§ § § - February 7, 1981
Leslie got her first sense of something dire when Roarke's expression shifted from welcoming to something like a combination of disbelief, resignation and disapproval. "So she came after all," he murmured, half to himself, watching the slender woman with a shiny cap of dark hair and a cheerfully brisk mien step out onto the dock.
"Who is she, boss?" Tattoo asked.
"Miss Vicky Lee, a very capable journalist, whose fantasy is to spend the weekend as a guest of the famous silent-film star Claude Duncan. Next to Valentino, he was the greatest matinee idol of his day."
"Is he the same Claude Duncan who built a chateau here on Fantasy Island?" asked Tattoo, looking slightly skeptical.
"The very same, Tattoo, and he still lives there, alone," Roarke said.
"Get out of here," scoffed Leslie. "If he was a rival for Rudolph Valentino, he must be way past ninety by now. For that matter, he ought to be dead."
Roarke smiled wryly. "People have been known to live past their centenary birthdays, Leslie," he pointed out, and she shrugged. "Although you're correct; I believe Claude Duncan was born in 1883."
"If he's so old, why should a beautiful young lady want to go there?" asked Tattoo.
"Miss Lee plans to write a biography of her beloved grandmother, the beautiful and tragic actress Becky Lee."
"Oh, I see—Claude Duncan knew Becky, right?" prompted Tattoo.
"Very well indeed, Tattoo; they starred together in several films—classics now—and in real life, they became lovers. And then…" Roarke stared at Vicky Lee, his eyes losing focus. "Becky Lee died a most mysterious death. And I am very much afraid that Miss Lee's probing into the past may place her in a present danger more frightening than she can imagine."
Leslie smiled. "Well, isn't probing what journalists do best?"
Roarke flicked her a glance that made her smile die, and she hunched her shoulders, letting her gaze slide back to the dock. This time a whole group of people emerged from the plane's hatch one by one, all of them silent and looking grim, splitting into two distinct camps as they filed down the dock and into the clearing. "Boss, they look like the Hatfields and the McCoys," Tattoo remarked.
Roarke grinned, relieving Leslie. "Close, Tattoo, close. The very attractive young lady is Miss Ruthanne MacAllister." This was the fresh-faced, dark-eyed blonde in front. "With her are her two brothers, Amos—" a tall pale-blond young man who took a few moments to ogle the native girls— "and Otis—" a grim light-brown-haired man who seemed focused on one thing only— "and their aunt, Miss Chlora MacAllister, leader of the MacAllister clan." The woman in question, somewhere in her late forties or early fifties with a pageboy haircut and thin, gloomy features, waved away the offer of a drink and stepped down to join her niece and nephews.
"What about the other bunch?" inquired Tattoo.
"The young man is Mr. R.J. Scoggins," said Roarke, indicating a denim-clad, smiling black-haired guy who tipped his hat at the native girls. "His brother, Bobby Joe, and their uncle, Mr. Norris Scoggins, leader of their clan." Both Bobby Joe and Norris looked as grim as Otis MacAllister, peering suspiciously around them as if expecting more MacAllisters to pop out of the bushes and gun them down or some such thing. "They are all from Eagle Mountain, Tennessee, and the two clans have a long history of feuding and bloodshed. The two clan leaders, Miss Chlora MacAllister and Mr. Norris Scoggins, have both requested the same fantasy."
"Which would be what?" Leslie asked with interest.
"That their respective clans be the first to find a legendary homemade whiskey called White Lightning, and acquire exclusive rights to the recipe for this wondrous nectar."
Tattoo was scowling in perplexity. "But boss, how can you give the same fantasy to both of them?"
"As usual, Tattoo, in your most penetrating manner," said Roarke, making Tattoo smirk with self-satisfaction, "you have placed your finger on the heart of a most dangerous and explosive situation."
The penultimate word caught Leslie's attention. "I hope that's not literally explosive," she hinted direly, for which all she got was a little smile from Roarke before his drink arrived and he toasted their latest guests in welcome.
Back at the main house, Leslie fielded a phone call, very much to her surprise; her friends all knew perfectly well that she spent all weekend working, and if they happened to see one another, it was always whenever Leslie was out and about for whatever reason. She took the receiver from Roarke when he handed it to her, and nodded when he added, "Make it short if you can, please, Leslie."
"Okay. Hello?" she spoke into the phone.
"Hi, it's me, Myeko. I know I'm probably intruding, but—sorry, I mean, I just have to know. I heard something about that journalist Vicky Lee coming to the island to do an interview or something with Claude Duncan, the old silent-movie star. Is it true?"
Leslie cast an uncertain glance in Roarke's direction; he and Tattoo were both organizing paperwork lying on the desk so that she could help tackle it later, but she knew that neither was so absorbed that he wasn't listening. "Well…yeah, but why do you want to know? I mean…I didn't even know about that."
"Oh, you know me—drama classes, ancient movies…it's just funny 'cause Mom and I saw this doddery old silent thing on late-night TV last night, and we kept laughing because it just looked so funny. At the end there was an interview with Vicky Lee, and she said she was making a trip here in early February to talk to Claude Duncan for some book she's planning to write. This is early February, so…"
Leslie snickered loudly, unable to help herself. "Yeah, okay, it's true, but geez—don't tell anyone, okay? She just got here, and besides, she has a fantasy—so remember, I can't tell you anything right now. Rules are rules."
"Oh, I know," Myeko said airily, "and I promise I'll wait till Monday for the details. But man—is Claude Duncan really still alive? He must be a thousand years old by now."
"No, but according to Mr. Roarke, he's something like 97 or 98," said Leslie, and heard her friend whistle on the other end. "Tattoo said he built a chateau on the island, but I don't know where it is." She caught a warning look from Roarke then and cleared her throat. "Um, I have to go. I'm getting the eagle eye."
"Okay. Talk to ya later," said Myeko amiably, and Leslie said goodbye and hung up.
"Eagle eye?" Roarke repeated, brows raised.
Leslie shrugged. "Well, I could've said the hairy eyeball, but that doesn't sound very dignified, does it?" At that Tattoo laughed, and Roarke threw him a squelching look, but Leslie knew he wasn't really angry. "So Mr. Roarke, where's the chateau?"
"It's in the Enclave, but well removed from it," Roarke said. "You'll see once we arrive there with Miss Lee. Excuse me, I'd better phone her and see if she's ready."
Within half an hour they were on their way to the chateau with Vicky Lee in tow; as she often did when there was time to kill while taking guests to some other part of the island, Leslie found herself talking a bit about how she had come to be Roarke's ward, how she liked living here and what she did to help her guardian. When that petered out, Roarke asked about Vicky's career and family; Vicky was single and an only child, it turned out, and her elderly parents still lived in the same house where she had grown up. "I've combed my poor father's memory I don't know how many times for stories about my grandmother," she said, laughing. "The more I heard, the more fascinating she sounded."
"I'm sure," Roarke agreed, turning into the lane that led into the Enclave where the island's mansions had been built. There were about ten or twelve of them, widely spaced because of their extensive grounds, dotting both sides of the lane. Leslie kept expecting the car to turn into one or another driveway, but about halfway up, Roarke instead piloted the rover down a side lane, wide enough for only one car. "Wow," she said, "I didn't know this was here. I guess for some reason I never saw it."
"Claude Duncan built his chateau at the far end of this lane," said Roarke. Conversation dropped off after that while the odometer clicked off almost exactly two miles and Leslie and Vicky peered into the jungle that lined both sides.
"This is my grandmother, Becky Lee, as she appeared in the movie classic Love and Desire," Vicky explained, removing a laminated movie poster from her bag and handing it up front to Tattoo. He unrolled it, and Leslie peered over his shoulder at the two figures drawn in pastel chalks against a lavender-gray background. Across the top was the legend, "Together for the first time" in quotation marks, with each actor's name in a corner. Leslie could see that the portrait of Becky Lee bore some superficial resemblance to her granddaughter; Vicky had certainly inherited Becky's dark hair.
"It was a tragedy she died so young," remarked Roarke gravely.
"Well, I never knew her, of course, but my parents have told me all about her," Vicky reminded him. "That's why I have to know why she died—why?"
"I understand how you feel, Miss Lee," Roarke said. "Obviously, you did not get my telegram advising you against coming."
"Oh, I got it all right, Mr. Roarke," Vicky said. "But what can possibly be dangerous about an octogenarian former movie actor?"
"Nonagenarian, actually," ventured Leslie, catching Vicky's surprised look; she tossed Roarke a glance, and he nodded confirmation.
Tattoo twisted around from the front seat. "No matter how old he is, he's more than just that, Miss Lee."
"Tattoo is right," said Roarke. "There is a great deal you don't know about Mr. Duncan, and not just his age. For instance, he has lived in total seclusion for the last fifty years."
"Then it's about time he had a visitor," said Vicky, refusing to be dissuaded. "Besides, I already sent him a letter saying I was coming."
Roarke threw her an alarmed look before his features settled into harder lines. "I could forbid you to go near his chateau, Miss Lee," he said darkly. "But as you can see, I haven't; therefore, I am granting you your fantasy."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Roarke. And you won't have to worry about me—I can take care of myself," Vicky said confidently.
"I sincerely hope so, Miss Lee," was all Roarke had to say to that. Vicky looked a bit puzzled, but shrugged it off and peered ahead of them.
They came unexpectedly into a huge swath of cleared, landscaped territory that straddled both sides of the lane. To the left, there was a pretty, if untended, meadow, from the top of which the ocean was visible in the distance. On the right, the north side, the land sloped upward, the heavy woods split by a well-tended paved driveway that curved gently up to a wall with an iron gate in it. Leslie couldn't fathom that: if Claude Duncan never went anywhere, why bother paving the drive? She shook her head to herself.
The chateau itself was enormous, easily the biggest structure in the Enclave. "All that for just one person?" Leslie muttered, astounded. Roarke only smiled at her.
The car stopped and he stepped out, helping Vicky out after him. "You may encounter certain…phenomena here which will assuredly force you to call upon all of your reserve of courage," Roarke informed her quietly, giving her her bag. "Good luck, Miss Lee."
"Thank you," she replied, and Roarke got back into the car, which backed out of the way. Leslie watched Vicky as long as she could, while the journalist approached the tall iron bars at the entry and pushed open the gate in the middle. The car rounded a curve then and swallowed Vicky Lee from her view.
Then Leslie remembered something she had caught a quick glimpse of inside the gate, just before the car had begun moving. "Mr. Roarke," she ventured, and when she had his attention, said, "I saw some kind of statue in there, and I could swear it was looking right at me—and with glowing red eyes, too! What is that thing?"
Roarke gave her a sharp look, studied her closely, and asked in a low, intense voice, "Will you please describe that statue to me as closely as you can?"
"I didn't see it for very long," Leslie admitted, "but I thought it was really ugly. It was posing like this." She thought for a second, then lifted both arms almost over her head in what felt to her like a contrived ballet pose. "I think it was standing on four legs, and it had this nasty devilish-looking face. And I think it had a beard, or maybe a little pointed chin, I'm not sure which."
"Did you see whether it had horns?" Roarke asked.
"No, I couldn't tell," she said.
He nodded a couple of times and settled back in the seat. "I see. Unless I miss my guess, that was a statue of the Greek god Pan. Half man, half goat."
"And all hideous," injected Leslie, which got her a laugh from Roarke. "I hope the other fantasy doesn't have that kind of weird mythology in it."
"The Scoggins-MacAllister fantasy carries its own dangers," Roarke observed with some amusement, "but I daresay they are of a much more earthly sort. I have quite a weekend planned for those two clans."
When they finally got back to the main house, they were just in time to see the MacAllister and Scoggins clans crossing the lane toward the porch, once again in two distinct groups, each warily eyeing the other. Roarke ushered Leslie and Tattoo out of the car and nodded to the clan leaders on the way in; Leslie, at almost sixteen nearly fully grown, found herself the uncomfortable target of several sets of young male eyes. She fastened her gaze stubbornly to the back of Roarke's white suit coat all the way into the study.
Once inside, Leslie realized that only the leaders, Norris Scoggins and Chlora MacAllister, along with her niece Ruthanne and his nephew R.J., had actually come in with them. Roarke suggested everyone sit down, but only the clan leaders did; so he launched right into their meeting. "First, let me assure all of you that there is such a brew as—" he popped the top off a stone jug, perhaps purely for effect— "White Lightning." He took in the looks on their faces, then smiled. "Perhaps a sip—a drop or two to roll upon the tongue, to savor." He playfully rolled the R in roll, which made Leslie grin broadly and got an answering smile from pretty Ruthanne MacAllister. Roarke dealt out small cups of the brew to Chlora and Norris. "A promise of things to come," he concluded.
Chlora drained her cup and assessed it as if it were fine wine, then swallowed and said without inflection, "That's good."
Norris took a quick sip, swallowed and nodded. "That's somethin'," he agreed.
Roarke took back the little cups. "I have given a great deal of thought to your individually arrived at, but identical fantasies; and I have decided upon what I sincerely hope you will accept as an equitable and fair solution."
"Mr. Roarke," said Norris Scoggins then, "I've found I can judge a man just like I can a hot dog—by the set of his teeth and the look of his eye. You got a good set of both."
Tattoo's face was screwed up in a thoroughly perplexed look; Leslie just sat there and stared with her mouth open, first at Scoggins, then at Roarke, who merely said, "Thank you, Mr. Scoggins," before trading a faintly dubious glance with his assistant and his ward.
"I say the proof of the puddin' is in the eatin'," spoke up Chlora then, drawing all their attention. "What's this here solution o'yours, Mr. Roarke?"
"A contest, if you will, Ms. MacAllister," Roarke said, lifting a rolled-up parchment off the desk. He unrolled it. "This map shows the exact location of the remote area where the still which produces the White Lightning is located. I am now tearing it in two," he said, matching action to words, "in such a way that you will both be able to find the still—with some difficulty, naturally, but not so that either of you will have an advantage over the other." He set down the two halves of the map on the desktop.
"Sounds fair to me," offered R.J. Scoggins.
"Couldn't be fairer," Ruthanne MacAllister piped up.
"Thank you," said Roarke, while Leslie noticed R.J. and Ruthanne slant each other looks and shy smiles. "Of course," he went on, apparently oblivious, "if your two clans were to join forces…share the map together…you could both immediately share in whatever rewards the recipe of the elixir might bring you."
Leslie could see already that this idea found no merit with Chlora and Norris, though R.J. and Ruthanne looked ready to endorse it. Each with his or her own agenda, they stepped forward, all talking at once in an attempt to put forth their opinions. Leslie bit her lip; Tattoo edged a little closer to Roarke. "Boss, I think we better get ready to go right away," he advised.
"Perhaps you're right, Tattoo," Roarke mused, considered it a second or two, then settled back and leveled his guests with a gaze that silenced them then and there. "You will find that the still is tended by an old gentleman who will be sole witness to the winner; his proclamation will be final." As he spoke, R.J. and Ruthanne eyed each other again; this time their elders took note and Chlora glared in disapproval, while Norris gave R.J. a none-too-discreet elbow in the chest. "Tattoo and Leslie and I will meet you at the waterfall in one hour," Roarke continued, checking his watch. "At that time, I will give each clan its share of the map, and see to it that the contest is off to a fair start, huh?"
"We'll be there," Norris announced, almost belligerently, then turned to R.J. "C'mon, boy." He herded his nephew toward the foyer.
"We'll be there too," said Chlora. She started to leave, then turned around, pointed at Roarke and warned, "See at'cher on time!" Having dropped that ultimatum, she grabbed Ruthanne and pulled her out in her wake.
Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie stared at her and then at each other while their guests took their leave; then Roarke sat down. Stewing, Leslie demanded, "Who does she think she is, anyway—you, Mr. Roarke?" At that Roarke could only laugh.
But before anyone could move or speak any further, there was the carom of a gunshot from outside, and a voice hollered, "It's the MacAllisters—run for cover!" Leslie flinched at the shots; Roarke sat up straight and Tattoo rolled his eyes.
"This puts a new spin on things," Roarke remarked darkly. "I'll have to do something about that when we meet the clan." He caught Leslie's spooked look. "Don't worry, Leslie. They will know soon enough exactly who really is in charge around here." With that he winked at her, and she grinned, reassured.
‡ ‡ ‡
Roarke pulled no punches at the waterfall an hour later. "I am exceedingly disappointed and angry," he stormed in front of the Scoggins men, none of whom looked particularly remorseful. "I will not tolerate the use of firearms on Fantasy Island! And I assure you that I will not accept an innocent expression on your faces either as an excuse or as a promise of your good conduct henceforth." He strode over to where Tattoo and Leslie stood waiting with a trio of constables from town; with one look, he gave the cops permission to do what they must. Leslie and Tattoo watched with increasing astonishment and disbelief, Roarke with the same grim glare on his face, while each of the MacAllister boys was summarily relieved of at least four guns apiece.
Chlora seemed offended. "Now looky here, Mr. Roarke, I want you to know I don't hold with no ambushin'!"
"Wadn't my idea," Norris retorted. "First shot prett' near took my foot off!"
"That's right, that Otis was tryin'a cripple him!" Bobby Joe accused.
Otis folded his arms over his chest. "I don't miss that close," he said. "Amos can't hit the side of a barn."
"I'd'a winged him, but he was movin'," muttered Amos, to Otis' agreement.
Roarke had clearly had enough. "Silence!" he snapped, making Leslie jump and all heads whip around to stare at him. "Everyone." Regaining his composure, he offered a patently false smile. "Now, you will start by divergent trails. Using these pieces of the map, and a little trial and error, each group will in due time find the mountain and the still; the first one to do so will be the winner." He had given both halves of the map to Leslie as he spoke, preparatory to having her present each clan with one side; but at that point Otis, Amos and Bobby Joe headed directly for her to claim the pieces, and she backed off a couple of steps in alarmed response. Roarke came to her rescue. "No, no, no, no, please—step back," he requested. "Please, will you?" They backed off and he nodded once. "Thank you. No, I believe I will have Leslie put the maps into the safekeeping of Miss Chlora MacAllister—" At his gesture, Leslie handed Chlora one of the map halves. "—and Mr. Norris Scoggins." Upon which Leslie edged nervously past Otis and Amos—both of whom scanned her from head to toe with faint but obvious leers—and presented the remaining half to Norris. Norris looked at the girl with a frown, then turned the expression on Roarke.
"That all there is to it?" he wanted to know.
"That's all there is to it," confirmed Roarke. "And of course, I expect the contest to be held in the spirit of fair play and sportsmanlike conduct." He noticed Otis and Amos looking Leslie over once more as she retreated to join Tattoo, and gave them a severe look that made both men shrug at each other. "Good luck," he said a bit coolly, and escorted Leslie and Tattoo off to the rover that waited nearby in the road. Leslie glanced nervously back, then found herself watching as R.J. and Ruthanne cast longing looks and smiles at each other. She also noticed that Bobby Joe saw it, collared his brother and had some words with him, too low for Leslie to hear. She shook her head and hurried to catch up.
"See something back there?" Tattoo asked.
She climbed into the car. "Well…it looks like there's this Romeo and Juliet thing going on between R.J. and Ruthanne. I mean, haven't you seen them making cow eyes at each other every time we're around them? And I think R.J.'s brother's jealous."
"That," said Roarke, voice crisp with weariness born of the MacAllister boys' antics, "is their problem now, I am afraid. They know the rules, so they cannot claim ignorance of either said rules or general island law should they break them. At the moment I have other things that more urgently need attendance."
"Like the way Otis and Amos were looking at me, maybe?" suggested Leslie and shuddered. "Ugh! Couple of sexist pigs!"
Tattoo snickered, and Roarke threw a surprised, amused glance back at her. "Then you should be more than happy that they will be otherwise occupied for the rest of the weekend, hm? As I said, other things need our attention right now."
"Like Miss Lee," Tattoo said gravely.
"Especially Miss Lee," Roarke concurred, frowning. "I have an idea as to how to contact her, but I am not entirely sure it will work."
At the main house, he employed a couple of brawny young natives to help move the TV set from the spare room upstairs, where it was rarely watched anyway (except by Leslie trying to tune in to King's Castle episodes on Saturday evenings), to a table that Leslie and Tattoo dragged into position in front of Roarke's desk. Roarke dismissed the natives with thanks, then carefully adjusted the antenna on the set till it was pointing more or less in the direction of the Enclave. Ushering Leslie and Tattoo to one side with a wave, he clicked the set on, took his chair behind his desk and sat perfectly still, staring at the TV screen with a fierce intensity that should have bored laser holes through it. She looked at Tattoo, who shook his head and put a finger to his lips.
Suddenly a picture washed into life on the screen; it was a surprised Vicky Lee. "Mr. Roarke!" she exclaimed.
"Please forgive this somewhat unusual intrusion, Miss Lee," Roarke said. "Unfortunately, it's the only way I can reach you. I wanted to make certain you're all right."
"Perfectly fine, thank you," said Vicky with a shrug and a smile.
"I'm relieved to hear that. But we may not have much time. May I ask…" he hesitated just a moment— "what is your first impression of Mr. Claude Duncan?"
"I haven't met him yet, but I find his grandson charming," Vicky said with a smile.
Roarke looked puzzled. "His grandson?"
"Ah," Vicky remarked with a grin, "you see, there are things that even you don't know. My book is gonna be sensational; and doing the research just may turn out to be the most exciting part of all."
Roarke looked grimly at her. "Miss Lee, I assure you, Mr. Duncan has no grandson."
"But I've just been with him," protested Vicky. "We had a wonderful, unexpected time together."
"You must not commit yourself in any way," Roarke warned earnestly. "Above all, you must not become emotionally involved with this man—your very life depends on it. In the morning, I will try to establish contact with you again, so that at that time, we can determine the best way to extricate you from Mr. Duncan's…" He trailed off as the picture clouded over and finally dissolved into an electronic blizzard. Then the screen went black, as if someone had shut off the set.
"What happened?" Leslie asked.
Roarke drew in a breath and released it in a long sigh. "That was my last hope of staying in contact with Miss Lee." He glanced at her and Tattoo, then frowned and said quietly, "I fear Claude Duncan is responsible."
"How?" Leslie persisted.
Roarke shook his head. "I'll try to explain later if I can. Right now I think we'd better have something to eat; it's been a long morning."
Leslie ate lunch quickly, hoping her guardian would take the hint and dispatch his own meal in a timely manner so she could get her questions answered that much sooner. He seemed to realize what she was doing, for he smiled knowingly at her a few times as the meal progressed. Finally Tattoo advised laughingly, "Forget it, Leslie—the boss is onto you. You'll just have to be patient."
"As you've probably noticed," Leslie drawled, "I'm not too good at patience."
"Indeed," Roarke said dryly. "All in due time, my dear Leslie."