Dread on Arrival (16 page)

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?”

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.”