“No!”
“As you see. But that’s not the worst part.”
“Does it get worse?” asked Quill, fascinated. She skimmed the rest of the story. “Of course it gets worse. He wants the sheriffs office to issue citations for canine ‘infarctions.’ “
“Now that’s a good thing,” said Meg. “It might make more dog owners aware of heartworm. August is a terrible time for heartworm. But that’s still not the worst part.”
“How do you know that about heartworm?”
“Andy told me.”
“Andy’s a people doctor, not a vet.”
Meg shrugged, the slight blush with which she was liable to greet mention of the Falls’ best-looking (and only) internist. “He’s a dog-loving people doctor. Read on. See page four?”
Quill was cheered at the prospect, however remote, of six-foot-four Myles McHale chasing Esther West’s yappy poodle to give it a ticket; Buddy was a notorious ankle-biter. She turned to page four. Her amusement faded. “Oh, no! He’s printed the police blotter!”
“Cute, huh?”
“It’s awful! As if there weren’t enough gossip in a town this size. ‘A juvenile, aged ten, of 256 Maple Drive, was arrested on a charge of petit mal larceny at the Wal-Mart store on Route Fifteen.” Quill threw the paper on the table. “Honestly. Everyone knows it’s just Benny Pasquale swiping gum. He’s done it since he was eight years old. His parents make him give it back and work it off at the store. I think he just likes to stack cartons. And petit mal larceny? What the heck is that?”
Meg shrugged. “Not quite as funny as the ‘infarction-infraction’ mistake. Half the town is going to think Bennie’s an epileptic and the other that he’s kiting bad checks or stealing cars.”
“This is too bad. His poor parents. That poor kid.”
“There’s more. Look at the bottom of the page. Pete Rosen would croak to see what’s happened to the good old Gazette. I wonder if anyone’s sent him a copy in Florida.”
Quill picked the paper up and peered at the boxed item under the police blotter. “‘Next week. Mini-Mall or Mighty Mess? Is the Entire Chamber of Commerce on the Take?! The Trumpet! has uncovered the true facts behind the construction—or should this reporter say destruction— of Hemlock Falls’ most expensive venture in town history. Mayor denies cover-up!’ ” Quill dropped the paper on the table, and stared at her sister, astonished. She fished the lemon slice out of her tea and bit into it. The sour taste helped pull her scattered thoughts together. “This is just cheap gossip! Have you met these people? These Conways? Hedrick and Louisa and what’s-her-name? Carlyle, his sister?”
“Nope.”
Quill spit a lemon seed into her hand. She felt like throwing something. Not a large something. Just a gesture of disapprobation. Mike the groundskeeper had edged the gazebo with Old Spice sweet peas. It’d been a hot, wet summer, and the plants grew lushly cream, pink, scarlet, rose, and lavender around the latticework. She tossed the seed into the heavy foliage and pitched the rind in after it. “This is ridiculous. When I think of all the work that’s gone into that stupid mini-mall—and the hours of time I’ve spent at chamber meetings taking endless notes.” She stopped. “There can’t be anything in this. Can there?”
Meg shrugged. “Who’s to say? On the face of it—or maybe I should say the sole of it, given that stupid picture—he’s more likely a Geraldo Rivera wannabe. I’ll tell you who would know if there’s anything criminal going on at the mall.”
Quill, who knew quite well whose name was about to surface, since he was the only real law in town, tore the paper into three long strips and said firmly, “Dookie Shuttleworth is head of the Mall Committee, as you very well know. And he couldn’t be involved in anything crooked to save his soul. He’s a minister, for Pete’s sake.”
“What about Harvey Bozzel?” asked Meg.
Quill pulled her lip. Harvey was Hemlock Falls’ premier (and only) advertising executive. While Harvey’s basic honesty was undeniable, his cupidity was problematic. With the best will in the world, Harvey had an eye for the main chance. “Nah. Marge Schmidt’s on the committee. I could see Harvey getting involved with something crooked out of sheer dumbness, but Marge would put her size nines flat on his sweaty little neck. She’s shrewder than the entire bunco squad at the FBI.”
“Oh, sure,” said Meg. “There’s a superior comparison. If you’re talking about the guys who didn’t know their chief liked to wear a dress and bet mob money on the horses. What about the fact that nobody, but nobody in town is actually working at the site? The carpenters and electricians are all from out of town.”
“Bull. We checked out DeMarco Construction thoroughly. At least, the committee did.”
“And who was on that committee? Harvey Bozzel. And the Mayor. Neither of whom are up for Nobel prizes in investigation.”
“So was Howie Murchison. And he’s no fool. The best thing to do with this rag is ignore it. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Conway’s a yellow journalist. He’s trouble.”
“Right here in River City,” Meg chanted. “With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for—”
“Poo!” they shouted together. Quill smiled and shook her head. “This is low-grade, bottom-of-the-barrel schtick humor, Meg.”
Meg smiled back. “Whatever it takes. That’s the first time I’ve actually heard you laugh since you packed up your paintings and decided to give Myles the boot.”
Quill balled the paper up and stuck it under the chair. “Let’s forget about it. We need to get through this agenda. Then I want to go swimming. It’s been a tough week.”
“No-no-no-no-no! Look. We got most of the full-time employees involved in this new restaurant of ours, right? One of your ideas about how much more appreciated they’d feel if they were truly a part of the business.”
“You thought it was a good idea!”
“I still do. But what if there is something behind this mini-mall expose? We have a clear responsibility to ourselves and our staff to find out the truth. My goodness, Quill, all our savings are in this project.”
“Good God. You don’t think there’s something funny going on, do you?”
Meg shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to find out. And who better than you to do a little discreet investigation?” She waved her arms dramatically. “Who was it that captured the Paramount Paint murderer? Confronted the History Day’s killer? You’re secretary of the Chamber of Commerce. Everyone in town likes you. It’s perfect. So you’ll do it? Maybe start with a quiet little interrogation of the Horrible Hedrick?”
“Well. You may be right.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“It’s probably worth a look.”
“And you’ll start right now?” Meg’s glance at the To Do list, which was uppermost on the stack of files on the gazebo table, was artfully innocent. “No time like the present. Can’t hurt to start right now. Think of how cheerful you are when you’re detecting. And how few lists you make.”
“We’d have utter chaos without the To Do list. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with my moods.”
“Well, let’s talk about that. Before we get to the list.”
Quill frowned, her hilarious mood evaporating as quickly as it’d come. “Okay, okay, maybe I’ve been a little— dour—lately.”
“Dour! Try surly, cranky, tetchy.”
“Not that bad,” said Quill, startled.
“Let’s stick with grouchy. We can all live with that. It’s the hyperactivity that’s tough. You throw yourself into all this useless work. I mean, look at this stuff.” Meg pulled a file from the stack they’d brought from the kitchen and opened it with a dramatic flourish. “‘Order Entry Process for Inventory.’ What the heck is that? All these stupid little boxes showing Doreen how to do a job she’s done perfectly well for the last five years.”
“Axminster Stoker’s been helping me. He was a process manager for a Fortune 500 company before he took early retirement.”
“A
nd you wonder why Doreen’s been telling you to mind your own business? With you and this boob Stoker zooming all over the Inn with your slide rules and these dopey charts? Come on, Quill. It’s impossible to have a decent conversation when you’re depress—sorry, grouchy and defensive at the same time.”
“I am not defensive!” Quill shouted. Then subsiding to a less bellicose tone, “Keep your voice down. Mr. Stoker’s sitting right over there. It’s not a dopey chart, it’s a process chart. It’s supposed to make us more efficient. Reduce costs. Improve profitability.”
“My sister the Wizard of Wall Street. What about this other stuff?” Meg tossed the Order Entry Process for Inventory to the gazebo floor and fished another file from the stack. “Customer surveys. ‘Rate your satisfaction with the quality of dinners during your stay at the Inn. a. Very Unsatisfactory, b. Unsatisfactory, c. Satisfactory, d. Very Satisfactory.’ ”
“We received an eighty-six percent ‘Very Satisfactory’ rating from that survey. Axminster says that’s extraordinary for a business that’s just getting into Total Quality. You should be proud. I’ve told you that, already.”
“Fine. Swell. Good. Pretty nice,” said Meg in an apparent—and in Quill’s opinion—lame attempt at Total Quality humor. “So what did you do about the fourteen percent who thought my food was awful?” Her expression, innocently inquiring, didn’t fool Quill at all. She was conscious of trepidation. Her sister’s temper, serene only when she was cooking well, was volcanic when aroused.
“They didn’t think your food was awful. They had suggestions for improving the menu, that’s all. Some very, very small suggestions.”
“So you asked the fourteen percent what I could do to improve,” said Meg with a dangerous calm. “And why they hated my cooking. All you had to do, Quill, was ask me why they hated my cooking. You want to know why? I’ll tell you why....” Meg, her face pink, began to tug at her short, dark hair with both hands—a bad sign.
“They didn’t hate your cooking. They loved your cooking. A basic quality principle, according to Mr. Stoker, is that everything can be improved. They loved your cooking so much, they had ideas for it to get even better. It’s not a criticism, Meg. It’s feedback. It shows the customers are involved.”
“Oh. I see. Of course.” She picked up a survey response at random and read: “ ‘Herring no good.’ Silly, silly me, to have no-good herring. Dammit! I don’t serve herring at all!”
“You have to know how to interpret these things,” said Quill wisely. “That may sound like our herring was no good, but what it means is that it wasn’t good that we didn’t have herring. I’m pretty sure that this was from the reunion meeting of the Finns Who Found God. They eat a lot of herring, Finns do, and which was just the point I was making about our Japanese guests. People like it when you serve food familiar to them.”
“Oh? What about this one?” Meg’s nostrils flared. She read: “‘We want tits!’”
“Well, that one ... you remember?”
“The Society of Swamp Reclamation Engineers—the ones who wanted to know how come there were no topless joints in Tompkins County? How could I forget?” Meg’s face got pinker. Her eyes narrowed. Her voice rose. “I am not, I repeat not going to change a. my cooking, or b. my menus, or c. remove my T-shirt to suit anybody! And that includes the President of the United States himself! Do you hear this? If the President himself showed up and asked for herring I would refuse! This quality stuff sucks!”
“Will you hush, Meg? Mr. Stoker—”
“Who cares!?”
“Okay,” said Quill cautiously. Then, “I’m sorry. You have a point about the T-shirt.”
“You bet I do.”
“But not about the herring.”
“Jeez!” Meg said. Her hair began to resemble bed-springs.
“Just think about adding a few specials to the menu to make the guests feel more at home. Not every day. Not all the time. Just once in a while. Like maybe sushi. It’ll give you creative scope. I admit, I can see your point about the feedback—”
“Stuff the feedback. It’s not the feedback. It’s the fact that you think these people have the right to change the way I cook that’s driving me bananas. All these dopey statistics tell you is that the Swamp Reclamation Engineers should have gone to Atlantic City and the Finns to Nantucket. You want feedback? I’ll give you feedback. You and Mr. Stoker can take these statistics and—”
“Will you keep your voice down, please? The poor man can hear you. The entire town can hear you. I’m changing my mind about spending money on air-conditioning. At least we can argue in the kitchen, where nobody can hear us.”
“Pooh! I’m not saying a single thing to you that I wouldn’t say to that fussy little process gearhead myself.”
“Airing these differences can be a good thing,” said a dry voice in Quill’s ear, “but only when the parties involved share a common vision for excellence.” The clipped precise speech was an aural representation of a lawn mowed within an inch of its life.
Quill closed her eyes, turned in her seat, and opened them to see Axminster Stoker standing at the entrance to the gazebo. “Hi, Mr. Stoker.”
Mr. Stoker was small and sinewy with a buzz cut and a stiff blond-gray mustache. He looked as though he wore khakis even when he didn’t. His eyes were the color of little blue marbles. “Margaret? I can tell you what you are feeling now. You’re feeling threatened. This is a normal response to those unacquainted with Total Quality principles. I am, however, always glad to have the opportunity to enlighten the uninformed.”
“It’s enlightening enough to know somebody who’s been named after a carpet,” said Meg tartly. “We have an Axminster in the conference room. Were you born on one?”
“My family,” said Mr. Stoker, with the air of someone who has had to explain this before and is rather pleased to do so, “came from the village in England. I sense that you are feeling offended as well as threatened. This, too, is a common reaction to my ideas for process improvement. Made worse, I might add, when inadequately explained.” The birdy-blue eye fixed itself on Quill in impersonal accusation. “I do apologize for the intrusion, but I couldn’t help but overhear the lamentable interpretation of Total Quality principles. May I sit down?” He stepped into the gazebo, settled onto the bench facing Meg and Quill, and drew a deep breath. “To begin with, there is no human activity that cannot be flowcharted.”
“Terlits,” said Doreen Muxworthy.
Quill jumped. Their head housekeeper, skinny and tough as a piece of barbed wire, placed both freckled hands on the gazebo railing and glared at Axminster Stoker. Quill wondered why voices carried in the humid air and footsteps didn’t. She decided, crossly, that Doreen had crept up on them on purpose. “What is it, Doreen? I didn’t hear you come up.”
“D’ja hear me now?”
“Of course I hear you now. Anybody within a mile could hear you now. What about the toilets?”
“The maintenance of toilets,” said Axminster Stoker, “lends itself in particular to a process flowchart. All it takes is an initial commitment to doing things right the first time.”
Doreen’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Quill cleared her throat and said brightly, “What about the toilets?”
“Backed up.” Although her mouth moved, Doreen’s regard of Axminster Stoker’s face was otherwise totally motionless, reminding Quill of a National Geographic Special she’d seen on lionesses stalking in the Kalahari. “Ground floor. Second and third floor like to go as soon as this lot sitting out here goes back to their rooms. Which’ll be pretty soon. They been drinking iced tea like it’s going out of style.”
“Oh, dear.” Quill got to her feet with a guilty sense of relief. She fully appreciated Axminster Stoker’s advice, but it was advice that benefited from coffee with a high caffeine content and cooler temperatures. Otherwise it made her sleepy. “I suppose I’d better go. Doreen, did you call Petey what’ s-his-name?”
“Peterson,” said Doreen. �
�From Peterson’s Septic and Floor Covering. I already done that. So you can stay right here.”
Her steady gaze was beginning to discomfit Quill, who couldn’t imagine why it wasn’t unnerving the apparently nerveless Mr. Stoker. “And leave you to deal with this on your own? I’d be a pretty poor manager if I did that.” Familiar with the opinion Doreen seemed about to express, she hurried on, “Is Petey coming soon? It’s Friday, you know, and I’m pretty sure I mentioned that we’ve got twelve people checking in this afternoon. Those Japanese guests, and the members of the ... the ...” She scrambled hastily through the file on guest preferences. “Rudyard Kipling Condensation Society. Now, that might interest you, Mr. Stoker. Do you like Kipling? You look as if... I mean with your family background and all.”
“‘Though I’ve belted you and flayed you, by the living God that made you, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din,’” said Axminster unexpectedly. “Yes, I like Kipling.”
“Dina Muir, our receptionist, should be able to tell you all you need to know about them. The Society sent ahead some literature. They give recitations on request, I guess, wherever they go.” Drawing on six years’ experience of managing guests prone to an astonishing variety of behaviors, she guided Axminster out of the gazebo and onto the lawn. Doreen swiveled her head to follow them, rather like the gun turret on a tank.
“I’m quite interested in Kipling,” said Axminster, “but wouldn’t you say that I was needed here? Prioritization is a key quality concept. Toilets are too critical to be left to chaos—”
Behind her, Doreen made a sound Quill hadn’t heard before and was pretty sure she didn’t want to hear again. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to use up your precious vacation time on plumbing problems. You’ve already been far, far more helpful than necessary. We are all in your debt. Will you be eating here tonight? If you decide not to, there are a number of places I can recommend. Or what about taking the wine tour? The van leaves this evening at six-thirty from the foyer.”
“I have already signed up for the wine tour,” said Axminster, a little pathetically. “It will be my fourth such foray. You feel it would be worthwhile to go again?”
A Puree of Poison Page 2
