A Puree of Poison

by Claudia Bishop

  “It’s spelled Q-U-I-L-L-I-A-M,” said Quill tartly. “And I am not married. I’m sure you’ll agree that the first obligation of a good reporter is to get the facts straight.” She fanned herself and took a deep breath. The first rule of innkeeping, she and Meg had agreed long ago, was not to belt guests in the mouth, even under the severest provocation. A change of subject was in order, if she wasn’t going to violate rule one. “I’d be fascinated to know where you got your ideas about how to run a newspaper. I know Syracuse has a fine program. The S.I. Newhouse graduate program?”

  “You mean did I go to journalism school? Nah. I guess I could teach so-called professors a thing or two about what sells papers. Nope, this issue of the Trumpet! is my first.”

  “You’re not an experienced newspaperman, then?”

  Hedrick lowered his notepad and gave her a look compounded equally of incredulity and hurt. “I guess maybe you didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Quill apologized, then hoping further digression would result in a more sensible conversation, said pleasantly, “Is there a reason why you chose Hemlock Falls for your first venture?”

  “That him coming? The Indian?” Hedrick interrupted. “Got that brown skin and black hair. Must be.”

  Quill twisted around in her seat. “Yes, that’s John.” She waved. John smiled, his long legs covering the distance between the Inn and the gazebo with easy athleticism. He nodded to Hedrick as Quill made the introductions.

  Hedrick, brow furrowed, mouth lightly agape, burrowed in his book like a mole after a grub. “Heard about you.” He flipped the pages. “Here it is. Thought so. Got a record, right? Arrested on suspicion of murder a couple years ago. Served time for murder before that.” He tucked the notebook into his shirt pocket with a nod of satisfaction.’ “Thing is, I was thinking maybe of doing a series of stories with a punch. Y’know, human interest. ‘Will I Kill Again?’ That kind of thing. Grabs the reader.”

  Quill’s breath went short. She felt as though she were encased in glass, as if there were a transparent, soundproofed barrier between Hedrick, herself, and the rest of her world. The skin on her scalp contracted and her fingers curled into fists. “Out.” Her voice just above a whisper, she got to her feet. “Get out.”

  “Quill.” John’s voice was quiet, removed from her by that glass wall of rage.

  “You heard me,” said Quill to Hedrick Conway. She picked up the iced tea pitcher and pulled her arm back. She thought of Darryl Strawberry.

  Hedrick smirked and waved the red-covered book as he left the gazebo and shambled across the lawn to the Inn’s parking lot.

  “Quill.”

  The world righted itself. She smoothed her hair. Her hands were shaking, and she sat down hard, bumping her head on the latticed wall of the gazebo.

  “Hey.” John squatted next to her chair. His coppery skin was redder than usual, but his expression was calm. “It’s true.”

  “It’s not true. Not the way he said it. It made you sound ... guilty.”

  “I was guilty.”

  “Of manslaughter, John. No one in their right mind could blame you for what you did. That little muckraking toad! Has the nerve! I could just kill him!”

  “No offense, Quill. But I can take care of him myself. And if I don’t want to rearrange his nose down to his socks, why should you?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Well...” The skin around John’s eyes wrinkled in amusement. “Maybe a little. But what can he do to me now? Everyone in town knows what happened. If he reprints the story, so what? It’s a nine-day wonder, and then it’s over. You know Hemlock Falls.”

  “I guess I do. And you’re right. But—! What a little twerp!”

  “I’ll buy that. Come on.” His hand was warm in her own. He pulled her to her feet, “You’ll be glad to know that Petey Peterson’s pumping the septic tank and the toilets will be functioning again. That sounds like a tongue-twister, doesn’t it? And the Kipling Society’s due momentarily. We’ll go back to the kitchen and see if we can talk Meg out of some of the sorbet she’s made for tonight while we’re waiting for them to check in.”

  “There’s something wrong with this picture,” Quill complained as she followed him across the lawn.

  “Wow!” John cocked his head to one side, a funny note in his voice.

  “I should be comforting you, and as usual, John, you end up comforting me. Wow, what?” She squinted. “My goodness. Does that look like an advance party of the Kipling Condensation Society to you?”

  “If it is, I’m joining.”

  Two women emerged from French doors that led from the Tavern Bar to the flagstone patio. The younger wore a pink halter-top that just barely contained a generous pair of breasts. They looked exactly like a pair of giant rolls in a wicker breadbasket. Even at this distance, Quill could tell she was chewing gum. Her sister was older, slimmer, and better dressed. Even at this distance, the two women’s sexuality was as blanketing as the August heat. Quill poked John in the side, hard. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Drooling over that pair of sisters. They’re poking holes in the lawn with their stiletto heels. You know how Mike hates that.”

  “I never drool. Except when it’s deserved. It’s deserved.” John chuckled. “And they aren’t sisters.”

  The women walked toward them like peacocks picking their way through a barnyard.

  “Mother and daughter?” said Quill dubiously. “You’re right, that’s a heck of a face-lift on the mother. I wonder who they are?” The younger blonde was carrying a large paper shopping bag that read: saks fifth avenue at the syracuse mall! “Oh, nuts. More Conways.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Sure. You remember what Marge told us last Sunday. Louisa’s the mother, the daughter’s ...” Quill frowned. “I keep thinking Thomas, but that’s not right.”

  “Carlyle.”

  “That’s it.” A wave of heavy perfume hit Quill before the women came within hearing distance. “Giorgio. Phew! At one o’clock in the afternoon?”

  John slipped her a sideways grin. “Snob.”

  They stood and watched the Conways wind their way through the rosebushes. Mrs. Conway wore a white linen suit—probably Armani, Quill thought—possibly Ungaro. Her daughter’s halter, short skirt and gold-trimmed handbag were definitely Escada. Mrs. Conway’s shoes would have paid Doreen’s salary for a week. Although neither of the women looked directly at John, Quill knew in her bones that the animated conversation between them was for his benefit. They subsided into self-conscious silence as they neared the gazebo, then the elder extended her hand. “Ms. Quilliam? I’m Louisa Conway. My daughter Carlyle. We have to apologize for the gum; she’s trying to quit smoking.” Louisa Conway’s hand was cool and firm, the nails buffed, not polished, the skin well-cared for. “Carlyle, this is Sarah Quilliam—you’re familiar with her work? She’s the artist?”

  “The flower studies?” Carlyle shifted the gum from one cheek to the other, and said rapidly, “You did that terrific series of roses a while back. I saw the show in New York. They called you the heir to O’Keeffe, didn’t they?”

  “Just O’Keeffe’s flower work, Cay. Ms. Quilliam’s work is nothing like the desert studies.” Mrs. Conway, with the air of a script prompter in a bad play, gave her a nod.

  “Thank goodness for that, I say. O’Keeffe terrifies me. Do you hang any work here at the Inn?”

  Quill blinked, opened her mouth, and said, “Not really.”

  Up close, the Conway women resembled nothing so much as heavy cream. Neither had a beautiful face; Quill could see the resemblance to Hedrick in both of them, especially around the mouth and eyes. But they had something: both had thick translucent skin, heavy-lidded eyes, full mouths, and hair the color of bronze, thinly beaten. Like plush cats with glossy fur, Quill thought. Except that she liked cats, and she didn’t like these women at all.

  “And you,” said Louisa, “must be the famous Mr. Rain-tre
e.” She widened her eyes and wriggled her shoulders. John’s answering grin irritated Quill profoundly. “We’ve heard about you from some friends of ours who stayed here last year. The Ferragamos? No relation to the luggage people, but just as nice as can be. Theobold said you truly know your wines. When Cay and I eat here, you’ll have to give us your personal attention.”

  John said, “I’ll be happy to show you around the Inn, if you’ve got a little time. Excuse me, Quill. I’d like to show Carlyle and Louisa the koi pond.”

  I’ll just bet you would, Quill thought, resisting the impulse to kick him. “We’ve got a fairly large party checking in in about twenty minutes, Mrs. Conway, but I could take you on a quick tour of the first floor.” She patted the curl behind one ear, hoping she’d scrubbed off all the Gruyere, vowing she would not, under any circumstances, fluff her hair or check her lipstick.

  “We’ve come at a bad time,” said Louisa, raising and lowering her long lashes at John.

  “You must be terribly busy, John,” said Carlyle.

  “I’ll be happy to give you all the time you need. You go on ahead to the kitchen, Quill.” In his haste to brush by her, John stepped on her foot.

  “Thank you so much!” Quill’s sarcasm might have been bird droppings, for all the notice John took.

  Louisa’s large blue eyes looked directly into John’s. She smiled slowly, and—as Quill told Meg later, if she hadn’t actually seen it with her own eyes she never would have believed it—ran her tongue around her lower lip. “We’d love to take the time, wouldn’t we, Cay? Although, actually, we stopped by to find my son. Has he been here?”

  “Yes,” said Quill.

  “He’s so proud of that darn newspaper. Cay and I fully support it, of course, but it’s definitely Hedrick’s baby.”

  “You aren’t going to be involved in it, then?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. Cay and I travel quite a bit, and we’ve just established a home base in Hemlock Falls. We won’t be here much at all.”

  “And Mr. Conway, your husband, I mean? Is he going to be joining you?”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” said Louisa. “Mr. Conway died six years ago, unfortunately. Leaving me to bring the children up by myself.”

  “Mother,” said Carlyle, “as though you didn’t have a raft of nannies and servants to do it for you.”

  They laughed, like slow-breaking china: Hah-hah-hah.

  “He was a dear, dear man, my Connie.” Louisa’s tone was absentminded in the extreme, as though she had trouble recalling his name. Quill would have bet a quarter’s income that she knew his estate to the nickel. “HC Pharmaceuticals, you know. Big money, I’m afraid. Cay and Heddie loved him as though he’d been their real father, and he loved them. It was truly a love story, Ms. Quilliam. All four of us, together. It was so sad when he died.”

  Quill, who couldn’t think of any tactful way to inquire who’d fathered the horrible Hedrick, asked if they intended to make their permanent home in Hemlock Falls.

  “God, no!” shrieked Carlyle.

  “Not that we don’t love it here,” said Louisa. “But Cay and I are used to a little more activity at night than we’ve found here so far.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little nighttime activity with that sheriff,” said Carlyle with a full-lipped smile at John. “My brother’s asked us to make some calls around town, just while he’s starting into the business, you know, and we stopped by the courthouse yesterday, and ran into him. Myles McHale. Mummy, didn’t he remind you of that gorgeous banker we met in Saint T.?”

  “Jean-Paul? Cay, you’re right. He did!”

  They both gave a little shriek.

  “Saint T.?” asked Quill, who found she had to make an effort to unclench her teeth.

  “Saint Tropez,” Carlyle tossed over her shoulder. “Mom, this heat! Could you take us out of the sun, Mr. Raintree?”

  Louisa leaned toward John, placed her lips near his ear, and said ruefully, “Daughters!”

  “Just trying to save you money, Mummy. We could buy this place with what I spend on the dermatologist. I’d far rather spend the money at something more fun than repairing sun damage.”

  “Anything for you, precious. Although I claim seniority, and the right to this darling hunk of maleness.” Louisa slipped one hand through John’s elbow, the other through Carlyle’s. The three of them ambled back to the Inn. Quill, trailing like a neglected puppy, was so astounded at the sudden transformation of her business manager that she tripped on the flagstone patio. At the French doors leading to the Tavern Bar, John stepped aside to let the women precede him. “God, your painting’s gorgeous!” said Carlyle as they stepped into the warm shade. “Look at the lily, Mother.”

  “Actually, that’s a print of O’Keeffe’s,” said Quill. “One of her most famous. When your average, everyday art lover thinks of O’Keeffe, that’s what they think of. The lily.”

  “Quill’s work is in storage,” said John. “Although we’re set up to display them anytime she cares to bring them out. We painted the north wall deep teal to set them off.”

  “This floor’s terrific,” said Carlyle. “It’s so shiny!” Her thin heels clicked on the wood. She stepped daintily, like a chicken looking for worms.

  “So shiny!” Quill mouthed behind her.

  “Mahogany,” said John, “like the wainscoting and the bar itself. All of this dates from the mid-nineteenth century, when the Inn was owned by General C. C. Hemlock.”

  “I’ll just buzz on into the kitchen,” said Quill loudly. “If you’ll excuse me.” She waited a moment. John gave her an absentminded nod. Louisa ignored her altogether. Quill walked through the Bar to the foyer, from there to the dining room, and into the kitchen, planting her sandals with loud, definite slaps. Meg was bent over the butcher block counter, peeling grapefruit. She looked up as Quill came in. “There you are. Good grief! What’s the matter?!”

  “Not the least little thing. No, ma’am.”

  Meg looked dubious. “If you say so. I can’t find Dina, by the way, so I sent Doreen to look for her. The Kiplings are due to check in at any minute. It’s not like her to take off in the middle of a shift.”

  “Maybe some muscle-bound cretin in a sleeveless T-shirt came slouching through the front door with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip and sweat rolling off his biceps and seduced her away.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s hot. It’s August. I feel... witchy.”

  “So what’s new? Did the Horrible Hedrick Reveal All?”

  Quill decided she was too mad to answer the question. She settled onto a stool opposite her sister and picked up a section of grapefruit.

  “Do you want to answer my question?”

  “No.”

  “You want to sample the sorbet?”

  “No.”

  “Just no? Not ‘Your sorbet, Meg? Your fabulous sherbet! I would kill to get a teeny bit’? I’ve got blueberry, strawberry, banana, and grapefruit. And I’ve been sweating in this kitchen for hours and hours making it, so you owe me.”

  “It is hot in here,” Quill conceded. “I’m going to call the air-conditioning people.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. The breeze usually comes right through there.” She nodded at the long row of windows lining the far wall of the kitchen. “I can take a little heat. And you know what they say, if you can’t take the—”

  “Stop. I’m in no mood.”

  “So was Hedrick as horrible as he looked?”

  “Worse.”

  “As bad as his paper?”

  “Worse than that.” Quill swallowed the grapefruit.

  “Worse than that,” mused Meg. “Did you find out what’s behind the mini-mall scandal?”

  “No.”

  “Quill. This attack of taciturnity is most unlike you. What’d he do?”

  Quill told her.

  Meg frowned. “This little red book—”

  “Great minds think alike. If we could get our hands on it, we could fi
nd out just what the heck he thinks he’s doing.”

  “Yeah. With any luck, Quill, the poor schmuck’ll go broke in three weeks and slink on back to Syracuse.”

  “I don’t think so. He’s not a poor schmuck, Meg, he’s a rich schmuck, or at least his family is.”

  “Hedrick Conway’s rich? What he’d do, win the lottery?”

  “You could say that. If there’s a sort of demonic lottery that randomly assigns gold-digging mothers and sisters to people like Hedrick, he’s absolutely won that lottery.”

  “You met his mom and his sister?”

  “I met them.” Quill picked up another section of grapefruit.

  Meg snatched it out of her hand with an exasperated ‘tch!’ “It takes me a long time to pith these properly, Quill. Get an unpeeled one from the bowl. So, what are they like? Are they something?”

  “John thinks they’re something. She—Carlyle—thinks Myles is something.”

  “Hmm.” Meg peered at her. “It’s a free country.”

  “That it is.”

  “And Myles is a free man.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’ve been worried that John hasn’t had a date for several months, so what’s the big deal?”

  Quill selected a grapefruit, began to peel it, then set it down with a frown. “It’s what they know about us. When I met Louisa and Carlyle, they had this little spiel all prepared about how I was this well-known artist and how the flower studies resembled O’Keeffe—”

  “You are a well-known artist,” said Meg loyally.

  “They claimed to have seen that show I had last year. You know, the Hemlock Falls studies.”

  “It wasn’t so little.”

  “Meg. Get real. It was at the rear end of Dan Feinman’s shop in SoHo, and barely anyone saw it. Nobody here even knows I held it.”

  “Myles went,” said Meg. “And so did Andy and I. And it was written up in the Times, in the Art section. June twenty-third. I remember.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “The point is ... ?”

  “The three of them know way too much about John, about me, about God know’s what.”