§ § § - November 18, 1979
Breakfast was scanty, for a place as vast as this; Leslie supposed it was because the manor had been opened solely for the gathering of the beneficiaries, and since evidently none of them knew how to cook, it was everybody for himself. The cabinets were almost completely empty except for some aging cans missing their labels; she didn't trust these, and in the end raided a loaf of bread someone had brought and managed to find half a stick of butter sitting on a counter. A teakettle steamed, but she wasn't a tea drinker and ended up settling—to her pure disgust—for the remains of a bottle of wine she was sure belonged to Sylvia. It was the only thing she could stomach; the faucets spat water, but it was as rusty as what had come out of the bathroom tap the night before. She'd had to forgo rinsing her mouth after brushing her teeth. She wondered where the water for the tea had come from.
So with buttered bread and two fingers' worth of a glass of wine as her morning re-past, she went out looking for Betty and eventually located her in their shared room, along with Christina. "Oh, there you are," said Betty. She scrabbled in her purse and produced a breakfast bar, holding it out to her. "I bet you'd like one of these."
"Oh, would I—thanks!" Leslie exclaimed. "I just ate bread and butter and drank some of Sylvia's wine…yuck!" Betty and Christina both laughed, and she grinned sheepishly and settled on the bed, unwrapping the bar. "What's happening?"
"Well, seems everybody's gone except Nicky," said Betty. "He told me Sylvia's disappeared, and Blade isn't back from checking road conditions."
"Oh…I knew Sylvia was gone," said Leslie, and quickly recounted what she had seen just before going to bed. Again Betty and Christina looked at each other.
"Well, that's interesting," Betty muttered. "Anyway, I don't really know what else we can do. Do you two have any ideas?"
"Actually, I was just thinking—" Christina began, when they all heard a short, sharp yell that was silenced as quickly as it had cropped up. Quiet reigned while they gawked at one another, frozen in mid-move.
Finally Christina breathed, "That sounded like Nicky."
"We'd better go look," Betty decided. "Leslie, you stay here and finish that." Leslie was only too happy to agree, and wished them luck as they left.
She had no shame about taking her time eating the breakfast bar, even waved at Betty and Christina as they passed the doorway to investigate downstairs. Thunder rumbled out-side as she finished off the last bite, and for lack of a napkin found herself licking her fingers. She then changed out of her nightclothes, repacking her duffel just as Betty burst into the room. Leslie looked up. "Where's the contessa?"
"I don't know," Betty wailed. "We went downstairs, and one minute she was beside me…and then I told her to take my hand, and nothing happened, and I looked around and she was gone! I think you and I are the only ones left in this house!"
Leslie dropped onto the cot and sighed. "Lucky us," she grumbled. "Now what?"
"Well, staying together doesn't work, splitting up doesn't matter…we might as well start searching again. You look around up here and I'll go downstairs."
"What're we looking for?" Leslie asked.
Betty thought for a moment. "Well…see if you can find any hidden doors or…or secret trick fireplaces or bookcases. Who knows, maybe there's a false wall behind the shower stall. Just look for stuff like that."
This resulted in Leslie prowling through one richly appointed bedroom after another, pushing on every inch of wall, nudging every knickknack on every fireplace mantel, pulling random books out of bookcases—all to no avail whatsoever. The search rapidly grew tedious, but she stuck to it despite her escalating boredom, till she had finally exhausted all the possibilities and decided to join Betty downstairs.
Betty was in the foyer looking as frustrated as Leslie felt. "Any news of the contessa?" Leslie asked as she hurried down.
"No," groaned Betty and threw her hands in the air. "It's crazy! She-she can't have vanished into thin air! What's happening here? Where is everybody? Where have they all gone?" As she spoke, she grabbed Leslie's hand and pulled her into the dining room, as if she had seen something in there she needed to investigate.
"I don't know," Leslie said with conviction, "but I tell you what, I think we oughta get out of here before we disappear too."
Frantically Betty protested, "No, Leslie, we can't. I'll never be a private eye if I run away from my first case." Leslie had to concede to the truth of this, but she had no idea what to say; fortunately there was no need, for Betty straightened and ordered, "Follow me."
"Where to?" asked Leslie blankly.
Before Betty could answer, the floor gave way underneath them and they both dropped like boulders, hurtling down a wide wooden chute, both screaming all the way, till they tumbled to a halt in a pile of hay. "Contessa!" a voice exclaimed.
Betty and Leslie sat up and shook off their dazes, only to be shocked at the sight of a huge cage on the opposite wall, containing all the missing beneficiaries—Blade, Sylvia, Nicky and Christina. "What're you doing in that?" Leslie exclaimed.
"Turn around and you'll find out," said Nicky dryly, and Leslie and Betty shared one uneasy glance before a footfall sounded behind them and they scrambled around. Stepping from the shadows was none other than Algernon Pepperhill.
"Hey," Leslie blurted, "you were supposed to be dead!"
"A ruse, young lady," Pepperhill said, sauntering toward them, pointing a gun at them. "I faked my own murder so I could be free to imprison the real contessa, Mr. Blade, Miss Deveraux and her brother."
Betty's face took on an indignant look. "That's my gun you have!"
Pepperhill just glanced at it; Leslie had to ask. "Wh-what're you gonna do with it?"
"First, I'm going to cage you up with the others." Pepperhill strolled around them, never taking his eyes off them, gun raised. "Second—you, uh, you see that door there?" They looked where he indicated; there was a huge, thick stone door whose outline was barely visible in the foundation wall. "It holds back the sea. When I open it at high tide, this entire chamber will be flooded. And when the tide recedes, I'll make sure your bodies are washed out to sea and lost forever." Leslie grabbed Betty's hand, and they looked at each other again. "Just as Duncan Deveraux's body was when I pushed him off his yacht." Everyone looked at one another; no one dared speak, and the only sound was a steady, rapid dripping from somewhere in the room, as though the sea were slowly leaking in. Then Pepperhill snarled at them, "Move it!" and they were forced to retreat toward the cage.
Leslie's mind was racing, mostly with thoughts of Roarke and Tattoo, what they'd think when they figured out what had happened, and whether they'd discover it was all Pepperhill's doing; and at the same time she couldn't figure out how Pepperhill could be so heartless as to murder an innocent fourteen-year-old along with everyone else. Then Betty scattered her ruminations. "Uh…uh…just in case you're interested, Mr. Pepperhill," she blurted at a hundred miles an hour, "I know why you're doing this."
Pepperhill looked amused. "Really? Well then, let's hear your theory."
"It's not a theory, it's fact. I read the will last night—all of the fine print."
Pepperhill's expression never wavered. "So you're the one who stole the will."
Betty turned to Leslie, whose face was a mask of questions. "There's a special proviso. If all of the heirs are dead, the entire estate goes to his faithful friend, lawyer and business manager." She shot Pepperhill a fulminating look.
His face remained unchanged, but his voice sounded a little smug. "Namely me," he filled in, smiling for a brief second.
"Mr. Pepperhill, I arrest you for the murder of Duncan Deveraux!" Betty announced.
Even Leslie stared at her in disbelief, while Algernon Pepperhill threw his head back and burst out laughing. Looking really angry for the first time, Betty advanced on him; he saw her coming and raised the gun again. "Stand back or I'll shoot!"
"Be careful, Betty," Christina warned from inside the cage.
But Betty was on a roll. "Go ahead and shoot," she taunted. "That gun is loaded with blanks." When Pepperhill looked at it as if he could see through it to ascertain whether she was bluffing, she took advantage of his second of distraction and swiftly kicked the gun out of his hand. That in turn angered Pepperhill, and the next second, the two of them had gotten into an old-fashioned fight, kicking and punching, ducking behind ancient furniture and other odds and ends that sustained damage as payment for their fleeting protection, grunting and trying to get the advantage. Those in the cage kept cheering Betty on; Leslie gripped the bars and watched, well aware that Betty had to come through or they were all dead. If only Betty could get into position to work a little of her karate skill on that creep…
Pepperhill tripped Betty up and she landed on her back on the floor; but it turned out to be perfect for her, because when he advanced on her, she half sat up, grabbed him and neatly flipped him right over her head. He did a beautiful somersault and landed smack atop his head, collapsing to the floor, out cold.
They hovered for a moment, unsure of Pepperhill's condition, but he didn't move, and it finally sank in that he was unconscious. "You did it!" Leslie yelled, and ran out to give the ecstatic Betty a congratulatory hug, so relieved was she. The beneficiaries applauded, and both Leslie and Betty took comical bows, laughing along with them.
‡ ‡ ‡
About three hours later Leslie was back home, taking turns with Betty relating all that had happened that weekend. Tattoo looked as if he were going to explode with laughter when he heard about the wine; Roarke shook his head. "Now really, Leslie," he said.
"Well, I hate tea, and all the water in the pipes was rusty, and there wasn't anything else," she protested. "Why do you think I begged Mana'olana for that giant soda first thing when I got in here?"
"There was tea?" Tattoo said, and she nodded. "Where'd they get water for tea if it was rusty?"
"How should I know?" Leslie demanded, and he shrugged.
Roarke laughed. "Well, there's nothing to be done about it now. I asked several times if the family wanted provisions, but they seemed convinced that they could simply call and order takeout, so I left things as they stood. I am terribly sorry." He straightened and smiled at Betty. "It appears your fantasy was a success, Miss Foster."
"Yup," she said and beamed. "My first real case. I can't thank you enough for everything, Mr. Roarke." She glanced down at herself. "I just didn't know it was going to be so exhausting. I hope you don't mind if I head for my bungalow."
"Not at all, not at all," Roarke assured her, and smiled, watching her depart. Then he studied Leslie. "Well, we have a tank to collect."
She stared at him. "A tank? What kind of tank, a scuba tank? A fish tank?"
"An army tank," Tattoo said and smirked. "Come on, this'll be fun."
He and Roarke filled her in on the way into town. It seemed that Big Jake Farley's real fantasy was to marry Valeska DeMarco, but she had refused to see anyone after her comeback dance performance ignominiously ended in an ungraceful collapse onstage when her muscles failed. Word had come from Valeska's coach and dearest friend, Selena, that Valeska now planned to leave the island with a longtime suitor, one Todd Sinclair from Boston; and Farley was naturally desperate to prevent this.
"And we're using a tank to stop him?" Leslie asked, not getting the connection. "How in the world is that supposed to work?"
"Watch," Roarke said. She shrugged and loitered beside him in the alley while Tattoo climbed into the tank and he and Farley made themselves comfortable inside. The street on which the theater was located seemed deserted for some reason; Leslie supposed Roarke had sent everyone elsewhere for a while.
Then they heard a car approach and Roarke glanced around the corner; it was a dark limo. He signaled at the tank, and it immediately rumbled into the street, where it stopped, blocking both sides of the road. The limo pulled up in front of it and a white-haired man with a mustache popped out of the backseat, protesting. A short argument ensued before the strains of a lively but elegant musical composition emanated from the theater.
Valeska DeMarco sat up and stared out the back window; Roarke went over to confer with her, then escorted her from the car and watched her disappear inside. After this, there was a long wait; Leslie ended up tapping her foot to the music, and finally Sinclair muttered something objectionable and stalked into the building after her. "Sheesh," Leslie groaned, "what's taking so long?"
She got her answer about thirty seconds later when Sinclair stumbled out of the building, wearing a broken bass drum around his torso. Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo gaped at him; then Roarke murmured an excuse and went into the theater himself. Tattoo climbed out of the tank and started to apologize, but Sinclair just waved him off and worked his way out of the drum, then demanded to be taken to the plane then and there.
A few minutes later Valeska, Selena and Farley emerged; the cowboy and the dancer were arm in arm, and Leslie grinned. "Well, good," she said.
"Good?" repeated Tattoo with interest. "Why do you say that?"
"Sinclair's no Bostonian," she scoffed. "He doesn't even have the right accent!" Tattoo gave her a look, then burst out laughing.
§ § § - November 19, 1979
"Well, Mr. Roarke, I guess I'm not cut out to be a detective," Betty Foster admitted reluctantly Monday morning. Leslie blinked at her in amazement.
"Oh, perhaps you're being too hard on yourself, Miss Foster," Roarke said.
"No I'm not. I mean, when a girl can't even hold onto her own gun, it's time to hang it up. But at least I can get my old job back." She seemed almost happy about it.
"What was your old job?" asked Leslie with interest.
"I was a counter girl at a fast-food franchise called the Hippity Hot Dog," said Betty.
Nicky sauntered up from behind them while Leslie pondered the fact that she'd never heard of the place. "Well, isn't that a coincidence. My brother Duncan was majority stock-holder in Hippity Hot Dog." On Betty's surprised reaction, he went on, "That's right, and I'll be taking over the company now. Y'know, the trouble is, I need someone with experience to help me learn the ropes…um, would you be interested?" He looked at Betty, who hesitated, and suggested, "We could talk it over in the air." She agreed, and off they went to the plane together, leaving their hosts grinning broadly.
The second rover discharged Selena, Valeska and a radiant B.J. Farley; Roarke greeted them with a question. "Where are the two of you headed, if I may ask?"
"To eight 'n' plum," Farley said, beaming.
Their hosts looked at one another. "Eight and plum?" repeated Roarke blankly.
Valeska grinned. "That's eight miles outside of Dallas," she drawled, "and plum into the most beautiful countryside you have ever laid your eyes on!" Chuckling, they each shook hands with Selena; Leslie cast a squinty glance at Valeska and wondered where that Texas accent had suddenly come from. She wanted to say something about Todd Sinclair's non-existent Boston pedigree, but decided not to bother and to save it to tell her friends about later on. Selena, meantime, bid Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie farewell, pausing when Big Jake stepped up to Roarke.
"Thanks, Mr. Roarke, for makin' my fantasy last the rest of my life. Y'know somethin'?" He gave Roarke a friendly clout in the upper arm. "You're a good ol' boy!"
Roarke smiled, a little dubiously, and said, "Thank you, Mr. Farley."
"See ya later, Tattoo," Farley added, clubbing him in the arm as he strode by; Leslie ducked back before the big Texan could clip her one too. Tattoo clutched his arm, rubbing the spot where Big Jake had cuffed him.
"Bet I have a bruise there tomorrow," he muttered. But Leslie noticed that he still managed to wave a final goodbye at their departing guests. "Those people from Texas have some strange expressions. Are they all like that?"
Leslie flipped her palms skyward. "Don't ask me. I've never been to Texas."
"Oh." Tattoo stared at her as if he didn't know whether to believe her, and Roarke let out a laugh.
"Enough," he said. "You need to get off to school, Leslie, and Tattoo, I have quite a list of errands for you to run." Tattoo sighed and headed off for the car that had pulled around to pick them up, with Leslie's schoolbooks and purse in the backseat. She paused to address her guardian, half in and half out of the car.
"How do you think I did, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.
He smiled at her. "I think you performed admirably, young lady," he said with an affectionate smile. "You even refrained from asking Miss DeMarco for her autograph."
Leslie turned bright red, enough that he noticed. "Well…" she mumbled. "Actually, she gave it to me last night right after she and Mr. Farley and Selena had supper with us."
Roarke shook his head. "Leslie, Leslie," he chided, but she could see the smile tugging at his lips. "Off to school with you." She grinned and settled herself into the car.
§ § § - June 25, 2008
Quite a lot of laughter had passed through, primarily at the Texan, before the story was over, but Leslie had generated enough mirth with her own tale to feel rather pleased with herself. "Well," she said, "anyone have another one in mind?"
"You're enjoying this," Carl Johan remarked in surprise. "You and Mr. Roarke have to do an insane amount of talking in describing these incidents, but you don't seem to mind."
"Well, you're enjoying it too," Leslie pointed out with a grin, "so everybody wins, right?" Carl Johan chuckled and agreed, and she glanced around.
"You know what? I always wondered about the property that Russell St. Anthony willed to me," Maureen said slowly. "I remember that for years there was an old, boarded-up, tumbledown chateau there, even before I met St. Anthony and he bought the place and left it to me in his will…and there was that time you ended up meeting Teppo's ghost in the cellar lab in there." Leslie and Christian both noticed the glances his siblings and their spouses threw her, and she smiled. Oblivious, Maureen mused on: "For that matter, I happen to recall that haughty British boy who broke in to retrieve what he insisted was an old family heirloom of some sort, and we had to go in after him without telling Mr. Roarke." Surprised looks rounded the room and she blinked, sitting up straight. "Oops…did I say something I shouldn't have?"
Leslie laughed. "I came clean to Father a few years ago, finally, so don't worry about it. I know what you're talking about. It was quite a weekend. I wasn't involved with the fantasy that took place in the chateau, but I heard enough about it that it made me glad I wasn't allowed to have any hand in it."
"If you weren't involved in that fantasy, which one were you involved in?" Tabitha asked. "Let's face it, I didn't have the privilege of eating lunch with you in high school, so all these stories are completely new to me."
"Well then, in that case, enjoy," offered Roarke whimsically, and on the laughter, he and Leslie settled down for some more narration.