§ § § - February 17, 1979
Roarke left Leslie and Tattoo behind in the main house while he went to keep a private appointment with Sister Mary Theresa, leaving Leslie free to ask Tattoo a list of questions she'd been hoarding. "You never talked about your cousin Hugo before," she said.
Tattoo, deftly sorting out bills and other official mail from the guest correspondence, paused to look at her. "I didn't? Oh well…the boss knows about him. I get letters from him now and then." He grinned. "He's quite a character."
"Sounds like a cheater to me," Leslie said without thinking, and at Tattoo's expression, she backtracked hastily. "I mean…"
He shrugged a very Gallic shrug. "No, I can see what you mean. You're very American that way," he remarked. "Kinda like the boss, except he's used to all the crazy things Hugo does, and he doesn't ask me about them anymore. But see, Hugo's wife is an heiress, so Hugo doesn't have to work. The thing is, she doesn't let him just do whatever he wants with their money, either. So he's always coming up with ways to make lots of money."
"Do they work out?" Leslie asked.
Tattoo looked a little sheepish and admitted, "Well, no…not so far. But that doesn't mean the next one won't. A lot of the time, he'll tell me about it and ask me if I want to get in on it with him. And you never know which one's the one that'll make us rich."
Dubious though she was, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way. So anyway, Hugo's wife's an heiress…but he still cheats on her?"
"They're not really in love anyway," said Tattoo dismissively. He saw her face and smiled tolerantly. "That happens a lot, Leslie. I'm sure it happens in American marriages too, but the thing is, you Americans think it's a terrible crime if the husband or wife goes out and starts another relationship. It's different in France. I don't know about the rest of Europe, but at least the people I know…well, it's no big deal to us. We marry for a comfortable life, but we want to have our fun too."
Leslie shook her head, bewildered beyond measure. "But why can't you do that with the same person? I mean, okay…maybe I'm just this little American prude or something, but I'd rather have it all in one. My best friend, a rich guy, the guy I'm in love with, the guy I'm married to—I'd want all of them to be one and the same person. How come that sounds so silly to so many people?"
Tattoo smiled at her again. "You're an idealist, Leslie. It's very hard to find all that in just one person. Not impossible, but not common. Hugo wasn't that lucky. Not that he has to worry about that right now," he postscripted absently, and Leslie giggled in spite of herself. Tattoo focused on her, and his smile became a grin. "But I can see it from your point of view, you know. And you're right, it looks pretty fishy."
They both laughed, and just then Roarke came back in. "Ah, good, you're both here. If you will, please, I'd like you both to accompany me to see Mr. Birdsong."
"Right away, boss," Tattoo said eagerly, dropping what he held, and Leslie stood up, grinning at his reaction. "Are you ready, Leslie?"
"I can't wait," she admitted, and Roarke grinned, leading the way out.
They walked single file down a path that disgorged them into a clearing beside a small lagoon fed by a little waterfall; along the shore were clustered perhaps a dozen small tables draped in red cloths, each accommodating a couple. The men wore suits and ties, the women understated but elegant dresses and high heels. Some distance farther away, they could see more business-suited men, several with cameras, and more women, these wearing bikinis in assorted colors. As they began threading their way through this latter group, Tattoo swiveled his head this way and that, appreciatively eyeing one lovely young woman after another; Leslie found herself snickering at his antics while Roarke shot him a few disapproving glances. Once Tattoo caught him at it and responded with a "What? What?" look that made Leslie laugh outright. It dissuaded him for all of two seconds, though, she noticed; however, just as he was getting back into his perusal, Roarke spied their guest a few yards ahead and called, "Ah, Mr. Birdsong."
Birdsong stood alone, staring into the distance; slowly his head drifted in their direction, till he snapped back into the here-and-now. "Huh? Oh, hi, Mr. Roarke!"
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Roarke inquired, without letting on that he had noticed Birdsong's distraction.
"Oh, I sure am," Birdsong beamed. "I've never seen so many pretty girls in all my life." Leslie noticed Roarke and Tattoo exchange satisfied looks as he spoke, and wondered what that meant. "Uh…" They all peered at him, and he queried, "When's my fantasy begin?"
"Oh, but your fantasy has already begun," Roarke assured him. "All these young ladies are finalists for the starring role in the movie; they were selected from over one thousand candidates from all over the world."
Tattoo chose that moment to pipe up, "If you need an assistant, I will be very pleased to do so." His face carried an eager, lascivious look that made Leslie wonder if this was really the same compassionate man who had been so gentle and kind to her in her first few uncertain days on the island. He seemed like someone else altogether.
Roarke threw Tattoo a disparaging glance and seemed relieved to be distracted by the approach of a couple of very important-looking men. "Ah…your producer, Sid Gordon, and his assistant, Miss Jean Arden. May I introduce—"
"You don't have to tell me," Gordon said with a knowing grin. "This is my new casting director, Barney Birdsong."
"Oh…uh, Felix," Birdsong corrected him. "The name is Felix Birdsong." He grinned in friendly fashion as if to soften his pointing out of Gordon's mistake.
"Of course it is," Gordon said smoothly, without reacting an iota otherwise. Leslie found herself suspicious of him already; he was too sure of himself for her liking.
Felix grinned again, licked his lips, then turned to Gordon's companion and said apologetically, "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"
"Jean—Jean Arden," she reminded him.
"Jean's my exec secretary," added Gordon. "Consider her on loan to you whenever you need her." Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other again; then Roarke glanced at Leslie, took in her face and solemnly nodded once at her. It made her feel more important, and she smiled back at him with some relief.
"Thank you, Mr. Gordon," Birdsong said—and then proceeded to flatter. "Did you know I've seen every picture you ever produced?"
"Good boy!" Gordon said with approval, and once more Birdsong beamed in delight. Then Gordon's attention shifted. "Oh, here comes one of our potential backers. Mr. Felix Birdsong, allow me to present Mr. Hammerhead Harris."
"Hammerhead" Harris was a tall, rather burly-looking fellow who appeared to Leslie to be a retired wrestler, probably somewhere in his late forties. She noticed Birdsong staring apprehensively up at him. Sure enough, Tattoo confirmed her thought. "Mr. Harris was wrestling champion of the world," he said, for Birdsong's benefit.
"I got me a bundle to maybe invest in this here movin' picture," Harris remarked gruffly, peering around at them all, including Leslie. Birdsong nodded faintly.
"Mr. Birdsong is the casting director I told you about," Roarke explained, "a new breed of casting director—not Hollywood jaded, but fresh from the heartland of America."
"You folks won't mind if I borrow Felix for a few minutes?" broke in Gordon, and pulled Birdsong alongside him. "I got more of my financial angels I want him to meet." They watched while Gordon and Birdsong approached two more men, each accompanied by a bikini-clad young woman; one of them was dressed in a brown robe edged in gold and a gold turban over a Western-style business suit, while the other was decked out in more casual khaki attire. Leslie couldn't hear all of what Gordon said, but she did ascertain that the first man was a Sheik Kamil Abib, and the second was known as Big Billy Tidwell.
The sheik's voice, low and resonant, carried easily over the noise in the clearing. "If you prove to be good at this, we may be able to do some business later," he said. "I'm thinking of restocking my harem."
Birdsong's back was to them, but they still registered his exaggerated double take. "Oh really?" they heard him exclaim. Tattoo's eyes popped; Leslie rolled hers, and Roarke chuckled softly at her reaction. While Birdsong verbally fumbled, Gordon grasped his arm and towed him aside.
"Ladies and gents, your attention, please!" Gordon called out, bringing every head around to stare at him. "I'm proud to announce that Sid Gordon—that's me—pulled off what that Diogenes dude couldn't, and found me an honest man." At this Birdsong grinned, clearly overwhelmed with delight and a somewhat belated attempt at modesty. "And I now would like to present him to you my new casting director, the man who's gonna be choosing the most beautiful girl in the world, Felix Birdsong." He led off the applause, and Birdsong managed one diffident little wave before being swamped by every bikini-adorned woman in the area. Tattoo gazed enviously on; Roarke's smile faded back to something resembling concern, and Leslie glanced up at him.
He noticed. "Your opinion, Leslie?" he inquired, leaning toward her.
She flicked a shy glance toward Sid Gordon, as though afraid the producer might overhear, and admitted, "Something about that Sid Gordon makes me nervous."
Roarke studied her. "Ah. Well, we'll see if your hunch plays out," he said, and she nodded once or twice, wondering if her hunches were really worth anything. "In the meantime…I believe Mr. Birdsong is well on his way, and that's as well, for it's time to speak with Ms. Garwood."
Within twenty minutes they were at the main house and in the midst of watching film of a news report that Leslie didn't remember at all; she supposed that, the night it had aired, her late father had been in charge of the Hamilton family television and they'd been watching another network. Maybe it was as well; what she saw was chilling. A man's voice was chanting something about a "unity of unholy fellowship" while flames burned in front of scary, ugly idols; the camera panned across black-robed figures, all with masked faces, hands in the air, some holding torches, while the leader continued to incant. Tattoo, sitting by the projector, looked disturbed; Jane Garwood shivered. Roarke only frowned a little, and Leslie wondered if he remembered seeing this story the year before.
Jane Garwood stepped into the screen, wearing the same clothing she had on now, with a discernibly apprehensive look on her face. She visibly cleared this expression before turning to the camera and narrating, "The celebrants of this Black Mass openly worship Satan, whom they consider to be the real ruler of this world." At this point Roarke, with a slight half-smile, turned to gauge the others' reactions; Leslie caught his eye and made a face, and his smile grew just perceptibly, as though for reassurance. Ms. Garwood didn't seem to notice; her attention was fully on the screen, her hands raised and fingers intertwined, her face anxious. The voice on the screen continued; Roarke frowned a bit and returned his attention to the report. "…Why they would accept the power and promises of one who has already been known as the prince of liars is beyond me, and who, if all the ancient writings are to be believed, has always been most merciless to those who serve him most faithfully." There was a short pause while the camera panned masked faces again; then it returned to the reporter as she gave her outro. "This is Jane Garwood, Lucifer's Temple, San Francisco, California."
Looking grave, Tattoo stopped the projector and arose to lean against the desk beside which Leslie sat; Roarke got up and opened the shutters, allowing sunlight into the room. "Very interesting," he remarked as he did so.
"But very scary," put in Tattoo, and Leslie nodded faintly once or twice.
Jane Garwood arose too, moving far enough forward to address Roarke. "After the program was aired, the high priest was arrested and later convicted of fraud. One night he phoned me; he ranted like a maniac—said I'd slandered them and their god, and that I'd pay for it." She tried to rally for a moment, chuckling nervously. "I laughed at him, until…"
When she left the sentence hanging, Roarke glanced down at one of a number of still photos scattered across the desktop. "This was the first gentleman to suffer harm?"
"Jim. Jim Cowell." Leslie leaned forward enough to see the man in the photo, a dark-haired fellow with a broad smile, holding up some sort of ledger-style notebook. "We had just gotten engaged two weeks before the program." Roarke nodded slightly as she went on, "The police said he jumped from his hotel-room window. Then, three months later, Paul Kendall, my producer." She gestured at another photo. "He was killed." This picture showed a grim, unsmiling man holding up a notepad; on the far left side of his face, just in front of his ear, Leslie could see a peculiar scar shaped like a lurid red X. "His car went off the Big Sur Bridge; we never even found his body. I loved him too—like my own brother." She smiled wistfully. "He discovered me a couple of years ago when I was just an ambitious secretary in the newsroom."
Again Roarke nodded, sympathetic. "I see," he murmured. Wordlessly he raised a photo of a third man, a stocky, bearded fellow with a self-conscious grin on his face.
"Burt Winn. He drowned four months ago while scuba diving." Ms. Garwood hesitated. "I was willing to believe the first two were accidents, and I was beginning to like him seriously when…" Once more her words trailed off; then her face grew frustrated and upset. "Oh, what's the use of talking about it? I'm a jinx; that's what everyone's been calling me, and that's what I am!" She turned away, bowing her head.
"Please, Ms. Garwood, I can't allow you to judge yourself so harshly," said Roarke.
She whipped back around, incredulous. "How much more proof do you need?" she demanded. "Three men are dead because of me!" Despite her anguish, her voice went soft with grief. "Everyone I love or touch gets killed."
"There are many things we cannot understand," Roarke commented, coming around Leslie's chair and joining Tattoo in front of the desk. "If there is some force of evil plaguing you, then to stop it, we must draw it out."
Once more Jane Garwood whirled to stare at him, this time apprehensively, while Leslie felt alarm begin to rise within her. "But how?" Ms. Garwood asked, sitting again.
"With the proper bait," said Roarke. "There is a man here on the island who, starting this afternoon, will act as your suitor, you see…he'll take you dancing, riding, on moonlight strolls. All you have to do is pretend to fall in love with him."
"But he would be placing himself in great danger," Ms. Garwood protested.
"Your fantasy was to find out if you are a jinx," Roarke pointed out. "I know of no other way."
"Who is this man?" she asked.
Leslie saw Tattoo's eyes raise up to his boss' face before Roarke spoke calmly. "I am." That brought out a horrified look on Tattoo, and Leslie felt her mouth drop open in disbelief. What on earth did her guardian think he was doing?
Ms. Garwood stood up and shook her head. "Oh no, Mr. Roarke. I can't allow you to do that," she said, earning Leslie's gratitude and admiration on the spot.
"Allow me?" echoed Roarke, sounding amused, of all things. "Ms. Garwood, this is Fantasy Island, my island, and here I do what I think is best." She began to object, but he cut her off. "If you are ever to be rid of this…'curse', we must do this. Trust me. We give evil its greatest power through our belief in it."
They all stared at him, but his attention was solely on Ms. Garwood, who finally gave in. "All right," she capitulated through a small sigh.
"Now," Roarke said, accompanying her toward the door, "I suggest you go to your bungalow and unpack. We'll stop and see the preparations for the award ceremonies; then I think it might be a nice day for a ride."
She stared up at him, with an expression Leslie couldn't read from across the room, then reached out and shook his hand. "Thank you," she murmured.
"Not at all," said Roarke warmly, and watched her leave, closing the door after her. He had just reached the top of the steps into the study when Tattoo spoke up.
"Boss, I'm scared. You're setting yourself up to get killed," he said anxiously.
Leslie stared on, confused, wondering whom and what to side with, as Roarke stepped into the room, an amused look on his handsome features. "Oh, Tattoo, don't tell me you believe in the curse too!" He glanced at his speechless ward. "And what of you, Leslie?" She could only shrug, and he half-smiled.
"I try not to," Tattoo insisted, "but what if something happens to you? What will I do without you?"
Roarke's face softened and he smiled; Leslie stared in wonder at Tattoo, beginning to realize that their friendship, and perhaps their dependence on each other, went much deeper than she had first surmised. They still seemed like close brothers to her, except perhaps with a large enough age difference that it was more as though Roarke had raised Tattoo in the absence of their parents. Maybe Tattoo saw Roarke as some kind of father figure, she thought, staring on as Roarke spoke gently. "I appreciate the concern, my friend. I'll do my best to avoid undue danger."
Tattoo looked very doubtful indeed, and she saw his gaze drop to the film canister on the desk, labeled "THE BLACK MASS" around a pentagram. Roarke took his seat behind the desk, just before the Frenchman cleared his throat. "I hope you do, boss. Because after all, you've got Leslie to think about now. If something happens to you, she won't have anybody left at all. And you know her mother trusted you with her."
Roarke looked up sharply, but this time Tattoo wouldn't back down; and before anyone could riposte, Tattoo nodded firmly once and spun around, leaving the study. Leslie stared after him; Roarke slowly settled back in his chair.
When she didn't say anything, he peered curiously at her. "Well, Leslie?"
Her gaze shot to his, but she still wasn't sure what to say. All she could do was shrug again, helplessly. "I don't know," she finally mumbled.
"What don't you know?" he prompted with an encouraging smile.
Her mouth hung open as she tried to decide what to say; he seemed to realize she was trying to process her thoughts, and suggested, "Simply say what you're thinking, Leslie."
She could think of two or three questions that battled for prominence, but the one that finally came out surprised her as much as him. "Do you think Tattoo really believes in all that supernatural stuff?"
"Perhaps," Roarke said evasively, which she found mildly frustrating. "Do you?"
"Do I believe in it?" she clarified, and he nodded. "Well…I don't really know. It's one of those…those funny things. I mean, this is Fantasy Island…" She stopped.
"Go ahead," Roarke urged, looking extremely interested.
He really seemed to want to know, so she gave in and let the words tumble out. "The thing is…before I ever came here…my grandmother, my mormor, knew all about this place. She told me about it. When I was seven she moved into our house, and I gave up my room for her so she could live with us. I was helping her settle in and I found an old Fantasy Island travel brochure." Roarke's brows popped up with even more interest, and she nodded. "Yeah, it was turning yellow, it was so old. Maybe it was the one Mom got when she took her trip here right before I was born."
"Perhaps it was," Roarke agreed with a smile.
She smiled back, a little more at ease. "Anyway, I asked her what it was, and she said this is an enchanted island, that everything here is magic. So you have that. And then there was that stupid curse on my family that we finally broke. You didn't deny that was the real thing. I mean, we were seeing a ghost and everything." Roarke nodded, listening attentively. "So there had to be something supernatural in that, right? But you're sitting here telling us that it's silly to believe in this stuff. You just said that we give evil its power because we believe in it. If it really exists, shouldn't we believe in it?"
Roarke smiled again and drew in a breath. "Evil comes in more than one guise, my dear Leslie," he said. "Not all evil has its roots in the supernatural. And there is something about this particular case that tells me there's nothing supernatural about it. Oh yes, it seems to be so—but that's merely its façade, designed to frighten away superstitious people who fully and wholly believe in such things. You will find that, sooner or later, most evil has its roots in the actions of completely tangible, corporeal human beings." He raised a hand when she started to protest. "Ultimately, at the instigation of the curse on your family, Tituba was a human being, was she not?"
"But she invoked something supernatural," Leslie pointed out.
"How so?" he asked.
"She said she was going to become Satan's assistant or something."
"Ah, yes," he recalled, nodding once. "Don't you think it's possible that this was merely what she believed? After all, you must understand, she lived in an age of pure superstition, in which the rational was all but unknown, and mysterious, unseen forces were the very driver of everyday life, the basis of all one did and knew. Now, nearly three centuries later, we know better, don't we?"
"But she was still a ghost," Leslie said stubbornly.
Roarke laughed. "Indeed…and as you said, this is Fantasy Island. Suffice it for me to tell you, since you are to be intimately involved in my business for the next half-dozen or so years, that here, the supernatural, the intangible, the mythological, freely intertwine with the real, the tangible, the proven."
"But is that supernatural stuff real, or just…I don't know, special effects for the sake of granting fantasies?" Leslie asked, thoroughly confused. "I ask because, well, I don't really believe in ghosts and stuff like that. I mean, it's fun to pretend and everything, but when you get down to real life, like my dad used to say, you have to remember what's all claptrap and what's right in front of your face." She pulled a face that got a laugh from him. "I hate to quote him, you know, but I guess sometimes he said something halfway intelligent."
"The whole key is that, as we have both said, this is Fantasy Island. Perhaps that should be enough to tell you."
"So I guess what that means is, I ought to trust you and hope you know what you're doing, so that you don't get killed—not by some imaginary spirit, but by some nasty, real, live, tangible human being," Leslie said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Again he laughed. "If I can have your trust, that's all I ask." He squeezed her shoulder and handed her a stack of mail. "If you'll help me wade through some paperwork, I'll be very grateful. I think it self-replicated in our previous absence." She giggled and set to sorting out envelopes, realizing belatedly that he had never really answered her final question, but deciding it might be one of those things she didn't really want answered.
Tattoo hadn't returned by the time Roarke was ready to check on the venue for the award ceremony and meet Ms. Garwood, so he brought Leslie along with him; at not yet fourteen, she was in his opinion not quite old enough to be alone too long, and certainly not qualified to fill in for him even in a brief absence. Along the way he made a few inquiries and found that Tattoo had gone to supervise the setup for the weekly luau in its usual clearing; so he suggested Leslie go on ahead, and smiled when she hesitated. "Remember our little talk," he reminded her gently.
She nodded. "Okay," she murmured, unwilling to argue any further; she wasn't going to horn in on her guardian's date, even if it was fake. Then she remembered something. "Um, where's the luau clearing?"
Roarke grinned and gestured toward the Ring Road along which they'd been walking. "Just continue down that way for about fifteen minutes, and then keep watch along your left side. You'll likely hear the activity long before you see it, so that will help you orient yourself. I'll see you and Tattoo later."
She nodded and struck off on her own, casting a couple of backward glances in spite of herself; the second time, Roarke was out of sight, so she kept trudging along, hoping his directions were accurate. She'd already gotten lost enough wandering paths on this island, and this was the first time since then that she'd gone any substantial distance alone.
Just then she heard someone calling out and turned around to see a tall, slender girl with large brown eyes and light-brown hair piled up in a messy bun on her head approaching her at a run. "Hey, 'scuse me…sorry," she was calling.
Leslie stopped, deeply uncertain. "Um…are you talking to me?"
"Yeah." The brunette jogged to a halt beside her and began speaking in a rushed New York cadence. "Look, I got an appointment with a casting director and I'm gonna be late if I don't get there quick, but I can't find his office. D'y'know where it is?"
As it happened, Leslie had no idea whatsoever, but she wasn't sure whether to fake it or admit it. Stalling, she asked, "You mean Felix Birdsong?"
"Yeah, that's the guy. Guess everybody on the island knows about the movie they're castin' here this weekend, huh?" The brunette grinned. "Anyway, I'm one'a the finalists, and I really, really want this. It could be the start of a fabulous new career!"
"Well, good luck," Leslie said politely.
"Thanks. Now if I can just find that office…" Before she could ask Leslie again, they both heard a couple of other voices hailing them, and looked around to see a couple more very pretty young women hurrying in their direction.
"Thank you for waiting," exclaimed one of them in a very proper British accent that instantly fascinated Leslie. "I wouldn't trouble you, but unfortunately we're unable to find Felix Birdsong's office, and it would be dreadfully unprofessional to miss our appointments."
"Yeah, exactly," said the other woman, a statuesque ice-blonde with luminous blue eyes and a dazzling set of snowy teeth. Leslie half expected them to glint in the sunlight the way they did in cartoons. "My whole career could be riding on this, and I just can't miss this chance, not after coming so far and being a finalist!"
"Where're you from?" Leslie asked in spite of herself.
"St. Cloud, Minnesota," said the blonde, nearly blinding Leslie with her smile.
"And I hail from Coventry, England," added the Brit, whose honey-blonde hair had been arranged into a sleek, almost straight style with gentle curves at the ends. She gave Leslie a curious look. "You must live here on the island."
"Yeah, I do," she said, debating as to whether she should confess that in fact her residence period consisted of all of fifteen days.
Before she could decide, the New Yorker clapped her hands once with delight. "Then that's poifect…I mean perfect!" she exclaimed. The Minnesotan giggled and the Brit gave her an odd look; the New Yorker blushed. "Sometimes I forget and the worst of my accent comes out," she admitted good-naturedly.
"That's okay, I like the sound of it. New York City, right?" The brunette nodded and the Minnesotan beamed again. "I've always thought it must be so sophisticated growing up there! What's it like? I've never been." The next thing Leslie knew, the two were off and running, just about at the same moment yet another pretty young lady dashed up to them, looking panicky.
"I am lost," she cried in an unmistakably Spanish lilt. "Please help me!" She seemed to realize the other women were contenders for her hoped-for throne, and focused on Leslie as her sole source of help. "I am nearly late to see Señor Birdsong, but where is he?"
About to claim she didn't know, Leslie was interrupted by the Brit. "That's just what we were asking. This young lady lives here on the island and should be able to tell us where Mr. Birdsong's office is located." She smiled broadly at Leslie.
On the fine edge of panic, Leslie wished desperately that she'd managed to locate Tattoo before she got into this fast-increasing mess. Now all these women were counting on her, and in the absence of her guardian or his assistant, it was all up to her. She had to come through! Drawing in a deep breath, she began, "Well, I know Mr. Roarke gave Mr. Birdsong an office somewhere around here. There's…um…there's a little town down the road that way a little bit." She gestured vaguely in the direction she had been walking, remembering the visit she, Roarke and Tattoo had paid to Amberville, the only real town on the island. She was sure she had seen a sort of New-England-style town square almost totally enclosed by rows of storefronts. "I bet he set Mr. Birdsong up over there."
"Oh, lovely! Lead the way, then, will you, please?" the Brit requested in a merry voice, and the next thing Leslie knew, she was at the head of a small parade marching along the side of the road, with four of its members chatting cheerfully and its leader feeling as if she would rather have been dangling from a rope snare in a tree. She had never felt so inadequate in her life, and all she could do was repeat over and over to herself, Please let me not mess this up…please let me be right!
At their pace it took them most of twenty minutes to get into town, by which point the New Yorker was frantic. "I'm gonna be late in exactly five minutes!" she cried, making Leslie blanch with horror. "Quick, tell me, where's Mr. Birdsong's office?"
A native girl just passing happened to overhear and smiled. "Just that way, miss," she offered. "It's in that storefront there on the corner. Just go right in."
All four of Leslie's charges thanked the native girl and raced away across the square, while Leslie stared after them and sagged visibly with relief. The native girl grinned. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"I am now, thanks to you," Leslie said with abject relief. "They all got lost looking for Mr. Birdsong's office and I just couldn't tell them I didn't know where it was…I mean, I think they must've thought I knew my way around since I live here now and all…"
"Oh," said the native girl, her features softening, "you must be Mr. Roarke's new ward. Don't worry, Miss Leslie, you'll learn your way around in no time at all." With that, she smiled at Leslie and hurried away.
Leslie blew out a loud breath and looked around the square, then remembered where she was supposed to be and groaned quietly. "Great," she mumbled. "Now I gotta look for the luau clearing all over again." Throwing her hands into the air, she began trudging back the way she had come, hoping she wouldn't encounter any more lost souls.
Almost half an hour later, after listening vainly for the noise Roarke had told her she would hear, then discerning voices and following them as best she could—which was very badly indeed—down the first path she came to, she at last stumbled out on what had to be her destination, after all this time. There were maybe a dozen of Roarke's employees working in the clearing, and they all paused to look curiously at her when she burst out of the trees. Her face grew hot at being the sudden center of attention, and she offered a sorry effort at a smile before searching the clearing. "Is Tattoo here?"
"Oh, wait a minute," one of the young men said, "that's Mr. Roarke's ward." He smiled at the flustered girl. "I'm sorry, Miss Leslie, but Mr. Tattoo's gone on another errand."
Oh, terrific, Leslie thought, barely restraining a groan. "Could you tell me where?"
"Sure. Just go on down to the old opera house. There's supposed to be some sort of party there tonight and he was going to help get it set up."
Leslie stared blankly at the man. "What?" She had never heard of the old opera house; it had not been on the list of places Roarke had taken her to.
Some of the native girls exchanged glances and tittered, and Leslie blushed again, feeling like the dumbest thing on two feet. The young man, though, seemed to take pity on her. "Just go back out to the main road and catch the island shuttle bus," he advised. "They announce all the stops. When the driver says 'the old opera house', get off there. You should be able to find Mr. Tattoo there."
For a change, that sounded easy. "Oh good, thanks," Leslie said, maybe too eagerly, because it got her another round of poorly hidden giggles. Blushing more fiercely than ever, she plunged back into the trees, hoping she could at least find the road again without going down some wrong path and ending up deep in the jungle.
This time she was a little luckier; she gained the road with little trouble, and wonder of wonders, there was a bus heading right for her. She waved both arms and the vehicle pulled over for her. "Thanks," she said breathlessly, boarding.
"Have a seat anywhere," said the driver carelessly. It was a bored native boy who appeared to still be in high school. Without waiting for any response from her, he put the bus into gear and sent it forward, so that she had to grab the back of the nearest seat and lurch down the aisle to the first empty one.
Leslie listened very carefully as the driver yelled out each stop: "Main house!" "Hotel!" "Island hospital!" "Stables!" After this last, there was a long pause while the bus roared on down the road and most of the passengers dozed; Leslie had begun to really worry when the driver finally slowed again and barked out, "Enclave marina!" She slumped back in her seat; how far away was this alleged opera house they'd sent her to?
The bus ate another five miles or so, then pulled over with the call of, "Old opera house!" Deeply relieved, Leslie got up and waited till the bus had stopped, then hastily disembarked and looked around her while the bus pulled back onto the road and vanished around a bend. The trees here looked different from the usual tropical jungle; they framed a large one-story building with what must be a very high ceiling. To the right of the building, the trees stood in uniform rows and were all of a height; she realized it must be an orchard of some sort, and even as the thought skittered through her head, she caught a quick whiff of oranges. Suddenly a juicy orange sounded like the most delectable thing on earth; she was hungry and had no idea what time it was, since she didn't have a watch. Unfortunately, when she approached the trees, she discovered that there wasn't a single fruit on any of them. Disappointed, she made her way around to the front of the building and let herself in, peering quizzically around her. It was quiet, and apprehension churned her gut. Had she been sent on another wild-goose chase?
She was standing in a small foyer next to what looked like a ticket window, with a door beside that. On the other side of the window were closet rods with empty hangers dangling from them, and she realized it must be a coat check. No one was here, so she went on through the double glass doors, covered with velvet curtains, into a very large and almost empty room. Tables were set up all the way around the perimeter; there was a platform toward the front end of the room, upon which sat several instruments—a drum set, a couple of guitars, and an electric keyboard unit. The space in the middle was cleared as if for dancing; near the band platform sat several rows of folding chairs waiting for an audience.
"Tattoo?" Leslie called out, her voice quivering a little with uncertainty.
There was a muffled shriek from the back of the room and a figure shot into view, startling Leslie enough to make her gasp and send her heart galloping. "My goodness, you scared me to death!" a high-pitched female voice scolded her. "I thought I was alone."
"But…but…" Leslie floundered helplessly in protest. "I mean, they said I'd find Tattoo here. Where is he?"
"Oh," said the voice, and its owner moved forward enough that Leslie could see it was yet another native girl. "Mr. Tattoo just left. Said he's got a couple of things he needs to see to at the ferry dock."
Leslie experienced a sinking feeling that should have been enough to swallow an oil tanker. "Ferry dock?" she echoed in despair. It was yet another unknown place to her.
The native girl peered at her hard for a moment before her face cleared. "Oh, I know, you're Mr. Roarke's new ward, aren't you? Okay, listen—go back out and catch the next shuttle bus, and stay on it till the ferry-dock stop. You can't miss the administration building, there's a sign over the door."
"Okay," Leslie murmured. "Thanks." Now weary, she left the building and plodded to the bus stop where she'd gotten off mere minutes ago. Crud, Tattoo, where the heck are you? And what happens if you're not at the ferry dock? She didn't want to think about it; she was hot, tired, hungry and thirsty, and feeling overwhelmed and utterly out of her element. It crossed her mind to suppose that one day she'd laugh at this experience, but of course, that all depended on whether it ever came to an end.
She noticed a small square sign mounted on the post underneath the round one with the bus silhouette on top, and leaned in closer to look at it. It was a bus-stop schedule—and according to it, the next bus wasn't due for almost half an hour. With a loud groan, Leslie sank onto the dirt and hid her face in her hands.