"The bookings ledger was here this morning, and Marge wasn't. It would have taken her an hour to copy all those names and numbers. She wasn't here long enough last night to do it."
"And that missing bolt?"
"What possible connection could poor Gil's accident have with John running off on a toot, most likely, and a series of malicious phone calls?"
"I don't know," Quill said, "but by God, there is one."
Sitting at her desk, contemplating the display of Apricot Nectar roses outside her office window, Quill failed to find any connection at all.
She shuffled through her phone messages: nothing from Myles; one from Esther reading "The show must go on! Rehearsal at the Inn 4:00 P.M."; a few from tour directors wanting a chance to discuss the practical joke, which she set aside for Monday during business hours; and one scrawled on a piece of the wrapper for the paper towels the Inn bought in bulk: AND WORMS SHALL CRAWL THROUGH HER NOSE. "Doreen!" said Quill. "Dammit, whose nose?"
"Whose nose?" she repeated when she found the housekeeper scrubbing the toilets in 218. Doreen had listened stolidly to Quill's succinct summary of why she was not to impose her beliefs on the guests.
"That scarlet woman," said Doreen, "that whore of Babylon."
"I thought it was the whore of Detroit."
"Don't you laugh at me, missy. I need a little Bible study is all." She sat back on her heels and contemplated the gleaming porcelain with satisfaction. "I joined the Reverend Shuttleworth's Bible classes this morning. Learn me a bit more."
"Let's get back to this wormy person," suggested Quill. "You haven't whacked the orthodontist's wife, have you?"
"They checked out. Nope. It's that Miss Prissy butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her mouth friend of the widow lady. Mrs. Hallenbeck's companion. A righteous woman, that Mrs. Hallenbeck, to my way of thinking. She shouldn't have to put up with a person bound for the Pit."
"You mean Mavis Collinwood? Where is she?"
"Bar. Acting no better than she should with that skirt-chasing salesman."
"Doreen, I've just finished telling you that the guests' behavior is no business of ours."
Doreen got up from the tile floor with a groan, and attacked the tub. "Will be if that poor Mrs. Hallenbeck has a heart attack from the sheer cussedness of that woman."
Quill, mindful of the alarming changes in Mavis' personality after her ingestion of Andy Bishop's Valium samples, went to the bar. The mystery of John's whereabouts would have to be put on hold. Besides, she could tackle Baumer about the phone calls. Meg was probably right.
Called The Tavern in their brochures, the bar was the most popular spot at the Inn, occupying an entire quarter of the first floor. The bar's floor and ceiling were of polished mahogany. Floor-to-ceiling windows took up the south and east walls. Quill had painted the north and west walls teal, and Meg had persuaded her to hang a half dozen of her larger acrylics on the jewel-toned walls.
When Quill left her career as an artist, she'd been heralded as the successor to Georgia O'Keeffe. "A small stride forward in the school of magic realism," wrote the critic in Art Review. The brilliance of the yellows, oranges, and scarlets of her Flower Series leaped out from the walls with exuberance.
Some weeks, when Quill longed for the rush of her old studio in Manhattan, she avoided The Tavern altogether; at other times, she sat in the bar and took a guilty pleasure in her work.
It was early for the bar trade, but the tourists had started arriving for History Days, and the room was full. At first, Quill didn't see Mavis and Baumer. When she did, she wondered how she could have missed them.
Mavis had bloomed like the last rose of summer. Gone were the prim collars, the below-the-knee print skirts, the spray-stiffened hair. Mavis' full bosom spilled out of a black T-shirt with an illuminated teddy bear on the front. Quill couldn't imagine where Mavis had tucked the batteries. The T-shirt was pulled over a pair of black stirrup pants. Mavis' high-heeled shoes were a screaming red suede with bows at the ankles.
"Coo-eee!" Mavis called, waving her hand at Quill. Nate, the bartender, gave Quill a wry grin and a shrug. Quill leaned over the marble bartop and whispered, "How long have they been here?"
"Through two Manhattans for the gentleman and two mint - "
"Don't say it!" groaned Quill.
" - juleps for the lady."
"Nobody drinks mint juleps, Nate. Not willingly, anyway."
"That's one dedicated Southerner, I guess."
"As far as I know, she's still taking that Valium Doc Bishop prescribed for her," said Quill. "Keep an eye on them, will you?"
"Hard not to," said Nate. "I can short the drinks, if you want."
"If you do, short the bar tab, too." Quill threaded her way through the tables and sat down next to Keith Baumer. "Did you and Mrs. Hallenbeck get a decent night's sleep, Mavis?"
"I did, I guess. I don't know about the old bat. She was up walking around awful early, I can tell you that."
"Best part of the day," said Baumer genially. "I'm up at six and out for a walk every morning. Get a head start on my work."
"Does your business include a lot of out-of-town phone calls?" Quill asked coolly.
Baumer showed his teeth in what might have been a grin. "Lots." He raised his hand and shouted, "Barkeep! Another round for us. And I'd like to buy you a drink, Ms. Quilliam. What's your poison?"
"Nate will bring me a cup of coffee. Mavis, about last night - "
"Wasn't it awful?" Mavis' eyes filled with ready tears. "That poor, poor man. I'd only met him that day. But he was such a friendly soul. So open, so candid in his needs. I declare, it was like seeing a dear friend pass."
Baumer gripped her knee with a proprietary air. "Comfort is what you need, Mave. And I've got just the ticket."
Mavis dimpled at him. Nate set drinks and a plate of hors d'oeuvres on the table, a signal he had shorted the liquor in at least Mavis' mint julep. "Compliments of the house, Mr. Baumer."
"Hold it, hold it, my man. Let's see what we have here." Baumer poked disparagingly through the food. "Stuffed mush- rooms, for God's sake. You'd think a place with this kind of reputation would be a little more creative, eh? And what the hell is this? Liverwurst?" He wiggled his eyebrows at Quill.
"Meg's Country Pƒt‚," said Quill. "And that's pork rillette, and anchovy paste on sourdough."
Baumer stuffed a mushroom in his mouth, chewed, and grunted, "Not bad. I've had better. But not bad. Here, kiddo, sink your teeth into this." He offered Mavis a pork rillette.
Quill, contemplating Mavis, remembered that John had seen them at the Croh Bar. Was there any connection between John's disappearance and Gil's drowning last night? Her palms went cold. "I wasn't very clear on what did happen last night, Mavis. Was Mrs. Hallenbeck with you all evening?"
Mavis scowled. "Pretty near. We went down to Marge's for dinner. It was a business meeting, you know, whatever that Nadine-person thought. Gil wanted to talk with Amelia about investing in his business."
"She doesn't act like she has that kind of money."
"Who? Amelia?" Mavis snorted, leaving a significant portion of the pork rillette on her chin. "You've got to be kidding. She's loaded."
Quill, hoping for more information, raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"Well, she is. She held practically all of the stock in Doggone Good Dogs. Made out like a bandit when the company was sold."
"She did?" said Quill.
"Well, sure. Her husband must have left her a packet, although she sure acts like she's broke. Penny-pinching ol' thing." Mavis giggled uncertainly. Her eyes were glazed. Baumer solicitously helped her to the rest of her mint julep.
"So that's how you met her? You worked for her husband?"
"Who says so?" demanded Mavis suddenly. "Who says I worked for him? It's a damn lie!" She swayed a little in her chair, the teddy bear on her T-shirt blinking furiously.
Quill was going to have to sober her up before asking about John. And she sure didn't want to ask any more
questions in front of the rude and inquisitive Baumer. "Are you sure you don't want to lie down, Mavis?" said Quill. "You know, Dr. Bishop thought you should take it easy for a few days."
Mavis got to her feet. She swayed a little, her face pale. "I declare, I do feel jus' a little bit woozy."
"Why don't you come and lie down in my room," said Baumer. "I can give you a back rub or something, help you sleep."
"I'll give her a hand, Mr. Baumer," said Quill coldly. "Come on,. Mavis. Alley-oop."
"Alley-oop!"
Quill propelled Mavis firmly through the bar and up the short flight of stairs to two-sixteen. She knocked briefly on the door; when no answer came from Mrs. Hallenbeck, she used her master key and pulled Mavis inside. The rooms were dark, the drapes drawn.
"Who's there?" called a timid voice.
"It's me, Mrs. Hallenbeck. I've brought Mavis up for a nap." Quill eased Mavis, by now half-asleep, onto the bed. The connecting door opened, and Mrs. Hallenbeck peered fearfully into the room.
"She is not drunk again, is she?"
Quill pulled the bedspread over the blinking T-shirt. Mavis looked up blearily. "Amelia? I'm sorry, sugar. Guess I had a li'l too much to drink. We'll go for your walk in a bit. I jus' need a snooze." She closed her eyes, then popped them open again. "Amelia? You're not an ol' bat." She sighed, "I'm the ol' bat," and began to snore.
Even die-hard aging Southern belles look vulnerable in sleep.
Quill decided John couldn't possibly be involved with this woman, or what had happened last night. She knew, abruptly, that what she most wanted was the Inn back the way it was before Mavis' catastrophic transformation into Southern sex kitten of the year. And the key to that was Mrs. Hallenbeck.
"Mrs. Hallenbeck? Could I talk to you a minute?"
"Of course, dear. Please come in."
Quill followed her into 214, closing the door behind her. "Would you like me to open the drapes? It's a beautiful day outside." She pulled the drape cord, and sunshine flooded into the room.
Mrs. Hallenbeck was dressed for walking in a beige trouser suit. She sat down at the little tea table. Her face was stem. "So many terrible things have been happening, Sarah. I was just sitting here in the dark, thinking about them. What's going to happen next? That dreadful accident last night. That Gil person. And Mavis behaving so oddly." Her lips trembled. "Sometimes I think I want to go home. But then I think, what would I do without you, my dear, and your lovely paintings, and your wonderful care of me, and I know we're doing the right thing by staying here."
"As a practical matter, I'm afraid Mavis doesn't have much choice. She'll have to testify at the inquest. But right after- wards, you and Mavis can go on with your vacation."
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Hallenbeck firmly. "Mavis has behaved in a wholly unacceptable manner. I would like you to come with me, dear. That would be wonderful. We could have a very good time together."
"I have the Inn to run, and my sister to take care of," said Quill gently. "But surely you don't want to abandon Mavis after all you've been through together?"
"Mavis? I'm through with Mavis." Mrs. Hallenbeck shuddered. "Her friends make me suspicious. Sometimes I think she's going mad."
"Hardly that," said Quill. "But I do think she's not quite herself." Quill experienced a flash of doubt. What if Mavis was a con artist, out to bilk an old lady?
"Have you had these kinds of problems before in your travels? I mean, Mavis introducing you to" - Quill searched for the right, unalarming words - "potential investors?"
Mrs. Hallenbeck sent her a sudden, shrewd look. "You do not get to my age and stage, Sarah, by handing over large checks to boobs like that car salesman. That is not the problem, although Mavis would certainly like me to buy her friends for her. No. The problem is finding someone sympathetic to be with when you're old. Do you know..." Her lips worked, and the large blue eyes filled with tears. "I loathe it. How did I get to be eighty-three? Why, I look in the mirror, and I expect to see the girl I was at seventeen. Instead... this." She swept her hand in front of her face.
"You have a beautiful face," said Quill. "There is a great dignity in your age. We're all going to get there, Amelia. I just hope that when I do, I look like you."
Mrs. Hallenbeck looked at her. "Mavis used to say such things to me. When we agreed to be companions in our adventures, I thought that she cared for me. And now, everything has changed."
"She's been through quite a bit in the last few days. I think," said Quill carefully, "that she's one of those people who just reacts to the situation at hand. Do you know I what I mean? Impulsive. That she'll be fine once the inquest is over and the two of you can leave. Things will be the same as they were before." The Cornell University evening course in Interactive Skills training had emphasized something called Identification as a "tool for change." Tools for change, Quill realized, were not tire irons, but nice, tactful lies that made people want to behave better. "Identification" was a lie that made people behave by telling them you did something you didn't, so they'd feel better about changing their ways.
Quill decided to try Identification. "You know, my sister Meg and I - we fight quite a bit. We say things we don't I mean." Quill hesitated, searching for the most appropriate lie. "I'm the older sister. Sort of like you're the older sister to Mavis. And I know sometimes I get very bossy. You know, telling Meg what to wear, how to behave. I even yank on her salary once in a while, if she's not cooking exactly the things I think the guests want. But then I remember that Meg has her own needs and her own life, and that I have to let her be herself. And we get along just fine."
"You think I'm too hard on Mavis?"
Mrs. Hallenbeck, Quill realized, was very good at what the professor had called "cutting the crap." Quill patted her hand. "I should have known you'd be shrewd enough to handle poor Mavis. I should think," Quill said expansively, "that what Mavis is really looking for is guidance. She needs you, Mrs. Hallenbeck. One advantage of being your age is that you've had so much experience with people."
"Possibly you're right. I mean, about comparing this to you and your sister." She sat taller in her chair. "I shall take care of things. You know, Mavis and I have been together for many years. I shall reflect on ways and means."
Quill left Mrs. Hallenbeck and marched triumphantly to the kitchen. Meg was scowling hideously at the Specials blackboard, chalk smeared on her face.
"I am so good!" Quill said. She threw herself into the chair by the fireplace and rocked contentedly.
"What d'ya think goes best with the French onion soup?"
Quill stopped rocking. "Um. You mean the onion soup you weren't going to make because of the raw egg ban?"
"The souffl‚'s a bust. It's too humid for it. I know!" She scribbled furiously for a moment. "Potted rabbit."
"In this heat? Don't you think something lighter is better for July?"
"Lancashire's booked a party of two for dinner. And I've got fresh rabbit."
Quill rose majestically to her feet. Perhaps the improvised management tactics she'd presented to Mrs. Hallenbeck had been an inspiration; she'd never tried a firm hand with her sister before. "Meg, if you do not stop using raw egg in the food, I will dock your salary."
"You will, huh?" said Meg, unimpressed. Meg put the chalk down and looked consideringly at her sister. "I just might remind Doreen that you spend every Saturday night - all night - with a certain good-looking sheriff. She'll want to put worms up your nose, I expect."
"You wouldn't!"
"It'd be nothing less than my duty," said Meg with an air of conscious virtue. She gave her sister an affectionate grin. "So what are you good at? Not this detective stuff?"
Quill sighed. "No. Not this detective stuff."
"You agree that John's probably gone off on a toot? Poor guy, after being sober all these years, and what're you looking at me like that for? You think it's a secret? Everyone knows John goes to A.A. on Thursdays. You know that Gil's accident was just that. And you can bet that creep B
aumer was probably the one who made those phone calls, out of sheer despair at your rejection of his uncouth advances."
"Ye-e-es," said Quill reluctantly.
"I thought you were going to make a courtesy call on Nadine Gilmeister," Meg said briskly. "One of us has to. And you're very good at that."
"I suppose you're right."
"So take a couple of brioches as a tribute to the funeral; get out of my kitchen and do it. Oh, Quill?"
Quill looked back.
"Stop by Tom Peterson's, will you? I stuck some of yesterday's delivery in your car. The meat's tainted."
"The meat?"
"Yes! The meat. It stinks. I can't serve it. Something must be wrong with those refrigeration units. Tell him I want fresh good stuff in the cooler now. Make him eat that stuff if he won't."
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