“What’s that? What? Oh. Right. The pet thing. Kittens, puppies. Whatever. So are you guys still with me here? Okay, fine. Meg is doing her bit as chair of the selection committee for the food judges and asks me to be on it, too. Easy peasy, right?” She slapped her yellow pad with a little more emphasis than was necessary. “We have fifteen food contests. We have twelve candidates for judges of those self-same food contests including you and me, Meg. This should be a no-brainer.”
“It is a no-brainer, really,” Meg said in a kindly way. “You just have to remember that Dolly Jean Attenborough can’t judge cakes because she’s president of the Crafty Ladies and every single one of the Crafty Ladies puts a cake into competition. And that Nadine Peterson has to judge Pickles and Preserves because she won twelve years running and the other picklers and preservers want a chance to win, too, and if she’s judging she can’t enter anything into competition. Stuff like that. And you are the best possible person to judge Homemade Pies because you haven’t been in town long enough for anyone to hold anything against you.”
“Don’t do it,” Dina muttered. “The losers will ride you out of town on a rail.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Clare wasn’t a pretty woman, but she had distinctive features, and when she chose, a true air of command—a necessity in her job as director of La Bonne Goute Culinary Academy. “Carol Ann Spinoza? Marge Schmidt? Adela Henry? They all enter the Homemade Pies competition?”
“Berry and fruit division,” Quill said. Using her thumb, she smudged the shadow under the Meg-figure’s chin, then closed her sketch pad and slipped it under her rocking chair. “In the years before you came to take over the academy, we always got a chef from Syracuse to judge the pies. We always recommended that they beat feet out of town before the results were announced.”
Meg waved her pencil in the air. “Clare’ll be fine.”
“I’m not doing it,” Clare said firmly. “Sophie will judge it. Not me. Put that down in the notes, Dina, judge for the Homemade Pies, berry and fruit division, is Sophie Kilcannon. She’s the new fruits and vegetables,” she said in response to Meg’s questioning look, “I recruited her out of Miami and she’s starting this week. Nice kid. Eager to learn, which is good, since she’s not quite up to snuff in a couple of areas.”
“I hope she’s good at self-defense,” Dina muttered under her breath. “Okay, Sophie it is. Pie judge.”
Quill got to her feet. “Is that it? You guys settle all the food judging items? The Chamber meeting started ten minutes ago, and I promised to hand the assignments over to Adela today. The fete’s two weeks away, and she’s already antsy. If I don’t give her a list, she’ll have my head on a plate.”
Meg ran her hands through her short dark hair, which made it stand up in spikes. “I think so. Good enough for a first cut, anyway.”
“What do you mean, a first cut?” Clare demanded. “We’ve spent more than an hour picking just the right judge for the preserves, and the quick breads, and the pickles and everything else. We’re the best experts in a five-county area, if I do say so myself. Who’s going to second-guess us?”
“Adela,” Quill said. “The whole fete is Adela’s baby from start to finish. She’s organized it for thirty years—maybe more than that. She’s terrific at it, too.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m late for the chamber meeting. Does somebody have the list written up so that I can take it with me? You do, Dina? Thanks. I’ll see you all later.”
Dina followed her out the swinging doors to the dining room. “Do you want your messages before you go into the meeting?”
Quill paused to rearrange the small bouquet of Pink Lady roses at table twenty-six, partly because one of the roses drooped unattractively, but mostly so she could stand and appreciate the room. She’d given up on the wall-to-wall carpeting (something she should have done long before) and restored the narrow-plank pine flooring. Then she’d replaced the tabletops, which had required tablecloths, with natural stone instead of wood. The project cost as much as the annual budget of a small African country, but the Inn had done well over the past three years, and she was glad they’d spent the money. The dining room featured floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the falls outside. The wood floors, the shale tabletops, and the cut-stone walls made it seem as if the falls and the Inn were a warm and natural part of each other.
Dina waved a fistful of pink While You Were Out messages in the air. “Hey, Boss? You want to take a look at these?”
Quill dabbed impatiently at the curl over her left ear. She didn’t want to take a look at a thing. She wanted to finish the sketch she’d started of her sister and Clare. She wanted to go up and take Jack down to the Hemlock River so they could play in the summer sunshine. Anything but attend to the myriad, pesky details of running her Inn.
Instead, she held her hand out for the messages. “Anything that won’t keep?”
“You might want to call the Golden Pillar travel people. They’re bummed about the Inn being booked until after Thanksgiving and they’re threatening to take us off their website as a desired destination, or whatever they call it.”
“We’re booked until after Thanksgiving?” This was good news.
“Yep. This Long-Term Let idea is turning out to be a bummer.”
Quill grimaced. “Maybe.”
Their financial guy, John Raintree, had suggested the Long-Term Let as a hedge against the ups and downs of their vacancy rate. Quill and Dina had posted reasonable monthly rates for the high-priced suites, which were usually the last to be booked by guests. It had seemed like a great idea at the time—but the suites were snapped up almost immediately, leaving no vacancies for at least six months. There were only three: the Provencal, the Federal, and the Colonial. A couple named Quince had promptly booked both the Federal and the Colonial. A very, very old fellow named Jeeter Swenson had the Provencal. Mr. Swenson made Quill a little nervous. The Provencal Suite was on the third floor with a balcony one guest had already fallen off of. Since the apparent accident had turned out to be a murder, Quill supposed that didn’t really count.
“Maybe we should tell the Golden Pillar people that we’ve given up the Long-Term Let idea.”
“Okay,” Dina said.
“But maybe the Long-Term Let idea is a good one. This travel boom can’t last forever.”
“Okay,” Dina said.
“Maybe I should discuss it with Melody Brodie at Golden Pillar and see what she thinks.”
“Sounds like a Scarlett O’Hara moment to me.”
Quill stuck the message in her skirt pocket. “Right. I’ll think about it tomorrow—or maybe after the Chamber meeting.” She looked at her watch. The morning had started so well—and now look. She’d volunteered for another committee. The Golden Pillar people were threatening a boycott. And like the White Rabbit, she was late, late, late for the Chamber of Commerce meeting, which meant somebody had probably volunteered her for another committee.
“Grrr,” she said, to Dina’s confusion. “We’ll just see about that!” She straightened her shoulders, stiffened her spine, and prepared to go to the meeting.
3
The Hemlock Falls Chamber of Commerce meetings had been held at the Inn’s conference room since Meg and Quill had opened for business. At the time, the Inn was the only business in the village with room enough for all twenty-four members to sit down together. This wasn’t true anymore. Tourists had discovered that upstate New York—with its vineyards, boutique distilleries, local food and craft stores, and amazing natural gorges—was one of the most beautiful places on earth. And as the tourists came, so came the construction crews.
The first building of note was the Resort, a lavish hotel complex about a quarter mile downriver from the Inn. La Bonne Goute Culinary Academy followed some years later—and although its internationally acclaimed master chef had been murdered not long after its ornately carved doors opened to the public—the academy’s cooking classes attracted even greater numbers of out-of-towners under Clare Spa
rrow’s stewardship. So there was plenty of room to hold the Chamber meeting elsewhere. But tradition was a matter of principle in the village, and not even Carol Ann Spinoza had the nerve to suggest a change in venue.
Quill walked through the dining room to the reception foyer and turned left down the short hall to the conference room. The space had been a keeping room in the inn’s distant past, but instead of barrels of flour, sacks of apples, and huge hams, the room now held a long refectory table with seating for twenty-four. Whiteboards were fastened to the stone walls and a long credenza held the coffee and tea services. It wasn’t Quill’s favorite space at the Inn, but it served a very useful purpose.
Quill tapped at the door as she opened it.
As she’d thought, nobody noticed the tap, much less her belated entrance. The room was overcrowded and at first glance, it seemed as if everyone was yelling at everybody else. Quill propped the door open with the kick plate, and took a moment to sort things out.
Mayor Henry, his round face bright red either with heat or temper, sat at the head of the table, whacking the gavel for order.
Adela, his wife, stood nose to nose with Carol Ann Spinoza.
Carol Ann’s outward appearance belied her inner Idi Amin. She was small and curvy with big blue eyes, naturally curly blond hair, and pink-cheeked cheerleader good looks. She smelled like shampoo and soap. She believed that clothes made the woman. During her tenure as animal control officer, she wore a unique uniform of black pants, black T-shirt, and black billed cap. She’d sent her original design for the animal control officers’ weapons belt to Albany, with a suggestion that it be adopted statewide. The only organization to express interest had been the NRA. She’d had a brief, terrifying term as a New York state food inspector. Quill wasn’t sure what career Carol Ann was pursuing at the moment. She was very sure she didn’t want to know.
Whatever it was, it had gotten up Adela’s nose.
Adela hollered. Carol Ann hollered back. Her blond ponytail bobbed loosely up and down as she danced with rage.
Adela jabbed her fist in alarming proximity to Carol Ann’s pert, freckled nose. Her cheeks matched the violent purple of her blouse. If Adela had a heart condition, it was going to manifest itself speedy quick.
Farther on down the table, Marge Schmidt roared vehemently into her husband Harland’s ear. The Reverend Dookie Shuttleworth, pastor of the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God, appeared to be praying aloud. Nadine Peterson, owner of the Hemlock Hall of Beauty, sat with crossed arms and a glowering expression while she harangued Esther West. Harvey Bozzel, Hemlock Falls’ best (and only) advertising executive chewed on his tie and looked desperate.
Quill scanned the ranks of members—it appeared as if most of the twenty-four had turned out in force—and settled on Miriam. The town librarian leaned back in her chair, watching the fracas in mild bemusement. Her large Sierra Club tote occupied the chair next to her. She caught sight of Quill and lifted the tote off the chair. Quill sidled around the end of the table and sat down. “Hey, Miriam.”
“Hey, Quill.”
“So, anything special going on?”
Miriam had a sort of knowing centeredness about her character that Quill greatly admired. “Adela quit.”
“Adela quit what?”
“Adela resigned her chairmanship of the Finger Lakes Autumn Fete.”
“No!” Quill turned and stared at the mayor’s wife. Adela’s large bosom heaved in indignation. “She’s run the fete for thirty years. We can’t do it without her. She doesn’t mean it.”
“Order! Order! Order!” Elmer hollered. He whacked the gavel on the table several times for emphasis. Adela ignored him. Carol Ann ignored him. Both women were shouting, and Quill was hard put to make out what the argument was about. The exchange seemed to consist of the “you will not,” “I will so,” “can’t make me,” “old bat,” “little witch” variety.
“This meeting will come to order!” Elmer roared. “Adela, you’re making a fool of yourself. Sit down, dammit.” He made a grab for his wife’s arm.
Adela, who was, Quill judged, quite senseless with fury, swung around, leaned down, and punched Elmer in the shoulder. Elmer, startled, swung the gavel and connected smartly with Adela’s backside.
Miriam, Nadine Peterson, and Esther West gasped.
Quill jumped halfway out of her chair and sat down again.
A shocked—and covertly delighted—silence descended on the room like a wet blanket falling off a clothesline.
Harland Peterson rose to his feet and extended one meaty hand. “Give me that damn thing, Elmer. You don’t want to be a-hitting on your wife with it.”
Elmer was perfectly white. He gazed at the gavel in his hand in horror.
Adela took three deep breaths. “Well,” she said in a trembling voice. “Well! The next communication you have with me, Elmer Burton Henry, will be through my lawyer.”
She burst into tears and ran out of the room.
The gavel dropped from Elmer’s nerveless fingers onto the table. Nobody said anything. After a long moment, the slam of the Inn’s heavy front door rolled down the hallway.
Marge Schmidt stood up and leaned across the table. “Gimme that thing, Elmer.”
Elmer blinked at her.
“The gavel, Elmer. Give it here.”
He shoved it across the table with the palm of his hand. Marge picked it up and whacked it on the table, once, twice, three times. “Meeting adjourned.”
For a long moment, nobody moved.
“Come on,” Marge ordered. “Meeting’s over. Get on back to whatever you need to, folks. Except you, Quill. You and Miriam come with me. We got to find Adela and pound some sense into her.”
Minutes later, Quill stood in the parking lot at the front of the Inn with Dina, Miriam, and Marge, looking for Adela’s red Camry. The dining room opened for lunch at eleven and the lot was already full. The lot was directly across from the massive pine door of the Inn’s entrance and was a small paved area that held a total of eight cars. The Henrys’ Toyota wasn’t there. The larger lot was behind the building and it was where Quill, Meg, and the staff parked, in addition to most of the guests.
“My guess is she took off for home,” Miriam said. “We can check around back, if you like.”
“No, she was parked here in front,” Dina said. “She slammed out the front door and in about two seconds I heard a car peel out of here.” She slipped the rubber band off her ponytail, rewound her hair, and put the rubber band back in. “Should I call Davy, or something?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Marge said. “There’s no call to get the sheriff involved.”
Dina made a sound like “huh!” Miriam nudged Marge reprovingly. Marge swung her turret-like gaze onto Dina. Marge had the steady calm of a seasoned tank gunner and she was the richest woman in Tompkins County, and for all Quill knew, the rest of upstate New York. “Sorry, I guess, Dina,” Marge said. “But this just goes to show you.”
“Just goes to show you what?” Miriam said tartly.
Marge shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I meant,” Dina said, “that Adela might try to do something to herself, you know? I mean, she was pretty upset. Here she was assaulted by her own husband in front of practically the whole town, and like, what could be more humiliating?”
“Now you are being an idiot,” Miriam said, even more tartly.
Quill sighed. “I think we could all do with a glass of wine. And maybe a little lunch. Marge, do you think Harland would take Elmer home? The Henrys’ car is gone, and it’s likely that Adela went home and I’m sure they can work this out. It isn’t as if Elmer’s a batterer or anything. The gavel just sort of…slipped.”
“Huh!” Dina said, with a good deal of spirit. “That’s what they all say.”
“What d’ya mean, ‘they’?” Marge demanded.
“Abusers. For all we know, Elmer could have been beating up on Adela for years and years.”
Quill thoug
ht of Elmer, who was five foot six in his elevator shoes and Adela, who topped Quill’s own five foot seven by a good two inches.
“Adela outweighs him by sixty pounds and always has,” Miriam said. “I’d hate to have their little fracas end up as wild gossip, Dina. You know what small towns are like. And you weren’t even there! As a matter of fact, I don’t know why you’re here now!”
“You guys all pounded past me like you were headed for a fire,” Dina said. “My goodness. I couldn’t just sit there.”
“Stop,” Quill said. “Let’s go into the Tavern Lounge. It’ll be quieter there. Then maybe you guys can tell me how this all started.”
Quill led the way across the lawn to the other side of the cobblestone building. The Inn was set so that the entrance looked out over the village; the east side, which faced the falls, had sixteen of the twenty-seven rooms. The Tavern Lounge was on the south end. The flagstone patio was almost filled with diners; Quill knew that on a pleasant day like this, very few guests would opt to eat inside. When they walked in, the only guest was a small old gentleman sipping a cup of coffee at the bar; Jeeter Swenson, the elderly man who had taken the Provencal Suite on a Long-Term Let. He turned and waved spiritedly at Quill, who waved spiritedly back.
A table for six was set up apart from the others, to the right of the large hearth. Quill led her party there and signaled Nate the bartender for menus.
Marge took the corner chair, so that she faced the rest of the room. Dina settled next to her. Marge narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the reception desk?”
Dina held up her cell phone. “I route the calls through here.”
“I’m sure Quill knows how to run her own business, and if she wants Dina to go back to work, she’ll say so,” Miriam said pleasantly. “Lay off, why don’t you?”
Nate laid menus in front of them. Marge picked hers up with a grunt, and then set it down again. “Now what the hell are we going to do? Adela’s quit. The fete’s in two weeks. There’s no director. You know how many folks in town have money invested in this thing?”
Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138) Page 4
