Dread on Arrival

by Claudia Bishop

  Meg scowled. It was the sort of scowl Quill hadn’t seen on her sister since she was five years old and trying to bluff about being bullied at preschool. “She sure will. And then she’s going to eat her words.”

  They’d gotten around the building to the rose gardens. The gardens were one of the loveliest parts of the grounds in good weather, and even now, with fall coming on, the roses made a brilliant show of color against the emerald grass. Quill stopped and sat down on the nearest bench. She patted the space next to her. “Sit down here, Meggie. Tell me about it.”

  “Edmund Tree told Meg that Clare Sparrow thought her pastry was a joke.” Quill sat curled up in one corner of her living room sofa. Jack was busy on the floor at her feet, gleefully stacking his wooden blocks in a tower and then knocking them over. Doreen was in Quill’s tiny kitchen, making macaroni and cheese. Quill, still flushed with indignation, looked up to see Doreen’s reaction. She paused, cheese grater in one hand and went, “T’uh!”

  “They were going over the menu for his engagement party tonight and he asked for sweets and savories. Meg said if he wanted pastry, it’d be better to get Clare to cater.”

  “She’s right, from what I hear about Clare’s pies.”

  “Of course she’s right.” Quill was furious, and trying to keep it from Jack. “My sister is a good person. A great person. She acknowledges greatness in others, and Clare is a great pastry chef. Anyhow, so then Edmund tells Meg that Clare was telling anyone who would listen that Meg’s pastry was a joke.”

  “You think Clare really said that?”

  “I do not. I think Edmund Tree is a troublemaker. I have no idea why. Grr. I can’t wait until the whole pile of them get out of my Inn.”

  “Grr,” Jack said. “Grrr!”

  Doreen grated another couple inches of cheddar cheese. “Why would he make trouble? Just for the sake of making trouble?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he’s malicious by nature. Maybe he thinks he can get Meg and Clare to start a feud in front of the cameras on this Slap Down. They’re both coming to the engagement party tonight, you know. I’m really worried that there’s going to be a scene.”

  “You were thinking of skippin’ the party, weren’t you?”

  Quill looked wistfully at Jack. “I have to drop in for about half an hour. I was hoping Meg could handle the hostessing part.”

  “Not darn likely. So much for delegating. You might better stick through the whole thing in case there’s another riot. You may not be much at delegating, but you’re pretty good at handling scenes.” Doreen thought a moment, then added, “Unless you start one yourself.”

  Jack toppled his block tower with a shriek of joy. “All done!” He jumped to his feet and clambered into Quill’s lap. “I pushed them over a billion times, Mommy.”

  “Good work, my darling boy. Very, very good work.” She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed her cheek over the top of his head. Life could be sweetly uncomplicated if she didn’t have to deal with guests.

  Doreen gave her a shrewd glance. “Want me to get after this Tree with the mop?”

  “I’m tempted. But no. I’ll just have as little to do with them as humanly possible.”

  Doreen took Jack’s plastic dinner plate out of the cupboard and heaped it with the macaroni and cheese. She added a pile of cooked carrots and a sliced tomato. “They going to live in Hemlock Falls after the wedding?”

  “Who? The Trees? Oh my word. I hope not.”

  “What’s she going to do with the store, after she gets married, then? Hasn’t been open but a few months, and she’s been raking it in, from what I hear.”

  “She certainly wants people to think so.”

  “What, you think she’s broke?”

  “I don’t know. There was something about the shop that bothered me. And Clare said the apartments are tiny and not very nice. You think Edmund would have given her money for a better place.”

  “Maybe she’s thrifty. You look at that Marge Schmidt. She’s got more money than God and buys them chinos at Walmart.”

  This was true.

  “If Rose Ellen is planning on moving here, she never said a word to me. I hope not.” Quill shook her head. “It’s nuts. There’s no way an urbanite like Edmund would live here. He’s rich. He lives all over the world. She’ll probably sell the place and we’ll never see either one of them again, thank goodness.”

  “Marge Schmidt said they was looking to buy a couple of acres down by the river.”

  Quill closed her eyes and leaned her head against the sofa back. “You know what? I don’t have to think about these people for another hour yet, until I make an appearance at the flipping engagement party. And I won’t. Come on, Jack-a-rootie. Gramma Doreen has your mac and cheese all set up.”

  “Mac and cheese!” Jack hugged himself ecstatically.

  “Okay, pal. We’re going to forget all about Mr. Tree and his shenanigans for a bit.” Quill picked him up and headed for the small dining room table. A thunderous knocking at her door interrupted her progress halfway.

  She handed Jack over to Doreen and answered the door.

  “They’re gone!” Edmund Tree stood there, teeth clenched, eyes bulging in rage. He was half-dressed in a tuxedo: fine wool trousers and a starched white shirt. The sleeves of his shirt flapped wide.

  “Hello to you, too,” Quill said mildly. She stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her. “How can I help you? What’s gone?”

  “Rose Ellen’s rings. Both of them. Her engagement ring, a three-carat blue white diamond set with sapphires. And her wedding ring. Both in platinum. And my cuff links. They’re vintage, rose gold. I was getting dressed and I couldn’t find the cuff links. The jewel box with the rings was gone, too. I’ve called the police. What the hell kind of place are you running around here?”

  “Good grief.” Quill took a moment to collect herself. “I’m so sorry. When did you last see them?”

  “Day before yesterday, I guess. I don’t know. Goddammit. Goddammit. Of course they’re insured, but Rose Ellen was very particular about this diamond. It belonged to Elizabeth Taylor. I picked it up at Sotheby’s for her. I want all of the housemaids searched. All of the other rooms, too. Right now!”

  Quill’s cell phone rang in her pocket. She took it out and flipped it open. “Hey, Dina.”

  “Davy’s here,” Dina’s tone was perplexed, “and it’s not to take me over to his house to eat pizza, either. He said Mr. Tree reported a burglary? Davy says he thought the burglaries would all be over because …”

  “I’m with Mr. Tree now,” Quill interrupted. “We’ll come down and meet in my office, okay?” She shut the cell phone and slipped it back into her pocket. “If you’ll just give me a moment, Mr. Tree, I’ll settle my son and be right down.”

  “You’re thinking about some brat at a time like this?”

  Quill looked at him levelly. “I’m definitely thinking about a brat, yes. Go right into my office. Sheriff Kiddermeister is already there.”

  10

  ∼Meg’s Country Pâté∼

  ½ cup diced sweet onions

  20 ounces sweet pork sausage

  ¾ pound chicken breasts

  ½ pound beef livers

  1 cup panko bread crumbs

  1 extra large egg

  1 cup cream cheese

  1 chopped clove garlic

  ¼ cup Five Star or Hennessy brandy

  ¼ cup sweet cream butter

  2 tablespoons kosher salt

  ¼ teaspoon each thyme, rosemary, ground bay leaf, and pepper

  ¼ cup shelled pistachios, sliced thin

  Combine all ingredients except pistachios in a food processor. Mix in pistachios by hand and mold into a well-greased loaf pan. Bake for seventy-five to ninety minutes in a 350-degree oven. Cool. Remove from pan and wrap in cheesecloth. Store in refrigerator for at least twenty-four hours before serving. Serve with ground mustard, cornichons or other pungent pickles, and wafers of toasted sourdo
ugh bread.

  “Quite a party,” Howie Murchison said. He and Quill stood at the far end of the Tavern Lounge bar. Quill sipped halfheartedly at a glass of wine. Howie nursed a Manhattan. The engagement party swirled around them. Although it wasn’t so much a swirl as a sluggish eddy, Quill thought glumly. Word of the theft of the wedding rings and the cuff links had spread like a California wildfire. By the time she’d finished her statement to Davy Kiddermeister, showered, and changed into an evening gown, she bet the farmhands at Peterson Dairy five miles out of town were discussing the thefts over the nightly milking. Rose Ellen sobbed, Edmund cursed, and the Ancestor’s Attic crew of assessors and staff had tsked-tsked with the kind of repellant satisfaction mean-spirited people take in the misfortunes of others. Nobody was in much of a party mood.

  At least the lounge looked good. The Tavern Lounge glowed with the firelight from the big stone hearth and the antique sconces on the wall. All of the waitstaff had been called out, and they circulated among the guests with trays of beautifully presented savories and sweets. Everyone was dressed up. Quill herself wore a close-fitting tea length gown in washed bronze velvet. Edmund had changed his tuxedo for one of his three-piece suits—because he was missing his cuff links, she supposed. Rose Ellen was a slender vision in a dramatic black-and-white gown with a huge taffeta bow at the neck. Her eyes were red and swollen. Edmund’s eyes were slits of suppressed rage.

  Most of the wedding party was unfamiliar to her with the exception of Jukka Angstrom, whom she had met once at an art gallery opening years before. The others had checked in that afternoon and Quill was nerving herself up to go meet them.

  Howie set his Manhattan down on the mahogany bar top and smiled at her. “Place looks good. Just the venue for a party like this, Quill. A photographer from Vanity Fair is here—did you meet her? A couple of the fashion magazines are here, too. This should be very good publicity for the Inn.”

  Quill thought the Tavern Lounge was one of the handsomest parts of the Inn. The floor was flagstone dating from the days when the Inn was the refuge of a notorious barkeep named Leaky Peg. Quill had rescued the ash wood floor of the old high school gym when it was remodeled and made tabletops. The bar top was a long sweep of mahogany that Nate the bartender kept meticulously maintained. “It will be great PR, if the news about the wedding rings doesn’t spoil it,” Quill said rather wistfully.

  Howie fished the cherry out of his drink and ate it. “I heard about the burglary.”

  “Everybody’s heard about the burglary.”

  “Does Davy have any leads?”

  Quill thought about her lightbulb. “I hope so. We’ll see. I think I may have actually heard the burglar leave the Inn down the fire escape. Edmund talked about suing the Inn for the value of the rings. Not enough security, he said. You have a legal opinion on that?”

  Howie shrugged. His great-grandfather, grandfather, and father had practiced law in Hemlock Falls and he was content to continue the tradition. Quill suspected he enjoyed his role as town justice more than lawyering for a living; Howie had an equable temper and avoided contention. “Let the insurance companies duke it out. Either way, you don’t have to worry. It won’t come out of your pocket.”

  Quill sighed and got to her feet. “I’d better go do my hostessing thing.” She scanned the crowd, trying to decide who to tackle first. “Miriam’s not here?”

  “Just me. And the Henrys over there.” He nodded at them. Elmer beamed in a rented tuxedo. Adela was resplendent in a sequined floor-length gown with a red boa. “The only non-celebrity Hemlockians to be invited.”

  “You’re both celebrities in my book,” Quill said warmly. “But was there a reason you were invited all by yourself? It’s a social occasion, isn’t it? Didn’t Miriam want to come along?”

  “Actually, it’s more of a business meeting. Rose Ellen invited me. Insisted, really.” He ran one finger around his dress tie. He didn’t like dressing up. Quill wondered how Miriam had talked him into a tux. She swore Howie had worn the same pair of Florsheim loafers for ten years until the shoe repair shop refused to resole them one more time. “I wish I’d stayed at home with Miriam.”

  “Rose Ellen insisted you come?” A sudden qualm hit her. “They aren’t buying real estate here, or anything?”

  “If they are, they haven’t mentioned it. No. She’d like me to talk Edmund into making a will before the wedding.”

  “He doesn’t have a will?”

  “A man that wealthy—it’s not smart. I know. Rose Ellen says he’s phobic about it. A lot of people are, you know. You’d be surprised. It’s a very familiar superstition. I can understand it—making a will is an acknowledgment of your own mortality. But …”

  “It’s dumb not to have one?”

  “Very dumb. In any event, she thought Edmund would feel easier about setting up an appointment if we met beforehand, socially. So that’s what I’m doing, being sociable.”

  Quill picked up her wineglass. “I suppose I’d better start being sociable, too. I’ll see you later.”

  “Maybe not. If she doesn’t drag Tree over here to meet me pretty soon, I’m out of here.” He smiled and looked at her over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Great party, though. Love that pâté Meg does. The savories are pretty good, too. I take it Clare contributed those?”

  Quill surveyed the crowd again. Clare was in one corner, a plate of choux pastry in her hand, a set expression on her face. Meg was in another, chatting feverishly to a sleek-looking couple. The male—mid-fifties, with the look of someone who spent a lot of time indoors—was dressed in a tuxedo. The female, who was extremely thin, with white hair drawn back into a severe knot at the back of her head, was in a tight red dress that was more skirt than dress. She was younger than her partner, but not by a lot. Both of them were familiar types from Quill’s art gallery days.

  “This is Sarah McHale,” Meg said as she came up to them. “Quill, this is Andrea and Phillip Bryant. They’re scouts for Ancestor’s Attic.”

  Andrea Bryant drew herself up with an icy glare at Meg. “We’re consultants to the show, Mrs. McHale.”

  “Sure you are,” Meg said breezily. “If you three are all set, I’ll be off, then.” She turned her back to them, grimaced at Quill, and headed to the buffet table and a clutch of other guests.

  Phillip Brant lunged forward, his hand extended, “Mrs. McHale. Call me Skipper.”

  Quill shook hands. “Welcome to the Inn. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here to greet you when you checked in.”

  “You know Edmund,” Skipper said. His voice was extremely nasal. “We dropped our bags and rushed right over to the high school. Doesn’t waste time, our Edmund.”

  “You rushed, darling,” Andrea said, with an undertone of spite. “It is true, though, Mrs. McHale, that the auditions can’t be held without either one of us, so there was a certain degree of urgency when we checked in.”

  “I hope you’re comfortable in your rooms. Please let us know if there’s anything you need.”

  Skipper glanced around the room dismissively. “It’s a nice enough place. Not quite as top drawer as I’d been led to believe, but what can you expect from a village inn?”

  “The beds are comfortable,” Andrea said reluctantly. “I wouldn’t mind a decent showerhead in the bath, though. You really ought to look into the spa showerheads. You know what they are? Pricey, of course, but worth it.”

  Quill gave them a professional innkeeper’s smile “I do. Actually, it’s an excellent suggestion. We’ve been thinking about doing just that. Now, you’re the expert in North American paintings, aren’t you, Skipper? And you’re pottery and American crafts, Andrea. Those are wonderful areas to explore. I suppose you follow the show all over the country?”

  Andrea lifted her skinny shoulders. “You would suppose right. We find ourselves in the damndest places, chasing after what turns out to be junk, more often than not.” She turned to her husband and said in a confidential tone, “Although there’s quite a nice
piece of work hanging in the office. The receptionist took me there when I signed us in. The one of the two women sitting by the falls? I know you weren’t all that impressed with it, but there’d be a place for it in our New York apartment. The guest room.” She smiled at Quill. “You know the one I mean?”

  “Yes, I do.” She’d painted that soon after she and Meg had arrived in Hemlock Falls. The two sisters sat with their backs to the viewer, looking into the water as it spilled over the lip of the gorge outside.

  “I don’t know where you picked it up, but …” Andrea leaned toward her willing her to answer. Her eyes were pale blue and lined with kohl pencil. They gave her face a feline intensity.

  “The oil comes from right here, actually,” Quill said.

  Andrea relaxed into a half smile. “Hm. I suppose you’re wondering what it’s worth. That’s the downside of what Skipper and I do—everyone’s convinced they have an unknown Rembrandt in the closet, and they want you to value it for free, and then they want to sell it to you.” Quill opened her mouth. Andrea placed a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. What you have there is a nice enough little piece. Some local yokel imitating a Quilliam is my guess. But it’s not a bad effort. Not a bad effort at all. We’d take it off your hands for two or three hundred if you like.”

  “Thank you,” Quill said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clare set the plate of pastry down with a bang on a nearby table. “I’ll think about that offer. Will you excuse me? One of my friends seems to be leaving.”

  She caught up with Clare just as she was about to exit through the patio exit. “Hey!”

  “Hey, yourself.” Clare was a little pale.

  “You’re not leaving already?”

  “Work,” Clare said vaguely, “You know.”

  “It’s not work. It’s the pastry, right?”