Clare took a deep breath. “Okay. So it’s the pastry. All I have to say to your sister is, I thought we had an unspoken agreement to respect each other’s area of … of …”
“Expertise,” Quill said.
“Exactly. And what do I find here? Choux pastry. And Meg’s pâté.” Clare blinked away tears. “And the pastry wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Your average yahoo isn’t going to be able to tell the difference between my stuff and hers, you know. I mean, her stuff is okay.” Clare’s face was pink and Quill couldn’t tell if the tears were from frustration at the quality of the pastry or anger over Meg’s betrayal. Quill bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh. It really wasn’t funny. But chefs seemed to feel about food the way she felt about her painting and she knew how mad she was at Andrea Bryant right now. “I know. I’m sorry. But there’s a reason—no, it’s not a reason, it’s an explanation because for the life of me I can’t think of a good reason. Anyway. Edmund Tree told Meg you told him that her pastry was terrible.” Quill bit her lip. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t,” Clare said, astonished. “I would never … Terrible? He said I said it was terrible? It’s not terrible. It’s … pretty good. Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know. Edmund’s a snake. That’s clear. He may be stirring up trouble just because he can, or he may have an ulterior motive. I don’t care. What I do care about is the two of you getting into a squabble that could be terrible for both our restaurants.” She bit her lip. “And it’s an awful thing to do to friends.”
“Tree told her I thought her pastry was terrible?” Clare repeated wonderingly. “He’s a liar.”
“His crew’s not much better. The Bryants over there just offered me a couple of hundred dollars for the painting that’s over the couch in my office.”
“For a Quilliam? My God. Meg told me you’ve turned down twenty thousand for that painting.”
Quill blushed. “Well, yes. I did. I like that painting. It’s one of the few … never mind. That’s not the point. The point is Meg introduced me as Sarah McHale and they didn’t know who I was. As Quilliam the artist, I mean.” She grinned. “It won’t take them long to find out, but never mind that. What’s interesting is they thought they could scam me. Reputable dealers don’t do that.”
“These guys,” Clare said indignantly. “Do you suppose they’re all like that?”
Quill shook her head. “I doubt it. If I had to guess, I’d say that Edmund hates being number three in a four-horse race and he’s trying to pull ahead any way he can. Look, I’ve got to keep circulating.” She nodded in the direction of a tall man seated at a table next to the fireplace. He was broad-shouldered, with white blond hair and a face that looked as if it had been carved with a hatchet. His companion was small and very buxom in a simple black dress and strappy heels. “That’s Jukka Angstrom, from Sotheby’s. I’ve met him before and it would look very odd if I didn’t go over to say hello.” She touched Clare’s shoulder. “Are you still bent on leaving? I wish you wouldn’t. It’d be wonderful if you could bring yourself to go talk to Meg. Tell her what you really think of her pastry. Tell her that you didn’t say anything about it to Tree.”
“And never would,” Clare said indignantly. “How could she think I’d be that much of a jerk?”
“She didn’t think at all. She just reacted. You don’t mind trying to clear things up, do you? I don’t think she’ll pitch a fit, but she might. Would you like me to go over with you?”
“No.” She squared her shoulders. “No. I’ll go talk to her. Just to make sure—all the eight-inch sauté pans are in the kitchen, right? I mean, she’s not armed or anything?”
Quill looked at her sister, who was chatting up the two security guards who’d been at the high school that morning. The short one still had his sunglasses on. Tree had called him Marco. The other one darted suspicious glances around the room, which was a good reason, she supposed, to wear concealing sunglasses even indoors. He looked guilty. Both had changed into tuxedos. Meg wore her favorite pair of black leather pants and a bright green satin top. “I doubt it. She couldn’t conceal a hairpin in that outfit she’s got on.”
“She looks cute, though.”
Quill rolled her eyes and walked across the room to talk to Jukka Angstrom.
He rose to his feet as she approached the table and held out both hands in greeting. “My dear Quill. How nice to see you again after all this time.” He kissed one cheek, and then the other.
“It’s good of you to remember me, Mr. Angstrom.”
“I could not forget so beautiful a woman. That auburn hair! Those amber eyes! I hope you remember me well enough to call me Jukka.” He pulled out a chair. “Please. Sit down with us. Melanie, I would like to make known to you one of the finest artists of our generation. This is Sarah Quilliam, known to her friends as Quill. And this is Melanie Myers.”
“Hi.” Melanie extended one hand, which was tipped with scarlet fingernails and loaded with rings. Her black dress barely contained a pair of exuberant breasts. A deep breath would have dislodged them both. “I’m Edmund’s personal assistant. He speaks very highly of your work. Very highly. That last show you had …” She raised both hands, as if appealing to the artist gods. “Fantastic.”
“You would have been thirteen years old at the time of her last show,” Jukka said gently. “Quill is known for her reticence. And perhaps even better known for producing very little in the past ten years. The art scene misses you, dear Quill.”
“We certainly do,” Melanie said, unabashed. Her eyes narrowed suddenly, to icy green slits. She poked Jukka with her elbow. “Will you look at what that woman’s doing now?”
Quill followed her stare to see Rose Ellen picking a bit of lint, or something, off Edmund’s lapel. She tucked her hand under his elbow and whispered in his ear.
“He hates being touched,” Melanie confided. “She just won’t leave him alone.” She snorted and took a big swallow of her drink and emptied it. From the look of it, it was either pure vodka or straight gin.
“Oh, well,” Jukka echoed. “Melanie, perhaps you would go to the bar and ask that very nice bearlike man for another glass of wine for me. You should probably not have any more yourself. Quill, may she fetch something for you, as well?”
Quill raised her glass. “I’m fine for right now.”
“Ah, the hostess must always keep her head clear. Very well then, off you go, Melanie. Do not,” he called after her, “hurry back.” He shook his head and chuckled. “A dear child. But quite spiteful.”
“She’s an expert in vintage clothes?”
“You have been reading up on us, again, the perfect innkeeper. Yes. She is. Amazingly enough. A graduate of the Parsons School of Fashion and not at all bad at evaluation. It doesn’t hurt that Edmund has known her family for years, of course. You know what the antiques world is like at all levels. It’s all in who you know.”
Quill admitted this was true.
Jukka wriggled his eyebrows. “You are wondering, perhaps, what has happened to my career that I am relegated to the somewhat distasteful duty of trailing after a reality show?”
“My goodness, Jukka. I wouldn’t quite put it like that.”
“You were always too nice for the game, my dear. But of course you are aware why I am here. There was this little item that made the newspapers a while ago …”
“The … ah … kerfuffle with Sotheby’s?”
“Price-fixing, yes.” He winced at his own use of the term. “Please. My dear. It is best forgotten. The bill has been paid, as it were. Our poor director was relegated to a prison term, and I, alas, to this. But it will not be forever.” He crossed one elegantly trousered knee and regarded the tip of his shoe. “No, indeed. A few marvelous finds, and I will be back in the good graces of my employers again.” He shot a surprisingly vindictive glance in Edmund’s direction. “If that son of bitch allows it.”
Quill couldn’t think of a response to this. If Edmund had
some sort of hold over Jukka, she’d rather not know about it.
“Did anything of worth turn up at the audition this morning?”
“A tactful change of subject. That’s always been your forte, my dear. That, of course, and your skill with using light and dark in your painting. Yes, something of worth turned up at the auditions. Your marvelous Ms … . Schmidt, is it? I was in the auditorium and so missed much of the festiveness. But I would say that she indeed is a find of worth. She is your mayor?”
Quill laughed. “She is terrific, isn’t she? Is Marge our mayor? No. She’d like to be.” Quill took a sip from her glass and set it on the table. “Jukka, how long have you been on the Attic circuit?”
“Three hundred and ninety two days,” he said promptly. “The prison term of my director was three years. I am hoping that my own exile will not last that long. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering how much you knew about the way they operate.”
He shrugged. “As you see. They select a small town, bring a team of experts in to scout items of value, and then feature the interesting pieces on the show.”
“The Bryants just made me an offer on Sisters.”
He drew his eyebrows together. “Sisters. Wait a moment. Ah. That very delightful piece you had on loan at MoMA. Ah, yes?”
“I was introduced to them as Mrs. McHale. I hadn’t met them before.”
“And?” The perplexed look vanished suddenly. “Ah. I see. The offer was for how much?”
“Two or three hundred.”
“Thousand? You are delightful as an artist, my dear. But—if you will forgive me—not at that price.”
“Dollars.”
Jukka threw back his head and laughed so hard the party noise quieted momentarily. He patted her hand. “If your question is, has your worth in the market fallen to that extent, I can assure you, it has not.”
“It flashed across my mind,” Quill admitted, “but only for a second. Mostly because Andrea said it was an effort by some hack to imitate a Quilliam. I guess that’s good, right? That she would say someone is trying to imitate me. So the second question that crossed my mind was whether or not Tree encouraged this sort of thing.”
“Mm.” Jukka’s rough-hewn features became totally expressionless. “Why do you want to know? If you are thinking of selling Sisters, you’d better leave it to me. I will get a decent price for it, you can be sure.”
“No, no. I won’t sell the painting. It’s not about the painting at all. It’s about what kind of man Edmund Tree is. He’s been here two days, and he’s already causing trouble, and I have no idea why. What can he possibly gain by pitting my sister against one of our best friends, for example. And those darn wedding rings …”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, my dear.”
Quill tried again. “Is Edmund Tree a quarrelsome sort of man? For example, when did this flap with the Barcinis begin?”
“Flap? Barcini. Wait. The pawnbroker from New Jersey. Is that who you mean? You know, the fellow is not bad at valuing certain kinds of antiques. Not bad at all. What flap are you talking about?”
“You know. The insults traded back and forth.”
“I wasn’t aware that they were. At a guess, I would say it would be jousting for market share. Edmund is offensively interested in market share. The reason is because the man is a—there is a wonderful expression in English. Wad of tight?”
“Tightwad.”
“That’s it. The show will feature a clip of the wedding, and therefore, the show is carrying all the expenses for this very lovely and very expensive trip to Hemlock Falls. Like many very wealthy people, Edmund is cheap. Stingy. A miser. An Ancestor’s Attic that is number three in the ratings does not have the money to spend that a number one show would have.”
“So this feud with Belter Barcini is about ratings?”
“It would seem so. As for your interest in when it began … I do not know when it began. I can, however, tell you that it is about to continue.”
Quill had been sitting with her profile to the French doors that led to the patio. Jukka took her chin gently between his fingers and turned her head. “Voilà, as my friends in Amiens are wont to say.”
Belter Barcini stomped through the doors. His black T-shirt was imprinted with a scarlet dress tie, a red cummerbund, and a violently purple dress shirt. He’d replaced his khaki shorts with black bicycling shorts. He hadn’t changed his flip-flops.
Josephine was right behind him, her Steadicam at the ready.
Behind them both was Mrs. Barcini, resplendent in gold lamé and acrylic high heels. Bringing up the rear was Hemlock Falls’s best (and only) advertising executive, Harvey Bozzel.
“Buon notte!” Mrs. Barcini shouted. “You doughheads!”
“I’m telling you, Myles … It was stranger than the invasion of all those people from the Church of the Rolling Moses,” Quill said some hours later. She was curled up in her bed, her phone at her ear. “Belter insulted Edmund and Edmund insulted Belter and Mrs. Barcini insulted everybody. And through it all, Josephine is whirring away with her Steadicam, recording the whole thing. Harvey claims it’s all in aid of this Slap Down Thursday night. You know what else he said? That reality shows are scripted. Does that make any sense to you at all? I thought a reality show would be … I don’t know. Real.”
“You sound worried.”
“I am worried. I’m really worried. This Slap Down thing Thursday night. Something nasty’s going on. I can feel it. I wish I could shake the feeling that the burglaries have something to do with it. There’s an escalation factor, for one thing. The burglar seems to have stopped scouting attics and basements for forgotten items and moved into the big time. Tree claims the rings and the cuff links together are worth over one hundred thousand dollars. What’s more, Jukka Angstrom didn’t come right out and say it—I mean, this is a man who survived a case tried in the media during that Sotheby’s thing, and he’s not about to give anything away to someone like me—but there was a very strong inference that Tree has a scam going on the side.” She stopped. She realized she was sputtering with indignation.
He paused for so long that she thought she’d lost him. “Myles?”
“I’m here. I’m just lining everything up, in case you’ve decided to put your detective hat back on. We’ve agreed that it’s been permanently retired? The detective hat?”
Quill made a noncommittal sort of noise.
“Because we’ve talked about this before. Law enforcement isn’t for amateurs. You’re going to leave it to the professionals.”
Quill made another noise. Then she said, “I know you recommended Davy for the sheriff’s job. You said he’d grow into it. But he doesn’t seem to be growing into it fast enough. I think he needs help.”
“Quill.”
“From you, I mean, as the older mentor. Shouldn’t you be giving him some tips, or something?
There was a very long pause. Quill didn’t think she was imagining that it was skeptical. “I just thought I could tell him I talked with you about the missing jewelry, and the attic and basement burglaries and that you had some observations. I won’t even bring up my suspicions about the scam.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by scam, but it wouldn’t necessarily come under his jurisdiction. So forget about that, please. The burglaries are another matter.”
Quill didn’t say anything. But she wanted to.
“Okay, my darling. If they’ve actually been stolen and the rings were recovered, it’ll lift some of the pressure from you. Which would be good. So let’s look at the theft of the rings and cuff links. Ask Kiddermeister if this is the first time something of value has been stolen. There’s a pattern with repeat offenders, and if the jewelry’s an anomaly, that’s significant information. Can you find out if anyone’s actually seen the ring in Tree’s possession?”
“An insurance scam, you mean?”
“That’s my good quick girl. Sorry, sorry. No, I’m not being condescending.
Trying hard, anyway. But yes, an insurance scam.”
“Good grief, Myles. The man has an American Express black card. He’s been spending money like there’s no tomorrow. He paid to have the whole restaurant closed down so it would be private for his engagement party.” She bit her lip. “On the other hand—Jukka did say the show budget is paying for all of it. So maybe you’re right.”
“Have Marge check Tree’s net worth. While she’s at it, check out Rose Ellen Whitman’s, too.”
“Okay, I can do that. What about the fact that Tree’s entourage consists of a bunch of scam artists? That seems pretty suspicious to me.”
“Well.” This time the pause was even longer. “It’s not going to get us anywhere. The Bryants are obviously bargain hunting …”
“Bargain hunting!” Quill said indignantly.
“Bargain hunting isn’t illegal.”
“But, Myles!”
“I know. Immoral maybe, but not illegal. Now—Jukka Angstrom? I think you should keep an eye on him.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Because he’s clearly making moves on my wife.”
“I wouldn’t call them moves, exactly.”
“Yeah. Well, my advice is to keep a frying pan handy. As for Clare and Meg—they’re just going to have to work things out on their own, my darling.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Unless you want to tell me who you’re going to vote in for mayor.”
“Oh my word. I’d forgotten about that. I told you both of them want me to endorse them? I’m going to tell them we’re Swedish, you know—neutrals. And I’m not going to borrow trouble, either. I’m going to take things one day at a time.”
“Excellent plan.”
“So the next thing to worry about is the Slap Down.” Quill slid down the bed until she was lying flat on her back. “Ugh. I’m getting a headache. A three-day headache. I’m going to stay in my room with Jack until Friday morning when the Slap Down will be all over. You know that Harvey’s called a planning meeting for it tomorrow morning at the academy. I told you that, didn’t I?”
Dread on Arrival Page 13
