There was no accounting for taste.
A place had been set for her at the Chamber table and she sat down between Elmer Henry and Howie Murchison. Mavis was four chairs away. Keith Baumer had invited himself to the dinner and had squeezed himself next to her. His right hand was under the table, his left busy shoveling bites of Potatoes Duchesse into Mavis' open mouth. Mavis squealed at periodic intervals; Dookie Shuttleworth, eyes fixed on his plate, frowned disapprovingly on her opposite side. Directly across from Dookie, Marge and Betty slurped Zinfandel with abandon.
"Meg's surpassed herself with this lamb," said Howie to Quill, his tricorne tilted rakishly over one eye. "What's in it?"
Peter Williams set a plate of lamb in front of her. Quill unwrapped the tinfoil encasing the chops.
"It's coat dew agnes ox herbs!" said Keith Baumer loudly. Mavis and Marge shrieked with laughter. He waved the hand- written menu card at Quill and grinned sweatily. "Says so right here, Howie. But - oh!" He pulled a face of mock horror. "See Quill's face? Is it my French, Quill? Tell her how good my French is, Mavis."
"You bad boy!" Mavis shrieked, whacking him energetically with the menu.
Quill ate her lamb absent-mindedly, trying to figure out a way to get Mavis alone. An after-dinner brandy in the Lounge was clearly a bad idea - she was three sheets to the wind, if not four. Maybe Mrs. Hallenbeck could help. Quill glanced across the table. The widow was listening with glazed attention to Norm Pasquale, who was able, without any encouragement at all, to recite the entire high-school-band program-listings for the past twenty years. "... clarinets in 'Mellow Yellow' " Quill heard him say. He was up to 1976.
"Lemon?" said Howie in her ear.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said you don't want to eat your lemon, and you were about to." He took her fork, dumped the lemon slice on his plate, and placed the fork back in her hand, "No, You're right, I don't, Howie, could you do something for me?"
He peered at her over his wire-rimmed glasses, "You do want that stuff from the drugstore...."
"I want him" - she pointed to Baumer - "out of the way so I can talk to Mavis."
"I suppose I could take him into the Lounge for an after-dinner brandy."
"What a good idea," she said cordially. "It'll be on the house. As a matter of fact, why don't you give him several?"
Howie looked at Baumer doubtfully, "He's had quite a bit already."
"He's not going to drive anywhere, so I don't care if Nate has to carry him upstairs feet first.. Drink," she said recklessly, ''as much as you want, as long as you keep him occupied."
Quill stood up, tapped her water glass, and thanked the Chamber for its continued support of the Inn over the years. This was met with warm applause, She expressed her conviction that Sunday's presentation of The Trial of Goody Martin would be the best yet, This was met with enthusiastic shouts. She invited the members to have brandy and crŠme caramel on the house in the Lounge, which was met with more cheers, except for Marge, who rolled her eyes and yelled, "milk puddin' !" to no discernible purpose, Esther leaned across Elmer Henry and interpreted helpfully, "She wants to hold the meetings at the diner next year, She says these foreign puddings make Americans sick, She says..."
"Thanks, Esther. I get the picture."
In the general scraping of chairs, Quill edged around the table and grabbed Mavis by the arm. "I'm going to the ladies' room before I go to the Lounge, Want to come with me?"
"Why, sure, sugar," Mavis moved like a rudderless boat, amiably correcting course as Quill guided her to the main-floor bathrooms. Inside, she peered blearily at herself in the mirror, "Shee-it, Would you look at this hair?" She patted the stiffly lacquered waves delicately. Quill, confronted with a real live opportunity for detection, wondered wildly where to start. What would Myles do? Ask to see some identification, probably, which was no help at all, since she doubted that much would be gained by asking to see Mavis' driver's license. Besides, she already knew Mavis.
Or did she?
"Mrs. Hallenbeck seems a little... difficult... at times. I really admire the way you handle her. Have you known her long?"
Mavis stretched her lower lip with her little finger and applied a layer of lipstick. "Long enough."
Well, that answer was loaded with information. Quill took a moment to regroup. "I was absolutely fascinated to learn that you and Marge are old friends," Quill tried again. "Have you visited her in Hemlock Falls before this trip?"
"That ol' girl don' like you too much," said Mavis. "Why you want to know that?"
"John Raintree mentioned that he'd seen you before... I think," Quill said hastily. "I may have misunderstood."
"That Indian fella? You know what we say down South?" From the sly look in Mavis' eye, Quill didn't think she wanted to know what they said down South.
"Indians're worse liars than niggers." Quill drew a deep breath. Doreen pushed the swinging door to the bathroom open, stuck her head in, and said brusquely, "You're needed, Miss Quill."
Mavis dropped her lipstick into her evening bag and closed it with a snap. "I better be gettin' back to that party." She grabbed Quill with a giggle. "Think I'm gonna get lucky tonight. That ol' boy Keith may be baldin' on top, but there's fire in that oven, or I'm Mary Poppins." Her grip tightened and her eyes narrowed. "So I'll be in the Lounge for a while, if you want to have a little more innocent girl talk." Her long fingernails dug painfully into Quill's wrist. "After that, I'll have a sign out-readin' 'Do Not Disturb.' " She released Quill's wrist. Bosom outthrust, she sailed out the door.
"Huh!" sniffed Doreen, skipping aside as the door swung closed. "That's one of them wimmen that needs her devils cast out for sure."
"What women?"
Doreen dug into her capacious apron pocket and thrust a fistful of pamphlets at Quill. THE LORD DESPISES THE SINNER WITH LUST IN HIS HEART! the first one thundered in scarlet ink. HE SHALL CAST OUT THE DEMON OF UNRIGHTEOUSNESS screamed the next. And third, YE SHALL EXERCISE THE DEVlLS OF HOT DESIRE. The line art featured large men with beards shaking impressively large forefingers at big-breasted women.
Lightning featured prominently in the background. "Oh, my," said Quill.
"We exercised a right number of devils at the meetings in Boca Raton," Doreen said in satisfaction. "Bit noisy, but those devils skedaddled out of the sinners like you wouldn't believe."
"It's exorcise, Doreen, not exercise."
"We got right sweaty doin' it," said Doreen indignantly. "I mean to show these to the Reverend Shuttleworth. He ain't got enough fizz in his preaching. I'll bet the Reverend would fill the pews right up if he had a bit of exercising in his sermons. Stop puttin' people to sleep. There's this 1-800 number he can call any time of the day or night to get the lowdown on this stuff." Quill opened her mouth to lodge a protest, and Doreen swerved into an abrupt change of topic. "You're wanted at the reception. What're you standing around here for?"
Quill gave up. "What's the problem?"
"Somebody's here to check in."
"I think we're full."
"Hey, do I run this joint or do you?"
A strong impression of smug hilarity hung around Doreen. Quill's misgivings strengthened to dismay when she arrived at the reception desk, Doreen at her heels. The woman who stood at the front desk was both sophisticated and annoyed, a combination that guaranteed trouble. Dressed in a short tight skirt, platform shoes, and a well-cut jacket, she had the smooth, expensive hair and skin that meant money with access to Manhattan.
"Are you the manager here?" she said crossly.
Quill cocked an eyebrow at Doreen; there'd been a lot of women like this at the gallery when she was painting, and if Doreen thought she'd see her boss discomposed, she had another think coming. "I'm Sarah Quilliam," she said, extending her hand. "And excuse me for saying so, but that's the most marvelous jacket I've ever seen. It simply screams Donna Karan. Not everyone can wear her as well as you do."
The fashion plate relaxed a little. "Darling, the cut h
ides the most awful flaws. She's easier than you think. Can you help me out here? I'm trying to check in, and this little person behind the desk keeps saying she has to ask the manager. Nobody seems to be able to find the manager, for God's sake."
Quill winked comfortingly at the young Cornell student behind the counter. "He's on an errand for me," said Quill. "I'm the owner. What can I do for you? I'm afraid we're booked solid at the moment."
"But I've got a room." Quill moved behind the front desk to check the bookings. The missing ledger had reappeared as mysteriously as it had gone. "And your name?"
"Celeste Baumer. Mrs. Keith Baumer." If that was a snigger from Doreen, Quill thought furiously, she was going to do some "exercising" of her Inn's own devils: the housekeeping kind.
"She's got ill," said the Cornell student apologetically. "But I called Mr. Baumer's room, and he doesn't answer. Mr. Baumer's booked a single for the week, not a double, and John always told us to check with the customer when something like this happens."
"And he was right," said Quill. "Was your husband expecting you, Mrs. Baumer?"
"Oh, no." She exposed a bright row of teeth in what Quill took to be a smile. "I wanted it to be a.surprise."
"Why don't you sit and have a glass of wine in the bar, Mrs. Baumer? On the house, of course. We'll see if we can find Mr. Baumer."
"Are you going up to his room?"
"Um," said Quill, "actually I think he's out on... on... a sales call or something."
"I've been on that damn train for hours. I want a bath and then I'll take you up on that free drink. But first I want to check in."
Maybe, Quill thought as she, Celeste Baumer, Doreen, and the Cornell student (who was carrying the suitcases) trooped up the stairs to the second floor, Keith Baumer left Mavis at the bar and was freshening up. Maybe he was making phone calls to his neglected customers. Maybe he'd fallen asleep dead-drunk. And alone.
Quill knocked on the door to 221.
"I don't think he's here," she said after a few moments. "Open it up, darling," Celeste Baumer demanded. "You wouldn't believe how I have to pee."
Quill unlocked the door. Mrs. Baumer pushed past her and switched on the lights. Two twenty-one was decorated in Waverly chintz with scarlet poppies against a cream background.
The poppies on the tailored bedspread moved up and down with the briskness of waves on a breezy sea.
"Oops," said the Cornell student. "Dang!" said Quill.
"You bastard!" shrieked Celeste Baumer with enormous satisfaction.
"Heh-heh-heh," chortled Doreen.
"God-damn!" shouted a nude and sweaty Keith Baumer. Mavis screamed in a very ladylike way.
-8-
July in Central New York is not the usual mating season for songbirds, but the repeated attacks of the cardinal flying into its own image on the sunrise side of Quill's bedroom window woke her at six. She squinted against the sunshine pouring in and addressed the bird. "That's not a hostile rival, that's you," she said.
Ta-Ching! The bird flattened its beak against its reflection, intent on assassination.
"Has the word gotten to the bird world, too? You think your sweetie's in here with some other guy?"
Ta-ching!
"You're related to Baumer, maybe, and have faith in the triumph of hope over experience."
Ta-CHANG! The bird, with one last mighty effort, hit the window and dropped out of sight. Quill got out of bed and peered out the window to the lawn. The cardinal lay on its back, feet up. It chirped, righted itself and flew at the window, beady eyes glittering.
Ta-ching!
Quill went back to bed and pulled her pillow over her head.
Myles, dressed in his grays, came out of the kitchenette carrying two cups of coffee. Quill groaned, sat up, and peered at him. "Are you going to let Mrs. Baumer out of the pokey?"
"Probably." He handed Quill a cup, then sat at the foot of the bed.
"You think it'll hit the papers?"
"Probably. The local's stringer's in town to cover the opening ceremonies of History Days."
"Oh, God."
"It'll blow over, honey." He rose, stretched, and drained his coffee. "Of course, you could always give up innkeeping as a profession and marry me."
"No, Myles."
"Or you could continue being an innkeeper and marry me." "I tried marriage. It stinks. You didn't find marriage all that terrific, either."
"Youthful folly. On both our parts." The cardinal hit the window again.
Quill got out of bed. Further sleep was impossible. "Would you like some breakfast? Meg's got an assistant in the kitchen that makes a mean Eggs Benedict."
"I'm going down to the jail to let Mrs. Baumer go. Unless you want to press charges for the damage to two twenty-one."
"I don't think so. I didn't like that lamp anyway, and I can fix the dent in the wall. Just a matter of replacing the sheetrock and repainting. I feel so sorry for her, Myles. I can't believe that jerk Baumer."
He kissed her, a process that always softened Quill's resolve to never marry again. "I don't know when I'll see you today, kiddo. Just relax and enjoy yourself."
"Easy for you to say - all you have to do is make sure that four thousand tourists in Dodge Caravans don't all crash into each other on Main Street."
"All you have to do is keep the doors barred against irate spouses, supervise the extra help, keep Doreen from rending Keith Baumer limb from limb in fine Old Testament outrage, hold your sister's hand if her souffl‚ flops, and generally wear yourself ragged."
"It's not that tough, Myles. Not when you've got good staff. And I've got good staff."
They both carefully avoided any mention of John Raintree. She closed the door after him and took a long leisurely shower, getting down to the dining room at seven o'clock. Meg was seated at their table for two by the kitchen door, and Quill went to join her. Meg had abandoned her leggings, ratty tennis shoes, and sweatbands for well-pressed jeans and a lacy top. She'd taken a curling iron to her dark hair, and wore a pair of gold hoop earrings.
"Well you look totally cool," said Quill.
Meg batted her eyelashes. "Guess who's going on a picnic with the best-looking gourmet critic in Hemlock Falls?"
"Really? Did you pack the basket?"
"Cold gravlax with my Scotch Bonnet salsa. Homemade flatbread, dilled potato salad. Nice chilly bottle of a sparkling Vouvray. Strawberries with that crŠme br–l‚e from last night. If we get a good seat for the opening ceremonies, I guarantee you that fourth star."
"Everything okay in the kitchen?"
"Frank's supervising. All we're going to get today is a zillion orders for roast beef sandwiches to go," She hesitated. "Any word from John?"
Quill shook her head.
"Jeez." Meg sighed. "Poor old you. At least you've got that creep Baumer out of your hair."
"Nope."
"Nope? Are you serious? After all that ranting and raving last night? I would have thought the son of a gun would be embarrassed to show his sniveling face in town."
"He's booked for the week. He's paid for the week. He'll stay for the week. That's what he said."
"In-credible."
"I assume it has to do with the sales convention at the Marriott." Quill sighed. "I can't think how that guy keeps a job."
"And the marvelous round-heeled Mavis?"
"Mrs. Hallenbeck said, 'booked for the week, paid for the week.' "
"They'll stay for the week?"
"Besides, I think both of them are looking forward to the play this afternoon. Ow!"
Meg kicked Quill's ankle as Keith Baumer, Mavis, and Mrs. Hallenbeck arrived simultaneously at the entrance to the dining room. Conversation in the dining room came to a halt. Mrs. Hallenbeck, Quill thought, was superb. She ignored Baumer with aplomb bordering on the magnificent. Mavis meekly trailing in her wake, she swept past Baumer - whose face was tinged a dusky pink-to their regular table. Head down, Baumer slunk to table eight.
"Oh. There's Edward
," said Meg eagerly. Lancashire, in cotton Dockers, boat shoes, and a dark green denim shirt, walked in, and with a casual wave at Meg and Quill, began to come toward them. He stopped at the Hallenbeck table and spoke briefly to the widows. Mavis, in an off-the-shoulder tank top that showed more d‚colletage than her Empire-styled gown of the evening before, smiled invitingly up at him.
"Would you look at that!" hissed Meg. With a brief, apologetic glance at Meg, Edward pulled out a chair and sat next to Mavis. One of the Inn's impeccably trained waiters was instantly at his elbow with a cup and freshly brewed coffee. "How does she do it?" said Meg, awestruck.
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