§ § § -- February 22, 1981
The high-stakes horse race between Emmett Latham and Amelia Selby was scheduled to begin at two o'clock Sunday afternoon. Roarke drove Leslie down to the stables while Tattoo went back to the rehearsal area to do some more sketches of the dancers; Leslie was sure he was hoping to see Solange Latignon again while he was there, though after his revelations about Mark Ellison's untimely interruption of their dinner, she had a feeling the man might actively try to keep Solange and Tattoo apart. Aware there was nothing she personally could do, she had agreed to accompany Roarke to the stables, with some reluctance owing to her expressed wish to tell Ellison off.
They found Jerome Pepper loitering beside a stall, looking dejected. "Hello, Mr. Pepper," Roarke greeted him. "Why so forlorn? Don't tell me Miss Latham failed to notice you again!"
Pepper snorted. "Oh no, no, she noticed me all right, and for a moment I thought she was even glad to see me. But then she backed off again, like always. I can't make her out, Mr. Roarke. And I'm beginning to think I was a fool to hope that a poised, sophisticated department-store heiress like Thalia Latham could ever be interested in the likes of me."
Before Roarke could comment, a female voice cried out, "Mr. Pepper!" It was none other than Thalia Latham herself, rushing to meet them; she looked frantic. "The Professor—he's gone! He's supposed to be waiting at the finish line to make sure Pomona Prince finishes the race!" They all looked around to where the race was to begin and end; sure enough, Professor Oats was nowhere in sight.
Roarke extracted his gold pocket watch. "You have precisely thirty-two minutes in which to find him; then I must start the race as agreed," he told them with just a touch of regret. "I'm sorry. Will you excuse us?" He glanced at Leslie, who cast a glance over her shoulder at Pepper and Thalia before following as bidden. Unable to keep from feeling sorry for their guests, she continued to watch them over her shoulder; after some conferring, they ran off as one toward the stables.
Finally she voiced her curiosity in what was meant to be a rhetorical question. "Wonder what happened?"
"A pertinent question. What do you think happened?" Roarke countered unexpectedly.
Distinctly surprised by his question, Leslie stared blankly back at him for a long moment, then blinked and got her brain back in gear. "Well, the Professor disappeared right before the race," she began slowly, "and there's only so much time for him to be found. Everybody involved in this thing probably knows about his influence on Pomona Prince by now, don't they?"
"That's a reasonable conclusion," Roarke agreed encouragingly.
"That would obviously include the opposition," Leslie went on, thinking out loud. "Amelia Selby and anybody who's part of her entourage. So it makes sense that one of them had something to do with the Professor's disappearance."
Roarke nodded. "Particularly as the stakes have now been doubled to two hundred thousand dollars. Very good, Leslie," he approved.
"Isn't there anything we can do about it?" she asked, just as they passed a tree beneath which Amelia Selby and one of her stable hands happened to be standing. She missed their presence, but Roarke noted that he and Leslie were within their earshot, and spoke as much for their benefit as for his ward's, well aware that they were eavesdropping none too discreetly.
"We might suspect we know who did it," he said, "and we could even point a finger with reasonable certainty that we are correct; but there is no proof, so under that circumstance, we can do nothing."
"Huh," Leslie said and then remembered the previous day, grinning up at him. "I tell you what though, I hope he's already had his daily ice-cream cone, or else that's gonna be one angry horse."
Roarke chuckled. "Indeed," he agreed, ushering her along out of the earshot of the nearby listeners. He smiled to himself; that should give them something to worry about. "Ah, there's Mr. Latham. I need to speak with him for a few moments."
Having done so, they retreated to the rehearsal stage, which seemed deserted at the moment. "What're we doing here?" Leslie asked.
"Looking for someone…ah, there she is now. Mademoiselle?" Solange, just crossing the stage with a costume on a hanger in one hand, paused to watch Roarke and Leslie approach her. "My name is Roarke; I am a friend of Tattoo's. This is Leslie Hamilton, my ward, and she regards him as a sort of uncle to her."
"How do you do, sir and miss?" Solange responded with a smile.
"Very well, thank you." Roarke paused a moment and studied her. "Uh…today is Tattoo's birthday. I'm planning a surprise for him, and I was hoping to arrange a little party, with your help." Solange brightened at that.
"It probably won't be all that little," Leslie confessed with a shy grin. "A lot of Mr. Roarke's employees know Tattoo and they want to be there for the party. We've already got the cake on order and some of the native girls are decorating the patio at the main house. But we thought you'd like to be in on the celebration."
"Yes," Roarke agreed. "He enjoys your company very much."
Surprise flitted across Solange's features. "Did he tell you that?"
"Oh yes, yes," Roarke assured her.
"I see," she said and studied him thoughtfully. "The three of you must be very close."
Roarke smiled and nodded. "He's a very dear friend…and a fine person. We'd like his birthday to be a very, very special occasion."
Solange nodded agreement, eyes alight. "I'll help in any way I can."
Roarke started to thank her; then he spotted movement over her shoulder, and Leslie looked past Solange to see Tattoo just starting down the entryway between the pillars. "Oh, here he comes now. We'll talk later, huh? And thank you." Solange smiled at them as they hastily took themselves out of sight.
"Boy, I guess we're lucky we caught her," Leslie remarked.
"More than you know. We'd better get back to the stables, there are only fifteen minutes till the start of the race." Roarke led her back to the Ring Road, where a car awaited them, and drove to the stables, which were quiet at the moment except for the occasional whinny in the distance. The race course was beginning to attract spectators, and Satin Duke and his jockey were already under the banner that signaled the start and finish line, waiting.
"Mr. Roarke!" someone yelled, and they paused as Jerome Pepper and Thalia Latham, both looking a little desperate, ran up to them. "Please, help us! How can we find the Professor before Thalia has to forfeit the race?"
"Oh, I am so sorry," Roarke said. "I wish I could oblige. Well, let me think, let me think. He can't be far away; there must be some way to find him."
As he was speaking the last few words, the tinkling music heralding the ice-cream truck wafted to their ears. Leslie broke in, "The ice-cream man's here!"
Roarke looked at her in somewhat exaggerated surprise and then glanced around; sure enough, the big white panel truck was approaching over the nearby pasture. "Oh, what a pity," he remarked with sham sorrow. "The Professor's going to miss his daily treat." He eyed Pepper and Thalia sidelong. "Tutti-frutti."
Pepper lit up as though a cartoon lightbulb had burst into life over his head. "Tutti-frutti!" he blurted. Grabbing Thalia's arm, he urged her along with a frantic "Come on!" and made for the panel truck. Thalia broke into a run to keep up with him; Roarke and Leslie watched while they pulled open the driver's side door and Thalia crawled in first, Pepper leaping in after her and slamming the door scant seconds before throwing the vehicle into gear. The driver had been rummaging around in the back and was nearly yanked off his feet by the sudden forward motion of his truck. Leslie gasped and began giggling.
"Hey! Come back! What're you doing? I've been hijacked!" the driver hollered, vainly pursuing his commandeered truck. Roarke started to laugh softly, then slid an arm around his ward's shoulders and guided her along towards the race course. There they joined up with Emmett Latham and Amelia Selby, both of whom looked quite confident in the race's outcome. Leslie, studying the expression on Mrs. Selby's face, was more convinced than ever that she was behind Professor Oats' disappearance.
After a few minutes Amelia Selby showed Roarke her watch and announced, "It's almost post time."
Roarke spared her one faintly irritated glance and said coolly, "Yes, Mrs. Selby, I'm quite aware of that." He broadened his gaze to include Latham. "Let us be certain you both understand the rules. The first leg of this race will be cross-country, over two miles. The horses will turn at the mile mark and head for the finish line." So saying, he accepted their nods and started in that direction with Leslie a few steps behind.
As a result, she was still close enough to hear when Amelia Selby remarked smugly, "Well, one of them will, anyway." Latham gave her an odd look, and Leslie now was certain it was Mrs. Selby's fault that Professor Oats had vanished. She shook her head disgustedly and ran to catch up with Roarke, reaching him just as he stopped beside one of the posts that held up the banner demarcating the starting point. A long red ribbon was strung from one post to the other at about chest level; Roarke now grasped the near end of the ribbon and gave a hefty yank, sending the far end sailing toward him. The horses instantly leaped into action and galloped away toward a small rise in the green pasture.
Once the horses topped it and tore out of sight down the other side, Roarke led Leslie back to where Latham and Mrs. Selby were waiting beside each other, standing behind a white wooden railing setting off the course from the spectators. Both department-store owners were now intently focusing with binoculars on the rise where the horses had disappeared. It took some five minutes before they saw anything; Latham let out a whoop when he saw which horse had emerged first. "Come on, Prince, baby!" he yelled and grinned smugly at Mrs. Selby, who cast him a confident smile in return. Roarke and Leslie watched them in silence; she had told him on the way to the finish line what she had overheard Mrs. Selby say, though he hadn't commented on it.
"The race isn't over yet, Emmett," Mrs. Selby reminded her rival.
"Hah," Latham snorted and lifted his binoculars again. Leslie rotated in a half circle where she stood at Roarke's right, anxiously scanning the rolling countryside; but there was no sign of either the pilfered ice-cream truck or Professor Oats. All of a sudden Latham yelped, "He's stopped!" which brought her attention back to the race. Sure enough, Pomona Prince perched atop the rise like a statue.
"He's looking for his friend, Mr. Latham, the Professor," Roarke said calmly. Latham shot him a bewildered look and turned back to stare at Pomona Prince standing stock-still, as if waiting for some signal.
Then they heard the sound of an engine and turned back to finally see the ice-cream truck tooling alongside a horse and rider. "Oh no," said Mrs. Selby. Leslie beamed excitedly, and Roarke smiled with a quiet satisfaction.
Professor Oats galloped up to the finish line and Jerome Pepper jumped off his back, while the truck stopped nearby and Thalia Latham tumbled out of the driver's seat to run over and join Pepper and the horse. "Here, Prince, come on, boy!" she called encouragement to the white horse, which had started to prance in place. "Here's the Professor, he's waiting for you!" She and Pepper kept yelling encouragement, and Professor Oats added his spirited whinnying to the rising noise. Behind Pomona Prince, Satin Duke suddenly appeared over the top of the rise and galloped right past the stalled steed, just before Pomona Prince finally took to his heels once more. Everyone began shouting, except for Roarke who was as calm as ever, and Mrs. Selby, who looked very worried now. It took no more than fifteen seconds for Pomona Prince to edge past Satin Duke and lead the way across the finish line.
Cheers erupted all over the place; Leslie threw her arms in the air and gave a couple of exuberant leaps, yelling happily. Roarke glanced at her and grinned; Latham beamed, and Amelia Selby hid her face in her hands. Pomona Prince, still with his jockey aboard, trotted to Professor Oats and greeted his friend with a nose rub.
"Aw, Amelia, it's not that bad," Latham said, staring at Mrs. Selby, who was now crying and trying to mop her face with a big green satin hanky. "It's only two hundred thousand!" Leslie stared at them and Roarke watched curiously.
"Oh, it's not the money, Emmett," Mrs. Selby wailed tearfully.
Roarke stepped around her so he could speak directly to Latham. "You must understand, Mr. Latham, Mrs. Selby has been a widow for many years, running a huge department store on her own."
Latham stared at him. "I know that! She's been after my store most of that time."
"Not the store, Mr. Latham," Roarke said with a patient smile. "That is not what she has set her heart on."
Latham gave Mrs. Selby a sidelong look; then he seemed to get Roarke's point and mouthed an oh. His gaze slid back to Roarke and he pointed quizzically at Mrs. Selby; Roarke nodded confirmation. Finally Latham turned to Mrs. Selby and asked, "Is that true, Amelia?"
She nodded, blotting at her tears. "Oh Emmett, you're the only man I ever wanted for a partner, and I wanted you to respect me—as a winner."
"I do respect you!" Latham protested. "I thought you saw me only as a business rival." She shook her head with a silent oh, no, and he grinned. "You were right: there isn't room for both our department stores in Philadelphia. So how does 'Latham & Selby' sound?"
Mrs. Selby brightened, then offered, "How about…'Selby & Latham'?" They both burst into laughter and hugged each other, and Roarke moved a few steps aside and gazed out toward the finish line, where Jerome Pepper and Thalia Latham stood near the horses, in each other's arms. Leslie joined him a moment later.
"You did it again, Mr. Roarke," she said.
"I think you give me undue credit, but thank you anyway," Roarke said with a chuckle. "Now it's time to find Tattoo and set the stage for his party."
After about half an hour they finally tracked him down, sitting on a white wrought-iron bench staring into a small pool fed by a tiny trickling waterfall. "Tattoo, we've been looking all over for you," Roarke said. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, just working things out." Tattoo hesitated, then asked, "Boss, is it wrong to wish someone had never come to Fantasy Island?"
Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, and Leslie bit her lip before turning her anxious gaze to Tattoo. "Are you referring to Miss Solange Latignon?" Roarke asked. "Does she mean that much to you, Tattoo?"
"Mm-hmm," Tattoo murmured, his gaze straying out over the pool again. After a long moment he said plaintively, "Is it wrong, her and me?"
Roarke sat down on the twin to Tattoo's bench, while Leslie stood behind him, watching Tattoo with a worried look. "Only you can answer that, Tattoo," Roarke said sympathetically. "As the poet Burns says, we can never see ourselves as others see us, you see?"
Tattoo shot him and Leslie an ironic look. "I don't think she's got me confused with Robert Redford."
Roarke chuckled softly and regarded him with a wistful look. "For once in my life I don't know what to say to you, dear friend," he said. "Today is your birthday, and I wanted to give you something that would make you happy. Instead, this fantasy, I'm afraid, is…" He let the words trail off, looked away and then at the lush grass beneath their feet. Leslie, silent, laid a hand on his shoulder, and he reached up and covered it with his own.
"Oh, it's not your fault," Tattoo said, sympathy on his own face now.
"Well, I can't help feeling bad," Roarke said ruefully, looking up, "and now…now I have to make matters even worse. The island council has called a special meeting this evening." He regarded Tattoo helplessly. "I must attend."
"You want me to cover for you?" Tattoo offered.
Roarke demurred. "Well, I hate to ask you to work on your birthday."
"Oh, that's all right, boss. It'll keep me occupied."
"I'll keep you company," Leslie put in and smiled a little.
"Sure, sounds good to me," Tattoo agreed, smiling back at her.
"Thank you, Tattoo," Roarke said, and Tattoo turned the smile on him, nodding once in quiet acknowledgement. "All right, let's say about eight o'clock, hm?"
"Okay, boss," Tattoo said softly. Roarke reached out and gripped his longtime friend's shoulder, squeezing a little, then patting it and finally rising. "Come along, Leslie, I think Tattoo would prefer to be alone."
She got to her feet and trailed Roarke away; when they were out of both sight and hearing of Tattoo, he turned to her. "Were you ever able to get that—"
"Yes, I did, Mr. Roarke," she broke in, nodding. "Finally found one Friday afternoon after school, and it's all boxed and everything. I even wrote him a card."
"Good girl," Roarke said warmly. "I think we have approximately two hours to finish making the preparations, so…"
"I…have to talk to Tattoo about something," Leslie said, clearing her throat. "I'll be back as soon as I'm done, I promise." In fact, she was worried about her honorary uncle, and wanted to gauge his mood; she was somewhat afraid he might be too depressed to come to his own birthday party.
Roarke glanced back toward the lagoon where Tattoo still sat, then sighed gently. "Very well, but try not to take too long. We're going to need your help."
"I'll be quick, Mr. Roarke," she promised, and hurried off toward Tattoo before her guardian could say anything more. Tattoo looked up in surprise at hearing Leslie's footsteps approaching, and watched her settle down on the bench Roarke had vacated.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
She bit her lip, now unsure what to say. "Not with me," she finally said lamely.
Tattoo grinned a little. "You want me to get it off my chest, don't you, huh?"
"Well, Mom used to say that you should talk about your troubles to someone else. And I've heard Mr. Roarke say that it seems less terrible when you do. It makes you feel better."
Tattoo regarded her with amusement, then shrugged and let the smile fall away, his gaze drifting back to the tinkling waterfall. "That's what they say, all right."
She sat there watching him avoid her gaze, wondering why he was so dejected now after he'd been so happy dining with Solange the night before. "Did that Mark Ellison scare you off Solange for good?" she asked without thinking, once her thoughts had jumped to him.
Tattoo turned to her in startlement and frowned, then stared at the ground, the scowl lingering. "Well, he had something to do with it. Maybe she likes him more than I thought. I don't know." He sighed and finally told her what had happened. "I was going to meet her to paint her portrait, but when I was almost there, I saw her with Ellison. They were talking for a few minutes, and then he kissed her. I got upset and ripped my last sketch of her out of the book."
"Oh," said Leslie, blinking. They sat quietly for a moment, the waterfall purling and Leslie's mind racing; then she sat up. "Maybe she didn't want him kissing her, Tattoo. Maybe she was just trying to get away from him and he wouldn't let her go." She saw him open his mouth to protest and broke in, "You didn't even stay around to ask, did you? I mean, if you had, you wouldn't be here wondering all this stuff now. What'd it look like when he kissed her?"
Tattoo stared at her, then rolled his eyes and indulged her, thinking back. She watched his features arrange themselves into a thoughtful frown. "She put her hands on his shoulders. I think she sort of tried to pull away, but he held onto her. Not that she tried very hard."
"I thought you were fair," Leslie said accusingly when his voice turned surly on the last half-dozen words. "You're pronouncing Solange guilty when you haven't even heard her side of the story. Maybe you ought to think about that."
Tattoo looked hard at her, then smiled, ever so slightly. "Okay, I'll think about it," he agreed. "Now will you get out of here so I can have a chance to do that thinking?"
Leslie laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm going. See you at the main house this evening." She got up and struck off across the grass for the path that would eventually take her back home, looking forward to the party.