Summer Island - A Prince in Peril

20 - The Call

In the end, Seymour and Zoë were the obvious choice. They'd been coming to The Island the longest, and would be the least noticed by the locals. They were also the most familiar with the area and the people. Finally, since none of them had any money and there wasn't a public phone in town, the venture would also mean imposing on someone to use theirs. It was just after eleven o'clock in the morning when they set out down the mountain, casting a wide arc around the house so as not to be seen. Fortunately they had left clothes at Star Rock. Otherwise they would have made quite an impression waltzing into town in dirty, torn pajamas.

The village center was its usual quiet place with only a few tourists wandering down Main Street. The storefronts of the art galleries, ice cream shop and souvenir store were vacant and Maggie's Hair Salon had one lone customer. The post office was open but Walt was taking a late lunch in the gazebo at the center of the town square. He looked up at them to see if he needed to return to his station. Seymour shook his head slightly and the postman returned to his copy of Island Ad-Vantages-their local paper, whose office was kitty corner to the square and also open.

"It's kind of surreal, isn't it?" asked Zoë.

"How so?"

"It's so slow and quiet and relaxed and...quaint really."

"And meanwhile there's this huge case of international intrigue going on?"

She nodded.

"Yup, pretty surreal. Where do you think we should make the call?"

"There's really no place private-people are going to hear no matter what."

"Let's do it from The Galley. It'll have the most people and they'll be more interested in getting their groceries than listening to us."

"Good idea," Zoë agreed.

They reached Sunset Street and turned right. A block and a half later, the tin bell on the door jangled and the children entered the store. There were ten or so people inside, including a few locals and the owner, who was manning the till. "Well, look who the cat dragged in," he chortled.

"Hi, Mr. Cranston. Good to see you," Zoë responded politely.

"You too. Hey, Seymour-are you going to play football this year?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You should-you're sure built for it. What about you, Miss Zoë? When're you going to start your big modeling career? There's lots of money to be made I hear-as long as you don't go Hollywood like these girls," he said, motioning to the tabloids on the magazine rack which featured young, beautiful women in varying states of disaster and disarray.

"I don't know, Mr. Cranston. I'm thinking about playing football instead," Zoë answered.

He looked at her, confused for a moment before getting the joke. He laughed. "I get it, I get it. Well, it's your life, kids. You can't let people live it for you."

"No, sir," said Seymour.

"As it should be, I say. Old folks are always trying to live their lives over through young folks. I know my father wanted me to run this store of ours."

"And what did you want to do?" Zoë knew she shouldn't be encouraging him, after all, they had important things to do, but she was curious. She couldn't picture William Cranston Junior doing anything other than the work started by William Cranston Senior.

"Now then, I could say I wanted to be a race car driver, or something like that, but to tell you the truth, I wanted to work in the store with him. He was a good man, my father."