But first she had to find him.
The dashboard clock said six-seventeen. The Chamber was in the middle of a costume rehearsal, followed by dinner at six-thirty. She and Myles had a standing date Saturday nights - subject to various Tompkins County or Hemlock Inn emergencies - which started about ten. The rest of the evening left very little time to search John's room for further clues - such as, a nasty voice whispered in her head, the bolt from Peterson's John Deere tractor. Quill bit her lip hard, and pushed the thought away.
She couldn't talk to Meg; the presence of L'Aperitifs critic coinciding with a dining room oversold to History Days tourists would already have her bouncing off the walls. As it was, with John still missing and unable to serve as sommelier, Quill would have to scrape her off the ceiling.
Myles could help, of course - with an All Points Bulletin. But exposure to official questions raised by the presence of that photograph in the wallet of a drowning victim could only endanger John, at least until she knew the facts.
No, Myles was out of the question. Besides, she'd interfered with his investigations before. The wrath of Moses on discovering the defalcations of the Israelites was nothing to it. She would just have to handle this herself. There was one advantage to half of Hemlock Falls stuffing the Inn tonight - somebody must have seen John. If she kept her inquiries discreet, she might find him before anyone other than she and Meg knew he'd gone missing.
"Did John show up yet?" Meg thrust her head in the open car window. "Did he tell you where he'd been? Is he sober? Did you get the meat? And what the heck are you doing sitting in here doing absolutely nothing! Do you know what's happening?" Meg raked her hair forward in irritable bursts.
"What's happening?" asked Quill, calmly getting out of the car. "Are the sous chefs all here?"
"Yes!"
"And the wine and fruit deliveries okay?"
"Yes! Yes! Yes!"
"And the Inn's not on fire." Quill steered her sister back to the kitchen.
"No! Don't be such a smartass, Quill. We need John! Look!" Quill pushed the right half of the dining room door open and peered around it. Edward Lancashire, dressed in an elegant charcoal-gray suit, was talking to an equally elegant blonde by the windows overlooking the gorge. His wife, Quill bet. The dining room was filled with chattering tourists for the Early Bird specials. Quill squinted at a tuxedoed figure seating guests. Not John, but Peter Williams, the young graduate student who worked as headwaiter on weekends. Peter circled the room, quietly observant of the quality of service. Quill let out a small sigh of relief; Peter could pinch-hit as sommelier cum maitre d'. All she had to do was distract Meg long enough to get her back to the kitchen. Once absorbed in her cooking, Meg would be oblivious to Armageddon and stop plaguing her with questions she couldn't answer.
"I've seen the woman with Edward somewhere before," Quill said mendaciously. "Is that one of the editors, do you think?"
"Oh, God," breathed Meg: "I'll bet it is! Where's John, dammit. They'll need an aperitif."
"I'll tell Peter to take care of them."
"Don't tell him they're from L'Aperitif They're supposed to be incognito."
"And you go back into the kitchen."
"Right."
"And cook like hell."
"Right." Face as tense as any Assyrian coming down like a wolf on the oblivious Sennacharib, Meg flexed her hands and returned to the Aga.
Quill looked at her watch and dashed to her room to change. One of these days she'd get organized enough to leave time for a real bath, but two years at the Inn had honed her fast-shower technique. The desire for a leisurely soak fell prey to necessity more and more often.
Quill's rooms were simply decorated, designed as a refuge from the demands of her day. Natural muslin curtains hung at the windows. A cream damask-stripe chair and couch sat under the mullioned south window. A cherry desk and armoire stood in the corner. Beige Berber carpet covered the pine floor. The eggshell walls held two paintings, both by friends from New York, and a few pen-and-ink sketches she'd done as a student. Her easel stood in the southwest window, a half-finished study of roses and iris glowing in the subdued light. She spared the roses a perplexed frown, then showered quickly, subdued her curly red hair into a knot at the top of her head, and slipped into a teal silk dress with a handkerchief hem. The Saturday night before the start of History Days was traditionally fancy dress. The costume rehearsal was an excuse for the actors to parade their elaborate outfits for the admiration of the tourists and those citizens unlucky enough to be merely bystanders.
By the time Quill clattered down to the dress rehearsal, the Inn was filled with the low hum of guests.
Quill slipped into the conference room unnoticed. Two of the salespeople from Esther's store had spent the afternoon cataloging and tagging the costumes in the conference room and Quill walked into a room transformed. Portable clothes racks filled with gold silks, pink taffetas, green velvets, and enough ecru lace to choke the entire flock of Marvin Finstedder's goat farm lined the walls. All twenty-four cast members of The Trial of Goody Martin (eighteen whose participation was limited to the repetition of the phrase "Sink or swim !") squeezed together cheek by jowl. Esther laced Betty Hall into a fuschia chiffon townswoman's costume; Elmer Henry stood in front of a full-length mirror on wheels adjusting the gold lace on his cuffs; Howie Murchison paced gravely around the room, and flipped the lapel of his skirted coat forward to reveal a hand-lettered button that read "Colonial Intelligence Agency" at anyone who'd stop long enough to read it.
"What do you think?" he asked Quill.
"It's just as nifty as the Empire costumes," she said diplomatically. The confusion would be an excellent cover for a few discreet questions concerning John's whereabouts. Howie was as good a person to start with as anyone else. "John had to run to Ithaca, and said he was going to drop off some stuff he picked up from the drugstore for me at your office, rather than take the time to come back here. Did he get there?"
"Haven't seen him all day," said Howie. "Sorry. Do you want me to call Anne and see if she can pick it up for you?"
"Oh no, Howie. Thanks. It'll keep until Monday."
All Quill learned in the next twenty minutes was that practically everybody in Hemlock Falls would be happy to send somebody else to the drugstore for her, which made Quill grateful for the neighborliness exhibited, but left her unenlightened as to John's whereabouts. Nobody had seen him all day.
Quill surveyed the crowded room and wondered what to do next. Pointed questions of both Mavis and Marge concerning their activities last night would give her a better grip on what had happened. Had they seen John after they left the Croh Bar? Was he driving or walking? Was anyone with him?
Mavis, face pink with excitement - and, Quill hoped, nothing else - was being stuffed into her costume with the aid of a heavy-breathing Keith Baumer. Any interruption there would be fruitless. Marge was busy organizing the removal of the clothes racks to Esther's van outside with a verve to rival General Patton's drive to Berlin. Mrs. Hallenbeck stood proudly in the comer, dressed in the black cloak and broad-brimmed hat of A Member of the Crowd. "I have practiced 'Sink or swim,' " she said when Quill stopped to admire her costume. "Miss West seemed to feel that I would add verisimilitude to the mob scene. I shall shake my walking stick, like this."
"You were at dinner with Mavis and Marge last night, Mrs. Hallenbeck. What time did you come back to the Inn?"
"About nine-thirty. I retire every evening promptly at ten, and I insisted that they bring me back here well before that time."
"Everyone came with you?"
"Mavis had to go see Gil's partner, Tom Peterson. Keith Baumer, Marge, and Gil took me home. I left them at the lobby entrance. I believe Marge said something about going to a place called the Croh Bar afterwards."
"You didn't see my manager, John Raintree, with them at all?"
"The Indian? No. I did not. Do you think he could be involved with the accident last night?"
"No
," said Quill firmly. "Well, I'm sure you know best, my dear. You seem to have such an excellent head on your shoulders." She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I am taking your advice. Regarding Mavis."
With the exit of the cast members in full costume to the dining room at six-thirty, Quill knew she should check the front desk, see to the wine cellar, and finally, beard the chaos in the kitchen. Instead, she went to John's room with the picture from Gil's wallet tucked in her pocket. She switched on the overhead light. The room was as she'd left it earlier in the day: silent, the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, the books and papers in the same places. The picture stood on the night stand where she had left it. Quill picked it up and turned it over. The cardboard backing was loose. She drew it carefully out of the frame. The picture from her pocket fitted the back. When she replaced the cardboard backing, it fit perfectly.
She held the frame in her hands, concentrating hard. It was all too obvious that both pictures had been kept here, in this frame. How had the one picture gotten from the frame to the duck pond, and from the duck pond to Gil's wallet? And why? Did John carry it with him, as a reminder of his sister? If he didn't, who took the picture from the frame? Had John or someone else dropped it at the duck pond while drawing the bolt to set a trap for... whom?
"Find anything interesting?"
The frame jumped in her hands. "Myles!"
He came into the room with that infuriatingly silent walk. "Let me see that."
"It's... just a photograph, Myles. Of John's sister."
"John's sister? I found this picture at the pond. Nadine said it was her sister-in-law. Gil was going to put it in the family album." He looked sharply at Quill. "It agitated her."
Quill bit her lip. Myles took both photographs and put them in his shirt pocket.
Myles set the frame back on the night stand. "I'd like to talk with him, Quill. Is he here?"
"How did you know I was here?"
He nodded at the uncurtained window. "I've been waiting for him."
"And you saw the light go on. Of all the sneaky - "
"This is serious business, Quill. We need to question him."
" 'We'? 'Question'? What the hell are you talking about?" He looked at her silently for a long moment. "You'll know eventually, so you might as well know now. The computer's turned up a record on John."
"What kind of a record?"
"I don't want you involved in this, Quill."
"Well, I am involved, Myles. Not only is he the real manager of this Inn, but he's a friend. A good friend. And I think it stinks that there's some stupid accident in that damn duck pond with a bunch of drunks horsing around, and the first thing you think of is - Oh! 'Must be that Indian up to the Inn.' " Her mockery of local speech patterns nettled him, but she went recklessly on. "And of course you go to that blasted database and ask, not for Gil Gilmeister's jail record, or Marge Schmidt's or that fuzzy-headed Mavis', but John's."
"Tom Peterson saw him at the pond earlier that evening," Myles said levelly.
Quill was momentarily caught off stride. Then she said, "Of course he would. He probably did it! I was at Peterson's today. Look at this matchbook." She pulled it out of her skirt pocket and waved it at him.
Myles took it, his face grim.
"Tom Peterson was up in Mavis and Mrs. Hallenbeck's room," said Quill, recklessly. "He's the person you should be investigating. Not John. And everyone knows that Mavis was the one person who was supposed to sit in the ducking stool. You should be looking for Tom's motives!"
"Quill, I've told you before to stay out of this."
"But why pick on John?"
"He served eighteen months in Attica for manslaughter. He was released last year, just before he came to work for you." She sat down on the bed. She knew her face was pale.
Myles sat down beside her and took her hand in his. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"
She stood up to avoid the touch of his arm against hers; physical proximity to Myles always weakened her resolve. "Do you know the details?"
"Of John's case? No. I'm going to Ithaca to pull the files Monday. All I've got now is the computer record of the sentencing and time served."
"Will you tell me when you find out?"
"Will you tell me when John shows up?" She glared at him, mouth a stubborn line.
Myles eased himself to his feet. "This could be a case of murder. Or it could simply be an accident. I don't have enough information. And without information, I won't know if it's murder or accident."
"What does your gut-feel tell you?"
"My gut-feel tells me I want to talk to everyone in the vicinity of the accident. And John was in the vicinity."
"That's not enough of a reason and you know it," Quill said.
"Quill!" Myles stopped, exasperated. "Listen to me. I'm going to tell you one more thing. And if I tell you, you've got to promise me that you'll let this alone. You agree?"
Quill put her hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. "Yes," she said.
"A couple of the boys down at the Croh Bar said John and Gil got into an argument about ten-fifteen."
"An argument? What kind of an argument? Over what?"
"It wasn't over what, it was a who." A reluctant grin crossed his face. "Mavis seems to be getting around quite a bit."
"John got into an argument with Gil over Mavis? I don't believe it." She hesitated. "Was he drinking?"
"Not according to the bartender."
Quill hadn't realized how tense she'd been until she relaxed. "I'll tell you what it was. I'll bet he saw how much Mavis was drinking on top of that Valium and tried to get her to go home."
"That sounds more like John," Myles admitted. "But no one seems to know what the argument was about."
"What does Mavis say?"
"That she doesn't want to talk without a lawyer."
"Can't you do something about that, Myles?" said Quill anxiously.
"Of course I can do something about that, if I can find a judge on a Saturday night in Tompkins County in the middle of July. Davey's gone to Ithaca to try and get the summons."
"Marge must have been a - what d'ya call it - a material witness. What does she say?"
"That she was in the ladies room, and missed the whole thing. Given the amount of beer they were drinking, it's not unreasonable. Now, I've told you more than I should. And you're going to butt out, right?"
"Mm," said Quill, nodding.
Myles narrowed his eyes at her. "I'll see you at ten unless Davey's back with that summons."
Quill gave him her most innocent smile.
Quill made John's rounds of the Inn before joining the Chamber members at dinner. The Inn's lares and penates, perhaps in sympathy with the stresses of the past forty-eight hours, were being merciful tonight - and, thought Quill, it was about bloody time. Everything was in order at the front desk. Guests who were booked to check in had checked in; those who were scheduled to leave had left, without noticeable depredations to the supply of ashtrays, towels, or shower curtains. All the staff that was supposed to had shown up on time, and the line waiting for tables was satisfyingly long but not intolerable; even the bar hummed with relaxed, not drunken, voices.
Nate poured her a half glass of Montrechat. Guiltily, she decided to hide out in her office and drink it slowly and alone.
A breeze blew in the open window, carrying the scent of lilies. She sorted through the events of the past two days. There were questions to be answered, all right. Mavis might refuse to talk to Myles without a lawyer, but she might talk to Quill, given the right investigative technique. She needed Mavis. And Myles. She finished the wine. She'd weasel information about John's prison time out of him, no matter what. Undeterred by the fact that she'd never once been able to get information out of Myles he didn't want to deliver, she went in search of Mavis Collinwood.
Saturday night at the Hemlock Inn dining room with an overflow crowd was a scene to bring joy to a banker's heart. As a rule, Quill didn't
much care for bankers, whose affable smiles and neatly pressed suits hid hearts of steel when it came to matters of cash flow and lines of credit. Bankers were prone to the chilling repetition of the phrase "prompt repayment of the loan," just when it was most inconvenient to hear it. Bankers wanted to lend you money when you didn't need it, charged horrible interest rates when you did, and all too clearly preferred that two hundred meals with a profit margin of 75% be pumped out by a raft of sous chefs and dumped in front of gluttonous hordes instead of carefully chosen, beautifully cooked meals presented to a discriminating few.
To Quill, fully booked Saturday nights were an etching by Thomas Hobbes, a perception reinforced this evening because of the costumed Chamber members. But given the Rableiasian noise level and rate of consumption in the dining room, the First Hemlock Savings and Loan guys were undoubtedly pleased as Punch.
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