§ § § -- December 29, 1982
It was the middle of Leslie's second week of Christmas vacation from school, and the island was gearing up for Friday night's New Year's Eve bash. As always, Roarke had set aside the weekend closest to the holiday as a short vacation for himself and Tattoo; tourists might come to the island, but no fantasies were granted. Roarke and Leslie sat down to lunch on the veranda, where a folded newspaper lay in the chair Tattoo normally occupied. Roarke picked it up, idly curious, and realized it had been opened to the obituary column and folded back so that the first one was readily visible to the reader. Leslie glanced at him as she helped herself to a dish, and finally asked, "What's so interesting?"
"Oh, an unexpected passing," Roarke said, replacing the newspaper.
"Where's Tattoo?" she wanted to know.
Roarke glanced over the duck pond across the lane and remarked, "I believe he is preparing to attend a funeral. I'll be going myself, but since I am expecting a few important phone calls, you'll have to remain here in case they come in. I don't think it will take very long." There was a strange look on his handsome features, and his dark eyes reflected a touch of sadness. He shook his head to himself, then noticed Leslie watching him in bewilderment. "Eat your lunch. There's a busy afternoon ahead." He smiled, and she shrugged in response and started in. Roarke reflected that yet another task was about to be added to the list of those that needed completing; he'd have to call the newspaper and place an ad. A shame, he thought, that this death will undoubtedly go all but unnoticed. Perhaps something will happen to change that. He served himself and began to eat, his mind on other things.
§ § § -- January 8, 1983
"Just how long is the driver on vacation, anyway?" Leslie asked curiously on Saturday. "He's been gone almost two months now."
"It's his first vacation in five years, Leslie," Tattoo said. "That's why the boss let him take his accrued time all at once. What's the matter, you don't like the boss's driving?"
"Cute," she said, while Roarke shot Tattoo a look that made the Frenchman grin. A few minutes later they reached the plane dock, where they found that their first guests were a family. Roarke introduced them: "That's Mr. Herbert Soames, his wife Beatrice, and their daughter Allison."
"Which one has the fantasy?" Tattoo asked.
"Mrs. Soames," Roarke said, "but her daughter is the one who is going to experience it." He smiled, and Tattoo's eyebrows drew together in a bewildered frown.
"Boss, you lost me," he said.
"Mrs. Soames used to be in the theater," Roarke explained. "Now her dream is for her daughter to pick up where she left off. Mrs. Soames' fantasy is for her daughter to perform in an operetta; unfortunately, Miss Soames has no desire to become an actress. As for Mr. Soames, he has a secret fantasy which, if fulfilled, will greatly influence his family's future happiness." Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other and shrugged in precise unison.
"I'm confused, boss," Tattoo said.
Roarke smiled. "Trust me." Tattoo shrugged again, and he and Leslie returned their attention to the plane, from which emerged a woman in a subtle gray business jacket and skirt, with blonde hair going to gray.
"Boss, who is the pretty lady?" inquired Tattoo.
"Her name is Ms. Margaret Stanton; she is an attorney with the law firm of Peabody, Melton and Sterne," Roarke informed them.
Tattoo made a short, worried "hm" sound. "Boss, she's here to sue us!"
Leslie laughed, and Roarke smiled at her reaction. "No, actually, Ms. Stanton was sent here by her firm to deliver a check to the person holding the winning ticket in the Irish sweepstakes."
Tattoo looked avidly interested and perplexed all at once. "Who did win?" he pressed almost impatiently. "Whose fantasy is it? Anybody I know?"
"Actually, you knew Ambrose Hoskins very well," Roarke said.
Tattoo frowned in consternation. "Ambrose? But boss, he's dead!"
"Which opens the door to a number of very interesting possibilities," Roarke observed with a mysterious smile. Leslie grinned; this one sounded like fun for a change!
‡ ‡ ‡
Roarke met Margaret Stanton in Amberville's pedestrian shopping district, where she was already having some refreshment with Leslie and Tattoo. Roarke smiled apologetically. "Forgive me for being late, Ms. Stanton; I was unavoidably detained."
"Of course," Ms. Stanton said graciously, smiling. "Shall we get down to business?"
Roarke nodded and indicated the empty chair. "May I?"
"Please," she replied, and Roarke took a seat. "As you know, I was sent here by my firm to present this check to the winner of the Irish sweepstakes—a Mr. Ambrose Hoskins?" Roarke confirmed her facts, and she consulted a sheaf of papers. "Now, according to his file, Mr. Hoskins was a retired merchant-ship captain, and for the past seven years he worked here as your head groundskeeper." Leslie smiled; she remembered Tattoo having visited his friend Ambrose on a number of occasions before the latter's death the previous week, and though she had never formally met the man, she had often seen him at some distance, supervising the gardeners. He had been a gruff and demanding man, which had earned him a less-than-sterling reputation among Roarke's other employees, but evidently he and Tattoo had connected on some level. She knew a little about the man from Tattoo's occasional tales of their visits.
"Yes, that's true," said Roarke now, sitting back. "Unfortunately, Mr. Hoskins passed away only last week."
Ms. Stanton glanced at him and nodded slightly, separating a large bluish-green ticket from the rest of the papers. "There was another party named by the late Mr. Hoskins on the winning ticket," she said, handing it to Roarke, who read it, his expression going mildly startled. Leslie tilted her head to one side in curiosity.
"Who is it, boss?" Tattoo asked. "What's his name?"
Roarke eyed him, frowned slightly and passed him the ticket. Tattoo read aloud: "Ambrose Hoskins…and best friend?" He stared at Ms. Stanton. "Did Ambrose write that?"
"Yes," she said, "and I'm here on behalf of my firm to find his best friend and present him or her with the check."
"That's not gonna be easy," Tattoo warned her.
"What Tattoo is trying to say," Roarke broke in, "is that Mr. Hoskins was not blessed with…shall we say, a very amiable personality. You may have some difficulty locating his 'best' friend." Leslie chuckled then, catching everyone's attention.
"I'd think the question would be separating his real friends from his fake ones whenever word gets out that he won the lottery and named a best friend on the ticket," she said.
"Quite," Roarke agreed dryly and smiled. Tattoo nodded pensively.
"Still, I'd be most grateful for any help you could give me in locating his best friend," Ms. Stanton said earnestly, glancing from one to another of her hosts.
"Very well, Ms. Stanton, we will see what we can do," Roarke promised. "Tattoo, since you are familiar with all the members of our staff, as well as most of the island population, I want you to look into this matter at once. And you will be in full charge."
"Anything you say, boss," Tattoo said, "but like I said, it's not gonna be easy." He smiled politely. "Excuse me." With that, he got up and left them. Roarke glanced at Ms. Stanton and then at Leslie, who smiled and shrugged.
"Well, Leslie," he said, "suppose we show Ms. Stanton to her bungalow, and then you may have the morning off if you like. Tattoo will be busy and I have some paperwork to clear away, and since you did such a thorough job with yesterday's incoming mail, I thought you deserved a break."
"Thanks, Mr. Roarke," she said with a grin. "It's been a while since I could talk to my friends."
They were on their way back to the main house, where Leslie wanted to get her purse from her bedroom, when they heard a strident feminine voice getting steadily louder. "…if he thinks for one moment that…ah, there he is." Just as these words were uttered, they saw Herbert and Beatrice Soames appear around a bend in the path. "Mr. Roarke! Mr. Roarke, we have just come from the theater," Beatrice Soames announced, "and there is no rehearsal going on. Now, how can Allison star in Naughty Marietta when she doesn't even rehearse?"
"I sent your daughter back in time so she could experience the true story," Roarke replied simply, turning Mrs. Soame's face into a mask of disapproval.
"You mean Allison is actually going to be Marietta?" she demanded, and at Roarke's affirmation, she shook her head and released a long string of nos.
"Dear? Is something wrong?" Mr. Soames ventured in a gravel-filled, timorous voice.
"Is something wrong?!" his wife blared. "When I said that I wanted Allison to appear in an operetta, I meant act in it—not live in it." Then her face changed and she groaned, "Oh no. Captain Warrington!"
"Dear? Who's he?" Mr. Soames queried.
She seemed astounded by his ignorance. "He's the romantic lead in the operetta. She's going to meet him and fall hopelessly in love with him!"
"Dear? What's wrong with that?" he asked blankly. At this, Leslie lowered her head to hide the merriment that wanted to burst forth. The original milquetoast, she thought. Poor guy, he's just too funny!
"Herbert," said Mrs. Soames impatiently, "he's a fantasy. There are no real men like him; he's perfect! And when her fantasy's over, can you imagine her reaction to the average, imperfect, slightly slobby real man?" Even Roarke had to stifle a smile at that; Leslie almost choked trying to hold down her giggles.
"Well, I suppose…" Mr. Soames began.
She broke in, "No, no, no. Mr. Roarke, bring my daughter back immediately."
"Oh, I'm afraid it's too late for that," Roarke said apologetically. "However, there is something I can do for you."
"Then I demand that you do it immediately," Mrs. Soames retorted, without even asking what it was.
"If you insist," Roarke said.
"I insist!" she shot back.
Roarke nodded and smiled. "Will you close your eyes, please?" She looked at her husband before doing so, and Roarke prompted, "You too, Mr. Soames…please?" At which Mrs. Soames opened her eyes again and drilled him with one pointed look; he shrugged and closed his eyes simultaneously with her. Roarke focused his full attention on the couple, narrowed his eyes at them for a few seconds, and waited. A bright golden flash enveloped them and they vanished entirely.
Leslie was relieved to finally release her glee. "What a pair! Where'd you send them, Mr. Roarke?"
"Back to the same place their daughter went," he said, "New Orleans in 1780—where they can help Allison live out her role in Naughty Marietta."
"Ooooh," Leslie blurted and started to laugh. "That could make you as naughty as Marietta. I almost wish I could see Mrs. Soames' reaction when she figures out where she is." He just grinned and ushered her on.
About an hour later, she was sitting at an outdoor table in front of the ice-cream shop with Michiko, Myeko and Lauren, enjoying a dish filled with two scoops of double-chocolate fudge, telling them about her morning so far. "…Her singing voice was worse than feline caterwauling at two in the morning, so Mr. Roarke had to give her a potion. Then she sounded like Beverly Sills."
"Oh wow," Myeko marveled. "I'd love that. Aren't we supposed to be doing Naughty Marietta this year?"
"No, it's something else. You have to be an opera singer to do that one," Michiko told her. "And I'm sure Mr. Roarke wouldn't allow indiscriminate use of his potions even if we were. Oh…that reminds me. Leslie, some guy at school asked me if you were in touch with that girl Taylor you were friends with earlier this year…"
Just then the sound of a small engine grew audible and the girls all looked around to see Tattoo's little car prowling along the brick walks. Before any of them could comment, a young man with curly dark hair, whom Leslie recognized as Eddie, a room-service worker from the hotel, intercepted him in front of the sewing-notions shop just across the way, allowing the girls to hear every word of the conversation that followed. "Tattoo, listen, I'm really glad I bumped into you. I found this under the seat of my car." He displayed at Tattoo a small wooden object, which the girls couldn't clearly see. "I wasn't sure what to do with it. It belonged to Old Dad Hoskins."
The girls looked incredulously at one another, and Tattoo repeated, " 'Old Dad' Hoskins?"
"Yeah, I started calling him that just after he started calling me…'son'." Eddie pretended to wipe away a tear; Leslie rolled her eyes and was gratified to see Tattoo eye him with skepticism even a blind person couldn't have missed. Oblivious, Eddie continued, "You know, a lot of people used to bad-mouth him, but Old Dad was really a fun, crazy guy. Now he's up there somewhere, looking down at me, wishing he had done something nice for me…maybe left something like money for me." He emitted a loud, fake sniffle and held up the wooden item again. "Maybe by leaving this cross in my car, he was trying to tell me something."
Tattoo peered at the proffered cross, then gave Eddie a jaundiced look and remarked succinctly, "Maybe you should keep it." So saying, he gunned the motor and pulled away. Eddie remained crouching there on the walk for a moment, unaware of the girls' stares, then sighed and got up, losing himself in the crowd of weekend tourists.
"That was weird," Lauren remarked, looking bewildered. "What was that all about?"
"Who's 'Old Dad' Hoskins?" Myeko put in.
Leslie sighed gently. "Mr. Roarke's head groundskeeper, Ambrose Hoskins. He died last week, and it turns out he managed to win the Irish sweepstakes. The ticket names him and a best friend, but we don't know who that is, so Mr. Roarke put Tattoo in charge of finding out. And of course, every two-bit lackey on the island is trying to pass himself off as Mr. Hoskins' secret best pal."
Her friends looked at one another in awe. "No kidding," Lauren said. "How lucky can you get?"
"Or unlucky," Michiko pointed out, "since he died before he could enjoy the money." The girls murmured agreement, and she peered at Leslie. "And you're not helping?"
"I didn't know Mr. Hoskins," Leslie explained. "I'd have just gotten in the way of Tattoo's search. Besides, who would've wanted to deal with greedy amateur actors like Eddie?" She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, and her friends laughed.
After lunch, which Margaret Stanton took with them at the main house, they acted on an idea Roarke had come up with and drove down the Ring Road to an airy little beachside cottage that perched on a cliff with a beautiful ocean view to the south. So far no one had disturbed the place since Hoskins' death; it looked as if he had merely gone to work and would be back at the normal hour. The main room was sparsely furnished and decorated in a nautical motif; a large oil portrait of Ambrose Hoskins hung just below the ceiling over a fireplace on the eastern end of the room. The man in the portrait was dressed as the sea captain he had once been, complete with beard and uniform; he was unsmiling. "Kind of spooky, huh, boss?" Tattoo remarked. "Almost like Ambrose is still alive."
"Perhaps he is, Tattoo," Roarke said, and the others peered curiously at him. "In a sense. Perhaps we should take a look around. Suppose we all split up?"
They scattered and began examining assorted items, although Leslie was leery of touching anything. She still had the eerie feeling that Hoskins would walk in at any moment. But just as she was working up the courage to start opening drawers, she saw Roarke lift a cloth off a wooden stand that held a large book, which he began to page through. She went over to join him, just as he leaned over to look more closely at one of the pages. "Tattoo, will you come here, please? This will be of great interest to you."
Tattoo and Ms. Stanton approached them, and Roarke began to read aloud. " 'The loneliness of old age is little understood by those who have not yet walked in the constant shadow of death. I have known and suffered the abuse and indignity, until finally I turned away from people. Only one person seemed to understand what it's like to grow old, to be without companionship. He used to come and visit me, asking for nothing, only to say hello. I hold him as my true and only friend. His name is…' " Roarke paused, glanced at Leslie who had been reading over his shoulder, and spoke just as she gasped. "…'Tattoo.' "
A stunned look dawned on Tattoo's features, and Leslie stared at him in amazement. Roarke smiled. "Well, Tattoo, it seems you found the 'best friend' you were looking for."
"Tattoo! You're a millionaire!" Margaret Stanton exclaimed.
New shock filled Tattoo's face. "Boss…I'm a millionaire?" he asked, as though he had to say it to make it seem real.
Roarke nodded, and Leslie grinned. "Just what you've always dreamed about!"
"I can't believe this!" Tattoo burst out, his face alight. "Ms. Stanton, I'm a millionaire! I'm rich, I'm rich!" Carrying on in this vein, he scuttled out the door as if to shout the news to the entire island. Leslie began to laugh; Roarke gazed at the book with great amusement, and Ms. Stanton watched him go, grinning.
"Don't you think we should catch up with him before he gets too carried away?" she suggested, chuckling at Leslie's laughter. "There are some legalities to take care of."
"Quite so," Roarke agreed, grinning too. "In that case, shall we repair to my study?"
The necessary preliminaries taken care of, Ms. Stanton returned to her bungalow to call her law firm, and Roarke took Tattoo to a recently remodeled cottage that had had a couple of extra rooms added to it in the renovation. For some reason Tattoo's little car was parked out front.
"What's my car doing here? I don't understand," Tattoo said, speaking before Leslie could. He reached for the doorknob, but Roarke beat him to it without answering his question.
"Oh no, no, allow me, please." He opened the door and gestured Tattoo inside; Leslie gave him a questioning look, but he simply smiled. Expecting a surprise party of some sort, she followed Tattoo in; but the main room was normally lit and very clearly deserted. Tattoo was as bewildered as she.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Welcome to the Presidential Bungalow, Mr. Tattoo," Roarke said expansively; his use of the honorific startled Leslie. "I hope it meets with your approval."
" 'Mr.' Tattoo?" the name's owner echoed.
A waitress from the pond restaurant appeared and offered them a tray containing three glasses. "Would you care for some champagne, Mr. Tattoo?"
"Thank you," Tattoo murmured, taking a glass. The woman offered Roarke the tray; he took a second glass, and Leslie accepted the third, filled with mango juice.
Just then Eddie's voice sounded from the adjacent dining nook; he must have come in from the newly added kitchen, Leslie realized. "The chef's prepared this meal especially for you. Rack of lamb, potatoes julienne, and crêpes Suzette." Leslie's eyes widened; it sounded good, if a little pretentious. Eddie stood there with an ingratiating smile on his face; she thought it was rather funny that the man who'd so obviously paraded his greed in front of Tattoo mere hours before was now so solicitous.
Roarke lifted his glass. "I propose a toast to Mr. Tattoo and his very good fortune."
Tattoo gestured to the meal and addressed the waitress. "Hey, Mitzi, you want to join us too?"
"Oh no," replied Mitzi in a professionally polite tone, "I'm afraid we can't. The rule against fraternizing with the guests." She smiled apologetically.
Roarke and Leslie clinked their glasses against Tattoo's and drank; then Roarke replaced his glass on the tray and consulted his pocket watch. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I must be getting back to work. I trust you'll enjoy your stay with us. Leslie?" At the top step he paused, making her nearly collide with him and hastily return her glass to Mitzi's tray as well. "Oh, and I would appreciate it if you would stop by my office later on and see me…at your convenience, of course. Excuse us." He guided Leslie out the door.
"Mr. Roarke, what in the world is going on?" Leslie demanded finally, unable to keep quiet any longer.
Roarke paused to regard her before starting the car's engine. "Do you recall what you said in Mr. Hoskins' cottage a while ago, when we discovered that he had designated Tattoo his best friend and that now he was a millionaire?"
Leslie hesitated, thinking back, frowning. "That it was what he always wanted?"
Her guardian nodded solemnly. "Precisely. He has just had a most cherished fantasy fulfilled, and you know what that means, don't you?"
"No," she said uncertainly, knowing she wouldn't like what was coming.
"He must leave the island," Roarke said gently, starting the car. "I am afraid that rules are rules." With that, he pulled away from the bungalow and headed for the Ring Road and home. Leslie, rendered thoroughly speechless, sat gaping sightlessly through the windshield the whole way.