"I don't recall mentioning it," Quill said. "I'll do better than a raise. You can be president of the Inn, how's that?"
"President, huh."
"Sure. You get to deal with the guests, my loony sister, Doreen, the whole Chamber of Commerce—"
"Sheriff McHale?" Dina asked.
Quill tilted her head back and glared.
Dina grinned, unperturbed. "Not the sheriff. John Raintree, then?" She started to braid Quill's hair back and forth. Quill felt like a loom.
"Why doesn't anybody quake in their boots when I'm around? I'm the boss. I can fire people like that." She snapped her fingers. "I'm a woman of substance. A woman of property. When Marge Schmidt stomps into a room, everyone sits up straight and salutes. And they'd salute even if she had fifty cents in her bank account rather than fifty million or whatever it is. Adela Henry gets away with saying whatever she wants to whomever she wants. Doreen whacks people with her broom. But nobody listens to me!"
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"Hmm. There's a little gray in here. You might want to think about a nice red-gold rinse next time you go to get your hair done."
"Dina!"
"Hang on, Quill. I'm almost finished." She pushed the last hairpin in place and stood back, smiling. "Take a look."
Quill took a small hand mirror from the desk drawer. She couldn't see the back, but the French braids made a nice line off her temples. "Thank you. It's lovely. You're fired."
"Right. Quill, have you seen The Sneezer show!'
"Yes."
"Well, you'd better watch this one. You know how Sneezer used to be this little black duck?"
"I've seen it. Some of it. Does it get better after he sneezes all over the screen?" she said hopefully.
"As if! He's this duck. Like Daffy Duck, only ugly. He used to be a streetwise duck with a smart mouth. Now he's a streetwise duck with a smart mouth who's a Finn."
"Yep."
"A Finn!" Dina continued in high dudgeon. "A rude, stupid, obnoxious, politically incorrect Finn. It's horrible. In the show I saw with Doreen—well, all I can say is that it's worse than the show they got sued over."
This Quill didn't know. She sat up. "The Sneezer people have been sued before? By whom?"
"Everyone. The ACLU, the skinheads, the American Dental Association ,.. and they lost, big time. It's an awful show. It's worse than Beavis and Butt-head"
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Quill rubbed her nose thoughtfully. "Has Horvath seen all of it?"
"Not yet. But he's signed up for that scriptwriting seminar, and the scriptwriters asked for a VCR in the conference room where the seminar is supposed to be held this afternoon, and it's because that Mort person is going to show their work first to demonstrate the right way to do a cartoon series, I guess, and—"
"Wow," Quill said. "Oh, wow. Horvath's going to blow his top if that whole tape is run in front of God and everybody. Yikes! Tell you what, Dina. When you go into the conference room to check the coffee setup, swipe that tape."
"And?'
"I don't know. We'll hold it hostage or something. Good grief."
"Stealing? You want me to steal?"
"I want you to relocate the tape. Somewhere else. Like maybe Buffalo. Otherwise it's all the excuse Horvath needs to back out."
"We need that money, don't we? From the Finns."
"You bet we do." Quill jumped to her feet. "Why in the world is Horvath going to the workshop anyway?"
"He's got a script idea, he says, about a Finn who's a detect—"
"Aaagh!" Quill clutched her hair. Dina shrieked. Quill's braids fell down. Dina shoved her back into the chair and began to pin them up. "Another detective?" Quill asked plaintively
"People love detectives," Dina said cheerfully. "There. Now if you can keep from shrieking and clutching your hair, you'll be fine."
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"Is that why people don't stand up and salute when I walk into a room? Because I shriek and clutch my hair?"
Dina shook her head. "It's because you let people get away with murder, Quill. You don't have a temper. You have anxiety attacks. You get bemused. You get insecure. But you don't get mad, not Meg's kind of mad, and you don't threaten unmentionable reprisals, like that horrible Carol Ann, and you don't get superior like Marge."
"Marge is superior," Quill muttered. "She has more money than God and she made it all herself."
"The worst thing is your sense of humor. Nobody's afraid of someone with a sense of humor. Like you saying 'you're fired' to me a few seconds ago. As if!"
"Well, you are fired," Quill said crossly. The little clock on her desktop chimed the hour and she groaned. "But not till after this damn Chamber meeting. Look. After about twenty minutes you come in with an urgent message for me."
"If you have an urgent message, you should take care of it now."
"A pretend urgent message. I've got a ton of stuff to do today and no time for the meeting."
"But who's going to take notes? You're the secretary."
"You'll take notes," Quill said ruthlessly. "And that's an order. But the first thing is to get Max out of dog jail. I've got to talk to Howie about how to accomplish that. And then I have to find out who murdered that miserable Neil Strickland."
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"Piece of cake," Dina said. "You've done it before and you can do it again. Just don't touch your hair!"
"I love your hair!" Miriam Doncaster shrieked as Quill walked into the conference room a few moments later. The librarian gave her an impulsive hug. Quill reined in the impulse to shriek back. Shrieking and hugging were Pavlovian responses among women greeting one another. Somewhere between her office and the meeting room, she'd decided that her life was a disorderly mess because no one respected her. She didn't know if gender had anything to do with it, but she was not going to be the sort of person who (a) people such as her sister didn't tell things to, and (b) left assorted lovers in ambiguous positions, and (c) got hollered at by mayors' wives. So she didn't shriek back at Miriam, but she did hug her. Temperately. And in a very dignified way.
The long mahogany conference table was crowded with Chamber members. Summertime usually meant a decline in attendance. Quill noticed that most of the members who normally had unbreakable appointments (at the golf course) or heavy-duty meetings (in their gardens) that kept them from July and August meetings were there. Most held a variety of briefcases, manila folders, oversized handbags stuffed with manuscripts, or (in the case of Freddie Bellini) gold-embossed leather scrapbooks. TV scripts, naturally. She thought of the gin-swilling Mort and doleful Eddie Schwartz and grinned.
"You seem pretty chipper for a person with another body on the premises," Esther West said tartly. She
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smoothed a curl stiff with hairspray over her left ear. "Unless you have some news you want to share with us. About a certain set of scriptwriters, maybe?"
"Nice to see you, too, Esther," Quill said.
"I've been thinking I ought to just check right into the Inn, Quill," Miriam said as Quill sat down next to her. "I mean, propinquity gives a person terrific advantage. And they do say it's who you know."
"Who says that about what?" Quill asked. "If you guys are talking about the possibility of selling your script ideas to those men from L.A., I have to say I think it's pretty remote."
"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?" Esther said. "Don't want any competition." She tugged her white patent-leather belt into place, then smoothed her black-and-white-checked skirt over her knees. Esther ran the best (and only) dress shop in Hemlock Falls, but her taste in her own clothes never varied: full skirts, broad belts, and large plastic earrings. "I mean, there's very few spots available on prime-time TV."
"Cable," Freddie Bellini interjected from across the table. "Cable's the way to go now. I heard that HBO is buying." He smoothed the top of his leather portfolio.
"Heard from whom?" Quill asked. She h
ad not, she told herself, been transported to an alternate reality. These were people she'd known for years.
"It was in this week's TV Guide," Esther said briskly, "Average price for a first sale is around fifty k. And don't pretend you don't know it, missy. I think Freddie's right. I think I should check into the Inn while the gentlemen from L.A. are here."
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"We're not really licensed to open yet," Quill said.
"So you say," Esther snapped. "But all's fair in love and TV, isn't it, Quill?"
Quill closed her eyes and counted to ten. The mayor saved her from a tart rejoinder with a thwack of the gavel against the mahogany tabletop.
"This Chamber meetin' is now open," he declared. "Madame Secretary, would you read the minutes from the last meeting?"
Quill sat up. She blushed. So much for her decision to behave like a competent executive. "Urn. I'll have to go get them, Elmer. They're in my office. I think. Or maybe they're still in my room, I was transcribing them a few—"
Elmer waved his hand. "No matter. No matter. We only got a few items on the table anyhow. First one is the report from the Ladies' Auxiliary, given by my lady-wife." He looked around the table. "Adela?"
"She's still out back, Elmer," Quill said. "Would you like me to go get her?" No, that wasn't at all in the executive manner. "That is, I'll send someone to fetch her." She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin.
"Sure," Elmer said agreeably.
There was a short silence. A respectful silence. Quill would have enjoyed the respect a lot more if she'd had someone to send to find Adela. "Um. I'll be back in just a second."
"Hold on now." Harland Peterson held up a large, beefy hand. Harland had the bluff, outdoor complexion of the farmer (which he was) and the confidence of a well-fixed man in charge of three employees and good-
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ness knows how many acres of corn, wheat, and red beans. (He was that as well.) "Just where was Adela when you last saw her, Quill?"
"On the terrace with Mort Carmody, Benny Gilpin, and Eddie Schwartz. It's just a few steps from here, Harland. I'll be glad to get her."
"Hmm." Harland rubbed his chin. "No use disturbing her if she's got a little business goin'." He shifted in his chair. A fat roll of manuscript paper peeked from the back pocket of his dark green cotton trousers. "Why don't you go on to the next item of business, Mayor?"
"Right. Next item is the Chamber of Commerce tent for the Wine Festival in September. We still need a pack of volunteers ... you goin', Harland?"
"Forgot something," the fanner said airily. He sidled his way between the table and the occupied chairs to the door.
"So did I," Esther said. She sprang up. She followed Harland out the door.
"Well! I must say that I wouldn't disgrace myself by running after those men no matter how much money and fame were at stake!" Miriam said. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. "The seminar's scheduled for one o'clock, right after lunch, and I for one am not about to miss Meg's food!"
"She's not cooking today," Betty Hall said from her usual spot by the corner wall. She had been Marge's partner in the late (and much-lamented) Hemlock Home Diner and an excellent chef. Quill had no idea how Betty found out Meg's whereabouts, but she always knew. "That Bjarne's cooking. He is," Betty
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added grudgingly, "a decent man with fish. But that's about it."
"Quill's lunches are always wonderful," Miriam said stoutly. "Shall we strive for a little dignity here, Mayor? I'd like the meeting to go forward."
The mayor clapped his gavel against the tabletop once again. Harvey Bozzel slipped out so quickly Quill barely caught a glimpse of the rear side of his Dockers. As Elmer continued with his plea for volunteers for the festival tent, the room gradually emptied, until the only Chamber members present were the mayor, Miriam, and the Reverend Dookie Shuttleworth, who stared benignly at the mayor and whose thoughts (as usual) drifted gently in some cloud-cuckoo-land of his own invention.
"Quill and I will be happy to volunteer for the festival tent," Miriam said. "And Pastor D? What about you? Will you have time to help out?"
Dookie nodded, and kept on nodding.
Quill stopped herself from tugging her hair.
"I, for one, intend to sit through this whole meeting, as we all should," Miriam declared. "Some people may think that backing certain other people into corners and haranguing them with certain ideas for screenplays is going to work to their advantage. All I have to say is that gentility will out." She tapped Quill's shoulder in a highly irritating way. "Gentility will out."
The door to the conference room opened. Miriam smiled in satisfaction. "See? I don't even have to look around. Those poor men sent all those greedy, ill-mannered persons packing."
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"Am I too late?" Sherri Kerri asked. "Is the Chamber meeting over?"
Quill turned and greeted her with a smile. "You made it! Mayor? Have you met Sherri Kerri?"
Elmer extended his hand and shook Sherri's heartily. "Always glad to meet a new member of the business community. Heard a lot about you. Glad to have you with us. The wife is goin' to sign up for your classes, if she hasn't already."
"The lady with the flowered hat?" Sherri said briskly. "I put her in the Sensuous Seniors class."
Elmer's scant eyebrows rose in alarm. He glanced nervously at the Reverend Shuttleworth. "The, ah— huh?"
"We have a class for full-figured ladies," Sherri said. "We start 'em off slowly, Mayor, and at the end of six weeks—whoosh! My exercise class restores vitality and energy of all kinds, for all women!"
"Quill?" Dina edged into the conference room. Quill was glad to see that her face was appropriately pale, as befitted the bearer of an urgent message. "I really, really think you ought to come out here."
Quill had rehearsed her response in her mind. Too bad there were only three Chamber members (and one of them new) to see it. She cleared her throat in an executive way and pointed her forefinger at Dina, in the same way she imagined Donald Trump fielded questions from Don King. "Wait for me," she said grandly.
"I can't. The police captain says right now."
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Quill felt herself deflate. "Harris?" she asked, rather feebly for a senior executive.
"Although it won't make any difference to poor Mr. Carmody whether you're late or not." Dina continued, nodding sadly. "Yes, Quill. He's dead."
CHAPTER 9
Quill hated the word rictus. It sounded just like Car-mody looked—contorted, strained—a death-grin word. She eyed the body in the lawn chair. Mort Carmody was as unlovely in death as he had been in life. He was intolerably pitiful. He slumped backward, mouth and eyes wide open to the hot August sky, arms dangling. His orange-juice glass lay shattered on the flagstones.
Quill scanned the crowd near die body and found Marge in front, hands shoved into her pockets, her face a mask. Quill caught her eye. Marge nodded and ambled over.
"Marge, where are Adela and Doreen?" "That trooper Harris is interrogating them," Marge said. "Doreen gave Howie a call beforehand, and he's
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headed over, so she's goin' to be okay, Quill. Don't get your knickers in a twist."
"What happened?"
"Poison," Marge said in her ear. "In the gin, I believe."
"You noticed he was drinking? So did I."
Marge snorted. "Can't be in the restaurant business and not know a drunk when I see one, Quill." She stood staring at the body, feet planted squarely on the ground, her head thrust forward.
Those Chamber members who had left the meeting to find the scriptwriters, huddled at the end of the terrace. Ed and Benny stood at the opposite end, near the French doors leading into the Tavern Bar. Benny's head was lowered and he snapped his fingers over and over again. Ed couldn't keep still, either. He stood on one foot,
jiggled in place, then leaned against the stone wall and pushed his shoulders up and down.
Marge began to speak in a level, matter-of-fact way. "Adela was sitting right next to him." She pointed to an overturned chair by the glass-topped table. "Her hat in his face like she usually does and she was going on and on about this idea she had for a sitcom. Doreen was sittin' opposite"—she swung her chin to Mort Car-mody's right—"in that chair there, and Benny was kind of wandering around the gardens, doin' his best to ignore them all. Mort kept calling him back: 'Hey, Ben, what do you think?' That kind of stuff." Marge sniffed. "If anyone were going to get poisoned, I would have bet on Adela. She was driving those guys crazy. Anyhow, you must have told everyone in the
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Chamber meeting to come oat here." Her little turret eyes swiveled, met Quill's, then swiveled away again. "And all of a sudden everyone was crowding around these two. A couple of people backed Benny into those rosebushes over there." She scowled suddenly. "What happened to those rosebushes over there? I took 'em out of that stupid pool and put 'em back here!"
"I put them back," Quill said firmly. "So then what happened?"
'To Mort? Well, he was goin' on about focal points or some damn thing, which was just to shut Adela up if you ask me. He got up, walked over to the buffet table, and poured himself more orange juice. Then he turned his back to put the gin in, of course, took a swig of the juice, came back here, sat down, and died."
Quill blinked. "There must be more to it than that."
"What?" Marge said irritably. "He died. D-I-E-D. Kaput Zink." She drew a forefinger across her throat.
"Zink?"
"Zink."
Quill glanced at Marge. Her mouth was set, her teeth clenched. Fine wrinkles spanned her forehead. "Let's sit down," Quill said softly. "Come on. Right here on the grass. We can lean against the wall." She guided Marge by the elbow to the shade of the building, then gently settled her on the ground.
"I've seen worse," Marge said flatly.
Quill doubted it, but she didn't say so. "Don't look at him. It's a lot easier if you don't look."
"Huhn!" But Quill noticed she stared past the corpse, not at it. The EMTs had arrived, and they were bustling around the body. "Anyways, he choked, first, like
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