A Puree of Poison

by Claudia Bishop

  “And what are we supposed to do about it?”

  “Kick ‘em out,” said a familiar foghorn voice.

  Quill jumped. “Doreen, don’t do that!”

  “Do what?” The housekeeper stumped into the kitchen, her lower lip at a belligerent angle.

  “I swear you listen for exactly the right entrance line.”

  Doreen exchanged a look with Meg.

  “She’s not grouchy, actually,” said Meg. “At least, she is, but she has a reason, this time. Did you find Dina, Doreen?”

  “Yep. This crisis you got—have to do with the plumbing?”

  “No,” said Quill.

  “Then I ain’t got time for it. Got a crisis of my own.”

  “What kind of crisis?” asked Quill.

  Doreen folded her hands under her apron and regarded Quill with satisfaction. “You got to kick that Stoker out on his keister.”

  Meg chuckled, then took a large bag of ice from the Zero King and put it in the Cuisinart, a clear signal that she refused involvement. As it usually did, the Cuisinart noise drove Quill and Doreen into the dining room.

  “I told you,” said Doreen. “That Stoker’s a menace.”

  “Look, Doreen. I know Mr. Stoker can be a little difficult, but I honestly think he can improve the way we do things around here.”

  Doreen came to a full stop, placed both hands on her hips, and glared. “He told Dina to do the registration different, right?”

  “He didn’t tell her any such thing. He sat down with her in a team meeting and brainstormed a solution to the problem of registering guests more efficiently.” Quill cocked her head, distracted. “Did you hear anything unusual?”

  Doreen ignored this last question, fierce in the pursuit of her point. “We ever overbook before?”

  “Well, no. What is that bunch of thumps?”

  “Bill got out that hadn’t ought?”

  “If you mean have we over-or underbilled in the past,

  no, not that I know of. Doreen, you didn’t hang Mr. Stoker

  up by a rope or anything, did you? That sounds like kick

  ing. Like somebody’s kicking.”‘

  Doreen remained immovable. “And we’ve always collected from Visa and that, right?”

  “Right. What is that noise?”

  “So what I want to know is how come this Stoker was sticking his nose into somethin’ that dint need to be fixed in the first place?”

  “Everything that you do can be made better, Doreen. It’s a basic principle of Quality Improvement. That kicking’s coming from the lobby.”

  “You’re durn tooting it’s coming from the lobby.”

  Quill hurried, Doreen following like a grouchy sheepdog; she’d spent a lot of time selecting the Oriental rug that covered the oak flooring, the two huge urns that flanked the desk, and the creamy leather sofa that stood in front of the cobblestone fireplace. The lobby was an elegant introduction to the Inn. Holes in the wall wouldn’t improve it.

  A large Slavic-looking gentleman in an orange brocaded waistcoat, dark trousers, and Norfolk jacket was on his knees, rhythmically beating the wooden registration box against the floor. A middle-aged couple with a Victorian air stood by with mild looks of concern. The woman wore a filmy, calf-length dress with blue ribbons at the waist; her husband—or so Quill guessed, since they had that indefinable sameness that usually comes from a long marriage—held a parasol in one hand and a Gladstone bag in the other.

  Two women sat on the couch, the first elderly and dressed with neat precision in a beige pleated skirt and light jacket. The other, perhaps in her late fifties, was hugely fat in a bright caftan; she responded to Quill’s astonished survey of her lobby with a warm, attractive chuckle.

  Axminster Stoker shifted from one foot to the other in the midst of this small invasion. “You all,” he said with a querulous snap, “were supposed to have read the instructions all the way through.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Z’ere is it,” said the orange waistcoat, with a final thud of the box against the floor. He set the box down and picked up a credit card.

  “There it is,” corrected Mr. Stoker fussily. “And it wouldn’t have been there in the first place if you’d read—”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” interrupted the blue-ribboned woman with soft indignation. “This is supposed to be a four-star—”

  “Three star, sweetheart, three star,” said her parasol-carrying, husband, in the thickest Texas drawl Quill had ever heard. “There are three degrees of bliss in the Gardens of Paradise, you know.”

  “Three star, of course, darling ...”

  “And whether this is Paradise remains to be seen,” said the old lady tartly. “And the rating’s for food, after all, not accommodations, or service. Although I must say the room rates would lead one to anticipate a more courteous welcome.”

  “Lot more than a shilling a day, hoy, Jerzey?” said the parasol husband to the orange waistcoat.

  The large lady in the caftan chuckled again. Then all five of them shouted, “ ‘Shillin’ a day, bloomin’ good pay— Lucky to touch it, a shilling a day!’ “

  They applauded themselves.

  Quill took advantage of momentary good humor. “You must be the Kipling Society. How do you do. I’m—”

  “Not Cecily Cardew!” interrupted the husband, who was apparently inclined to be boisterous.

  “And not Wilde,” said the old lady, to Quill’s momentary confusion. She adjusted the pearls at her neck and regarded Quill with kindness. “You must think we’re quite mad, my dear. But it’s been a long ride in that miserable rented van, and we are fatigued. I take it you are Ms. Quilliam? I am Aurora Kent, spinster of this parish, as Mr. Kipling might say. May I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Lyle Fairbanks?”

  Mrs. Fairbanks smoothed the ribbons at her waist with a slim white hand and nodded gracefully. Lyle Fairbanks bounced forward, took Quill’s hand, and kissed the air above her wrist with a flourish.

  “And the gentleman in the waistcoat (she pronounced it “weskit”) is Mr. Jerzey Paulovich, of Poland.”

  “And I am Georgia Hardwicke,” said the large woman in the caftan. Quill decided she really liked her chuckle.

  “Ym foMty voi to tot Swci&Q, and I’m not sure how the Poet would describe me. Widow of this weald, maybe. Let Ms. Quilliam’s hand go, Lyle. Then maybe she can straighten this out.”

  “I’m sure I can,” said Quill. “Has Dina gotten you all checked into your rooms?” She looked at the reception desk. “I see she’s not here. I have to apologize. Something must have happened. We were expecting you, of course, and Dina’s an excellent receptionist....”

  “There’s a receptionist?” asked Mr. Kent.

  Doreen gave a loud meaningful sniff. Mr. Stoker cleared his throat nervously once or twice.

  “Of course. Dina Muir. She’s a very good one. Except that she doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Fairbanks, drifting to the tapestry chair by the couch, “I did wonder about the propriety of checking ourselves in.”

  “Checking yourselves in?” said Quill.

  Doreen’s freckled hand shot under her nose. It held a card printed in large red letters.

  THE RECEPTION TEAM SAYS DO IT YOURSELF!

  (A Total Quality Project from the Inn at Hemlock Falls)

  (Please refer to instructions on lobby desk.)

  “Do it yourself?” Quill took the card, studiously avoiding Doreen’s gimlet eye.

  “If you’d just read the instructions,” said Axminster Stoker, “this would have gone smoothly—and efficiently. That’s the Quality Way.”

  “What instructions?” Quill asked him. “Dina’s supposed to check guests in. Guests aren’t supposed to check themselves in. They don’t know how.”

  “The instructions are right here.” Lyle Fairbanks took a sheet of paper from the top of the reception desk. “Miss Kent, Mrs. Hardwicke, and I managed alright, his English, although get
tin’ better, isn’t all that great. When he dropped his credit card in the box, he was followin’ instruction number seven, as you can see. Then he realized that you don’t accept the Discover card here, like it says in instruction number twelve, and he tried to get it back.”

  “It sucks,” said Doreen loudly.

  “It does not ‘suck,’ Mrs. Muxworthy,” said Axminster Stoker. “The team did not anticipate non-English-speaking customers. That is all. Significant savings in labor can be demonstrated almost immediately if the receptionist position is eliminated from payroll.”

  “You fired Dina!” said Quill. “You fired our receptionist?”

  “In the spirit of continuous improvement, staff cuts are inevitable,” said Mr. Stoker.

  “On’y thing that’d improve around here is you get your skinny butt back to Detroit, or wherever it is you come from,” said Doreen loudly. “Swiping this poor soul’s credit card...”

  “I get it back,” said Jerzey hastily. “No problem.”

  “And harassing these-here guests. What’s next? They warsh their own towels? Make their own beds? Mop the kitchen floor?”

  “There’s a very good Marriott on Route fifteen,” said Mrs. Fairbanks in an undertone to her husband.

  “We passed a charming bed-and-breakfast on Route ninety-six,” said Aurora Kent to Georgia Hardwicke. “Marvelous roses out front, too. What do you think, my dear? I can assure you that this is not at all what we’re used to in our travels. Generally the places we’ve selected for our little conventions are very attentive. The service is usually quite Japanese.”

  “Japanese?” said Quill.

  “Benchmark,” said Axminster Stoker, as if this were supposed to make sense.

  Georgia caught Quill’s eye. She winked and turned her attention back to her colleagues. “I think we just hit a little hitch here. Why don’t we stay one night at least? Give poor Miss Quilliam a chance to straighten things out.”

  “Please don’t even think of leaving,” said Quill hastily. “I’m sorry that you were greeted by this... this ... confusion. If you can give me just a few moments, we’ll get all this settled.” She grabbed Mr. Stoker by the arm and hauled him into the dining room.

  Doreen marched after them, “Told ya,” she said in simple satisfaction when they were safely out of earshot. “You boob,” she said to Mr. Stoker.

  “Mrs. Mux—”

  “Where’s Dina?” Quill asked him.

  “Pursuing her graduate studies, I should imagine,” said Mr. Stoker. “I’m extremely sorry about—”

  “Please find her,” said Quill. “Explain that you acted totally without my authority. Ask her to come back and see me immediately.”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Stoker. “I shall explain my error.”

  “And apologize, you,” said Doreen.

  “I most certainly will. If I had any idea—”

  “John will have my head in a basket if we lose this business,” said Quill a little ruefully. “So you might apologize to him, too. And Mr. Stoker... I think we need a moratorium on this Quality Training.”

  “Durn right,” said Doreen. “If that means what I think it means. We can shoot this bozo here, too, for all of me.”

  “Doreen, please go find John and ask him to come help me register the Kipling Society, if they’re still in the lobby by the time I get back.”

  “We’re all still here,” said Georgia Hardwicke cheerfully.

  Quill started.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Just wanted you to know that the promise of the perennial gardens have tempted Aurora to stay, and the king-size bed the Provençal suite featured in your brochures was what attracted Lyle and Lila Fairbanks, God bless ‘em, and I wouldn’t miss your sister’s food for all the rice in Tokyo.”

  “And Mr. Paulovich?” asked Quill with hope.

  “Well, he got his credit card back, so he’s just as happy as a clam. I have to say, though, that he was muttering something about crime in America when the box wouldn’t give it up.”

  “You,” said Quill with relief, “are a peach.”

  “You looked a little harassed,” said Georgia. “Glad to help.”

  “Doreen. Please find John—he’s with Carlyle and Louisa Conway giving them a tour—and ask him to talk to Meg about a high tea for the Kiplings. On the house.” She turned to Georgia. “Do you think that everyone would come into the dining room for a cream tea while we get the luggage situated?”

  “I’ll go ask.” Georgia disappeared into the lobby in a swirl of green and gold, to reappear moments later with the remainder of the Kiplings in tow. Quill, having dispatched Mr. Stoker and sent Doreen to find John, greeted them with relief.

  “We are delighted to take you up on your offer,” said Miss Kent.

  “Ze food is free?” asked Jerzey Paulovich.

  “Lyle, darling ... the view!” said Lila Fairbanks, drifting to the window overlooking the Falls.

  Quill, pulling chairs away from the large table by the windows, indicated with a smile that they should sit.

  “You know,” said Lyle Fairbanks, settling into his chair with a benevolent air, “we all’d be delighted to sing for our supper.”

  “Oh, yes?” asked Quill.

  “The Indian cycle,” said Miss Kent. “That always goes over well.”

  “Too long, too long,” said Jerzey. “We condense it, yes? What do you think, Mz. Quilliam?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t... Just what is the Kipling Condensation Society?”

  “It would not be too ambitious to claim that we are Kipling scholars,” said Miss Kent. “Lyle and Lila in particular.”

  “Absolutely not, Aurora,” said Lyle gallantly. “You are far more experienced than we are.”

  “Be that as it may”—Miss Kent acknowledged the tribute with a gracious nod—”at any rate, I cannot claim credit for the original idea. For that we must pay tribute to G and S.”

  “You mean Gilbert and Sullivan?” asked Quill.

  “Yes!” shouted Jerzey. “Prezisely. We condense the poet’s works into an hour performance.”

  “All of them?” asked Quill.

  “We select.” Jerzey threw back his head. “This I condense myself. ‘Now in Injua’s sunny clime, where I used to spend my time, if you can keep your head about you, you’re a bloke. By the living God that made you, there’s nothing else that will do, when a woman’s just a woman, and a good cigar’s a smoke.’ “

  “Needs a little work,” said Lyle critically, “but you get the idea.”

  “Perhaps the beauty of the poems in full might be better,” said Lila with an anxious eye in Quill’s direction. “He wrote the most touching poem about dogs: ‘Master, this is thy servant, he is rising eight weeks old. He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled.’ “ She broke off, tears in her eyes. “And of course, it ends with... you know ... the doggie’s ...”

  “Death,” said Georgia, patting Lila’s hand. “That one always gets to me, too. Doug and I had the most wonderful little cocker spaniel.”

  “At any rate,” said Lyle, “we are always ready to perform, for those who’d appreciate it, of course.”

  Five pairs of eyes looked anxiously in Quill’s direction.

  “If it’d be any trouble ...” said Lila.

  “Well,” said Quill, floundering.

  “At one of our stops last year,” said Miss Kent, with a crisp twinkle, “the inn owners staged a garden party ...”

  “Under an August moon,” said Jerzey.

  “And the other guests kept us there for hours. Simply hours.” Lila sighed. “It was wonderful.”

  “And you in that gauzy dress,” said her husband gallantly.

  “I suppose,” said Quill doubtfully, “we could—”

  “Only if it’s no trouble....”

  “We wouldn’t want to impose....”

  “Zis America,” said Jerzey, with an expansive gesture, “is not filled with crooks, I guess.”

&nbs
p; “I’d be delighted,” said Quill, “to talk to my staff.”

  In the kitchen Meg was folding purged grapefruit into the crushed ice, whistling softly to herself. The sous chefs worked quietly. Quill summarized, ending with a suggestion that the Kiplings entertain the other guests at the Inn the next evening at a small cocktail party. The Finn, who was new, dropped a copper kettle with a clang and a muttered “Phut!” at Meg’s shriek, “Kipling!! How many poems in an hour?! Are you crazy!?”

  “Shush!” Quill settled into the rocking chair by the fireplace with a sigh. “I think we can keep them to half an hour if it’s handled tactfully. Handled tactfully means no shrieking. And maybe a lot of free food.”

  “For the whole Inn!” Meg added grenadine to the sorbet and scooped the mixture into a large glass bowl.

  Quill propped her feet up on the hearth and closed her eyes. “They were threatening to check out!” She took a deep breath. “Just give me a second. I want to settle this stuff about Dina getting fired first, then we’ll—”

  “Dina? You fired the best receptionist we ever had! What the heck is going on here, Quill? Have you lost your mind!”

  “Meg. It’s been a bad day. There’s only one way it could get worse....”

  The back door to the kitchen opened with a bang. “Quill? What in the name of God is this business about evacuating the Inn?”

  “And that’s it,” said Quill, opening her eyes at the all-too-familiar baritone. “Hello, Myles.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Myles was always tanned in the summer, which turned his gray eyes silver, and he never seemed to sweat. Quill pushed apologetically at the damp tendrils of her hair, suddenly conscious of her appearance all over again.

  “Hey, Myles,” said Meg. “Have some sorbet.”

  “I can’t stay too long. Just following up a report that the building’s unsafe.”

  Meg shrieked. “Hogwash!”

  “Hedrick Conway. That idiot.” Quill tugged at her blouse. It’d been weeks since their last, painful conversation. “The plumbing’s backed up, that’s all. We’ve already taken care of it. Conway was here when the problem came up and thought it would make a good headline. He called you?” She straightened in alarm. “Did he call the EPA?”