, satisfied. "In that case, you may return to your bungalow to change into the appropriate attire. One of my staff will be around to take you and Miss McConnell to the racetrack. Final qualifying heats are this afternoon. Since it is part of your fantasy, you are in third position for the first heat. But I must caution you that from that point on, your standing and your finishing position will be contingent entirely upon that ambition and focus you mentioned—that drive to win."

Johnny fairly jumped out of his chair and vigorously shook Roarke's hand. "That's all I'll need, Mr. Roarke. Thanks a million—you don't know how much I appreciate this." He grinned for the first time, then streaked out of the house without another word.

Leslie let a good ten seconds elapse, to be sure he was really gone, before she bluntly voiced the thought that wouldn't go away. "From his description of her—sketchy though it is—Glory McConnell sounds like a racing groupie."

"Leslie," Roarke said sharply.

"Even you implicitly suggested that yourself," she pointed out.

Roarke sighed and regarded her with a touch of exasperation. "Having not yet met the lady in question, my dear Leslie, I am compelled to remind you that we both must beware of snap judgments. Perhaps there is more to Miss McConnell's ambitions than Mr. Farquharson is aware of, so I suggest you reserve your opinions until we have spoken with her. And I trust that sooner or later, we will." He cleared his throat, as if to signify that the discussion had ended, before casting a glance at the grandfather clock near the steps. "Now, if you'll kindly go to the kitchen and ask Mariki to bring out some refreshments, we should be ready for the Grunewalds when they arrive here."

"Oh, them," mumbled Leslie, even less sanguine about this fantasy than the other. She could only be grateful that Christian and his family weren't around as she headed for the kitchen and put in her request to Mariki.

Douglas Grunewald came alone when it was time for his appointment; Leslie let him in, greeting him with polite reserve, and showed him into the study before closing the door after him and slowly following him in. Roarke greeted him and shook hands, and both men sat down while Leslie silently poured beverages for them and then withdrew. Roarke, a little surprised, watched her leave the house, then focused on Grunewald to find that he had been watching as well. "I take it your daughter isn't very happy with me," Grunewald said.

"She hasn't spoken much about it," Roarke admitted, "but her attitude suggests she is not very pleased about your fantasy. And I must tell you myself that I can see her point of view. I have read a rather large body of your previous work, Mr. Grunewald. You are very thorough in your fact-gathering, and that impresses me greatly."

"That's what won me the Pulitzer," Grunewald said with a shrug. "I pride myself in making sure I get every bit of accurate information I can." He gulped a few times from his cup and regarded Roarke with a rueful look. "I have to tell you, I've never encountered as much resistance with a project as I have with this one. I've attempted several times to contact the Vikslund family in Lilla Jordsö so I can get their side of things, but I haven't received any reply so far. I was told, when I contacted the prison Ingela Vikslund is incarcerated in, that she's not allowed to receive any mail, and only family can visit her. I'm still hoping to get her side of the story, but I also pride myself on being fair and presenting all sides of an issue—so I have to have access to the royal family as well. I met up with the same stone wall I did with the Vikslunds. Then I heard that quite a few of the family members were planning a vacation here, so I decided to play my last ace and ask you to grant me my fantasy."

"I see," Roarke said without inflection.

"If I can get to the royal family, maybe that'll open up the Vikslunds. When they hear that the royals have agreed to talk, they'll want their side of the story told as well, for whatever reasons they may have. If I can crack one side, the other side's bound to come forth with their point of view. You see?"

Roarke nodded. "Yes, I believe I do. Unfortunately, I am not certain you'll be able to convince the royal family to participate in your project, even here and even at my request. I don't have influence over people or their wills, Mr. Grunewald. I can only provide you the opportunity to present your case."

Grunewald glanced over his shoulder at the empty foyer and sighed a little. "To tell you the truth, I was hoping your daughter would stay and listen in on this conversation; I thought it might help me get a foot in the door at least."

"She is very protective of her husband," Roarke said, "and in the wake of their marriage, his family have accepted her fully and wholeheartedly. Frankly, Mr. Grunewald, Leslie is biased, and understandably so. While she was not involved with the royal family at the time the events in question took place, she is nevertheless very squarely in their camp when it comes to the aftermath."

"Yeah, I can understand that," Grunewald admitted, resting his elbows on his knees and studying his interlaced fingers. "But this is my fantasy, and since you agreed to grant it, you're obligated now." He looked up and stared deliberately at an expressionless Roarke. "I know your daughter is also your assistant, and as such, she too is obligated to provide whatever help she can in seeing that your business is a success. I think it's only fair that she be here and listen to my pitch."

Roarke considered his words for a moment or two; then he cleared his throat. "As I mentioned, I have read a large body of your work, and have been very impressed with the thoroughness of your fact-finding and of your reporting of those facts, in the most unbiased way possible. However, you should realize that your very tenacity may be off-putting to those whom you wish to interview. Your questions may very quickly cross a line into what for them would be extremely uncomfortable territory." He let that sink in, then leaned forward himself, mirroring Grunewald's posture and spearing the reporter with a look that seemed to freeze the man where he sat. "You say that you believe my daughter, in the role of my assistant, is obligated to help me see to it that my fantasy-granting enterprise succeeds. I know full well what you really mean, Mr. Grunewald: she is required to lend her assistance in your fantasy, as well as all others I choose to grant, and therefore you feel that you have what I believe is called 'a sure thing'."

Grunewald blinked once or twice, though his expression didn't change. "Oh?"

"I told you that she's protective of her husband. I in my turn am protective of my daughter. You may speak with her, you may make your request of her, but you will then leave it at that. Whatever decision is to be made thereafter is Leslie's alone. Am I clear?"

"Clear, Mr. Roarke," Grunewald said, rising. "In that case, I guess I'll head back to my bungalow and await the grand meeting."

Roarke didn't bother to dignify this with a reply. Maybe he had been just a little too hard on the man, but something about Grunewald's attitude bothered him. He went to sit behind the desk, awaiting Leslie's return while he did some paperwork.

It was less than twenty minutes before she came back, bearing the day's mail and a small paper bag. "So is he gone?" she asked.

Roarke looked up as she put the mail on the desk. "Yes," he said. "However…" Giving her no chance to say anything else, he told her about his meeting with Grunewald.

Leslie stared at him. "So he thinks he can get his foot in the proverbial door because, being your assistant, I'm required to do whatever he asks so that he gets his fantasy."

"Well summarized, Leslie," Roarke said, a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. "I realize you find this repugnant; but I ask you to at least meet with him and let him make his request. Whatever else he may be, I do know that he's a fair man, and will report both sides objectively and completely." He smiled. "Douglas Grunewald did not win that Pulitzer Prize for nothing."

She had to laugh at that. "No, I guess they don't hand those out to just any old hack writer. Well, okay, I'll talk to him. But after that—well, I don't mind telling you, I dread explaining all this to Christian. He'll blow his top."

Roarke grinned; they were both all too well aware of Christian's opinion of reporters. "Perhaps, my child, you should consider explaining it to him in such a way that he may be only a little indignant, as opposed to insanely enraged."

"Then you'd better wish me luck," she said, grinning back. "Okay, so is Mr. Grunewald at his bungalow, then?"

Within ten minutes she was knocking on the Grunewalds' bungalow door, and was faintly surprised to find it answered by Karen Grunewald, whose welcoming smile was more than a little apologetic. "Mrs. Enstad. Come right in, please—sit down anywhere you like. Can I get you anything?"

"No, no, thank you," Leslie said, easing into the nearest chair, ill at ease. Mostly, she told herself, that was because of the acrobatics her stomach was performing. "My father said your husband wants to speak with me."

Karen Grunewald's face flattened with annoyance and she compressed her lips, started for the closed door to the bedroom, then halted abruptly and turned to Leslie with pleading in her eyes. "I've told him not to do it," she said, as if begging for forgiveness. "I keep telling him it's only going to invade your family's privacy. It's intrusive and unnecessary and …well, hell, it's just plain damned nosy."

Leslie let out a startled giggle at her vehemence. "Well, it might be at that, but I'm told your husband is an excellent reporter with scruples. Anyway, the final decision really isn't mine, it's my husband's and his family's." If I even tell them, she thought, and swallowed thickly. She realized she was afraid they were all going to hate her forever after, and that Christian might go so far as to demand a divorce. Some slightly more rational section of her brain told her it was pure nonsense to think this way, but she had seen what Christian had gone through in the wake of the revelations about his father and brother, as well as some of what the rest of his family had endured. So she was unduly worried.

Karen sighed so heavily that her body visibly sagged before she said, "All right, I'll get him." She crossed the room to the bedroom door and rapped sharply on it three times. "Doug, Mrs. Enstad's here."

The door flew open almost immediately and Douglas Grunewald emerged, a strangely eager puppy-dog look on his face. He strode across the room with his hand extended, and Leslie shook. "Hi, Mrs. Enstad, thank you so much for coming. I'm Doug Grunewald…"

"I know," she said.

"Of course, of course. Mind if I sit? Good, thanks." He sat on the sofa perpendicular to her without waiting for her response. "C'mon over here and sit with me, honey." He signaled at Karen, who came only reluctantly; Grunewald didn't seem to notice and focused intently on Leslie. "I guess Mr. Roarke's told you why I'm here."

She nodded and said in an unintentionally tight voice, "Yes, he did."

"Good. Well, see, I really think this is a worthwhile project. It's a good way to get the full story out, so people don't go drawing their own, probably erroneous, conclusions about the people involved. What we want is to tell the complete story of what happened and why it happened. The only way to get the real story, you see, is to speak to those who were directly affected. Which, of course, means your husband and everyone in the royal family who was alive back then and old enough to remember it."

"Not all of the family are here," Leslie felt compelled to point out. "Christian's brother and sister are here with their spouses, and his sister-in-law Kristina. Otherwise, only his nephew Rudolf and his wife and daughter came along."

"The key figures are all here, though," Grunewald said, excitement igniting his lean, handsome features. Absurdly, Leslie thought that his face had too many sharp edges to suit her, and concluded silently that Christian was better looking. "Particularly Queen Kristina —she's the one who would have been closest to Arnulf II, and might have more insight than anyone else in the family. It's a shame he and Arnulf I are dead, but it's my hope they might have left something behind in their personal papers. If I could have a chance to speak to your husband, and/or his family…"

He trailed off expectantly, and Leslie pulled in a deep breath in an attempt to beat back her nerves. "I can try," she said doubtfully. "I can't promise anything. Being in the business you're in, I'm sure you know how my husband feels about reporters."

Grunewald laughed. "Yeah, I do," he admitted cheerfully. "But this is a story that just cries out to be told—so that people know the truth, and not a pile of uninformed conjecture. If you can talk to them and get me the opportunity to meet with them, I'd be grateful."

"Like I said, I'll try." Leslie arose, hoping to end the encounter. "When I get an answer, I'll let you know, but try to be patient. After all, it's a sensitive issue."

"How well I know," Grunewald assured her. "All the more reason the truth should be told. Okay, thanks for your time, Mrs. Enstad, I really appreciate it."

Karen saw her to the door and shot a glance back at her husband. Lowering her voice, she murmured, "I'm really sorry, Mrs. Enstad."

Leslie looked at her in surprise, seeing in her peripheral that Grunewald was heading back to the bedroom. She cleared her throat to stall; when the door closed behind him, she gave Karen her full attention and asked, "What about?"

Karen turned scarlet. "This whole stupid thing. I don't think it's right. I've told him again and again, leave it alone, let it lie, let it die out. But he can't stop picking at it and dissecting it to death. Now he wants to publicize the thing and drag your family's name back through the mud. I…I just wanted to go on record as opposing it."

"Oh," Leslie murmured, surprised. "Well…don't worry about it. It's pretty clear to me that this is your husband's project, and his alone."

"Thank you," Karen said, but Leslie deduced from her quiet, weary tone that she didn't believe what Leslie had just told her. "I'm sorry." The words floated after Leslie as she stepped out the door and all the way to the lane.

Roarke was out when she got back, leaving her to stew for the rest of the morning as she halfheartedly sorted out the mail. For the first time, she had no enthusiasm about the weekend, and wanted nothing more than to flee home, dive into bed and yank the covers over her head, and stay there till the Grunewalds left on Monday morning. Maybe till Christian's family leaves for home, she thought dismally.

Her only measure of relief came when Christian showed up alone to share lunch with her and Roarke. At least she wouldn't have to face an entire firing squad. Still, she put it off, playing with her food till she got the expected scolding from Mariki and Christian, as a result, took note. "What's got her on your back this time?"

Roarke looked up and asked, "Did you speak to Mr. Grunewald, Leslie?"

A series of hot-and-cold sensations sluiced through her. "Yeah," she said, reaching for her glass of mango juice and hiding behind it.

"A fantasizer?" Christian asked mildly, and Roarke nodded. "Whatever he said, it seems to have you shaking in your shoes, my Rose."

She gulped back some more juice to avoid having to reply, and he put his full attention to her when the silence stretched. His hazel eyes narrowed slightly and he began to look suspicious. "What exactly is the matter?"

She flashed a pleading look at Roarke, who said a little pointedly, "Only you know what the man said, Leslie. I suggest you let Christian know."

Leslie put her glass down, her stomach suddenly taking a dive off a sheer cliff, and braced her elbow on the table so she could rest her forehead in her hand. "The guest's name is Douglas Grunewald, and he's a journalist for the Washington Post. He's here because he wants to talk to you and your family about writing a book about the oil thing."

"The oil thing?" Christian repeated blankly.

She closed her eyes. "The Vikslunds, and Esbjörn's kidnapping and captivity, and the fact that your father and Arnulf were two of three or four masterminds behind it."

"Herregud." For a long moment that was all Christian said, and finally Leslie dared open her eyes, only to see him staring blindly across the veranda, lost in his own musings. At last he came back to the moment and looked straight at her. "What did you say?"

Desperately she babbled, "I warned him that you can't stand reporters, and that I'd talk to you and the family but I couldn't make any promises. His wife said she's been against the whole thing from the start but there's nothing she can do to dissuade him…"

Christian raised one hand and she choked to a halt, staring huge-eyed at him. "Slow down, my Rose. Now…you said you couldn't promise anything, but you'd talk to us?" She nodded, and he pondered that for a moment. Then he looked at Roarke. "What sort of journalist is this man? Does he have the credentials to back up his intestinal fortitude?"

"Indeed he does. He has been with the Post for more than twenty years, and has won a number of journalism awards, most notably the Pulitzer Prize."

Christian's eyes widened. "Ah, I see." He considered it for a few more minutes, and then began to smile. "You know," he mused at length, "this could be a very good thing."

Leslie felt her lower teeth strain to reach the table. "What?"

"For one thing," Christian said, "it would be a good vehicle to tell our side of the story, and not just that but the truth of it—as long as this reporter has the integrity not to distort our words or twist them into something they were never meant to be. If he passes my test, and he will definitely have to, then he could clear up the entire thing. Tell the story from the very beginning, reporting every fact precisely as it should be told, and making it clear exactly who was to blame for the entire debacle." He actually looked excited. "Yes, you know, this could be just what we need to clear our names once and for all!"

"You mean y-you're going to talk to him?" Leslie bleated. Never in her life had she been more astounded. If someone had told her aliens were preparing to land in the lane beside the fountain, she would have been less incredulous.

Christian chuckled and amended, "Well, I probably will—I would, that is, if I were the only one who had any say in the matter. I'll have to talk to the others, but that's just a matter of formalities. I'm sure they'll see it as I do." He finally registered her overwhelming disbelief, and started to laugh. "Don't tell me—you were convinced I was going to twist your neck for even suggesting I show my face to a reporter."

"I was," Leslie admitted, dazed. "I really thought you'd rake me over the coals."

He grinned. "No, my darling, as a matter of fact, this could be the one time I've ever found a good reason to let a journalist interview me." He patted her hand. "Don't worry, my Leslie Rose, you won't have to say a word. I'll handle the family, and I'll protect you in case they protest, but I doubt they will. I'll make certain they see it the way I do."

Leslie sagged in relief and let her head fall back, closing her eyes again. "Thank the fates. I still can't quite believe it, but I'm glad anyway."

Roarke chuckled. "In that case, now that you no longer have the sword of Damocles hanging over your head, suppose you eat before Mariki scolds you again." She laughed and complied, her appetite booming in her sheer relief.