§ § § - February 19, 1979
To their surprise, just after breakfast and as they were preparing to go to the plane dock, Jane Garwood came to the main house. Tattoo answered her knock and exclaimed, "Oh, Ms. Garwood!" Roarke looked up and arose as Tattoo went on, "I'm so happy you won the award."
"Oh, thank you, Tattoo," Jane said warmly, and came into the study, where she smiled at Leslie and focused on Roarke. "I just wanted to stop and say goodbye."
"I'm glad you did," he said. "Have you decided what you will do now?"
"No, but I'm definitely going to take a leave and think about it," she told him.
"I see." Roarke smiled.
She hunched her shoulders, her smile warm and relieved, and Leslie thought she looked as if an enormous weight had been lifted away. "I suppose it's safe now if anyone wants to care for me," Jane said, half jokingly.
"Care for you?" echoed Roarke, and a light filled his eyes. "The Spaniards have a proverb…well, actually, they have a proverb to fit any situation." Jane and Leslie both laughed at that, exchanging merry glances; in the background, Tattoo grinned. "But this one says that you can want a woman for her body, but you can love her only for her character." He smiled. "I think many men will want to love you, Ms. Garwood."
At that Jane smiled again, and she and Roarke shook hands. "That's very generous of you, Mr. Roarke. Thank you again, for all you've done."
"All in a weekend's work," Tattoo spoke up, and they all laughed.
"I still appreciate it more than you can know," Jane said to him. "Well, I guess I'd better get my bags and get to the plane dock quick. Thank you again." She left, and Roarke cast a glance at the grandfather clock.
"We'll have to hurry to get to the plane dock too. Are you ready, Leslie?" he asked, and she nodded, standing up and stepping into her shoes.
"I wish we'd seen Mary Hoyt before now," she said, frowning.
"We'll soon find out. Come now," Roarke said, and they departed the house.
Jane Garwood arrived within seconds of their appearance at the dock, and thanked them yet again before heading up the dock and waving at each of them individually. Then a rover pulled up and discharged Felix Birdsong and Jean Arden, who looked quite chummy, Leslie thought. Birdsong clung to Jean's hand the entire time they stood there.
"Thank you gentlemen…and Leslie…for a wonderful experience," Jean said.
"You are most welcome, Miss Arden; and what about you, Mr. Birdsong? Was the fantasy worth it?" Roarke inquired.
Birdsong was beaming. "Y'know, I was just wondering the same thing until a few minutes ago."
"What happened?" asked Tattoo.
Jean turned to him. "Well, I called my brother, who runs the accounting department at Monument Pictures."
"And?" Roarke prompted.
"Well, he offered me a full-time job working in the accounting department," Birdsong told them. On their faintly confused looks, he added with a big grin, "Don't you see, Mr. Roarke? As of tomorrow morning, I really will be in showbiz!"
"Oh, congratulations, Mr. Birdsong," Roarke said, shaking hands, and Birdsong and Jean thanked him, shook hands with Tattoo and grinned at Leslie, and made their way off to the dock to board the plane. They had hardly gone when a third rover drove up and let out Mary Hoyt, who as Leslie could see was clad in full nun's habit. She felt disappointment settle in her stomach and wondered what had happened that Mary had made this choice.
"Well, sister, I see you've made your decision," said Roarke. "I hope we were of some assistance."
"Oh yes, Mr. Roarke, more than you'll ever know. I realize now that I've been living my real fantasy all along. Thank you very much."
"You're very welcome, sister," Roarke said with a smile, shaking hands with her. They said their farewells, and Sister Mary Theresa retreated up the dock, turning once to wave and call a last goodbye. Leslie watched her go, wishing she could find out the full story, wondering if she would ever know.
"Oh, uh, Tattoo," Roarke said then, derailing her train of thought for the moment. "The money you tried to give Ms. Garwood? She returned it to me."
Tattoo hung his head. "I don't care. Now that I've sold my horse and my car…"
Roarke nodded once or twice, then smiled a little secretively. "Well, as a matter of fact…" He gestured across the clearing, and both Tattoo and Leslie looked around that way for the first time, only to see Tattoo's car and pony waiting there for him. "I bought them back," Roarke said.
"Boss! Oh, thank you very much!" Tattoo exclaimed.
"Yes…the gentleman insisted on twelve hundred dollars," Roarke told him.
Tattoo looked outraged. "Twelve hundred dollars?" Roarke nodded, and Tattoo protested, "But he gave me only one thousand!"
"That's a cheat," said Leslie, indignant on Tattoo's behalf.
Roarke chuckled. "Well, it seems he has a rule: he buys low and sells high."
Tattoo shook his head slightly and stared apologetically up at Roarke. "Boss, I'm sorry. Every time I try to do something, I cost you money."
Roarke only smiled warmly. "Tattoo, I consider a dear, true friendship such as ours beyond any price."
Tattoo beamed, and Leslie had to smile; something about the bond between these two got to her every time. "Thank you, boss, thank you very much." They clasped hands and shook, and Roarke slipped an arm around Leslie's shoulders, lest she feel left out, as they all turned to watch the plane depart.
§ § § - June 25, 2008
"Did you ever get that resolution to the nun's fantasy, Leslie? You didn't tell us about that," Myeko said. "I wondered about that for a long time."
"We did, yes," Leslie said. "Colin MacArthur, the vet, came to the main house that afternoon after school, after I'd told you and Lauren and Michiko about the fantasy at lunch that day. He seemed a little suspicious of Father at first. The first thing Dr. MacArthur did was ask if Father had brought him here under some kind of false pretense."
"Did you, Mr. Roarke?" Camille asked.
"Does it look that way to you?" Roarke inquired with a half-smile. "It happens that Dr. MacArthur was the best veterinarian I knew of to handle a problem I had noticed among the island's wild-bird population—specifically our elusive night criers. He had done extensive work with wild animals in Africa for quite a few years, but traveled back to the states at intervals when needed. I had been wondering for some time whom to contact about the night criers' plight when I received Sister Mary Theresa's letter. From her description I knew it could only be Dr. MacArthur; and by the way, that is precisely what I told the good doctor himself when he pressed me."
"He must've cured them," Lauren remarked, "whatever it was. I never stopped hearing them at night."
Roarke smiled. "Indeed he did, and his expertise did not go unrewarded, let me assure you. In any case, the fact is that Dr. MacArthur, while he did propose to Sister Mary Theresa, explained that he as much as told the young lady that he had not come to Fantasy Island with the purpose in mind of marrying her."
"Then why'd he propose in the first place?" asked Myeko, outraged. "If he was in love with her and wanted to marry her, what a thing to say!"
"He proposed before he realized who she really was," Leslie said. "He explained that he had finally discovered the previous evening that they'd met before and that she was a close friend of his friend, Sister Margaret—the nun who died young of cancer. Then he gave Father a letter and asked him to read it, which he did, out loud. It was then that I finally understood the reason Mary Hoyt returned to her life as Sister Mary Theresa."
"What did it say?" Christian asked.
"He said Sister Margaret probably wrote and sent it just before she died. She talked about how much pain she was in, how she would have renounced her vows and her life and everything else, if it hadn't been for the way Sister Mary Theresa was always there. She was always cheerful, always available if Sister Margaret needed anything, making her last days as comfortable as possible, and as Sister Margaret put it, holding the whole convent school together. Sister Mary Theresa had kept everything going just by being her upbeat self. She had thought when she came here that she wasn't being used for the purpose for which she'd offered herself when she first became a nun, but Sister Margaret's letter told her otherwise. So she decided to take her final vows after all."
A soft silence fell while the others contemplated this; even Myeko looked placated. "I wonder if he ever did find someone to marry?" she mused.
Roarke grinned. "My dear Myeko, you have a romantic streak in you that must be at least as large as your heart. We haven't heard anything of Dr. MacArthur, or Sister Mary Theresa, since that weekend so long ago; but I am sure they both led very fulfilling lives, and it's entirely possible that they maintained a friendship and perhaps kept in touch."
"It'd be nice to think they did," Myeko agreed. "Well, okay then. So that was the first weekend you ever got to help in some way with the fantasy business, huh? Then what was the first fantasy you got really, actually involved in?"
Leslie grinned. "I think that'd have to be the weekend of my birthday that year, when Cornelius and Alphonse kidnapped Tattoo. Father needed someone to temporarily replace him, and for whatever it was worth, that was me." That netted her a round of laughter, and she settled back in her chair. "Now this will probably be a total surprise to you, but I was still fourteen the first time Father allowed me to get so involved with a fantasy as to be gone all weekend, without being checked on. But he had a good reason."
"Really! You hadn't been here a full year yet, and he allowed that?" Christian asked.
Leslie nodded, shifting in her chair. "You see, we were still in shock: November that year was an insane month. First Father marrying Helena, then her death only a few days later, and the very next weekend, Tattoo almost leaving the island because of the cruel lies and manipulations of one very bitter, mean old woman. We were still reeling from Helena's death and then Tattoo went through that. It was almost too much for all of us. So Father decided we needed some kind of distraction, all three of us, and he knew it would have to be a drastic one, so he came up with the idea to have me completely immersed in a fantasy. And let me tell you, it definitely worked."
§ § § - November 17, 1979
They had come off two very strained, emotional weeks; Roarke himself still felt raw from Helena's death. Leslie, though she had gone back to school now and seemed to be doing well enough, was still too quiet and withdrawn, and Tattoo was perceptibly less energetic than he normally was. Too much had happened in too short a time, and he decided some kind of diversion was needed. So when he saw what fantasies were on the docket for this weekend, he smiled. It might be a little drastic, especially in Leslie's case, but this could be just what they needed to regain their enthusiasm for the business they were in.
He knew he was doing the right thing when they went straight to the plane dock with no attempt from Tattoo at making some kind of joke or any talk about Cousin Hugo or Chester the Chimp's latest shenanigans. He saw to it that Tattoo's jacket was buckled, checked that Leslie looked at least politely welcoming, and directed his attention at the plane dock, where as though on cue, a very tall mustachioed man squeezed himself out of the hatch. He was decked out in a huge ten-gallon hat, hand-tooled real leather boots, and expensive clothing topped off with a fringed jacket. Tattoo perked right up: "Look at the king-size cowboy! Who is he?"
"The gentleman behind that big smile is Mr. B.J. Farley, known to his friends as Big Jake. He is also a man after your own heart, Tattoo." Roarke grinned.
"How so?" asked the Frenchman, peering dubiously at him.
"Mr. Farley is one of the world's wealthiest men—uranium," Roarke explained.
Tattoo lit up even more. "What's his fantasy, to, uh…will me all his money?"
"No, Tattoo, that is your fantasy," Roarke said teasingly, and was glad when Leslie let out a genuine laugh, for the first time since Helena's death. "Mr. Farley has journeyed all this way to meet the woman he credits as the inspiration for his success." As he spoke, Farley ducked a low-hanging palm frond, and had to bend and remove his hat before a native girl could hook a lei around his neck. "Her name is Miss Valeska DeMarco."
Both Tattoo and Leslie recognized this name; he was faintly surprised when Leslie exclaimed, "Valeska DeMarco, the prima ballerina?!" At Roarke's nod, she protested, "She was the best dancer in the world, and then she disappeared. I remember because my first-grade teacher in Connecticut was a dancer in her spare time, and Valeska DeMarco was her idol. She actually cried right in front of our whole class when she vanished."
Roarke made an interested sound and nodded. "Eight years ago. You see, just before Miss DeMarco disappeared, Mr. Farley—then a down-and-outer—sneaked into a ballet house to avoid the rain." Farley was now collecting a lei from every girl along the dock, and Leslie wondered if he'd be able to see by the time he stepped onto the grass. "Miss DeMarco was onstage; well, he took one look at her and fell madly in love. He decided then and there to make something of himself so that someday he could meet her, as an equal."
"Boss, you found her?" asked Tattoo. "She's here on Fantasy Island?"
"Indeed she is, my friend. And Mr. Farley is not only going to meet her for a tea I arranged this afternoon, but he is also going to see her dance."
Tattoo grinned, clearly amused. "Boss, something tells me that the cowboy and the lady are gonna mix like oil and water."
Roarke exchanged a conspiratorial smile with him, winked at Leslie, and then introduced the next guest: a woman almost as tall as B.J. Farley, with fluffy pale-blonde curls and an even bigger smile than Farley's. "Ah, Miss Betty Foster, the private investigator, who hails all the way from Toledo, Ohio." Just then Betty Foster tripped on some unseen obstacle and blurted an audible Whoops, grabbing her hat.
"Her, a private eye?" blurted Tattoo in disbelief. "Boss, you must be kidding!"
"Oh, I'm quite serious, Tattoo," Roarke assured him.
Tattoo and Leslie traded one highly dubious look, and Leslie grunted, shaking her head. "What's her fantasy?"
"A rather modest one, my child," Roarke said, while Betty Foster dropped her purse and knelt to pick it up, only to have most of its contents spill out. "She simply wishes to crack her first big case. Unfortunately, the rest of the world refuses to cooperate."
"No wonder," Leslie muttered, watching Betty repeatedly drop and retrieve the purse, while a wayward checkbook kept escaping. "Poor thing, she's a born klutz…worse than me!" Then Roarke's words sank in and she stared at him. "What?"
"Yes. You see, Miss Foster was graduated as a private detective more than a year ago, and until now, no one has ever trusted her to handle a case."
"Boss, what school did she go to?" Tattoo wanted to know.
"One of those correspondence schools," Roarke replied. "You know, the kind that advertises on the back of matchbook covers?"
Leslie groaned, and Tattoo gaped at Roarke. "Boss, you're gonna give an amateur like that a real case to crack?"
Roarke merely smiled, then accepted his drink and toasted his new guests; but Leslie had to wonder what kind of weekend this was going to turn into.
They argued about Betty Foster all the way back to the main house, while Roarke listened with great amusement. Tattoo thought the entire weekend was going to be a disaster and wanted to warn Betty's prospective client; Leslie, feeling a kinship because of the klutz factor, said she should be allowed at least one chance to see if she could really solve a case. Roarke smiled at that; it fit what he had in mind, and it was with good nature that he shushed them both as they entered the study. "I have tasks for you," he said. "Tattoo, Miss Foster's client, the contessa, will be arriving on the next plane, and I would like you to meet her there, if you would, please. Leslie, I need you to sort the mail for me as swiftly as you can so that it will be out of the way for the weekend."
"Oh? You mean I'm not working on it the whole weekend?" she asked.
He smiled mysteriously. "You'll see."
Some time later the door popped open and Betty Foster came in, very elegantly clad in a white dress with a thin gold belt, a matching hat trimmed with a wispy black feather, and a cherry-red scarf knotted around her neck. She even had expensive-looking diamonds on the third finger of her left hand. They greeted her and Roarke introduced Leslie; Betty, antsy, asked twice when she was meeting her client and endured Roarke's vague responses before at last wandering into the inner foyer and admiring her reflection in the oval mirror that hung beside the door. Leslie grinned, watching her.
Finally Betty could take no more. "Okay, out with it, Mr. Roarke," she said, coming back into the study. "I mean, I've been here only four hours, and already you've transformed me into a…" She stood waving her hands, hunting for the word.
"A contessa," supplied Roarke.
"Something like that," agreed Betty. "What's going on?"
"Patience, Miss Foster," said Roarke smilingly. "The explanation will be forthcoming shortly." He glanced at Leslie and winked again.
Just then, to Leslie's relief, the door opened and Tattoo entered with a delicate dark-haired young woman beside him. "Here she is, boss."
"Contessa Christina Castranova, may I present Miss Betty Foster…the, uh, detective we discussed?" Roarke said to the newcomer.
The contessa nodded; Betty was noisily overwhelmed. "A bona-fide contessa! Boy, it's a real honor to meet you, Your Contessaship!" Roarke looked gently startled and tossed Betty a look that made Leslie cover her mouth with her hand, trying not to giggle. "Gee, I don't know whether to bow, or…or to kiss your hand, or to shake it!"
Christina laughed softly. "A simple handshake will do," she assured Betty, and they did indeed shake hands. She looked at Roarke then. "Have you filled Miss Foster in?"
"Not as yet, Contessa. Please, sit down, won't you?" Betty and Christina took the two club chairs and Tattoo came around Leslie's chair to stand beside Roarke, who also sat down. "Briefly, Miss Foster, the contessa is here for the reading of her cousin's will. Mr. Duncan Deveraux, the cousin, mysteriously disappeared from aboard his yacht one year ago; the contessa believes he was murdered."
Betty's eyes widened again. "Really!" She turned to Christina. "Why?"
"Duncan was both an expert sailor and swimmer," said Christina. "Look…during a small shipboard party, Duncan merely strolled out on deck—he's never been seen since."
"And you think someone on board that yacht for the party killed him," Betty filled in.
Christina nodded, as if slightly flustered at Betty's eagerness. "Yes, and my fantasy is to find out which one." Betty nodded. "With Mr. Roarke's help, everyone who was at the party is here on the island, for the reading of the will."
"I must interject at this moment that, um…both you ladies should realize that the closer you get to finding the possible murderer, the more your lives will be in danger," said Roarke just then.
"I can't turn back now," said Christina with quiet determination.
Roarke nodded. "And you, Miss Foster? Do you still wish to proceed?"
Betty sat up straight and lifted her chin. "Danger is my business," she announced.
Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo looked at one another with surprise; then Roarke seemed to accept this. "Well—excuse me, Tattoo," he requested as he arose to circle both his assistant and the chair Leslie still sat in. "Well, in that case, I had better explain the rest of your transformation. You see," he said to Betty, "while henceforth, you will be the contessa, the contessa will be your private secretary."
Betty looked doubtful. "But…if it's a reading of the will, there'll be relatives there. I-I-I-I mean…" she sucked in a breath— "won't they know I'm not her?"
"No, I don't think so," said Christina, shaking her head. "You see, I haven't seen any of my relatives since I was a child."
Betty thought about it for a second. "Well, I-I guess it'll work. I guess my only question is, why do we need the masquerade?"
"Yes," Roarke said and turned to Christina. "Perhaps you'd better explain."
Christina frowned. "I received two letters warning me not to show up."
"Meaning," put in Roarke, "the contessa—or in this case, anyone posing as the contessa—" Betty bit her lip, wide-eyed again. "—is liable to meet the same fate as her cousin if she shows up for the reading of the will." Betty swallowed visibly, looking very worried, and Roarke, of course, noticed. "Do you still wish to proceed, Miss Foster?"
Betty swallowed again, let her eyeballs slide from one side of the room to the other, and pushed herself to her feet with one hand. "Well, like I said…danger is my business."
Roarke nodded, looking impressed. "Very well then. We'll give you ladies time to gather your belongings, and then we'll proceed to your lodgings for the weekend."