Dread on Arrival

by Claudia Bishop

  And then a scrape of heel on iron, quite near.

  Startled, Quill bent over the iron balustrade and peered to her left. There were fire escapes on each side of the main building. It sounded very much as if someone had come out the third-floor fire door. The fire door locked automatically on the outside; she hoped whoever it was had figured that out. There was a pause, the rattle of a doorknob, and then the soft thud, thud, thud of feet coming down the iron steps.

  “Hello?” Quill said. “If you’re locked out, I’ll be happy to let you in.”

  The footsteps paused, and then kept on going down, in a rush.

  “Hello?”

  No answer. The stairs ended in rosebushes—a flourishing bed of Apricot Nectar, which was exceptionally thorny. There was a solid thump as whoever it was stumbled off the last step, then a muffled, hissed expletive. The footsteps scraped against the gravel and faded away.

  In the parking lot, a car door slammed. She heard the low rumble of the motor and whoever it was—she shivered in the chilling air—whatever it was, had gone.

  Troubled, she went inside, cracked Jack’s bedroom door to assure herself he was still asleep, and then went into the hallway, Bismarck at her heels. She and Meg had re-carpeted all the hallways just last year, in a thick navy blue patterned with pale pink stripes. It suited the old building (to everyone’s surprise except her own) and it was excellent soundproofing. Leaving her own door opened, she went to the end of the hallway and to the fire door, which opened directly onto the fire escape. There were carriage lights at each of the three landings and to her surprise, they were out.

  Bismarck threaded around her ankles and went out onto the wrought-iron landing. She made a lunge for him and missed. “Darn it, Biz. Come back here.”

  “Is he being a pain in the neck again?”

  Quill jumped.

  “Sorry,” Clare said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Her hair was a tangle, there was a smudge on her cheek, and she smelled of food. She’d exchanged her chef’s whites for jeans and a sweatshirt, but she’d obviously had a long night in the kitchen.

  Quill gave her a quick hug. “It’s good to see you. I didn’t mean to jump. I didn’t hear the elevator.”

  “I walked up the stairs. The elevator didn’t come down and didn’t come down and I finally gave up waiting.”

  Bismarck crouched on the iron grill and batted at something. Quill lunged after him.

  Clare nudged her gently aside. “Here, let me. It’s my lousy cat. Come on, Biz. Come to Mamma. What have you got there? Whatever it is, drop it.”

  Quill caught it just before whatever it was fell and bounced down the fire escape. “It’s the lightbulb from the carriage lamp.”

  Bismarck jumped up and batted it out of her hands.

  “So that’s why it’s so dark out here.” Clare clutched the cat by the scruff of the neck, “Oof, he’s heavy. Here, Quill. I’ve got him. Close the door before he scoots off again.” Clare backed into the hallway, Bismarck clutched awkwardly around his middle. His forepaws dangled over her arms and his hindquarters bumped gently against Clare’s knees. He regarded Quill placidly. There was tuna fish on his nose.

  Clare straightened up with a whoosh of air. “Jeez. He’s either getting fatter or I’m aging faster than I should. I’ll put him down and get the lightbulb.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got to give Mike a call anyway. We’ve got to replace the bulbs on the landings or we’ll be in violation of some darn code or another. There’s this special screwdriver that opens the carriage lamps and …” She broke off. “On second thought, maybe I ought to give Davy Kiddermeister a call.”

  “The sheriff? Why in the world would you want to call the sheriff about a missing lightbulb?”

  Quill patted her skirt pocket and found a tissue. “Fingerprints.” The lightbulb sat on the top of the stairway. She stepped out and picked it up, careful to avoid touching the surface with her bare hands.

  “O-o-o-kay,” Clare said dubiously.

  Quill wrapped the bulb in the tissue and stowed it in her pocket. “I’ll put it in a Baggie, just to be sure.” She came back inside and closed the fire door behind her. “Did you park in front or in the back?”

  “Just now? I parked in the front and came in the front door. How come?”

  “Did you meet a car coming down the driveway?”

  “I met a couple of cars coming down the driveway. Your kitchens close at ten on weekdays. It’s ten twenty, now. A bunch of people were headed out. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Somebody just left down the fire escape.”

  “From here?”

  “Well, of course, from here,” Quill said.

  “You mean, somebody was sneaking around like a burglar?”

  “Well. No. He, she, whatever didn’t sneak, exactly. But why leave by the fire escape?”

  “Umm … because I waited and waited for the elevator and it didn’t come and whoever it was got tired of waiting for the elevator, too?”

  Quill sighed. “That’d be the charming Mr. Edmund Tree. We put him on the second floor, in the Provencal suite.”

  “That’s the one with the blue-and-yellow-print fabric on the bedspread and the drapes. I just love that room, Quill.”

  “Whatever. I mean, thank you. And yes, it’s our most expensive room. Anyhow, Mr. Tree doesn’t like having to wait for the elevator, so he wedges it open so it’s always available and housekeeping comes along and unwedges it and he wedges it back again.”

  “Oh, Lord. One of those.” Clare wrinkled her nose. It didn’t take long for people in the hospitality business to realize a fair number of patrons were hell on wheels to deal with. “How long is he staying?”

  “Two weeks. At least he’s going to be away from here most of the time. The preliminary auditions for the antiques show begin tomorrow, and then there’s the shoot itself, and of course, the wedding. Anyway—that’s probably why the elevator didn’t come. But how come my burglar didn’t use the inside stairs?”

  “Why not use the fire escape if the fire door was closer?” Clare asked reasonably. “Really, Quill. A burglar at ten o’clock in the evening? With half the dining room filled with happy eaters? I don’t think so.”

  “But the lightbulbs have been removed from the carriage lamps.”

  “Was Mike doing building maintenance today?”

  “Mike’s always doing building maintenance.”

  “Well, there you are. Honestly, I think you’re worried about nothing.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course, if you want to knock on doors and see if anyone’s missing anything I can help you do that.” She yawned and hefted Bismarck over her shoulder. “Might annoy the guests. Is the Inn full up?”

  “Not right now. There’s nobody on this floor except Meg and me. The wedding guests are trickling in over the next few days, and then we’re at a hundred percent for almost two weeks. Edmund Tree just arrived today, and three of the other rooms downstairs are filled with leafers.” These tourists, in pursuit of the glorious autumn colors that turned upstate New York into living art, were a mainstay of the hotel trade in the fall.

  “Bit early for them, isn’t it? Although, come to think of it, we’ve had a couple of busloads in for wine tastings. Anyhow, that’s not so many that we can’t roust them out in a few minutes. I’m willing if you are.”

  Quill thought about knocking on Edmund Tree’s door and asking him if he’d been burglarized. He was the type to raise a fuss. Or ask for a discount on his bill. Or flounce off to another hotel and get Rose Ellen in a swivet. Miriam had said there had been a rash of burglaries lately. Was there one person behind it? A gang? Gangs in Hemlock Falls? Was anything to be gained by raising a ruckus tonight? “Scarlett O’Hara,” she said aloud.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s code for I’ll think about this tomorrow. Never mind. You’re probably right. It’s nothing.”

  Clare tickled Bismarck under the chin. He closed
his eyes and began to purr. “Are you okay? I mean, you’ve seemed out of sorts lately. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is not all right,” Quill said in some surprise. “But it’s nothing I can put my finger on. I miss Myles, of course, but I knew what kind of schedule he had when we got married. Jack’s wonderful. I’m a little worried about you and M—” She stopped herself. “Forget it. Things are just fine. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Anyhow, I have been a little off lately. I apologize. And,” she added suddenly remembering her mission to put their friendship back on track, “I am so glad that you took the first step and came over tonight.”

  Clare looked startled. “You are?”

  “That delicate matter you mentioned …”

  “Yes. I’m really hoping you can intercede for me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Quill promised. “She’s very reasonable, at heart.”

  “Do you think so?” Clare asked doubtfully. “That’s not what I’ve heard. You remember that whole kerfuffle over the cat.”

  “She loves the cat,” Quill said.

  A faint chime sounded. The elevator doors in the middle of the hall opened up. Meg shoved herself off the elevator and trudged toward them. She looked as weary as Clare.

  “Hey, sister,” Quill said. “I see you un-wedged the elevator.”

  “Tree is definitely going to be one of those. You’d better keep Doreen away from the mop closet. She’ll whack him a good one if he gets too aggravating.” She eyed Clare warily. “I take it you’re here to get the big boy back home again. Unless it’s a front to get hold of some of my recipes. Ha-ha.”

  “Yes to the first. No to the second. Ha-ha,” Clare said. The two of them eyed each other like a pair of gunslingers sizing each other up in a saloon.

  Quill took a deep breath and prepared for battle. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to sit and just talk to each other.”

  Meg muttered under her breath. Quill ignored it. “Clare. Why don’t you come in for a glass of wine before you leave?”

  Clare patted the cat a little too hard. “Love to. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Great. You hear that Meg? She came all the way over here just to discuss something with us.”

  “And to get her cat,” Meg said sourly.

  “And to get her cat. If you don’t mind, could we sit in your place? And could we leave your door open so I can hear Jack if he wakes up?” Meg’s rooms were directly across from Quill’s.

  “No problem.”

  “Maybe it’s a little late,” Clare said uncomfortably. “This was probably a bad idea. I should get back to the academy, anyhow. I’ve got a full day tomorrow.”

  “No problem,” Meg said distantly. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, and then said, “I’m a little tired, though, so let’s not prolong things, okay?”

  Quill suppressed a sigh. Sometimes her little sister drove her nuts. “You still mad at me about this afternoon?”

  Clare raised her eyebrows. “What happened this afternoon?”

  “A small sisterly spat,” Quill said. “Which shouldn’t have happened, right, Meg?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe.” She grinned, suddenly, looking so much like their Welsh father with her gray eyes and dark hair that Quill’s heart jumped a little. “Of course I forgive you.”

  Quill put her hands on her hips. “Who’s forgiving who here?”

  “I am forgiving you. Who yelled at me. And I’m sure you are now very, very sorry.”

  “I’m sorry I lost my temper, sure. But I’m definitely not sorry as to why.”

  “Whatever. Come on in. Forgive the mess.”

  Quill followed the two women into Meg’s room. She’d lived here ever since they had opened the Inn twelve years before. The one thing made conspicuous by its absence was a kitchen. Meg had a coffeepot, a microwave, and a small kitchen sink. Her comfortable couch was covered in a nondescript khaki. There was a round pine table with four chairs and a shabby recliner sheltered by a reading lamp. The rest of the room was filled with stacks, piles, and baskets of cookbooks, brightly colored throw pillows, and pots of healthy plants. Meg’s balcony overlooked the front of the Inn, and there was a ghostly view of the waterfall under moonlight through her French doors.

  “Have a seat, you guys.”

  Quill took a corner of the couch, which was where she usually sat. Clare sat down at the pine table and dropped Bismarck on the floor. Meg rummaged under the sink and emerged with a dusty bottle of wine. “A modest little Mouton Cadet I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

  Clare laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

  “I take it that’s not a wine for a special occasion?” Quill said.

  Meg took three wineglasses out of the cupboard over the sink, and opened the bottle. “You would be right. But it’s drinkable. Highly drinkable.” She gave Clare a quick look. “So how was business tonight?”

  “Good. And you?”

  “Good. Very good.”

  “I guess you could say our business was very good, too.”

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Meg poured the wine, handed the glasses around, and sank into her recliner. “Very, very good.”

  Quill, who had restarted her practice of taking management courses at the nearby Cornell School of Hotel Administration, had completed the July session in Advanced Employee Relations: Conflict Resolution. She cleared her throat, pleased to put the hot hours in the classroom to some use. Rule One, she recalled, was to begin with positive feedback. “I thought we had a very effective meeting with Rose Ellen Whitman this morning. I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you both how impressed I was with how well you two got along.”

  “Rule One,” Meg said. “Begin with positive reinforcement.” She scowled. “I took that class with you, remember? The one on Conflict Resolution.”

  “Oh.”

  “You told me it would help keep things smooth in the kitchen.”

  “Conflict resolution is a very valuable tool to have on hand. As a matter of fact …”

  “Phooey. Things are always peaceful in my kitchen,” Meg said mendaciously. “In yours, too, Clare, I expect.”

  “Well, actually …”

  Meg gulped her wine. “That class, Quill, was a total waste of time. I don’t have any conflicts in the kitchen.”

  “How in the world do you manage that?” Clare said.

  “She only hires people who agree with her,” Quill said. “They have to pass a flexibility test, too. If they can’t duck out of the way of the flying sauté pans, they risk significant head injury.”

  “Ha-ha,” Meg said flatly. “So. Since there’s no conflict in my kitchen, there’s no problem.”

  “I think there is a problem,” Quill said firmly. “Only it’s not in the kitchen.”

  Clare nodded. “You’re right. That’s really why I came up here tonight. It wasn’t just to get Biz back home.”

  “That’s just wonderful, Clare, that you’re willing to talk to Meg about the problem between the two of you. If we all can just sit down together and clear the air …”

  “What problem?” Meg asked.

  Clare rubbed her forehead, which spread the streak of grease across it into a bigger smudge. “I’m with Meg, Quill. You think there’s a problem between Meg and me?”

  Quill opened her mouth. She shut it. She took a sip of wine (which tasted okay to her, if not to her oenophile sister). “Just what are we talking about?”

  “You both know Carol Ann Spinoza, right? I mean, you guys go way back.”

  “There’s the time she put me in jail,” Quill said, after a long moment. “And the time she raised the taxes on the Inn by forty percent. And the time she …”

  “She put you in jail?”

  Meg smiled. “Quill stole her purse.”

  “I did not steal her purse. I … appropriated it for a short period of time. It was necessary,” Quill said a little stiffly. “We were in the middle
of a murder investigation.”

  “You guys,” Clare said with sudden fondness. “Did I ever tell you how grateful I am that you’re such good detectives?”

  “Yes,” Meg said. “And we were happy to prove that you didn’t murder Bernard LeVasque, although you probably should have way before the person who did. What about Carol Ann? She’s the meanest person in Tompkins County. You don’t want to mess with her, even if she isn’t the tax inspector anymore. Remember what she tried to do to Bismarck, here.” She reached down and petted Bismarck’s ears. “She’s not after Biz again, is she? I know what you can do. You can put one of those microchips in his ear so if she cat-naps him you can find him before she shoots him, or something.”

  “You haven’t heard then. Carol Ann isn’t animal control officer anymore.”

  “She’s not?” Quill said.

  “Heck no. She just took the exam for certification for another job. She’s applying to become a licensed New York State food inspector. I think she’ll get it. And from what I’ve heard she’s bound and determined to close us all down.”

  Meg stared at her. Then she put both hands over her eyes and howled.

  “Hey,” Quill said. “You’ll wake up Jack.”

  Meg clenched her fists and shook them at the ceiling. “I am moving to Detroit.”

  Clare scratched her head. “Why Detroit?”

  “Or Burbank. Or Tuscaloosa. Anywhere but here. That woman! A food inspector! What could be worse?”

  Clare paled. “She could get elected mayor. Oh my God. What if she wins the race for mayor?!”

  “It’s a secret ballot,” Quill said. “Nobody’s going to vote for Carol Ann as long as she can’t find out they didn’t. Of all the things to worry about, that’s the least of it.”

  Clare brightened. “True. If she does get her inspection license, maybe the inspection people will assign her somewhere else. Like Buffalo. Or Syracuse.”

  “Maybe pigs will fly,” Meg said. “But I don’t think so.” She drained her wineglass, poured a second glass and drained that, then peered into the depths of the bottle of Mouton Cadet. “One last little drop. Tell you what, Clare. We’ll split it.”