Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138) (6 page)

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 thought 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?”

“I was a little late to the meeting,” Quill began. “Could you tell me how all this happened?”

“You’re always late,” Marge snapped. She glared up at Nate. “I’ll have a hamburger with fries. Can’t screw up a hamburger. You got Stroh’s on draft? Then I’ll have one of them.”

Nate nodded. He was tall and bearlike and fiercely protective of Meg’s reputation as the best gourmet chef in the northeastern United States. His teeth glinted in his dark beard. “Meg made chicken salad today. With avocado, grapes, and pecans. She didn’t screw that up, either.”

“I’ll have the chicken,” Miriam said hastily. “And a glass of white wine, Nate. Whatever you have that isn’t too sweet.”

Quill and Dina both ordered the chicken salad, and as soon as Nate ambled away, Miriam blinked at them all. “What
is
it with you, Marge? You’re rude, but not usually this rude. You want to tell us about it?”

Marge’s irritation left her like air leaving a balloon.

Quill was lost in admiration of Miriam’s technique. Whether it was the tone of her voice or her body language, Miriam somehow managed to pull the thorn from Marge’s paw. Marge even had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry,” she grunted. “Got a funny feeling about this, is all. None of it makes sense. Makes me jumpy.”

Quill raised her hand, partly as a calming gesture and partly to get their attention. “Why don’t we start with why Adela resigned in the first place?”

“Carol Ann,” Miriam and Marge said in unison.

Miriam got in first. “It was outrageous, Quill, it really was. We’d barely gotten through the Pledge of Allegiance when Carol Ann jumped to her feet and demanded that Adela make a…” She turned to Marge. “What did she say, exactly?”

“Complete and full disclosure of how she was handling the funds for the fete.”

“The funds?” Quill repeated. “You mean the money?”

Marge snorted. “Of course she means the money. She practically came right out and accused…”

Miriam pounded the table. “She
did
come right out and accuse Adela of appropriating moneys for her own use.”

Nate put a draft beer in front of Marge. Marge took a
long swallow and banged the mug down. “Thief. She accused Adela of being a thief. Although it’s not theft. It’s embezzlement. Maybe.”

“Holy crow.” Dina looked longingly at Marge’s beer, then at Quill, and then took a sip of her water. “Holy
crow
.”

Quill shook her head. “That’s absurd. Adela as an embezzler? I don’t believe it for a minute.”

“Maybe,” Marge said, “and maybe not. And maybe that’s the burr under my saddle. You three don’t realize how much money flows through the fete.”

“I do, actually,” Quill said. “I mean, I didn’t before I agreed to be on the steering committee, but we’re talking several hundred thousand dollars here.”

Miriam’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me.”

Marge looked grim. “I don’t kid about money. Think about it. The booth fee is two hundred a day, for three days. There are a hundred and twenty booths. That’s…”

“Seventy-two thousand dollars,” Dina said.

“Right.” Marge’s grim expression relaxed a little. She had a soft spot for quick minds. “Then there are advance ticket sales. Three-day pass is ninety bucks, the fete’s sold more than two thousand of those already and that’s…”

“Nineteen thousand dollars. Holy
crow
.” Dina looked at Quill. “I think I need a beer.”

Quill smiled. “I think not. Not until your shift’s over.”

“Listen up, here.” Marge rapped her knuckles on the table. “What with this and that, Adela’s got a hundred k in that fete account, easy. A hundred grand is a powerful temptation.”

Quill looked at the plate of chicken salad in front of her
that Nate just served, picked up her fork, and set it down again. “I don’t believe it.”

Marge took a large bite of hamburger and said, rather thickly, “I don’t believe it, either.” Her face reddened a little. “On the other hand, there are those that find a hundred k kind of pocket money, so to say, and then there are those that see it as a substantial pile. I’d put the Henrys in the second category.”

“That’s outrageous, Marge,” Miriam said furiously.

“Hang on to your pigtails, Miriam. I’m not accusing Adela of a thing. All’s I’m saying is that there are some folks who’d be more tempted than others.”

“I see Marge’s point, Miriam,” Quill said in as evenhanded a way as she could manage. “The mayor’s salary is what, forty thousand a year? And Adela doesn’t have an outside job. It’s not all that much to live on these days.” Quill leaned forward, controlling her voice with an effort. “What you’re overlooking, Marge, is the kind of dedication the Henrys have to the village. They’re the most…the best…” Quill floundered. “They’d never do a thing to harm us. What kind of proof did Carol Ann offer, anyway?”