"I did not so much as pick up a stone, so I clearly am not responsible," said Mrs. Hallenbeck with immense satisfaction. "But that terrible Baumer person. Someone should put people like that in jail. Imagine being responsible for an accident like that."
They reached the bottom of the incline to the Inn. Mrs. Hallenbeck looked girlishly up at Edward. "I believe I'll take this handsome young man's arm up these little stairs."
Edward presented his arm with a gallant gesture, and the two sisters fell behind. The words "frequently complimented" floated back to them more than once, and Meg muttered crossly, "I don't think that woman's elevator goes all the way to the top, Quill."
"Meg, she's eighty-three years old. We can't imagine what that's like. All the people that she grew up with, her husband, her friends, are either gone or going. The line between life and death must seem very thin to her, each day more of a struggle to stay on this side and not slip to the next."
Meg started to hum the portentous strains of "Pomp and Circumstance," and Quill told her to shut up. "That doesn't make you think of fat guys with double chins making speeches full of hot air?" said Meg innocently. "It does me."
"I'd rather think about what to serve the Chamber tonight."
"Something comforting, but not depressing," said Meg.
"Pasta in sauce ought to set Marge right up. As long as I don't have to make it, smell it, or eat it. Frank'll make it."
"Pasta in sauce," said Marge with satisfaction some three hours later. "Finally something I rekonize."
"Very diplomatic," said Howie dryly. "Traditional village fare for weddings, anniversaries, and funerals." He rolled a forkful around in his mouth. "Do I detect fresh basil? The last of the Vidalias?"
"Do I detect bullshit?" asked Marge, raising her eyes to the ceiling. "Or is it Heinz spaghetti sauce, like any sensible person uses."
"We need to get to the purpose of this meeting," said Elmer Henry. He rapped the gavel and stood up. Seventeen faces stared back at him. "This emergency meeting of the Hemlock Falls Chamber of Commerce is now in session. Will you lead us in a prayer, Reverend?"
"He's not here," said Betty Hall. "He called his own emergency session of the deacons at his church. Said he'll be right along as soon as it's over."
"So Tom Peterson isn't here either," said Elmer. "And Myles is off on his investigation. We have enough to vote, Quill?"
"You need a certain portion of the membership," said Quill hesitantly. "I'm not sure just how many."
"Two-thirds," said Howie impatiently. "There's twenty-four active members."
There was a pause while everyone figured this out. "We're two short," said Esther, which, unknown to Quill, helped enlighten Mark Anthony Jefferson, the vice-president of the Hemlock Falls Savings and Loan, as to Esther's cash-flow troubles.
"No, we're one over," said Marge promptly, which would have surprised Mark Anthony not at all. "So, do we cancel the rest of the History Days or what?"
"If I might say something," said Harvey Bozzel. He stood up, tucked his hands boyishly in the back pocket of his cotton Dockers, and composed his features into a grave, but not solemn, expression. "We've experienced a terrible tragedy here. Just terrible. And we sincerely mourn the passing of this celebrity in our town."
"Celebrity?" said Betty Hall. "She was a paid companion to that old lady. What's with the celebrity stuff?"
"She was a professional actress," Harvey said gently. "She was a dancing hot dog!" said Betty. "I don't call that being a celebrity."
"A story... now, Ralph, you can help me on this... that will probably be picked up by the national media."
"A TV station was here," admitted Ralph Lorenzo, editor and publisher of the Hemlock Daily News. "But it was just the affiliate from Syracuse."
"With the proper handling," said Harvey, "this can be a story of national scope." He ran one hand through his styled blond hair and asked rhetorically, " 'Does an ancient curse haunt the peaceful village of Hemlock Falls? Story tonight at eleven.' With absolutely no disrespect to the dead, think of the publicity." He lowered his voice and looked at them earnestly. "Think of the good it can do the businesses of Hemlock Falls. Quill, has anyone decided to shorten their stay with you because of this?"
"I thought it might," said Quill, "but no. Everyone seems to be ghoulishly interested in what's happened."
"No, no, no, no, no. Not ghoulish, Quill. It's the universal need to validate your own existence. In the midst of death, there is life. This is a well-known phenomenon in advertising."
"It is, huh?" Harland Peterson banged his fist on the table. "If you're talking about keeping this play going all week, I say it ain't right and it ain't fit, and I'm going to vote against it."
"I have to agree with Harland," said Quill. "This is capitalizing on - "
"On an accident that could have happened to anyone of us," said Harvey. "Quill, if you had decided to go on, it could have been you! Don't you see? You get on the expressway after a tractor-trailer hits a bus - you drive more carefully. These occurrences, terrible as they are for the victims, can help prevent such things from happening again. Now, if the town were to approve a small advertising budget, I'd be happy to handle the necessary press releases, to interface with the media, perhaps conduct tours of the fatal spot."
The members responded with vehemence. Marge offered the practical opinion that it'd be good for the diner business, and probably the Croh Bar, too. Howie Murchison drew an analogy between Harvey's proposal and the behavior of ghouls; Miriam Doncaster offered a precise definition of ghoul and agreed with Howie. Freddie Bellini, the mortician, said death was a decent business and he wasn't going to sit still for nasty shots from lawyers and librarians. Quill abandoned any pretense at taking notes and wondered if John Raintree had been in a car wreck, and maybe that was why he'd gone missing.
Myles walked into the room and the squabble stopped abruptly. He was still in uniform. The lines around his gray eyes had deepened a little, and his mouth was grim. Quill thought he looked terrific, like Clint Eastwood riding into town to deal out frontier justice to the mob. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.
"We were just discussing the rest of History Days," said Elmer. "Talking about whether or not to continue with the play. What do you think?"
Myles shrugged. "We've found all we're going to find at the site. Go ahead."
Quill would have preferred a response more in the heroic mode. A man who looked like Myles should wither the Harvey Bozzels of this world with a phrase or two of devastating pith. A direct blaze of contempt from his steely eyes would do it, too.
"I'm hungry," said Myles. "Any more of the pasta around?"
Quill handed him her plate. "Take mine."
"So we have the sheriff's support," said Harvey. "I can work up a fee schedule for you right now, and then we can take a quick vote."
Myles wiped his mouth with Quill's napkin. "You don't have my support. I said the site's not off limits."
"What's your opinion, then?" asked Esther. "Harvey said you don't close the expressway after a car accident, so why should we lose the business from History Days?"
"I don't have an official opinion. My personal opinion is that we've had two deaths in the past forty-eight hours and that's no cause for celebrations of any kind."
"We can always tell when it's not an election year, Sheriff," said Harvey nastily. "These two accidents could have happened anywhere, at any time...."
"They weren't accidents," said Myles. "Gil Gilmeister and Mavis Collinwood were murdered." Myles swallowed the last of the pasta and stood up. The silence was profound. "Quill, you're to notify me if any of the guests here at the Inn check out. Any of you here have planned to take any time away from the Falls, let Davey know first." He stopped at the door, and looked directly at Quill. "I'm going to need to talk to John Raintree. There's an APB out on him. Any of you see him, call me."
"Murdered!" said Miriam Doncaster. "Bullshit," said Marge. She wiped her forehead with her napkin.
"S'cuse me," said Ralph Lorenzo, "seems to be a story here." He jumped up and ran after Myles, almost colliding with Dookie Shuttleworth and Tom Peterson as they came into the conference room.
"Forgive us for being late," said the Reverend Shuttleworth.
"We had a most important meeting at the church."
"Sheriff says Gil was murdered, Tom," said Howie Murchison.
"Gil?" Tom stood uncertainly for a moment. The Reverend Shuttleworth took his arm and put him into a chair.
"Murder," said Harvey Bozzel. "Can't see that anybody would want to murder Gil, and if they did, whacking him over the head with that front loader was a piss-poor way to do it."
"That Mavis Collinwood, too," said Elmer. "Marge, you were there at the duck pond. What the hell happened?"
"You know what happened," said Marge sourly. "Sheriff's full of baloney. Coulda been me, coulda been Mavis sat in that ducking stool. You have some gripe with Gil, Harland? You set that tractor up somehow?"
"That tractor's been used for thirty years, and it's got another thirty in it. Ain't nothin' wrong with that tractor!" Harland roared.
"We must not assign blame," said Dookie Shuttleworth. "This is just further evidence that there is some devilish device at work here in town. Quill, the deacons and I have decided to hold a prayer breakfast. This distressing news makes it all the more urgent that we do so. Would the dining room at the Inn be available to us tomorrow morning? For perhaps forty people?"
"Of course, Mr. Shuttleworth," Quill said. "I'll speak with the kitchen about the menu."
"The church is not exactly in funds at the moment," he said apologetically. "Perhaps we could work something out?"
The wail of a siren jerked Quill upright. "That's the ambulance!" said the mayor. "What the heck? What's happening to the town now?"
Quill ran into the hall and out to the front lobby. Two paramedics burst in through the door. The woman, a substantially sized brunette Quill had seen in town before, said, "Room two twenty-one, miss?"
"This way," said Quill. They followed her up the short flight of stairs. Two twenty-one was Baumer's room. Quill, her heart pounding, rapped on the door as she opened it with her master key. "Mr. Baumer!" she called. "It's Sarah Quilliam. Are you all right?"
"In here!" Baumer's voice was whispery, faint. Quill froze with anxiety bordering on outright fear. Some lunatic must be abroad in Hemlock Falls. Maybe Harvey Bozzel was right. The paramedics shoved her unceremoniously out of the way and charged into the bathroom.
Quill sat down on the bed and took several deep breaths. "Was that the ambulance?" Meg stood at the open door. She snapped her fingers nervously, a habit which had irritated Quill since their childhood. "Is Baumer okay?"
"Yes, to the ambulance, and I don't know about Baumer," said Quill. "The paramedics are in there with him." Thumps and mumblings from the bathroom indicated the presence of too many people in too small a space. "Have you seen him tonight?"
"Umyah."
"What do you mean, 'umyah'? Was he at dinner?"
The brunette opened the bathroom door. Her partner, a thick-set guy with a mustache, supported Keith Baumer. Baumer's face was furious. And green. Quill couldn't decide which condition was uppermost.
"This," Baumer rasped, "is the hotel from Hell." The male paramedic dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. Baumer groaned theatrically and closed his eyes.
Quill, who had a growing, uneasy suspicion about the cause of Baumer's illness, asked the medics what happened.
"He has food poisoning," said the brunette. "We got a sample." She held up a clear tube. Quill averted her eyes from the loathsome contents. "I just think he ate sumthin' that didn't agree with him."
"He have anything with raw egg in it?" asked the male medic. The tag on his white coat read O. DOYLE. "This could be salmonella."
"Salmonella," agreed his partner. "Deadly stuff. Ought to take him to the hospital." She nodded her head in gloomy relish. "Might not last the night otherwise."
"There is no salmonella in my kitchen," snapped Meg. "And if he's sick, it's because; he grossed out on my food. Pork roast, potatoes duchesse, asparagus with hollandaise - and the eggs were cooked, thank you. He started the meal with sausage-stuffed mushrooms, and ended it with a chocolate bombe, and nobody's gut can take all that, even a cow, which has four stomachs instead of that guy's one."
"He looks a little better, Mr. O'Doyle," said Quill, eyeing Baumer with hope.
"It's Doyle, ma'am. Oliver Doyle. And I think he does, don't you, Maureen?"
"I'll take his temperature." She opened a black bag, took out a thermometer, and rolled up her sleeves. "CAN YOU HEAR ME, MR. BAUMER!"
"I can hear you fine," he snapped. "It's my stomach, not my ears."
"CAN YOU ROLL OVER ON YOUR STOMACH FOR ME? WE'RE GOING TO TAKE YOUR TEMPERATURE." Maureen advanced on him, the thermometer held aloft.
"We'll wait in the hall," said Quill. She shoved Meg out of 221, across the hall, and flat against the opposite wall. "What the hell have you been up to, Meg!"
"Nothing," said Meg, meekly.
Quill knew her sister's literal mind. "Then what have Frank and Bjorn been up to?"
"A little creative cooking, that's all," said Meg. "Nothing remotely harmful."
Quill stood back and glared at her, hands on her hips. "That little bottle. What's in it?"
Meg opened her mouth, closed it. "Ipecac," she said. "A very weak solution."
Maureen and Oliver came out of 221, closing the door behind them. "Temperature's normal," said Maureen regretfully. "Pulse is normal. And he only threw up five or six times and he's not gonna heave again, he says. Told him to stay in bed for a few days, eat boiled eggs and tea, maybe a little toast."
"Aw, Maureen, the guy's going to be fine," said Doyle, "just ate something that didn't agree with him. I seen guys a lot sicker come out of the Croh Bar and work the late shift at the paint factory, no problem."
"Still got to report it to the Board of Health," said Maureen. She waved the test tube. "Send this in for samples." She brightened. "Might be salmonella. Just a teensy little bit."
"Nah." Doyle shook Quill's hand. "He heaves again, give Doc Bishop a call. You won't need us. Bit of a waste of time, this. Took me away from a great video and the girlfriend."
"You must let the Inn make a contribution to the ambulance fund," said Quill hastily. "I mean, on top of the one we give every year." Quill drew them to the stairs. "And we'll take good care of Mr. Baumer. We'll see that he stays in bed a couple of days. Meg will see to the menu herself."
"Told him you prob'bly wouldn't charge him," Maureen tossed over her shoulder as they carried their equipment out, "on account of you wouldn't want a lawsuit or nothing." She waved the test tube aloft in farewell.
"Thank you," Quill said to the closed door, "very, very much." She turned to her sister. "What were you thinking of?"
"That we'd get rid of him!" said Meg with spirit. "Have him move to the Marriott or something. Let them put up with him."
"Good plan," Quill said cordially. "Excellent plan. I like a plan that means we're going to have to wait on him hand and foot for the next three days. For free!"
"Tell you what," said Meg with a charitable air. "Since you're so upset about this, let me take care of it. You don't have to worry about a thing."
"That's big of you." "It's the least I can do." A shout came from behind the closed door of 221. Quill smiled sweetly. "That call's for you."
The Chamber members were eating lemon tarts when Quill returned to the Lounge. She sat down, looked at the yellow custard filling, and pushed it away.
"Everything all right?" asked Howie after a moment. "Elmer wanted to come stampeding to the rescue, but I convinced him that another eighteen bodies stuffed into your front lobby would only confuse matters."
"Seventeen," said Marge. "I hollered at Ollie Doyle out the window. Said your sister finally poisoned somebody."
"Don't be absurd, Marge," said Esther. "What w
e have to worry about is whether a murderer's running around loose in Hemlock Falls. He might be staying right here at the Inn!"
"The only person who'd want to murder Keith Baumer is his wife," said Quill. "And she went back to Manhattan this morning after Myles let her out of jail." Well aware of the town's propensity for gossip, she came to a decision. She ground her teeth, looked Marge in the eye, and said, "You were right. My sister thought Keith Baumer was the ultimate pest. So she put ipecac in his food." She shut her eyes, waiting for the barrage of indignation sure to follow.
"Really?" said Betty Hall with interest. "Marge tried that once with this smartass yuppie from New Jersey that kept sending his food back. Worked a treat. Never saw him again."
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