"Hey, is it just me or are people acting a little weird towards us?" asked George. "I was just in the general store and the girls at the checkout were watching me and whispering to each other."
"I know what you mean," Ivy recounted. "Nancy and I were in the café and they wouldn't serve us. They kept going past us to the other tables. Finally, Nancy went up to the counter and demanded to be served."
"With her impeccable finishing school manners," interjected Bess.
"Nothing less," said George.
"Oh, you two." Nancy laughed.
Ivy continued. "They took our order then but they were really rude about it. And whenever they looked at us they were frowning."
"They just think their 100 certified organic free-range coffee beans are too good for us visitors," George griped.
Nancy and her friends concluded that at first they were treated like other tourists. After a few days the shopkeepers knew who they were and they began to be recognized on the streets. At that point they noticed this baffling change in attitude.
Mr. Fisk decided one evening to treat the girls to dinner at one of Catriola Island's better restaurants. It was part of a bed and breakfast and depended on tourists for its clientele. The owner introduced himself as Jeremy Saxton and shook hands with Mr. Fisk. He wore a leather vest and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. His gray hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. The girls didn't think he made a likely figure to be a restaurant manager.
The dinner, however, was excellent and Mr. Saxton came over when they were finished to offer them free dessert. "It's in honor of our newest residents. And also, I suppose, among our oldest, since your grandfather was here so long ago."
The sun was dipping into the Pacific as they stepped out. Purple-gray clouds streaked across the gaudy orange sky. In the failing light of the driveway they heard Bess exclaim in practically a shriek, "Oh, look what they've done!"
Eggs had been smashed and smeared all over their car. The windshield was free of the yolky mess only because it had graffitti in black marker. It said, "U.S. imperialists out of West Timor now! We don't want your Yankee $ on our island!" The 'S' in 'U.S.' was written with a dollar sign.
"West Timor? They're a little confused, I think," George murmured.
"It could have been worse," said Bess.
"Well, sure, it could always be worse, but it's the thought that counts."
"Don't these ex-hippies know who pays for North American air defense?" Ivy cried out. "Do they think that just because I'm American I personally flew combat missions over West Timor?"
"I don't think we bombed West Timor," Bess pointed out.
"Wherever."
Nancy and her friends were astonished by this outburst from the normally placid Ivy.
"As an ex-hippie myself, maybe I can shed some light on the situation." Jeremy Saxton stood in the doorway of his restaurant. "Come inside for a minute."
Jeremy showed them a sheet of paper. "Copies of this have been posted up at various places around the island, or slipped under people's doors." It was a letter purportedly by a concerned citizen which reported that the new owner of the Fisk property was an American real estate developer who was planning to redevelop his own land and adjacent tracts with a massive luxury resort hotel, housing, and marina complex. The writer felt that this would destroy the rural quality of life on the island, clearcut miles of forest, require new highway construction, and overload all existing services and facilities.
"I can see how this would upset people," Mr. Fisk concluded. "It didn't seem to affect your hospitality though, Jeremy."
"Let's say that I try not to let people's business dealings change how I treat them as human beings. Besides, I'm sure this is just a crock of nonsense. I publish an island newsletter. I got a copy of this as a letter to the editor. I didn't print it, of course."
"Well, I can swear that I'm no real estate developer. Changing the peace and beauty of the island is the last thing on my mind."
Nancy instinctively picked up the letter and held it to the light. It was just a photocopy. The original looked to be printed from an inkjet printer.
"It's not the 19th century, Nancy," said Mr. Fisk, "when you could tell something from the make of paper or the ink."
"And it's not the 20th century either, when you could see the distinctive wear on the letters of a typewriter," added Nancy.
"I intend to print a story sinking this rumor. We can start by getting a statement from Mr. Fisk."
"Call me Nathaniel. We're mighty obliged to you, Jeremy."
"Somebody wants the people here to hate us," said Ivy disbelievingly. "But why?"
"Oh, I think it's something us teen detective types are familiar with." George leaned over confidentially to Ivy. "Someone wants to get us off the island."