Dina held a fistful of pink While You Were Out message slips. She looked at them doubtfully. “So our new management tactic is to ignore stuff?”
“Not stuff related to the Inn, of course. We’re running a business. We’re just going to ignore things extraneous to the Inn.”
“An isolationist policy, you mean. Like in World War One.”
“Sort of,” Quill said cautiously.
“Because it didn’t work for Wilson and I don’t think it can work for us.”
Quill took a deep breath.
“So what do you want me to do with these?” Dina waved the message slips. “Throw ’em out?”
“Let’s not call it an isolationist policy. Let’s call it a non-busybody policy.” Quill hesitated. Old habits were difficult to change. The While You Were Out messages were too insistent. “Are there any of those messages that we can safely ignore?”
“Four of them are from Mayor Henry. Important Chamber business, he said.”
Quill made a noise like “phuut!”
“One’s from the Hemlock Falls Gazette. They want a statement from you about the three-way mayor’s race. Who are you going to support? They’d like a comment about the burglaries, too, since you’re the best amateur detective in town.”
“I’m the only amateur detective in town.”
“Huh,” Dina said, who had helped on several of the cases. “There’s been a lot of gossip about whether or not you’re going to take on the case.”
“There you go. A perfect example of things we can ignore. We are staying out of the mayor’s race. I am retired as a detective, since I became a mother. Forget any statements to the newspaper. What else?”
“Two messages are from Rose Ellen Whitman. Important wedding business, she said.”
“Refer her to Kathleen.”
“One’s from Harvey Bozzel. Important advertising …” Quill made a “get on with it” motion with both hands. “Okay. He says you have something for him and what time should he pick it up?”
“I don’t have anything for him, do I?” Quill sorted fruitlessly through the piles of paper on her desk until she unearthed the sketchbook that she used for taking Chamber minutes. She flipped to the page recording yesterday’s meeting. “I don’t. Could you call him and see what it is?”
“I’ll bet he wants to get your opinion on the mayor’s race.”
“I do not have an opinion on the mayor’s race. Like Sweden. I’m neutral.”
Dina frowned. “Do you think we can get away with that?”
“We are going to get away with that.”
“If you say so. You’re the boss. So that’s about it for messages. I really don’t think you should ignore any of them.”
“Fine.” Quill grabbed the message slips, “Out of all those messages, there’s only one I need to do myself. I’ll call Elmer. The rest I am going to delegate. To you. Tell everybody ‘no comment.’” She picked up the landline and punched in Elmer’s number.
He picked up on the first ring and responded to her greeting with suspicious heartiness. “Why, Quill. Always delighted to hear from you. How’s everything up there at the Inn?”
“Just fine, Elmer. Dina said you had some Chamber business to discuss?”
“Sure do. I’m Chamber president and it’s about me. Wanted to know if I could book a party of six for lunch today. Round two o’clock. Know it’s a little late, but I got that shindig up to the high school. The auditions. The missus is going to give Mr. Tree an advance peek at a couple of goodies for the show, and we’d like to take him to lunch after. Figure it’s the least we can do.”
“I’ll be happy to let Dina make the reservations for you, Mayor.”
Elmer’s heartiness increased to a nervous roar. “And now that you’ve brought it up, that’s the other thing I wanted to discuss with you. I know I’ve got your endorsement for the election, but I was thinking maybe you wouldn’t mind doing a little quick sketch for the campaign poster. Adela says there’s nobody like you to give it a touch of class. I know it don’t take you all that long to whip up a little something, so I asked Harvey to drop by today to pick it up. Anytime you’re ready.”
“Mayor, I …”
“Love to hear you give me that title.” He chuckled. “That’ll be it then. Thank you for bein’ the first to get on board the Keep Hemlock Falls Happy with Henry campaign. Thank you very much. Gotta go! And you go ahead and make room for yourself at our table at two.”
He hung up.
Quill dropped the receiver into the cradle.
“Are you going to call him back?” Dina asked. “Tell him that with our new isolationist policy we can’t endorse anybody for mayor?”
“Yes,” Quill said.
“Are you going to do it right now?”
“No,” Quill said.
“Smart,” Dina approved. “That’s his home phone and Adela’s there and Elmer’s got caller ID. He’ll know it’s you and she’ll pick up and she’ll roll right over you.”
“I can handle Adela.”
“So call.”
Quill didn’t move.
“I’m thinking you might not want to call Harvey back, either. He’ll want the poster.”
“You’d be right.” Quill gathered her tote with a sigh.
Dina patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing. You just get back here as soon as you can so you can get Jack to Peterson Park.”
6
∼Betty Hall’s Upstate Pancakes∼
4 strips maple bacon
2½ cups flour
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1 tablespoon baking powder
2 tablespoons sugar
Fry bacon in cast-iron skillet. Do not drain. Mix all ingredients and pour over bacon. Put skillet in preheated 350-degree oven for thirty-five minutes or until puffed and brown. Ladle seasonal berries over top and serve with whipped cream.
She decided to walk down to the village. At this hour, Marge would be in one of two places: her realty office or having breakfast at her All-American Diner (Fine Food! And Fast!). She checked the diner first and found Marge eating hash browns in the front booth.
“’Lo, Quill.”
“Hey, Marge.” Quill slid into the booth opposite her. Marge looked the same as always: chinos, windbreaker, and ginger hair, except that she’d exchanged yesterday’s red-checked shirt for a blue.
The All-American Diner wasn’t the same at all. Quill had stopped in the restaurant in early August, just before she and Myles had taken Jack to the Adirondacks, and she hadn’t been back since. Marge and Betty had remodeled with a vengeance.
The Formica tabletops had been replaced with knotty pine. Muslin panels hung at the windows, replacing the old daisy-print curtains. Ferns in ceramic pots hung from the ceiling. Vivaldi drifted over the speakers. A few of the old farmers from the outskirts of town slouched at the breakfast counter, but the tables were filled with trendy couples from nearby Syracuse and well-dressed retirees. The familiar homey diner was gone. Even the air smelled different.
Quill squelched her dismay with a determined recollection of her new attitude toward change. It was quite nice, really, even if she was up to her eyeballs with endless repetitions of The Four Seasons. It was better than endless repetitions of Pachelbel’s Canon. The diner just wasn’t the familiar place she’d loved for so long. She could learn to love this, too.
“When did all this happen? While Myles and I were away?”
“You like it?”
“I guess so.” She had a sudden, unwelcome thought. “You didn’t make any changes to the Croh Bar, did you?” The bar had been a much-loved, very successful village staple since 1942. When Marge had acquired it several years ago, she’d replaced the tattered furnishings with exact replicas of the orange-flowered indoor-outdoor carpeting and cheap wood venetian blinds, so that the bar looked the same only smelled better. It had been a smart move, but then, Marge hadn’t become the richest woman in a five-county area by
sheer luck.
“Figured with all the tourists washing in and out, it was time to spruce this place up a bit. Don’t know about the Croh, yet. Don’t get a lot of the tourist trade in there.”
Quill looked around for the sticky plastic menu that advertised Betty Hall’s superb diner cooking.
“Looking for the menu?” Marge pointed toward the counter. The red vinyl-topped stools had been replaced with maple captain’s chairs. The counter top itself was a handsome butcher block. A blackboard propped on an easel stood at the farthest end. “Menu’s on the chalkboard. It’s the same thing every day, but the tourists don’t know that. Looks fancier to write it down, like the chef has to think about it. Saves on printing menus, too.”
Quill squinted, but she couldn’t read it. “Does Betty still make those wonderful Upstate Pancakes?”
“Nope.” She gestured toward the well-dressed couples. “This lot’s fonder of yogurt.”
“Meg always said Betty was the best diner cook on the continent. And those pancakes were just sensational.”
“Meg would be right. But the customers don’t care for the carbs. You’ll want the spinach eggs. Lot of carbs in that, too, but the vegetable part makes up for it.”
“That sounds just fine.”
Marge finished the last forkful of hash browns, shouted, “Betts! Special!” and buttered a piece of toast.
“You’re doing well, I take it?”
“Never better.” Marge crunched the toast between her strong white teeth. “The time away did you good, I think. Myles is off again?”
“Yes.”
“Hope they didn’t post him to Libya.”
“Me, too.”
Marge smiled at her, reminding Quill of the crocodile in the children’s poem. “Kinda glad you dropped by. If you hadn’t, I was going to come up to see you.”
“Oh?”
“Figure you’ll give me your endorsement for mayor. Need the whole Chamber on my side for this campaign. Except for Elmer, of course.” She shrugged. “Town’s going to follow what the Chamber wants to do. Always does. Figure I’d start with you, since the Chamber will probably follow your lead.”
Quill blinked. “They will?”
“Funny that they do, isn’t it? You keep the worst minutes of anyone I ever met, but you keep getting reelected as Chamber secretary, year after year. And folks seem to listen to you.”
Quill was momentarily diverted by a familiar grievance. “I don’t even run for secretary. I don’t want to be secretary. I mean, every two years I tell you I’m not running and every two years people write me in on the ballot and I go ahead and fold and end up doing it.”
“People like you. Even if you are a nitwit about the minutes.”
“Oh.” She could feel herself blushing. “Um. Well.”
“You don’t push, see. Anyone can run right over you, and people like that.”
“I doubt that,” she said indignantly.
“You think? It’s a fact. Now me, not many people can run right over me.”
Quill thought of several replies to this and rejected all of them. “That’s true.”
“I’m not all that likeable, though.”
“I like you.”
“Yeah, but you’re a pushover. You like everybody. Except that Carol Ann.”
“Speaking of Carol Ann …”
Marge was in steamroller mode and rolled right over this. She hunched over confidingly. “There is a direct relationship between success in business and the likeability factor, if you will. The more likeable a person is, the less chance they have of making it big. It’s a constant surprise to Betts and me that you’ve managed to hang onto the Inn all these years.”
Quill rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache.
“You ought to read more of the Wall Street Journal. You think anyone loves Rupert Murdoch? One of the richest men in the world and definitely the toughest son of a gun in the valley.” She sat back and slapped her hands on the tabletop. “Anyway. I don’t give a rat’s behind about being liked or not, but when I set out to do something, I do it. I’m fixing to be the next mayor of this town, and you’re going to help me do it.”
“So this isn’t about the parking meters. Not really.”
“I need a popular platform, and getting rid of those parking meters is about the hottest political issue in town at the moment.”
Betty Hall came up to the table, balancing a plate of eggs in one hand and a coffeepot in the other. She didn’t say anything—she never did—but she put the plate down, poured Quill a cup of coffee, then gripped Quill’s shoulder in solidarity.
“We’re on it, Bets,” Marge said. “She’s gonna go for it. She’s gonna design the campaign poster, too. I’ve got Harvey lined up to do the printing on it. We’re having a strategy meeting right now.”
Betty nodded and stumped away. Quill looked at the special; two perfectly poached eggs on a bed of freshly sautéed spinach. The whole meal was drizzled with hollandaise. A round of golden potato straws nestled in one corner of the plate. She picked up a forkful and put it down.
“I’ve been thinking about a campaign slogan.” Marge shoved her plate to one side and put her elbows on the table. “This People for Free Parking has got a ring to it, there’s no doubt about that. But I’m thinking there ought to be something catchy, too. A slogan, like. You know what I mean?”
Quill felt herself nodding yes.
“Tote bags are big. You remember those tote bags up to the academy?”
“The ones with Monsieur LeVasque’s face on them? Everybody remembers those. They were gross, Marge. And Madame LeVasque had to recycle every single one of them after he … um … died.”
“Good PR, though. I’m thinking I should order a couple of thousand totes and with the right kind of message my face would be all over Hemlock Falls. Maybe a replica of the ballot with a big red check on my name that says Park It Here. And underneath, one of those little sketches you do at the Chamber meetings.”
“Sketches?”
“The doodling you do when you’re supposed to be taking the minutes. I saw that one you did a couple of years ago of me chasing Elmer with a Whac-a-Mole mallet.”
“You did? How did …”
“You leave the sketch pad laying on the conference table half the time. Everybody knows to look for those cartoons. Anyhow. The Whac-a Mole one was cute. Except I’m not that fat. I was thinking if you did the same kind of doodle, only it’s me sitting on Elmer, not whacking him with the mallet, it would make that tote stand out, for sure. You know, you could draw him wriggling and screaming like. It would give a what-do-you-call-it, double meaning to the slogan. ‘Park It Here’ on the ballot, so it’s like ‘vote for me,’ and ‘Park It Here’ with me squashing Elmer. Like, ‘get rid of this mayor.’”
Quill grabbed her hair with both hands and tugged at it.
“Harland’s all for it, of course.” Then, her cheeks slightly pink, she said. “Seems to think it’s creative. Says he’s never heard of anything like it before. You aren’t eating your eggs. Something wrong with ’em?”
Quill picked up her fork and began to eat her eggs. “Terrific,” she said, through a mouthful of hollandaise.
“Anyway, we need to get started right away.”
Quill swallowed. “If we could just set that aside for the moment, I was wondering what you’d think about starting a restaurant owners group.”
“Don’t have time for it. Don’t see a need for it, anyways.”
“Well, with all of the growth in town, I was thinking it might be good if we had an association of our own. Those of us in the food business, you see, have a lot of common interests.”
Marge grunted.
“And we aren’t very well represented in a … governmental sort of way. There’s a Realtors association, and you’re president of that, and Tompkins County insurance group, and you’re president of that. I think you’d make a splendid president of a restaurant owners group. We could call it the Vi
llage Restaurant Association.”
“Doesn’t have a lot of zing to it.”
“I’m sure you could think of something better. But this organization could act as a go-between with oh, say, the New York State food inspectors, the USDA, that kind of thing.”
“I’ll think about it.” Marge looked at her watch. “It’s getting on toward ten. You going down to the high school for the auditions?”
“I told Rose Ellen I’d be there, yes. But if you wanted to talk more about this association idea I have …”
“I figure the shoot’s as good a place as any to start letting folks know about my campaign. That’s what they call it, right? A shoot?”
“It’s just the assessors checking out the items to be evaluated. It’s quite pleasant here, Marge, and we could sort of sketch out a battle plan for this restaurant thing.”
“Everybody in town’s bound to be there.”
“This association could take a firm stand, a very firm stand, on some of the more unreasonable demands of, say, the food inspectors.”
“Bets never has problems with the food inspectors. Keeps the cleanest kitchen in Tompkins County. C’mon. I want to get to the auditions.” Marge slid out of the booth and stood up. “Harland went through the old barn and found a whole bunch of stuff his grandpa used to farm back before the war. Some of those tools are pretty interesting. Might be valuable, too. You and Meg dig anything up?”
“Actually, since Myles and I were out of town in August, I forgot all about it. To tell you the truth I can’t think of anything that’d be suitable anyway. Honestly, Marge, the real problem behind the …”
Marge grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her to her feet. “You drive down from the Inn or did you walk? Walked, I bet. Come on and hop in. You can ride with me. I brought the farm pickup to carry the old tools. You can help me unload ’em.”
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