Authors: Claudia Bishop
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Detectives, #New York (N.Y.), #Women Sleuths, #Sisters, #Unknown, #Taverns (Inns)
Murder Well-Done (5 page)
Meg grinned and increased her volume.
"Has Meg got a new idiosyncrasy?" John guessed. "I liked the socks."
"This one sounds like two cats fightin' over a back fence," Doreen grumbled. "Whyn't you go back to them colored socks? At least they was quiet."
"Doreen," said Quill. "About this protest you mentioned at breakfast..."
Doreen glared at the grill sizzling in the fireplace, grabbed a pot holder, pulled the spit free with a sniff of disapproval, then disappeared out the back door, holding the spit. Quill gave it up. She'd find out only when Doreen was ready to spill it, and not before.
John frowned. He had an attractive frown. He was three-quarters Onondaga Indian, and his coal-black hair and coppery skin made him attractive altogether. He was a big success with a substantial portion of the Inn's female guests.
"What's wrong?" Quill asked. "There's no problem with the florist, is there?"
"No. We've got three thousand sweetheart roses arriving early Friday morning and a whole crew of Cornell students to drape them allover the Inn. The flowers are fine. But on the way back from Ithaca, Lane mentioned that she's made a few changes in the reception." John swung his long legs over a stool at the kitchen counter and drew his notebook from the breast pocket of his sports coat.
"We've got a final count?"
"One hundred and fifty. And she's changed to black-tie."
Meg shrieked. "It's for real!?"
Quill sat bolt upright. "One hundred and fifty?! You mean the senator was right?"
"This was supposed to be a small informal ceremony!" Meg yelled. "What are we going to do with one hundred and fifty guests? In evening dress, yet. That means champagne, salmon, the whole high-ticket lot."
"The ceremony's still small. It's the reception that's gotten bigger. So, no dinner, just heavy hors d'oeuvres."
Meg clutched her hair, muttered, and began scribbling frantically on her memo pad.
Quill took a deep breath. "Where the heck are we going to put them all, John?"
"The dining room will hold a hundred and fifty."
"The fire code's for one hundred and twenty. And I hate crowding guests."
A cold eddy of air from the back room announced Doreen's return, minus the spit. "Snowbank," she said in response to Quill's raised eyebrow. "Freeze that grease right offen it. And it's snowing a treat out there. You going to Syracuse, you better get a move on."
"You knew Lane McIntosh in school, didn't you, Doreen?" asked Meg.
"Wasn't Lane, then. She was Ee-laine. Elaine Herkemeyer. Daddy owns that there dairy farm up on Route 96. Marge Schmidt knew her, too. Marge says she's done pretty well for herself, marrying that Vittorio."
Marge, owner and senior partner in the Hemlock Hometown Diner (Fine Food! and Fast!), was probably the wealthiest (and certainly the nosiest) citizen in Hemlock Falls. Lane McIntosh was a former Hemlockian; Marge would know the McIntoshes' balance sheet to the penny because Marge knew every past and current Hemlockian's net worth to the penny.
"I like her," said Meg, although nobody'd said anything derogatory about Lane.
"I like her, too," said John. "But she is... ummm..."
"Nervous," Quill supplied.
"A little dithery," Meg offered. "Now, that Claire..."
"Ugh," Quill agreed.
"That Elaine's gone crazier than an outhouse rat," said Doreen. "Didn't used to be. Always full of piss and vinegar, that one. And now look at her. Worrit about keeping holt of all that money, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, I think it's very nice that she wants her daughter to be married in Dookie Shuttleworth's church," said Quill. "She told me that's where she married Vittorio, twenty-five years ago. Did you go to her wedding, Doreen?"
Doreen snorted. "Me? Not likely. Marge didn't go neither. On'y ones ast to that weddin' were Vittorio's fancy friends from New York City." Her beady eyes narrowed in recollection. "Elaine tolt you twenty-five? That was thirty years ago, or I'm a Chinaman. Elaine shaving a few years off herself?" She eyed Quill from beneath her graying frizz. "There's plenty of us remember how long ago it was. So. I don't expect to get invited to this one, neither. This Alphonse Santini's some hot-shot senator, ain't he?"
"Was," said Quill. Santini's defeat in the recent elections had revived her somewhat shaky faith in the electorate. "He lost. By the way, who gave you all that information about him?"
"Hah?"
"Don't 'hah' me. All that stuff about Mafia hearings and kickbacks you were hollering about at breakfast. Did you read it somewhere?"
Doreen gave her an innocent blink. "I'm a citizen, ain't I? I can subscribe to Newsweek like anybody else. Thing is, Santini never shoulda bin elected in the first place. Stuffing the payroll with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. Bein' bought off by fat-cat political interests."
"Allegedly," said John. "Nothing was ever proven. The official line is that Santini was defeated in this eyar's general ousting of incumbents, Democratic and Republican."
Doreen's snort, honed by years of use against those guests she felt to be both intemperate and obstreperous (Quill surmised this was approximately ninety percent of the Inn's registry at any given moment) had the force of conviction behind it. "Ha!" she said. "And ha! I bin readin' about conspiracy ever since Sheriff McHale and Mr. Murchison got their asses booted out of office six weeks ago. Conspiracy's behind this whole crapola about S. O. A. P., too."
"Conspiracy?" asked Quill. "What conspiracy?"
"On account of Al Santini."
"Doreen, Al Santini lost the election," said Meg. "This is a good thing. He was a bad senior. I voted against him, and I assure you. I am not part of any conspiracy. The election for the Senate has nothing to do with the town elections. Although the town elections may have a lot to do with S. O. A. P. That's a possible conspiracy, I admit it."
"There's a pile that goes on that us citizens don't know nuthin' about. I ast Stoke to look into it on account of it's time he did an editorial."
Doreen's husband, her fourth, was Axminster Stoker, editor and publisher of the Hemlock Falls Gazette. The Gazette specialized in weddings, funerals, lost dog reports, and, in February in central New York State, a "Notes From Florida" column, which consisted of chatty notes from those residents of Hemlock Falls fortunate enough to afford to escape the brutal winters.
Quill, conscious of foreboding, asked anxiously, "About this protest, Doreen? And this political group? Did you mean H. O. W.? I didn't know H. O. W. considered itself a political group as such."
"Depends on what you mean, `groups.' "
This was ominous. "Citizen committees. Or anti-federalist committees. Or, you know," Quill floundered for a moment, "activists."
Doreen was a joiner. Her joining proclivities could be relatively innocent - like Amway - or on more than one occasion, riot-inducing, like the Church of the Rolling Moses. Up until now, her intentions had been good - even worthwhile, but with Doreen, one never knew for sure.
Meg, her attention drawn from her menu planning, looked up. "You signed up for the NRA, Doreen? Or maybe with those guys who dress up in camouflage on weekends and mutter about the FBI planting transmitters in their rear ends?"
Doreen's expression brightened at the mention of gluteal implants.
"Never mind," Quill said hastily. "Just please, Doreen. No more throwing stuff at the guests. No forks. No spoons. Got it?"
Doreen grunted. Quill couldn't tell if this signaled agreement or indigestion.
Meg scowled. "We've got a final count for the Santini reception, Doreen. It's a lot larger than we'd thought, so we may be looking at more overnight guests. That's going to affect your maid staffing. What about registration, John? How many people will actually be staying? And for how long?"
John scratched his ear. "Slight overbooking problem."
"That's terrific," Quill said warmly. "I mean, usually we're scrabbling for guests in the winter months. And we've got too many? We can just send the overflow to the Marriott. I've already discussed that with Lane McIntosh, anyhow. She won't mind."
"It isn't overnight guests. It's the conference room. Mrs. McIntosh would like Santini's bachelor party to be held the night before the rehearsal dinner in the conference room. They - er - would prefer not to have to drive after the event."
Doreen sniffed.
"Well, that's okay, isn't it? I mean, ever since the Chamber of Commerce breakup over S. O. A. P., we haven't had any meetings scheduled there at all. I mean, the only thing all December is... " She faltered. "Damn and blast. The S. O. A. P. meeting. On the twenty-second. The day before the rehearsal dinner. That's what I was trying to remember this morning."
"Right. So?"
"So Adela wants that date for a H. O. W. meeting. And if I tell Mayor Henry and the guys we need them to cancel the S. O. A. P. meeting, they'll be totally bummed, and if I cancel H. O. W., Adela Henry's going to have my guts for garters. She's mad at us already for allowing the men to meet here last month. I can't break my commitment to either one. Now if I ask them to reschedule, she'll think this is a direct shot at H. O. W."
"Right again," John said.
"Ugh." Quill slid down in the rocker. "ugh, ugh, ugh." Meg was right. The dissolution of the Chamber of Commerce and the formation of the rival rights groups had done a lot more than affect the election for sheriff and town justice.
"Nuts," said Quill. "Any suggestions?"
"Let's lay out the options," John suggested. "We can cancel both and have Adela Henry and the S. O. A. P. membership really annoyed at us. This is not a good idea. Village meetings account for a large portion of revenues in our off-season. We can tell Mrs. McIntosh that we can't handle the stag party and risk having her move the whole wedding party to the Marriott."
"There's a good idea," Meg muttered. "Seventy extra people. Three days to prepare. Phuut!"
"Or?" said Quill.
"Or what?"
"There's got to be another option!"
John grinned. "The only other thing I can think of is to disband S. O. A. P."
"There's another good idea." Meg tossed her pencil onto the butcher block countertop. `You're just full of good news, John. I don't suppose there's anything else to gladden our hearts and minds?"
"Not," John said, "unless you count the warrant out for Quill's arrest."
-3-
"Jeez," Doreen said into the silence.
"Good grief," said Meg.
"A what?" said Quill. "A warrant?"
John smiled. "Follow me."
Quill got to her feet and followed John through the double doors to the dining room. Winter pressed in on them from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Hemlock Gorge, dulling the mauve and cream of the walls. The wind had risen; swirls of snow the width of a hand slapped against the glass with a sound like shifting sand. Quill glanced at the familiar view, so welcoming in spring, and was oppressed.
"A warrant?" she said feebly to John's back.
Kathleen Kiddermeister, dressed in the fitted mauve jacket and slim black skirt of the dining room staff, sat at the table Quill permanently reserved for Inn personnel. She was sipping coffee. Otherwise, the dining room was empty. John, maddeningly, slowed to talk to her. "Any lunch reservations, Kathleen?"
"Not yet. The weather's too punky. We might get a few drop-ins, though. There's an RV convention at the Marriott, and those guys are nuts for snowmobiles. Big tippers, too."
"If no one's here by one-fifteen or so, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off. I can handle any late lunches."
"You sure?"
quill fidgeted.
John smiled, and continued, "Absolutely, Kath. You know what things are like this time of year."
"Uh, John," said Quill.
"Why don't you go ahead to the office, Quill. I want tot talk with Kathleen about scheduling for the wedding reception."
"John!"
He feigned surprise. "And while you're at it, why don't you go through the mail."
"The mail?"
"Yeah, you know. Little envelopes with stamps on them? Letters. Bills. Communications from the Justice Department?"
Quill blushed. "You mean the mail that's been stacked up on my desk for the past week? That mail?"
"That mail."
"There was," said Quill, " a parking ticket. Last week. I sort of forgot about it."
"Parking ticket?" John looked politely skeptical.
"Well, that's all Davy said it was. Actually what he said was that it was the equivalent of a parking ticket."
John's teeth flashed white in his brown face. "Take a look."
The foyer seemed less welcoming than usual. The fireplace was cold and the four-foot Oriental vases flaking the registration desk were empty. Quill, never too enthusiastic about mail to begin with, paused to consider the vases. She was never entirely certain how soon the bronze spider chrysanthemums she used at Thanksgiving should be replaced by pine boughs. She usually waited until the `mums began to droop. The shipment this year hadn't lasted long, and the first week in December was too early, she'd thought, for pine, so she'd waited, and now it was practically Christmas. She kicked disconsolately at the vase.
Dina Muir, their receptionist, was yawning her way through a textbook at the front desk. She looked up.
"Whoa," said Dina. "You're still here? I thought you were going to lunch with the sheriff. Anything wrong?"
"Not really."
"That's just what John said when he stomped out of the office a few minutes ago. I asked him, `Anything wrong, John?' `Not really, Dina,' he said back, when it was perfectly clear that something was really, really bugging him just like it's perfectly clear something's really, really bugging you. Is it the lunch with the sheriff?"
"Did he say anything to you?"
"John? Yep. I just told you. He said not really."
Quill, putting off the inevitable, was glad, for once, that Dina was inclined to chatter. "How are things?"
"Fine," Dina said brightly.
"School going okay?"
"Yep."
"Dissertation coming along? Are you reading a text for it?"
Dina lifted the book in her lap. `You mean this? No. I figured I'd better take a look before he got here, is all."
"Before who got here?"
"Evan Blight. He wrote this book that's made everyone so mad."
"You're actually reading it? The Branch of the Root?"
"Well, sure."
Quill took the book. The cover was a painting - a bad one - of a dark tree with the kind of roots found on a banyan. The leaves were vaguely oaklike. The branches were widely spaced and symmetrical, like a Norfolk pine. The title, The Branch of the Root by Evan Blight, was metallic, in Gothic type. Inside, the typeface was small, the paragraphs dense. The chapters had subtitles like "The Father-Spirit" and "The Soul of the Tree." Quill flipped to the back leaf. Evan Blight looked like Robertson Davies. Quill was conscious of a spurt of annoyance. She liked Robertson Davies a lot. She didn't want somebody who wrote a book that had caused as much trouble as The Branch of the Root to look like one of the better writers of the twentieth century. "Can I borrow this after you've finished?"
"Has Meg got a new idiosyncrasy?" John guessed. "I liked the socks."
"This one sounds like two cats fightin' over a back fence," Doreen grumbled. "Whyn't you go back to them colored socks? At least they was quiet."
"Doreen," said Quill. "About this protest you mentioned at breakfast..."
Doreen glared at the grill sizzling in the fireplace, grabbed a pot holder, pulled the spit free with a sniff of disapproval, then disappeared out the back door, holding the spit. Quill gave it up. She'd find out only when Doreen was ready to spill it, and not before.
John frowned. He had an attractive frown. He was three-quarters Onondaga Indian, and his coal-black hair and coppery skin made him attractive altogether. He was a big success with a substantial portion of the Inn's female guests.
"What's wrong?" Quill asked. "There's no problem with the florist, is there?"
"No. We've got three thousand sweetheart roses arriving early Friday morning and a whole crew of Cornell students to drape them allover the Inn. The flowers are fine. But on the way back from Ithaca, Lane mentioned that she's made a few changes in the reception." John swung his long legs over a stool at the kitchen counter and drew his notebook from the breast pocket of his sports coat.
"We've got a final count?"
"One hundred and fifty. And she's changed to black-tie."
Meg shrieked. "It's for real!?"
Quill sat bolt upright. "One hundred and fifty?! You mean the senator was right?"
"This was supposed to be a small informal ceremony!" Meg yelled. "What are we going to do with one hundred and fifty guests? In evening dress, yet. That means champagne, salmon, the whole high-ticket lot."
"The ceremony's still small. It's the reception that's gotten bigger. So, no dinner, just heavy hors d'oeuvres."
Meg clutched her hair, muttered, and began scribbling frantically on her memo pad.
Quill took a deep breath. "Where the heck are we going to put them all, John?"
"The dining room will hold a hundred and fifty."
"The fire code's for one hundred and twenty. And I hate crowding guests."
A cold eddy of air from the back room announced Doreen's return, minus the spit. "Snowbank," she said in response to Quill's raised eyebrow. "Freeze that grease right offen it. And it's snowing a treat out there. You going to Syracuse, you better get a move on."
"You knew Lane McIntosh in school, didn't you, Doreen?" asked Meg.
"Wasn't Lane, then. She was Ee-laine. Elaine Herkemeyer. Daddy owns that there dairy farm up on Route 96. Marge Schmidt knew her, too. Marge says she's done pretty well for herself, marrying that Vittorio."
Marge, owner and senior partner in the Hemlock Hometown Diner (Fine Food! and Fast!), was probably the wealthiest (and certainly the nosiest) citizen in Hemlock Falls. Lane McIntosh was a former Hemlockian; Marge would know the McIntoshes' balance sheet to the penny because Marge knew every past and current Hemlockian's net worth to the penny.
"I like her," said Meg, although nobody'd said anything derogatory about Lane.
"I like her, too," said John. "But she is... ummm..."
"Nervous," Quill supplied.
"A little dithery," Meg offered. "Now, that Claire..."
"Ugh," Quill agreed.
"That Elaine's gone crazier than an outhouse rat," said Doreen. "Didn't used to be. Always full of piss and vinegar, that one. And now look at her. Worrit about keeping holt of all that money, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, I think it's very nice that she wants her daughter to be married in Dookie Shuttleworth's church," said Quill. "She told me that's where she married Vittorio, twenty-five years ago. Did you go to her wedding, Doreen?"
Doreen snorted. "Me? Not likely. Marge didn't go neither. On'y ones ast to that weddin' were Vittorio's fancy friends from New York City." Her beady eyes narrowed in recollection. "Elaine tolt you twenty-five? That was thirty years ago, or I'm a Chinaman. Elaine shaving a few years off herself?" She eyed Quill from beneath her graying frizz. "There's plenty of us remember how long ago it was. So. I don't expect to get invited to this one, neither. This Alphonse Santini's some hot-shot senator, ain't he?"
"Was," said Quill. Santini's defeat in the recent elections had revived her somewhat shaky faith in the electorate. "He lost. By the way, who gave you all that information about him?"
"Hah?"
"Don't 'hah' me. All that stuff about Mafia hearings and kickbacks you were hollering about at breakfast. Did you read it somewhere?"
Doreen gave her an innocent blink. "I'm a citizen, ain't I? I can subscribe to Newsweek like anybody else. Thing is, Santini never shoulda bin elected in the first place. Stuffing the payroll with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. Bein' bought off by fat-cat political interests."
"Allegedly," said John. "Nothing was ever proven. The official line is that Santini was defeated in this eyar's general ousting of incumbents, Democratic and Republican."
Doreen's snort, honed by years of use against those guests she felt to be both intemperate and obstreperous (Quill surmised this was approximately ninety percent of the Inn's registry at any given moment) had the force of conviction behind it. "Ha!" she said. "And ha! I bin readin' about conspiracy ever since Sheriff McHale and Mr. Murchison got their asses booted out of office six weeks ago. Conspiracy's behind this whole crapola about S. O. A. P., too."
"Conspiracy?" asked Quill. "What conspiracy?"
"On account of Al Santini."
"Doreen, Al Santini lost the election," said Meg. "This is a good thing. He was a bad senior. I voted against him, and I assure you. I am not part of any conspiracy. The election for the Senate has nothing to do with the town elections. Although the town elections may have a lot to do with S. O. A. P. That's a possible conspiracy, I admit it."
"There's a pile that goes on that us citizens don't know nuthin' about. I ast Stoke to look into it on account of it's time he did an editorial."
Doreen's husband, her fourth, was Axminster Stoker, editor and publisher of the Hemlock Falls Gazette. The Gazette specialized in weddings, funerals, lost dog reports, and, in February in central New York State, a "Notes From Florida" column, which consisted of chatty notes from those residents of Hemlock Falls fortunate enough to afford to escape the brutal winters.
Quill, conscious of foreboding, asked anxiously, "About this protest, Doreen? And this political group? Did you mean H. O. W.? I didn't know H. O. W. considered itself a political group as such."
"Depends on what you mean, `groups.' "
This was ominous. "Citizen committees. Or anti-federalist committees. Or, you know," Quill floundered for a moment, "activists."
Doreen was a joiner. Her joining proclivities could be relatively innocent - like Amway - or on more than one occasion, riot-inducing, like the Church of the Rolling Moses. Up until now, her intentions had been good - even worthwhile, but with Doreen, one never knew for sure.
Meg, her attention drawn from her menu planning, looked up. "You signed up for the NRA, Doreen? Or maybe with those guys who dress up in camouflage on weekends and mutter about the FBI planting transmitters in their rear ends?"
Doreen's expression brightened at the mention of gluteal implants.
"Never mind," Quill said hastily. "Just please, Doreen. No more throwing stuff at the guests. No forks. No spoons. Got it?"
Doreen grunted. Quill couldn't tell if this signaled agreement or indigestion.
Meg scowled. "We've got a final count for the Santini reception, Doreen. It's a lot larger than we'd thought, so we may be looking at more overnight guests. That's going to affect your maid staffing. What about registration, John? How many people will actually be staying? And for how long?"
John scratched his ear. "Slight overbooking problem."
"That's terrific," Quill said warmly. "I mean, usually we're scrabbling for guests in the winter months. And we've got too many? We can just send the overflow to the Marriott. I've already discussed that with Lane McIntosh, anyhow. She won't mind."
"It isn't overnight guests. It's the conference room. Mrs. McIntosh would like Santini's bachelor party to be held the night before the rehearsal dinner in the conference room. They - er - would prefer not to have to drive after the event."
Doreen sniffed.
"Well, that's okay, isn't it? I mean, ever since the Chamber of Commerce breakup over S. O. A. P., we haven't had any meetings scheduled there at all. I mean, the only thing all December is... " She faltered. "Damn and blast. The S. O. A. P. meeting. On the twenty-second. The day before the rehearsal dinner. That's what I was trying to remember this morning."
"Right. So?"
"So Adela wants that date for a H. O. W. meeting. And if I tell Mayor Henry and the guys we need them to cancel the S. O. A. P. meeting, they'll be totally bummed, and if I cancel H. O. W., Adela Henry's going to have my guts for garters. She's mad at us already for allowing the men to meet here last month. I can't break my commitment to either one. Now if I ask them to reschedule, she'll think this is a direct shot at H. O. W."
"Right again," John said.
"Ugh." Quill slid down in the rocker. "ugh, ugh, ugh." Meg was right. The dissolution of the Chamber of Commerce and the formation of the rival rights groups had done a lot more than affect the election for sheriff and town justice.
"Nuts," said Quill. "Any suggestions?"
"Let's lay out the options," John suggested. "We can cancel both and have Adela Henry and the S. O. A. P. membership really annoyed at us. This is not a good idea. Village meetings account for a large portion of revenues in our off-season. We can tell Mrs. McIntosh that we can't handle the stag party and risk having her move the whole wedding party to the Marriott."
"There's a good idea," Meg muttered. "Seventy extra people. Three days to prepare. Phuut!"
"Or?" said Quill.
"Or what?"
"There's got to be another option!"
John grinned. "The only other thing I can think of is to disband S. O. A. P."
"There's another good idea." Meg tossed her pencil onto the butcher block countertop. `You're just full of good news, John. I don't suppose there's anything else to gladden our hearts and minds?"
"Not," John said, "unless you count the warrant out for Quill's arrest."
-3-
"Jeez," Doreen said into the silence.
"Good grief," said Meg.
"A what?" said Quill. "A warrant?"
John smiled. "Follow me."
Quill got to her feet and followed John through the double doors to the dining room. Winter pressed in on them from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Hemlock Gorge, dulling the mauve and cream of the walls. The wind had risen; swirls of snow the width of a hand slapped against the glass with a sound like shifting sand. Quill glanced at the familiar view, so welcoming in spring, and was oppressed.
"A warrant?" she said feebly to John's back.
Kathleen Kiddermeister, dressed in the fitted mauve jacket and slim black skirt of the dining room staff, sat at the table Quill permanently reserved for Inn personnel. She was sipping coffee. Otherwise, the dining room was empty. John, maddeningly, slowed to talk to her. "Any lunch reservations, Kathleen?"
"Not yet. The weather's too punky. We might get a few drop-ins, though. There's an RV convention at the Marriott, and those guys are nuts for snowmobiles. Big tippers, too."
"If no one's here by one-fifteen or so, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off. I can handle any late lunches."
"You sure?"
quill fidgeted.
John smiled, and continued, "Absolutely, Kath. You know what things are like this time of year."
"Uh, John," said Quill.
"Why don't you go ahead to the office, Quill. I want tot talk with Kathleen about scheduling for the wedding reception."
"John!"
He feigned surprise. "And while you're at it, why don't you go through the mail."
"The mail?"
"Yeah, you know. Little envelopes with stamps on them? Letters. Bills. Communications from the Justice Department?"
Quill blushed. "You mean the mail that's been stacked up on my desk for the past week? That mail?"
"That mail."
"There was," said Quill, " a parking ticket. Last week. I sort of forgot about it."
"Parking ticket?" John looked politely skeptical.
"Well, that's all Davy said it was. Actually what he said was that it was the equivalent of a parking ticket."
John's teeth flashed white in his brown face. "Take a look."
The foyer seemed less welcoming than usual. The fireplace was cold and the four-foot Oriental vases flaking the registration desk were empty. Quill, never too enthusiastic about mail to begin with, paused to consider the vases. She was never entirely certain how soon the bronze spider chrysanthemums she used at Thanksgiving should be replaced by pine boughs. She usually waited until the `mums began to droop. The shipment this year hadn't lasted long, and the first week in December was too early, she'd thought, for pine, so she'd waited, and now it was practically Christmas. She kicked disconsolately at the vase.
Dina Muir, their receptionist, was yawning her way through a textbook at the front desk. She looked up.
"Whoa," said Dina. "You're still here? I thought you were going to lunch with the sheriff. Anything wrong?"
"Not really."
"That's just what John said when he stomped out of the office a few minutes ago. I asked him, `Anything wrong, John?' `Not really, Dina,' he said back, when it was perfectly clear that something was really, really bugging him just like it's perfectly clear something's really, really bugging you. Is it the lunch with the sheriff?"
"Did he say anything to you?"
"John? Yep. I just told you. He said not really."
Quill, putting off the inevitable, was glad, for once, that Dina was inclined to chatter. "How are things?"
"Fine," Dina said brightly.
"School going okay?"
"Yep."
"Dissertation coming along? Are you reading a text for it?"
Dina lifted the book in her lap. `You mean this? No. I figured I'd better take a look before he got here, is all."
"Before who got here?"
"Evan Blight. He wrote this book that's made everyone so mad."
"You're actually reading it? The Branch of the Root?"
"Well, sure."
Quill took the book. The cover was a painting - a bad one - of a dark tree with the kind of roots found on a banyan. The leaves were vaguely oaklike. The branches were widely spaced and symmetrical, like a Norfolk pine. The title, The Branch of the Root by Evan Blight, was metallic, in Gothic type. Inside, the typeface was small, the paragraphs dense. The chapters had subtitles like "The Father-Spirit" and "The Soul of the Tree." Quill flipped to the back leaf. Evan Blight looked like Robertson Davies. Quill was conscious of a spurt of annoyance. She liked Robertson Davies a lot. She didn't want somebody who wrote a book that had caused as much trouble as The Branch of the Root to look like one of the better writers of the twentieth century. "Can I borrow this after you've finished?"
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Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins
Gretel and the Dark by Eliza Granville
The Delaneys At Home by Anne Brooke
Victory Point by Ed Darack
Playing the Playboy by Noelle Adams
