§ § § -- August 15, 1992
It had been another busy Saturday so far; their guests consisted of a young couple who wanted to emulate their TV heroes from the series "Moonlighting", and the brash, talkative owner of a car dealership who found himself being bested in business competition with his own brother and wanted to find a way to one-up him. As it had been most of the week thus far, lunch was late and Roarke was even later. By the time he finally joined Leslie, she was engrossed in a newspaper article.
"That must be quite the literary masterpiece you're reading," he observed, amused, taking his place at the table. Startled, Leslie jerked her head up, then grinned.
"Well, they do say truth is stranger than fiction, and if this interview with Camille is anything to go by, they're right…whoever 'they' are." She sat up suddenly and skimmed the article, looking for a particular quote. "Listen to this. She told the interviewer this and he printed it verbatim. 'Ms. Omamara tells us, "My main goal, if I'm elected, is to get a good, small college built right here on Fantasy Island. We might still see all our local graduates go off to Hawaii or points even farther away for their secondary education, but we'd more than make up for it by accepting graduates from other places. Students from all over the world would go nuts for the chance to attend college on Fantasy Island." ' "
Roarke had stopped moving and was staring at her. "That's her platform?"
"Apparently. She spends most of the interview discussing her ideas about this college of hers. But wait, there's more…as they say in the TV commercials. She even came up with the idea of paving some of the secondary roads, and goes so far as to provide a complete list of the ones she thinks need it. And ours is on that list."
Roarke glanced at the dirt lane that ran past the house and trained his gaze on the ceiling for a moment. "What a concept," he said. "It would hardly be worth the expense, since there are still so few cars here."
Leslie nodded, folding the paper and dropping it into the empty third chair. "I don't want to be a naysayer, but something tells me this election's as much a foregone conclusion as any other ordinary one—at least where the race for island lord mayor is concerned." She caught sight of Mariki approaching with the lunch cart. "Here's Mariki—she must have seen you come in. What happened?"
"I was waylaid by Mr. Marney," Roarke said. "He kept me behind asking me all manner of highly technical questions about our vehicles." He gave Leslie an ironic look. "I'm afraid he's hoping to talk me into a very large purchase."
"Oh, the car salesman," Leslie said and grinned. "If he keeps it up, Father, you should threaten to terminate his fantasy." They both laughed.
Once they'd finished eating, Leslie picked up the paper again and read the conclusion of the article. "She's definitely on about that college thing," she said finally. "For someone with no political experience, she can talk pretty well. The way she presents the idea, you almost want to go ahead and approve it."
"There's one small problem," Roarke remarked. "We're not a large island; and such educational institutions take up quite a bit of space. The only way for us to obtain that space is to clear a very large percentage of the jungle in the interior; and I find that objectionable in the extreme. We humans are not the only inhabitants of Fantasy Island."
"Well put, Father," Leslie said with admiration. "Maybe we should mount a campaign so you can make that observation public."
Roarke laughed. "As you have repeatedly insisted to Camille, my child, we have no time for such a thing, even if I were so inclined; and there is no indication of how many people feel her idea is a good one. Above all else, she must win the election before she can carry out any of her plans."
"True," Leslie agreed and grinned. "Just as well. I wasn't much in the mood for being campaign manager."
"Oh?" said Roarke. "No more than you were thirteen years ago?" He laughed when Leslie rewarded him with a dirty look.
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"Leslie!" Roarke called out from the veranda, seeing her crossing the lawn at the side of the main house, passing Tattoo in the act of handing out flyers. "Come here, please."
She detoured toward the house and trotted up the steps. "What's up, Mr. Roarke?"
"Come inside for a moment," Roarke said, guiding her along toward the door with a hand between her shoulder blades, tossing a last glance over his shoulder at the actively-campaigning Tattoo. Once inside the study, he turned to her. "Tell me, how much time has Tattoo been spending promoting his run for office?"
Leslie's return gaze was blank. "I don't know," she said.
Roarke frowned slightly. "Haven't you been with him all day?"
"No," she said. "I just came back from the pool. The bartender said he's out of tomato juice and he needs more. He claims that guy Mr. Forbush has been hanging around drinking Bloody Marys all afternoon."
Roarke's eyebrows shot up with surprise, but he dismissed this for the moment. "I see. Thank you for the message, Leslie…but I thought…"
"No, I'm not helping Tattoo with his campaign," Leslie told him, realizing where he was heading with his line of questioning. Her expression and her voice had both frozen over. "He asked me, but I told him I had other things to do."
"But I thought you finished your essay for school," Roarke said. "You were working so diligently on it when I came in here a while ago."
"I did," said Leslie. "But there's other stuff here to do, and if Tattoo's gonna stand around promoting his candidacy, you might need me."
Roarke suppressed a smile. "Ah. Well, if you don't mind my asking, just out of curiosity…why aren't you helping Tattoo?"
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Maybe I would have before, but now…well…" She hesitated; Roarke waited with expectant interest, and finally she blurted, "I mean, come on. Anyone who hires a chimpanzee for his campaign manager is bound to be desperate, and who wants to be part of that?"
Roarke gave her a skeptical look, fighting another smile with only partial success. "Now, Leslie," he admonished, "you might give Tattoo the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he simply couldn't find anyone else."
"Oh, sure he could have," Leslie retorted scornfully. "But it's too late now. I wouldn't be his campaign manager if he came in here and begged me." She cleared her throat and straightened to her full height, attempting a dignified mien. "Is it okay if I go over to the hotel and ask them to take the bartender some more tomato juice?"
Roarke let the smile have its way and obligingly dropped the subject. "By all means, Leslie, and thank you for volunteering. On your way out, however, please do me a favor and advise Tattoo that he has spent quite enough time campaigning, and needs to devote some time to his job."
"Be happy to, Mr. Roarke," Leslie agreed with unusual relish and headed out the door. Roarke sat at the desk, chuckling to himself. It was probably going to take Tattoo quite a while to get back on Leslie's good side.
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"Well, for heaven's sake, he could've asked," Leslie protested finally, noting Roarke's rising amusement at the memory.
"Yes, it seems to me he sorely damaged your pride by choosing Chester over you," Roarke observed, grinning. "I don't think you were ever able to ascertain just what qualifications Chester had that you didn't."
Leslie shot him another look and remarked with heavy irony, "He must have been old enough to vote." Roarke fell back in his chair and let his laughter ring across the veranda.
Meanwhile, Camille found herself faced with a very strange problem. She had decided that a change of pace might be nice and had taken the quads and her son out for lunch at the hotel, where Jimmy met them long enough to gulp down a hurried sandwich. It was Jean-Claude's day off, so Camille had felt better about going in and asking for hamburgers for the quads and tiny square sandwiches, of the sort normally presented as hors d'oeuvre, for David. Jimmy was busy, though, so he couldn't stay very long, which turned out to be to Camille's sorrow when she was approached by a beefy fellow with a large, toothy grin and a well-fed paunch. "Excuse me…are you the lady runnin' for mayor?" he asked.
Camille stared blankly up at him. "Huh?"
"Come on, Camille, he means 'island lord mayor'," Julianne said.
"Island lord mayor?" echoed the newcomer. "Seein' as she's a woman, maybe it oughta be 'island lady mayor' instead."
The quads looked at one another; Jennette snickered behind her hand, but Julianne nodded. "He's got a point. You should call yourself that if you win."
"Oh, geez," muttered Jonathan and Jeremy in tandem.
"Hush, you guys," Camille told her siblings. "If you don't mind my getting right to the point, mister, what is it you want?"
"Oh, right. Ma'am, my name is Roger Marney, all the way from Drippin' Springs, Texas, and I noticed your interview in this mornin's paper. You been talkin' about pavin' the roads on this little piece of paradise, I hear." He looked around and snagged a chair from an unoccupied table, easily pivoting it around on one leg and straddling it backwards. "There. What I was gettin' down to, ma'am, is this. I own a nice car dealership back in Drippin' Springs, and I got a hankerin' to move my franchise to a place where I have a little less competition, if you know what I mean. Now I notice there aren't too many cars on this island, and I was thinkin', this might be just the business opportunity I need. Tell me, ma'am, when's this election happenin'?"
Overwhelmed, Camille stared at him. "Not till the first Sunday in September," she told him, almond eyes narrowing to suspicious black slits. "Like I said before, what's your point? You're doing a lot of talking but not saying much."
Marney leaned forward over the back of his chair. "That means you got about three weeks to wait 'fore you find out if you're elected, right? That oughta be enough time for us to hammer out a nice little deal. I'll take out an ad in tomorrow's paper and back you up for island lord mayor…"
"Island lady mayor," Julianne corrected him, thereby belatedly cluing Camille in to the fact that the quads were listening avidly to every word.
Marney grinned at her. "Right, little lady, island lady mayor it is. Like I was sayin', I'll back you up in the election if you think you might like to bring in the first car dealership on Fantasy Island."
Camille stared at him, flabbergasted. "Mister, you don't even live here," she said. "I don't see how your proposed ad in the paper is going to have any influence on whatever the voters decide, because nobody here knows who you are." Something else occurred to her and she sat up straight. "And you know, I just realized—this could be construed as bribery."
Marney lifted his hands. "Whoa, whoa, Miz Omamara, now just wait a minute. I'm not stoopin' that low. Roger Marney is an honest car dealer, and there's no funny stuff goin' down here. It's just doin' each other a little favor."
"Like I said, bribery," Camille reiterated. "Sorry, Mr. Marney, no dice." She pointedly turned back to her plate and shot the quads a fierce look that made them all devote their attention to their lunches. Marney stared at them, shrugged in defeat and departed, leaving his chair where he'd put it.
"Why wouldn't you do it?" Jonathan asked finally. "I think it'd be cool to finally have a car dealership here. It takes too long to ride my bike to school."
"You aren't even old enough to drive yet, for one thing," Camille reminded him testily, "so forget it. And just in case they haven't taught you this yet in school, bribery is illegal. If I accepted his so-called deal, and if I won the election, I could be kicked right out of office if it came out that I let that guy bribe me. I'm not going for that kind of stupidity. Besides, this is Mr. Roarke's island, no matter who's island lord—or lady—mayor. If that guy wants to open a business here, he has to get permission from Mr. Roarke."
"Oh," mumbled Jonathan, disappointed. "Geez, and it sounded so cool, too."
"Let's go," Camille said shortly. "I need to get back to researching printing costs."
"I'm not done yet," Jennette protested.
"Then take it with you," Camille said. "Come on, let's get going!" She was eager to leave the hotel; after the encounter with Roger Marney, she wasn't sure who else might try to pull the same stunt on her. Deep inside, she knew her chances of winning were very small, and she had no wish to jeopardize her already precarious odds; but she refused to entertain that thought.
On their way home they happened to see a jeep turn into the Main House Lane, and Camille realized that Roger Marney was at the wheel. She glared after him, stunned. He must be a guest this weekend! Oh, just wait till I get hold of Leslie… she thought blackly. I can't believe she'd do that to me! She secured David in his child seat, mounted her bike and pedaled off after the quads, fuming.
