§ § § - February 18, 1979
About half an hour later she accompanied him to Jane Garwood's bungalow, where to their surprise, the door stood open. As they climbed the steps onto the little porch, they could hear Tattoo's voice inside, and Roarke hesitated, about to knock. He met Leslie's gaze and they stared at each other as they heard Tattoo speaking solemnly.
"Before I met Mr. Roarke," he was saying, "I was nobody in the world. People used to laugh at me. Nobody took me seriously. And when I met him, I knew that he loved me more than anyone did. He's my friend. I love him." There was a short, pregnant pause; Leslie saw Roarke smile and close his eyes briefly before Tattoo added in earnest, "I would die for him." Her eyes widened and she met Roarke's gaze again; even he looked surprised.
He smiled at her, nodded once and placed a finger against his lips for just a moment, then cleared his throat slightly and called, "Tattoo?" as he entered the bungalow with Leslie right behind him, still stunned at what she had heard. Both Tattoo and Jane shifted their startled attention to Roarke, and Jane shot up from her chair. Looking unusually solemn, Roarke requested, "Would you care to tell me why you're here?"
Tattoo and Jane looked at each other, and finally Jane spoke up. "He told me what happened last night," she said.
"Oh, I see," said Roarke, and turned his unsmiling gaze on Tattoo, whose eyes gleamed with anxiety. "I think you had better leave us now, my friend. Take Leslie with you, if you would, please."
Tattoo frowned, glanced at Jane once and approached Roarke. "Boss…you're not mad at me, are you?"
At this Roarke smiled a little, his features softening, and shook his head reassuringly. Tattoo smiled, clearly in relief, and Leslie couldn't help responding to the open emotion in the air. She could see in Jane's face that she, too, was affected by it, and they traded smiles of their own before Tattoo glanced back at Jane once more, then touched Leslie's hand and departed. She followed him out, marveling.
"Tattoo, what were you really doing there?" she asked when they were some distance from the bungalow. "I mean, if it's okay for me to ask."
He paused, frowning, then focused on her. "Let's wait till we get back to the house before I tell you," he said. She agreed, but found herself half running all the way there.
In the study Tattoo paused in front of the desk, drumming his fingers atop it and looking pensive. Finally he told her baldly, "I paid Jane Garwood to leave the island."
Leslie gaped at him. "You bribed her?"
He seemed unabashed. "I guess you could call it that. I just don't want anything to happen to the boss, not after last night. I told her about the cobra and I gave her the Black Mass symbol. I think I convinced her. She said it was the only thing she could do."
"You bribed her," mumbled Leslie, amazed. "But with what? I mean…"
His gaze on hers remained steady. "I sold my car and my horse…everything I had that I can do without. It's worth it if it saves the boss's life."
She blinked at him, speechless. Again she remembered the words she and Roarke had overheard him saying to Jane, and felt her face heating so that she had to look away. "I…I didn't know you were so…that it was like that, I mean."
"Like what?" he asked.
"That you feel so close to Mr. Roarke. I figured it was like you were brothers or something. But it's almost like he was your…" She floundered for the proper term.
"You could say he saved my life," Tattoo said softly, and she looked up to see his expression far away. "He was the only person in the world who ever saw anything in me besides that funny-looking short guy with the crazy accent. He didn't care about that. He saw what's inside me. I don't know how he did it and I'm not even gonna try to figure it out. I just know that he looked past the outside of me and saw what matters, and he made me feel like a human being, like I mattered and I belonged."
"Wow," breathed Leslie, overwhelmed.
He refocused on her and grinned a little. "I just want him safe. And anyway, he made your mother a promise, so he has to keep that promise." He winked.
She laughed, and they squeezed hands before he surveyed the stacks of mail on the desk. "Wow, Kali really brought a load today, didn't she? You better get back to work."
Roarke returned to the house just as a high-schooler from the telegraph office came in bearing a piece of yellow paper. "Oh good," he said. "This is for you, sir."
"Thank you," said Roarke and tipped the boy, then unfolded the sheet and read it.
"What's that?" Leslie asked.
"A cable from Sister Mary Theresa's convent," he said, folding it once and placing it on the desk under a paperweight. He studied her as he sat behind the desk. "You've made a good deal of progress on that, Leslie. Thank you."
She shrugged diffidently. "It's fun."
"Indeed." He grinned at her and pulled a ledger toward him.
Tattoo fielded three more telegrams through the afternoon, all of them from the same source as the first, and Roarke finally glanced at the clock before arising. "Tattoo, would you remain here and take any calls? Leslie, come with me, you can have a short break."
It felt good to get up and stretch and move her muscles, and she considered asking Roarke about what they had heard Tattoo say at Jane Garwood's bungalow earlier. However, she ultimately chickened out and ventured instead, "Tattoo told me he bribed Ms. Garwood to leave the island."
Roarke looked around at her. "Oh?"
"Yup. Said he sold his car and his horse and a bunch of other stuff so he could get enough money to make her leave. He said he sold everything he could live without, and it would be worth it if it saved your life."
Roarke smiled faintly and shook his head once or twice to himself. "I know he meant well," he murmured.
"Is she leaving?" Leslie asked.
"No. I believe I convinced her to remain, so that we could find out the answer to the problem once and for all. If she accepted Tattoo's money and ran, her stalker would most likely go on torturing and harassing her for an indefinite period, perhaps until he brought about Ms. Garwood's own death."
Leslie winced. "That'd make me stay, all right." Roarke chuckled and patted her shoulder, and they went on along the paths.
Finally, near the spectacular waterfall that Leslie remembered seeing from the charter plane on her own arrival, they found Mary Hoyt standing beside a small niche in the rock that held some sort of religious statue. She was holding one of the half-tame doves that were so thick on the ground around the resort; she must have heard Roarke and Leslie approach, for she looked around, then put the dove down and turned to face them.
"Ms. Hoyt," Roarke began, "I thought I might find you here."
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
"Well, there have been several urgent cables from the convent," he explained.
Mary's face puckered with concern. "Is something wrong?"
"No, no…it's just that, uh…Mother Superior has said that she must know in the next twenty-four hours whether or not you will take your final vows." Aha, thought Leslie, so that's what all those telegrams were about.
"Oh yes," Mary murmured. "My leave of absence will be over tomorrow." Roarke nodded agreement, and she let out a little sigh. "Guess there are a lot of decisions I have to make." She met Roarke's gaze. "Colin has asked me to marry him."
Roarke smiled, seemed about to say something, but even Leslie could see the torn look on Mary's face. Still, she offered hopefully, "That's really great—congratulations."
Mary smiled, but only faintly, and Leslie compressed her lips and held back any other comments. Roarke cleared his throat. "Good luck, Miss Hoyt, we will leave you to your thoughts. Leslie?"
He clearly sensed her opinion on this particular fantasy, for he surprised her by saying as they walked, "You're hoping Miss Hoyt will marry Colin MacArthur, aren't you?"
"Yeah," she admitted through a sigh. "I guess I'm thinking of all the life she'd miss out on, shut up in a convent like that. No husband, no family, no home of her own."
"Some," Roarke reflected, "feel such a calling to their deity that they can conceive of no other life but serving that deity. And while it certainly isn't for everyone, you must remember, Leslie, that it's entirely their choice to make. They do find great fulfillment in the life they lead—a life of quiet contemplation, of service and devotion, and doing all they can to help others in need."
She absorbed that for a time. "I guess that's true, but…I don't know, it just seems like such a sad thing anyway, at least to me. I think I'd feel like I was in some kind of prison or something. I mean, don't you always have to ask the Mother Superior for permission to do everything and to even go outside the convent?"
"There is that," he said, "but as I said, some prefer such a restricted, cloistered life. All you can do, Leslie, is make the decisions that best fit you and your needs and wishes, and let others do the same."
She nodded. "I get your point, Mr. Roarke."
"Good. Well, we still have that paperwork awaiting us; let's get back as quickly as we can. There's quite a bit to do."
They met Tattoo on the way back, and found that he was on his way to see Felix Birdsong; Roarke nodded approval and ushered Leslie along the last short distance. She was looking forward to sorting the letters, because she always looked at addresses or postmarks to see where they came from; but the idea fled her mind utterly when she and Roarke stepped into the inner foyer and saw a strange man standing in front of the desk. He turned around when he heard them come in and raised what appeared to be a sharp blade about six inches long. Leslie wondered who he was; he was middle-aged, with a long face and a receding hairline, wearing a business suit and tie in understated solid colors.
Roarke stopped where he was at the top of the steps and met the man's unflinching gaze with a cold one of his own; Leslie hung there beside him, looking on with wide eyes. "I was just admiring your antiques," the stranger said coolly, with remarkable aplomb.
Roarke nodded and allowed a chilly little smile as he stepped down into the study. "What can I do for you, Mr. Marsh?" he asked.
"Oh, I think the point is," Marsh said, barely allowing Roarke to finish, "what can I do for you?"
"I beg your pardon?" parried Roarke.
Marsh replaced the blade on the desk and eyed him. "I believe you know that you and your girlfriend are the talk of the island," he remarked with a little chuckle.
Roarke responded accordingly, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "You mean Ms. Garwood," he prompted.
Marsh iced over. "Will you come off it, Roarke? I came here to warn you. This curse business—it's nonsense. It's her—she's the killer."
Leslie stared at him, just as happy that he didn't seem to even notice she was there, while Roarke drew in a breath and let his smile half linger. "I see." The tone of his voice made it unmistakably clear that he thought this was ludicrous.
"You don't believe me," exclaimed Marsh, looking and sounding incredulous.
Roarke turned leisurely back to face him, smiled and took a seat. "Why do you dislike her so intensely, Mr. Marsh?" he inquired in a convivial tone.
Marsh turned long enough to retrieve a photograph from the pile of papers on the uncharacteristically messy desk. "Mr. Roarke, this is Paul Kendall," he said, handing Roarke the photo. Leslie could see it over her guardian's shoulder; it was the grim-looking man with the vivid red X scar on his face. "He was my friend. We came up in the business together; he was her producer. He was a fine newsman till he met her. Then suddenly, all he cared about was her career. So he created her—and then he died."
Roarke nodded. "And you really believe she killed three men to further her career."
"When she picks up that award this evening, she'll be the biggest thing on television," said Marsh. "People have killed for less than that."
"I see," said Roarke again, nodding, the smile returning. "Well, unfortunately, there is a very large flaw in your theory, Mr. Marsh. You see, Ms. Garwood is determined to retire." Marsh's eyebrows flicked up, and Roarke nodded confirmation. "Oh, it's true—the press release was distributed an hour ago. The award ceremony will be her last appearance, ever, on television." Marsh's eyebrows drew together in disbelief, and Roarke arose. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"
Before he could beckon a skittish Leslie into the room, Marsh said, "Of course I'll excuse you. I just hope your judgment isn't so clouded that you've fallen in love with her. It's an attraction that's proved fatal for three men already." With that, he headed out, brushing past Leslie with little more than a glance at her.
She waited till he was gone before she edged into the room, while he stared at the picture he held, frowned and settled down. "I don't like him," she finally announced.
Roarke seemed to come out of a reverie and focused on her, grinning again. "I think you may be quite wise, Leslie. Well, suppose you come over here and try to organize this unusual mess. I find it…shall we say, aesthetically unappealing." She let out a laugh and began to gather papers and envelopes together to sort through them.
She didn't notice his pensive mien, busy as she was, till he arose without warning and made her look up in startlement. "I'm sorry, Leslie. I am not expecting any phone calls, but if any do come in, please take a message and tell them I will call back as soon as I can. I think it best that I get Ms. Garwood and bring her back here, for her own safety. We shouldn't be very long, so you can go on as you are."
"Okay, Mr. Roarke," she said, and watched him leave the room with long, rapid strides, glancing at the phone once and then returning to her task. Her guardian was as good as his word and returned within twenty minutes, Jane Garwood in tow.
"Oh, hi there," Jane greeted her.
"Hi, Ms. Garwood," said Leslie, returning her smile.
"This is my ward, Leslie Hamilton," Roarke explained. "She has been with us just two weeks; so far she's been quite a help to me with the correspondence." He winked at Leslie. "Why don't you have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Leslie…I have another task for you, if you would. Get a driver, and have him take you to your school—the announcements for the Most Beautiful Girl in the World winner will be made in the amphitheater there, and Tattoo will be there. Tell him I sent you, all right?"
"Got it, Mr. Roarke," agreed Leslie. "Bye, Ms. Garwood." Jane smiled and waved at her in farewell, and Leslie ventured out front, where sure enough, a rover was waiting. She asked the driver to take her to school; it was a strange feeling coming there on a weekend, but she followed the noise she heard and stepped hurriedly down the rows to the curtained half-round stage, where she could just see Tattoo talking to someone. "Tattoo!"
He turned and spotted her. "Hi, Leslie, come on up here," he called, and she climbed onto the edge of the stage while he ducked behind the curtain and pulled it around to hide them from the growing audience. "Something wrong?"
"No, Mr. Roarke sent me over," she said. "I think he's got something planned for Ms. Garwood and he wanted to be sure I was safe someplace else."
"Okay. Well, wait here backstage." Tattoo was grinning from ear to ear for some reason. "I have to make the announcement in a minute. We've got a plan, but don't tell any-one, okay?"
"How could I when I don't even know what it is?" she asked practically.
He laughed. "That's true. Okay, just wait here. It won't take long." He went over to the center of the stage and took his place behind a microphone; the twenty finalists for the film role were still gathering in a curved line behind him, each dressed in a green, red or blue one-piece swimsuit, all looking nervous. Leslie picked out the Brooklynite, the Minnesotan and the British girl she'd met the day before, and was looking for the Spanish one when the curtain parted and began to draw back. She edged farther back into the wings while a fanfare played and applause and whistling welled up.
"Thank you, thank you," Tattoo called out, smiling broadly. "Welcome. This afternoon, one lucky girl will be chosen to star in the picture The Most Beautiful Girl in the World." Leslie watched a few of the girls winking, smiling suggestively, blowing kisses into the audience, and realized these were the "sponsored" girls who expected to win. "The man who is gonna choose the lucky winner is Mr. Birdsong." He gestured toward his left, opposite where Leslie stood.
She glanced into the audience and noticed the smile fall off Sid Gordon's saturnine features; she had to grin, recalling what she'd overheard that morning. She returned her attention to the stage, where Felix Birdsong ventured out, looking uncertain, then regained his composure and took Tattoo's place at the microphone. "Thank you for your generous welcome," he said while Tattoo retreated to join Leslie in the wings. "You know, choosing the most beautiful girl in the world hasn't been easy. They say that, uh, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I believe that. And with that thought in mind, I have made my final decision." Instantly a drum roll began, and Leslie noticed that Tattoo's enormous grin had come back and his eyes were glittering with anticipation.
"What?" she prodded him.
He flashed the grin at her. "Wait and see. It's gonna be good," he promised.
"Today's winner," Birdsong began, "the girl who is going to win twenty-five thousand dollars from Mr. Sid Gordon and his backers, and who will star in the film The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, is…" He took a breath and Leslie held hers. "Number one through number twenty! I say all the girls are winners, and all of them get the prize money!"
In the audience Leslie saw heads turn and people sitting up; the sheik, Hammerhead Harris, and Billy Tidwell all gaped at a stunned-looking Sid Gordon. She blinked, saw Tattoo's grin again, and suddenly began to laugh in delight. "Wow!"
The audience applauded and whistled; all twenty finalists began shrieking and hugging one another ecstatically, and Leslie saw Sid Gordon's lips form the incredulous words "Twenty winners?! And twenty-five grand apiece?!" She followed Gordon's line of sight and realized he was glaring at Birdsong, who hastily scuttled backstage. When Gordon spoke again, Leslie could actually hear him. "That'll cost me five hundred thousand dollars!"
At that point the sheik leaped to his feet and started back up the tiers; Harris wasn't far behind him. Gordon saw them coming and barreled out of his own seat, clearly bent on hiding somewhere; unfortunately for him, one of the sheik's lackeys blocked his exit and his two pursuers caught up with him, hauling him away out of sight. Leslie giggled, though some tiny part of her felt just a little sorry for the man.
"What a finish," she said. "How'd it happen?"
Tattoo beamed at her. "Mr. Birdsong and I came up with it together," he told her. "See, Miss Arden found out that Sid Gordon oversold the picture…"
"That, I know about," Leslie broke in, and quickly explained having overheard that conversation in the lounge that morning.
Tattoo nodded. "I see. Well, she told Mr. Birdsong about it after he saw the last finalist, and when I went to see him later on, he was in the lounge getting drunk. He told me all about it. Said that she told him Sid Gordon probably wasn't even gonna make the movie, and all that mattered to him now was making money. You ever see a movie called Blossoms in the Snow?"
Leslie shook her head slowly. "I don't think so, but I'm pretty sure my mother probably did. She liked old movies."
"That was his last big, successful movie, and that was something like ten or twelve years ago. He's come out with one flop after another since then, and Miss Arden said he's been getting more and more desperate. She figured he was gonna take the money and run, and set up Mr. Birdsong as the fall guy; and she didn't want that happening to him. He was so upset, I just had to help him out. And we came up with this idea." He glanced into the audience, although most of them had left by now and pretty much all that remained was a bunch of reporters and cameramen, all trying to snag one of the winners for an interview. "I think it worked out really well. Look at all those media people—this'll get out and Gordon will have to make the movie now."
"Well, he better hope it's a smash," Leslie remarked, shaking her head. "His three pet backers saw him trying to sneak out and caught him, so I think they're gonna force him to go through with the thing."
"And he should," Tattoo agreed. "Well, okay, I think we're done here. It's late, you feel like having something to eat?"
"Sure…I'm hungry," she said, and they headed across the stage, weaving through the excited winners, and noticing on the way that Felix Birdsong and Jean Arden were busily kissing each other. "Hey, look at that!"
"We get a lot of romance on this island," Tattoo said with a broad smile. "You'll see, the longer you live here. Come on, I'm hungry too."
They returned to the main house and had the evening meal there, with Jane Garwood as their guest; she complimented a beaming Mana'olana on her cooking, and the portly native woman promptly used it to admonish Leslie. "Now, there, you see? There's a lady who knows how to appreciate good food. You should take a cue from her."
Leslie's jaw sank and she gawked after Mana'olana, who gave her no time to reply but departed immediately. "Hey!" she finally protested faintly.
"What in the world…?" said Jane, looking half bewildered, half amused.
Leslie scowled and slumped slightly in her chair. "Oh, she's always yelling at me because she thinks I don't eat enough," she grumped. "But I never thought she'd do it in front of a guest!" She sat up and stared pleadingly at Roarke. "Do you think that was fair, Mr. Roarke? I mean, that was really embarrassing!"
Roarke chuckled. "As a matter of fact, no, Leslie, I quite agree with you," he said. "I promise you, I'll have a little talk with her tomorrow. Why don't you go ahead and finish; we have a busy evening ahead of us."
He excused himself a little ahead of the others to make some telephone calls, while Tattoo, Leslie and Jane completed the meal at their leisure. When they returned to the study, he explained that he had set up a watch around Jane's bungalow in order to nab the person who had been harassing her for so long. "One way or another, we'll solve this mystery and bring this person to justice," he promised.
"That'll be a relief," Jane admitted, sighing. "I'm more than ready to move on to a new phase of my life."
"So you're really retiring?" Leslie asked.
"That's right. I've achieved what I wanted to, professionally. I have some other things I'd like to do. I haven't decided what just yet, but fortunately, I have enough time and money to take a little while to make up my mind."
"That's great," said Leslie. "Good luck, whatever you do."
Jane smiled and thanked her, and for a little while the foursome sat and talked, waiting for a call that would tell them the perpetrator was in custody. But the phone sat silent while sunset came and went, and the night settled fully in. Roarke began checking the clock from time to time, trying not to let the others see that he was becoming restless; but they inevitably picked up on his tension, and at last he decided something needed to be done. "I think it best that you remain here, Ms. Garwood. The squad at your bungalow may need some assistance." He paused for a moment, regarding his ward; then he cleared his throat. "I think the best thing for you, Leslie, is to accompany Tattoo and me. You should stay in the car, but I'd rather have you with me. We will return as quickly as we can, Ms. Garwood."
"I'll be waiting right here," Jane assured him, and Roarke nodded and led Tattoo and Leslie out of the house. From there he drove them over to Jane's bungalow, which stood lit as if someone were inside; he pulled to a stop at the front walk and parked, and both he and Tattoo got out of the car and hesitated, looking around.
Leslie slipped out of the car to stand beside Tattoo; a night crier repeated its mournful song somewhere nearby, backed up by a chorus of crickets and tree frogs, while they watched Roarke go up to a young native standing by one side of the bungalow, holding a walkie-talkie in one hand. "Anything yet?" he asked.
"Quiet as a cemetery, Mr. Roarke," said the native.
Roarke frowned and returned to join Leslie and Tattoo, shaking his head. "I don't like this, Tattoo," he said. "Something is wrong."
"What's happening?" Tattoo asked.
"Nothing, that's just it. It's perfectly quiet." Roarke looked a bit frustrated. "I was certain the announcement of Ms. Garwood's retirement would force him to make a move."
"Him? Who?" protested Tattoo.
"The one responsible for the curse," Roarke said slowly, frowning into the trees, "and if I'm not mistaken, someone who's come onto our island uninvited." Tattoo's eyes widened and he glanced at Leslie; one of the first things she had learned was that there was no access to Fantasy Island without a blue or green charter-plane pass. She peered up at Roarke, who frowned again. "Come, we'd better make a phone call. I want to make sure Ms. Garwood is safe. Come with us, Leslie."
The three of them walked rapidly into the bungalow, where Roarke picked up the phone, checked for a dial tone and got one, and dialed for an outside line, then the number to the main house. Tattoo and Leslie watched in tense, still silence while he waited for a response; after about fifteen seconds he queried, "Ms. Garwood?"
They could hear Jane's voice sparking out of the receiver occasionally and watched Roarke's face relax into a relieved smile. "Yes, perfectly," he said to whatever she asked. "What about you?"
For a few seconds there were the sounds of Jane's voice speaking; then they vanished, and Roarke's eyes widened with alarm. Then, so loudly that even Tattoo and Leslie clearly heard it, a terrified scream poured out of the receiver. Leslie gasped, even as Roarke hung up the phone and made for the door without further ado. She and Tattoo rushed out after him, with Tattoo yelling, "What happened, boss?"
"I don't know," Roarke replied, running for the car without looking back.
"Where are we going?" Tattoo persisted.
"You are staying here, my friend," Roarke ordered stridently, "out of danger, and Leslie is to remain right here with you." He slung himself into the front seat of the rover and started the engine. "I have a hunch—which had better be right." He shifted into gear and peeled out of the lane, leaving deep tire tracks in the dirt. Tattoo stared after him.
"Now what?" Leslie asked, surprised to hear her voice shake slightly.
Tattoo threw his hands into the air. "I guess we stay here!" He looked around as Roarke's little "capture squad" began to assemble in front of the bungalow. "It's not like we don't have protection if something happens."
"What was that all about?" asked the young native Roarke had spoken briefly with a few minutes before.
Leslie explained quickly about the phone call while Tattoo led them all into the bungalow, where they could at least be near a phone. All they could do from that point was to sit and wait; there was a little conversation among the four native men, but Leslie felt too shy to join in, and Tattoo had begun to pace the floor, glowering at nothing.
The next half hour elapsed in excruciating slow motion while the phone remained silent and Tattoo paced so much that Leslie could see a flattened rut in the carpet where he kept retracing his tracks over and over. Leslie wished she knew what time it was, and began scanning the room for some sort of timepiece. She finally noticed a small clock on the wall to the left of the little entry, and was amazed to see that it wasn't even eight yet.
The conversation had long since died, and Leslie found herself actually starting to get bored; she couldn't stand watching Tattoo stalking back and forth anymore and was peering at the phone, trying to decide whether she dared call one of her friends. She could just imagine telling them at school the next day about their exciting weekend, and almost wanted to call Michiko now and get a head start on the narration.
The minute hand of the clock had crept a little past the 12 when they all heard a car approach outside, and as one the six of them stampeded to the door and crammed their way through. Roarke and Jane Garwood stepped out of the rover, and Tattoo breathed a loud sigh of relief, his face split wide open by a gigantic grin.
"Everything okay?" one of the natives asked.
"It's all over," Roarke assured them. "Thank you all for your assistance and patience; you're free to return home now."
The natives dispersed, and Roarke escorted Jane back into the bungalow. "What happened?" Tattoo demanded.
"Did you figure out who the harasser was?" Leslie added.
Roarke and Jane both nodded, and Jane said with a note of disbelief in her voice, "It was Paul Kendall. I'd thought he was dead all this time, but apparently he faked it."
"Why was he harassing her?" Tattoo asked.
"He is the one who created Ms. Garwood's television image, built her career as a journalist," Roarke explained. "Anything he saw as a threat to that image had to be removed; that's why he killed Jim Cowell and Burt Winn. He staged his own death as well so as to avoid capture; that's why no one ever found his body."
"If he killed Ms. Garwood, though, the image would still be destroyed," Leslie said in sudden realization. "So that's kind of defeating the purpose, isn't it?"
"No, because I announced my retirement today," Jane said. "I destroyed the image myself, so I guess he decided it was time to kill me."
"That's sick," muttered Leslie, hugging herself.
"Where is he now?" Tattoo asked.
"He's dead," said Roarke quietly. "He and I got into a scuffle after he threw a cobra at me. When he went down, the snake bit him, and the venom acted too quickly for him to be saved." He reached for the phone. "I'd better call the hospital and have them send out some workers from the morgue to retrieve the body so it can be returned to his family."
Having made the call, Roarke bid Jane good night, and she thanked him several times over before he, Tattoo and Leslie departed for the main house. "What a night," Leslie murmured, blowing out her breath. "I'm glad it's all over."
"Me too," agreed Tattoo emphatically.
"I presume both of you should sleep well tonight, then," remarked Roarke in amusement. "Remember, though, we're not quite through yet; Miss Hoyt's fantasy has not yet been resolved, and she hasn't much time in which to complete that resolution."