Until a few years ago, parking on Main Street hadn’t been a problem. With the new influx of tourists grabbing all the easy spots, she had to circle the block twice before she found a space for her Honda. In the time that it had taken her to drive down from the Inn and park, she’d calmed down. Dina was right. With luck, she could finish her business with Rose Ellen and be with Jack by four.
The closed sign was displayed on the front door. She hesitated, and then knocked, pushing the door open as she did so. The antique sleigh bell over the jamb jingled, announcing her presence.
“Hello?”
There was no one waiting inside. Quill shut the door behind her. The stairs to the upper stories were at her left. Voices came from above; Rose Ellen’s breathy whisper and somebody else. A young woman.
“Hello?” a voice responded from upstairs. “Is that you, Quill?”
Clarissa? “Yes,” Quill called. “It’s me. Is that you, Clare?”
“Yes,” she said tersely. “Come on up. We’re having a meeting.”
Quill walked past the displays on her way to the staircase. She had to admit Rose Ellen had taste. The square footage was small, but Rose Ellen had made clever use of the space. A very fine ninteenth-century oak dining room table held an attractive collection of Depression glass, a Limoges vase that was not so fine, but was definitely authentic, and a collection of vintage evening bags. There was a genuine Delft teapot and a scattering of heavy silver candlesticks on a carved pine sea chest. The paintings on the walls were grouped very attractively. There was a small Muir, nicely framed, and a collection of tromp l’oeil. Quill stopped at an oil depicting a bowl of fruit. The fly on the pear was so realistic, she almost brushed it away. There was another large oil showing a fountain with a platter of grapes, apples, and chestnuts at its foot. The perspective behind the fountain was exceptionally well done. It had been in the window the last time Quill had passed the store. Rose Ellen made a habit of rotating the window displays so that potential customers stopped by more often.
“Are you coming up or not?”
Quill looked up. Rose Ellen was halfway down the stairs. She’d changed from the wispy flower print dress she’d worn at the high school that morning into tailored black slacks and a white, long sleeved shirt. An ornate silver medallion hung at her throat. She looked incredibly chic.
“I just stopped to look. I like the tromp l’oeil, Rose Ellen.” She pointed to the larger painting of the fountain. “That has a lot of charm.”
“It does, doesn’t it? I picked it up at one of those giant flea market things. It’s not a reproduction—just some unknown having fun with the genre. But the lines are quite nice and the perspective is terrific. You know what? It’d be perfect for the suite Edmund is occupying. The Provencal, you call it?”
“You’re right. It would.” Quill bent forward to look at the price tag. “You want five hundred dollars for it? I’ll have to think about that.”
“It’s an original, after all. And the genre’s about to come back into vogue. When it does, I’ll be asking three times the price I’ve got on it now. Edmund and I are keeping an eye out, so to speak, so let me know if you run across any when you’re in New York. As a matter of fact, anytime you come across an amateur oil painted more than a hundred or so years ago, let us know. You’d be amazed at what idiots people can be. There’ve been a number of cases where some dolt painted over really fine originals in an effort to use up the canvases. We pay a commission.”
“I don’t get to New York much these days.”
Rose Ellen’s glance drifted over Quill’s challis skirt, her silk T-shirt, which was much the worse for wear after her hectic day, and her espadrilles. “I can see that. Come up. We’re planning Edward’s slap.”
“His Slap Down, she means.” Clarissa stood at the top of the staircase. “Hi, Quill. Rose Ellen said you were in the thick of things this morning at the high school.”
“I suppose I was.”
“Citizen’s arrest. Don’t you love it? I wish I’d been there, but I was stuck with a cooking class.”
Quill followed both women up the stairs and onto the second floor. The area in the farthest recesses of this floor was dedicated to restoration. Quill’s sensitive nose detected solvents, oil paint, and carbon tet.
It wasn’t as crowded as downstairs, but the pieces were arranged with the same eye for elegance. There was a very nice Victorian love seat with a carved mahogany frame that would look terrific in the Victorian suite at the inn. The needlepoint footstool next to it would have been perfect, too.
A large piecrust table had been pressed into service as a desk behind the love seat. Rose Ellen sat down in a Regency armchair next to it and picked up a manila folder. Clarissa sat in a folding chair across from her. Rose Ellen settled a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses on her nose and looked up. “There’s another folding chair in the back, by the toilet. Why don’t you bring it over here and Clare and I can bring you up to speed.”
Quill kept her tone pleasant. “I really can’t stay. I came down because I wanted to let you know how disappointed the Henrys were that you and Edmund didn’t show for lunch. They’d planned that luncheon carefully. I wanted to tell you that I’m putting their lunch tab on Edmund’s bill. And to ask that you treat my friends with more respect in the future.”
“Those dim little …”
“They’re my friends,” Quill said firmly. “Both of them. And I invited them to the cocktail party as you requested, so this is basically a heads-up.”
Rose Ellen waved her hand dismissively. “Fine. Whatever you think. I certainly don’t want to interfere with any of your business relationships here. Believe me, I completely understand. Now get that chair and see what we’ve planned for Edmund and that revolting Barcini.”
Curious in spite of herself, Quill got the chair and sat down.
“Now. As distasteful as it is for me to admit—publicity is of value to both Ancestor’s Attic and my boutique. Word is already around town that Barcini plans to air his ‘challenge,’ if you want to dignify it as such, on the episode of Pawn-o-Rama that’s due to air this week.” In response to Clare’s puzzled look, she said, “Surely you know that episodes can be shot months ahead of the time that they’re aired. Barcini plans to edit the tape his sister took this morning and introduce this week’s show with it.”
“Are you sure about all this?” Quill asked doubtfully.
“Positive. That overly groomed person …”
“She means Harvey,” Clare said.
“That passes for an advertising man has been very, very busy. It’s his duty, he says, to promote the village and apparently this is a prime opportunity for him.”
Quill suppressed a smile. Harvey would be in his element.
“Mr. Bozzel seems to feel that an appropriate challenge would be a …” She turned to Clare. “What did he call it?”
“A cook-off.”
“Correct. I think it’s a feasible idea. Cooking is …” She paused and bit her lip ruefully. “Safe. Edmund is not, as you may have noticed, the kind of man to square off and punch Barcini in the nose, however much I would like him to.”
For a moment, Rose Ellen was very likeable. Belter had come by his nickname honestly.
“So. Barcini and Edmund will meet in one of Clare’s kitchens at Bonne Goutè and each will prepare a dish. A panel of judges—professionals like Clare herself, and Meg—will vote on which dish has been prepared the best. We’ll have the audience vote, as well. So there will be a popular choice and a judge’s choice.”
Belter didn’t look like much of a cook. “Has Belter agreed to this?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. He’ll fall over those disgusting flip-flops in his race to do it. We’ll air the segment on our show the moment it’s done. We’re going to release ten-second spots to the media to run as a promo. Belter couldn’t buy that kind of exposure no matter what he did. The man’s trailer trash, pure and simple and that’s not news. He’ll jump
at the chance to be in the same studio with someone as prestigious as Edmund.”
“Then why does Edmund want to be on the same show as him?” Clare asked innocently.
Rose Ellen flushed. “Barcini does have a certain share of the market,” she said evenly. “Do I have to say it again? I find this sort of exhibitionism distasteful. But in today’s environment, it’s absolutely necessary. Now, have you made Madame LeVasque aware of this opportunity? It’ll be advantageous for Bonne Goutè, of course.”
“Madame talked about it after you called, yes.” Clare’s voice was reluctant.
“Then I assume that’s clear. Now.” She turned to Quill. “You understand why the Inn isn’t suitable. Of course we considered you as a venue. But we require an audience of at least one hundred, and there just isn’t enough room.”
“Thank Go … goodness,” Quill said. “I mean that you considered us, at least.”
“Good. This is Tuesday. I’d like to get this out of the way before the wedding. So shall we plan on Thursday to do the shoot?”
“Thursday?” Clare said. “We can’t possibly be ready by Thursday.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve got to get enough supplies in so a hundred people in the audience can taste the recipes, for one thing.”
“So you’re saying there’s a problem you can’t handle? Perhaps I should turn this over to Madame LeVasque.”
Quill winced. Madame had been dubious about Clare’s ability to handle the directorship of the academy. She had a hunch Rose Ellen knew that very well.
“We can handle it just fine,” Clare said defensively. “It’s just … so fast. No, I guess there’s no problem. We have a soups and stew class scheduled for that evening, but if the students can be in the audience and we move the class to another date, I guess that’d be okay.”
“Of course it will.” Rose Ellen made a few notes, then closed the manila folder and tossed it on the table. “That’s all then. Thank you very much for coming. And I’ll see you both at the engagement party tonight?”
“We’re dismissed then?” Clare said with an ominous cheerfulness.
Quill knew that look in Clare’s eye. She’d clearly reached her limit. “Yes. Well. We’ll be off,” Quill said hastily.
Clare’s eyes glittered. She was taking deep, steadying breaths. Clare was nowhere near as volatile as Meg, but she was, after all, a chef. Quill got up and put her hand on Clare’s arm. “It’s close to four o’clock and I need to get back to the Inn. Walk down with me, Clare.”
She led the way down the stairs, Clare stamping along behind her.
To her credit, Clare waited to explode until they were both well clear of the store and at Quill’s Honda.
Then she flipped.
“That witch!” She dropped her voice in a ferocious imitation of Rose Ellen’s breathy whisper. “Of course you’ll love having your kitchen invaded by two Visigoths, Clare. Of course you’ll jump through any hoops I roll out, Clare. Gaah!”
“Visigoths?”
“Edmund is as phony as a three-dollar bill. Barcini at least is an honest thug. They’re both raiders and plunderers.”
“My gosh,” Quill said mildly.
“Sorry. But that woman just gets up my nose.”
“She does at that.”
“Cooking contest my … left foot. Did you notice the conspicuous absence of anything?”
Quill thought a moment. “Nothing was said about what they’re going to cook?”
“Who cares? Not me. Except that I have to order enough supplies to feed a hundred-plus people.” Clare shuddered and shook her head. “Ugh. Poor Meg. Poor me. And we have to judge this thing? I’m going to look like a horse’s ass.”
“It’s not a live show or anything. It’s a shoot. So they can rewind, or whatever, or cut.” Quill was rather vague on the details. “Have you said anything to Meg about this?”
“Poor Harvey left the store just before you got there. She”—the venom Clare invested in that inoffensive pronoun was remarkable—“sent him up to the Inn to talk to Meg.”
“I’d better get up there, then.”
“Right. I’ll see you at this engagement party tonight, I guess. Celebrity chef on call.” She adjusted her tote on her shoulder with a casual air. “What’s Meg planning on serving, do you know? We never did settle on a final menu.”
Quill thought with dread of the choux pastry. “I’m not sure. You know how menus go—she’s considered a couple of things. Edmund asked for a ‘sophisticated country house weekend’ theme using local produce.”
“That’ll mean pears, I expect. Pears are all over the farmer’s markets right now. I’ve got a great recipe for pears in cream. By the way, where is he in all this, anyway?”
“Who?”
“The fraud, the fiancé, the sucker-sophisticate. Edmund Tree.”
“Up at the Inn, I think. In his rooms. The Provencal suite.”
“He’s not staying with her?”
“No.”
Clare narrowed her eyes. “I know that look, Quill. You’re being discreet. Why isn’t Tree staying with his sweetie? Why isn’t she staying with him? The Provencal suite is nine hundred percent nicer than those apartments over there. I know. I checked them out as a place to live when I thought I would have to leave the academy and live on my own.”
One of the rules of innkeeping—Quill couldn’t remember which number it was—stated very firmly that what went on at the Inn stayed at the Inn. It didn’t do to gossip about the guests.
“Rose Ellen is staying pure for Edmund.”
“Say what?”
“Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe Edmund is staying pure for Rose Ellen.”
“Fruitcakes,” Clare said darkly. “And I’m not talking Christmas, here.”
9
∼Choux Pastry Puffs∼
SAVORY:
1 pound chopped fresh, steamed shrimp, crab, or clams
3 tablespoons finely diced celery
1 tablespoon finely diced leek
1 lemon
3 tablespoons fresh minced parsley, chives and dill, combined
¼ cup freshly made mayonnaise
36 baked choux puff pastries
Blend all ingredients. Chill. Fill puffs.
SWEET:
1 cup Pecans Quilliam
4 cups English Cream, flavored with curaçao
36 baked choux puff pastries
Mix all ingredients. Chill. Fill puffs just before serving.
PECANS QUILLIAM:
4 ounces butter
¼ cup dark brown sugar
1 cup whole pecans
Melt butter and sugar over medium heat. Add pecans. Over high-medium heat, toast the pecans until caramelized. Cool. Place in blender and chop fine.
Quill came through the back door of the kitchen curious about her sister’s reaction to the chance to judge the relative merits of Tree and Barcini, chefs for a day. Her curiosity was satisfied almost immediately.
“Have you ever heard of anything as stupid in your whole life?”
“Probably not,” Quill said cautiously.
The kitchen was usually hectic at four o’clock and today was no exception. Bjarne seared beef tenderloin at the grill. Elizabeth chopped tomatoes. Devon and Hilary, students from the nearby Cornell School of Hotel Administration, scrubbed pots.
Meg stood at the twelve-burner stove over a large sauté pan. She dumped a wad of butter and a bowl of brown sugar into the pan and turned on the heat.
“Are you going to judge the contest?”
“The Slap Down, you mean? In your dreams. I’d rather eat a rat.” She shook the pan, and then dumped a bowl of whole pecans into it. “Harvey says they’re going to have the whole pitiful performance at Bonne Goutè. What’s Clare thinking? She’s going to look like a horse’s ass.”
“She didn’t say so—well, she did say she thought she’d look like a horse’s ass—but I think Madame is forcing her hand.”
“Yeah, well, Madame’s a trip, that’s for sure. It has to be hard not to be boss in your own kitchen.” Meg looked smug.
“You know she’ll be here tonight?”
“Clare? Yeah, I know that.” Meg peered into the sauté pan. “How come these darn nuts aren’t caramelizing?”
“You’re still serving choux pastry.”
“So what if I am?”
“Clare’s specialty. I’m just asking for a little clarification.”
“You ought to be asking for caramelization. Ah! There we go.” She lifted the pan from the burner and set it on the prep table. “We’ll let it cool off a bit. Then, Elizabeth, pulverize them in the blender, would you? And then start on the cream filling. Go easy on the curaçao. People will want to taste pecans, not liquor.” Meg untied her apron and took it off. “There. We’re good to go. I’m off to the lounge. I want to check Kathleen’s setups.”
The short way to the lounge was out the back door and around the side of the building, and Meg invariably took it. Quill followed her outside. Meg glanced over her shoulder. “Are you coming with me?”
“No. I wanted to talk without risking a big hoorah in the kitchen.”
“So you’re risking a big hoorah out here?”
“What I’m doing,” Quill said with a flash of temper, “is trying to make you see reason. Why are you behaving like this? Are you trying to start a fight with Clare?”
Meg ran her hands through her hair, so that it stood up in short spikes. “I am a peaceful kind of person. I always have been. But I will respond when provoked beyond reason. I am not trying to pick a fight.”
Quill let this astonishing piece of mendacity pass. “This doesn’t make any sense. You know as well as I do that the average person can’t tell the difference between choux pastry and a wad of laundered Kleenex. So who’s going to be able to tell the difference tonight? Clare, that’s who.”
Dread on Arrival Page 11
