A Pinch of Poison

by Claudia Bishop

  “He wanted to know if the Tompkins County Sheriffs Department had an evacuation procedure.”

  “Do we?” Quill asked.

  “We do.”

  “Quill threw him out,” said Meg with relish. “So it’s pretty clear he’s got an ax to grind with us. And you couldn’t have possibly thought that we would jeopardize the guests, Myles. So how come? Ah. Never mind. Myles. Sit down. Stay a while. What do you know about this guy? Have you seen the Trumpet!!”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a load of trash. How could you let him have the police blotter?”

  “Didn’t have much choice, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll bet Davy gave it to him,” said Meg shrewdly. “You would have sent Conway packing.”

  “He threatened an injunction. The blotter’s public information. The result would have been the same. The public has a right to that information.”

  “There’s no problem, though, Myles. So thanks.” Quill bit into her third piece of grapefruit.

  “If there’s no problem here, I’ll be going. Good to see you both.”

  “No problem here?” shrieked Meg after a shrewd glance at her sister. “How can you say that? If you’ve seen that miserable rag of a newspaper, you know there’s a big problem here. Are you just going to let this bozo run loose?”

  “There’s not a great deal Myles can do,” Quill said. “Conway has First Amendment rights like everyone else. And as long as the stories aren’t actionable ...”

  Meg, shaking her head in disgust, filled a small bowl with her grapefruit mixture and determinedly shoved Myles onto a stool. “Here. Quill was just going to make coffee.” She raised her voice as Quill took a breath to say she had no intention of making coffee, “Sit down, Quill.” She filled the kettle from the jug containing spring water and took the coffee beans from the freezer. “I’ll make the coffee. Do you want café latté or cappucino, Myles? Café latté, I’ll bet. Of course outright lies are actionable. What about this mini-mall expose he’s threatening? That’s actionable. Unless there’s something in it.”

  Quill sat at the counter and looked past Myles’s left ear. “Do you have any idea what Conway’s up to? You probably don’t know this, but we’ve invested quite a bit in the mall project. If there’s something funny going on, we should probably know about it.”

  “I don’t think you should worry. Not yet. He showed up at the Courthouse to check the site proposal and the property deeds filed with the county clerk. He made a copy of the engineering drawings for the leach field and of the budget proposal. He also requested the incorporation documents for Hemlock Mall, Inc., which are kept at the county seat in Ithaca. I have no idea whether he picked those up or not.”

  “So,” said Meg. She pursed her lips. “Very interesting. Very interesting. Wouldn’t you say it’s interesting, Quill?”

  “What’s interesting is that Conway and his family seem to know a lot more about Hemlock Falls than they should after being here less than a month. Myles, he threatened to write about John, dragging up all that old business again.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. And his mother and sister pretended to know something about... um ... painting ...” For a moment, she acknowledged, she’d really thought they might have heard of her, and she was a little miffed.

  “Miffed? Why?”

  Quill hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. “Just that... Never mind. It’d be good to know where they’re getting all this information. It’s so specific—as if someone in town were feeding them gossip on a regular basis.”

  “They could have picked up the talk about John, and you for that matter, at Marge’s on Sunday.”

  “Myles, John’s history is old news. And no one gives a hoot about my career.” There was an uncomfortable silence, which Quill broke rather hastily, “Who talks to flat-land foreigners anyway? You know how insular this town is. If we had a malicious busybody in Hemlock Falls, I could see it. But we seem to have been lucky that way. I can’t think of a single person who likes to make trouble just for the heck of it.”

  “We were at Marge’s on Sunday,” said Meg. “We didn’t see Hedrick there. We didn’t see you there, either.”

  “Carlyle and Louisa dropped in after you’d gone.”

  So Myles had met the voluptuous Carlyle at the Courthouse and again at Marge’s. Quill wondered if the meeting at the diner had been by arrangement. Except that Myles’s Sunday morning activities weren’t her business any longer.

  “I’ll tell you what we need,” said Meg suddenly. “We need that little red book.”

  “What little red book?”

  “He called it the ‘goods’ book.” Quill pleated her cotton skirt between her fingers. “He referred to it when he met John for the first time. With,” she added, looking squarely at him, “a certain amount of glee. Apparently he’s spent the last week collecting all kinds of gossip and recording it in the thing.”

  “Distasteful,” said Myles. “But not a felony. Or even a misdemeanor.” A slight, very slight, warning note sounded in his voice. “Now, appropriating that book without Hed-rick Conway’s consent would be a misdemeanor.”

  “Maybe we could snatch it at the party tomorrow.”

  “About the party?” asked Meg.

  “I could call and invite him. Tell him we wanted coverage in his awful rag. Of course they’d all probably show up. Yuck.”

  “How big a party?” Meg demanded. “And how much food did you promise?”

  “It’s a small party. I didn’t promise a lot. Just some hors d’oeuvres, and perhaps a couple of cold soups.”

  “How many people, Quill?”

  “Well. How would you feel about most of the guests? It’s a little hard to leave people out. The Kiplings seem to need a large audience.”

  “The whole Inn? That’s...” Meg counted rapidly to herself. “That’s roughly fifty people! How much are we charging a head?”

  “Urn, I hadn’t really—”

  “We’re not getting paid for this! I thought you and John said you would never, ever offer free food and drink without discussing it with me and with him. Fifty people for free!”

  “It’s to make up for a bad start to their visit, Meg.”

  “Oh, God! All right! I suppose I ought to count myself lucky I got twenty-four hours’ notice.” Meg flung open the door to their oversized refrigerator and stared into it, muttering.

  Quill caught Myles’s grin, and smiled back.

  “So,” he said, “about this party.”

  No, thought Quill, I won’t. Besides, the only reason he wants to come is because Carlyle and her halter-top might be there—and to keep me from committing a misdemeanor. Myles’s gaze shifted to the floor. There was a slight stiffening in his shoulders. Nuts, thought Quill. I do miss him, dammit. “Let’s say at seven. That okay with you, Meg?”

  “What? The time or the fact that you should have asked Myles before he had to ask you? It depends,” she said into the awkward silence, “what you want me to serve. Beluga’s a snap. I just have to have a lot of ice. Of course, we’ll be broke for the rest of the quarter, since it’s on the house, but the preparation time is zero. Zip. Nada. If, on the other hand—”

  “That Jap’s here,” said Doreen, opening the dining room door and sticking her head into the kitchen. “Unless you want him to beat feet like the others almost done, you better get him checked in. ‘Course, I could call that-there Axminster.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t you ever use that word, Doreen! It’s Sakura, Mr. Sakura. The Japanese list their last names first.”

  “He’s a durn snooty little cuss,” Doreen grumbled. “Snapped his fingers at me like I was somebody’s pet.”

  “We’ve talked a lot about guest courtesy, Doreen.”

  Doreen sniffed, unimpressed. “Well, the first Sakura’s here, Meg. What about sushi?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. It depends on the supplier. Yellow-fin tuna shouldn’t be too hard to get, but it’s got to b
e fresh. And Quill? There’s a little surprise in the lobby, or should be, if Mike’s gotten to it.”

  “What kind of a surprise? Did you find Dina?”

  “That Stoker did,” grunted Doreen. “She’s pret’ mad, but she’s coming back to work.”

  “So what other surprise waits for me in the lobby?”

  “That picture you did of the two of us a few years back.”

  “Meg!”

  “Hey. The son’s an art critic. The father’s richer than God. Why not?”

  Quill slid off the stool. “I’ve got to go check in Mr. Sakura, Myles. See you tomorrow, I guess.”

  “Thanks for the invitation.”

  “Men,” Doreen said with vague disapprobation as she followed Quill through the dining room.

  “Who? The sheriff? Or Mr. Sakura?”

  “Sher’f.” Doreen stopped cold, folded her hands underneath her apron, and said, “That’s a good man, there.”

  “And?” prompted Quill.

  “And nothing. This modern way of gettin’ together? It sucks.”

  “Doreen!”

  “Thing is, you get the eye, you give it back, you try it out, you get married. That’s the way I done it. And that’s the way I’ll keep on doin’ it. Three times. You don’t,” Doreen added fiercely, “have to go through all this touchy-feely stuff.”

  “What touchy-feely stuff?”

  “You know. I tell you something—guy’s decent in the sack and brings home his pay, what more do you want?”

  “This conversation is ridiculous.”

  “On’y if you expect men to be something they ain’t.”

  “And what is it they ‘ain’t’?” asked Quill in a lofty tone.

  “They ain’t,” said Doreen, resuming her march to the foyer, “wimmin. Mr. Sakra, this here’s my boss, Ms. Quilliam. Aloha.”

  Sakura Toshiro, managing director of Sakura Industries, had booked a suite and a single for a week through a New York City travel agency that dealt chiefly with the wealthy and influential. The small elderly man with the belligerent lower lip standing in front of her didn’t look like the head of a multinational, multibillion-dollar conglomerate, but then Marge “the Barge” Schmidt didn’t look like the wealthiest person in Tompkins County, either, but she was. Quill, who had diligently reviewed a copy of Japan: The American Businessperson’s Guide to Political Correctness the week before, folded her hands together and bowed. “Ohio gozaimaisu, Sakura-san. I am Sarah Quilliam.”

  Sakura Toshiro bowed back, a hint of arrogance in his back and neck. “This so-beautiful picture, Miss Qurriam”—he nodded at the painting hanging behind the reception desk—”yours?”

  Quill rarely tried portraits; she was too young, she thought, and hadn’t lived long enough to really paint what lay behind flesh and bone. But she had painted herself and Meg seated on a red couch last year. Meg was looking off into the distance, a slight smile on her open face. Quill sat beside her, one arm protectively over the back of the couch, her head turned to look at Meg. She’d used a photograph for the charcoal sketch that began the painting, and her internal eye to finish it. She’d packed it away months ago.

  “Yes?”

  “You?” He made delicate brush strokes in the air.

  “Yes,” said Quill, and blushed. He sucked air through his teeth, which, Quill recalled, was a gesture of appreciation.

  “My son, Sakura Kenji. Terrs me you are velly famous. Velly.” He smiled with an appreciative twinkle. “My English.” He shrugged, shook his head in apparent regret. “Kenji-san, nei? He come. Velly good Engrish.”

  A little appalled to find herself speaking slowly and distinctly, as though to a backward child, Quill said, “The travel agency indicated that Sakura Kenji will check in the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m sure we can manage. We have the room ready now for you and is it Mr. Motoyama?”

  “Motoyama. Hai.” He bowed.

  Quill returned the bow. “And is Mr. Motoyama here now, Sakura-san? May we take both of you to your rooms? The suite is ready.”

  “Motoyama. Hai,” said Mr. Sakura.

  “If this Motoyamer’s a little skinny Jap older than God, he’s outside with the van they come in,” said Doreen. “He’s a servant, like.”

  Mr. Sakura’s shrewd black eyes slid over Doreen with the slightest flicker of contempt. Quill’s own understanding of French was far better than her ability to speak it, which was apparently true of Mr. Sakura’s English. Her face warm, she bowed and said “Mrs. Muxworthy meant no disrespect, Sakura-san. Is Mr. Motoyama also ready to check in?”

  “Motoyama.” Mr. Sakura gestured, driving with his hands.

  “Your chauffeur,” said Quill.

  “Hai,” said Mr. Sakura. “Prease.” He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his immaculately tailored suit coat and presented them to Quill.

  She glanced at it. “You’ve been communicating with the mayor?” said Quill in surprise. “About the mini-mall?”

  Mr. Sakura made driving motions.

  “You’d like to see the site,” Quill guessed. She handed the letters, which hinted at investment, back to him. “Mike will be happy to drive you both there. You don’t need to trouble your chauffeur. When would you like to go?”

  “Velly soon.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Velly soon.”

  “Them Kiplings are takin’ the van for a tour,” said Do-reen “You want I should tell Mike to take the Ja—I mean these fellas, too?”

  “ ‘Gentermen rankers out on a spree damned from here to eternity,’ “ said Mr. Sakura. “Kipring. Velly good. Hai.” He nodded toward her painting again. “Velly beautiful. I may see more?”

  “Sure,” said Quill, dizzy. “Perhaps later?”

  “After Motoyama dlive.”

  “Yes, but there’s no need to have Mr. Motoyama—”

  “Motoyama,” corrected Mr. Sakura, with a frown.

  Quill, whose democratic principles frequently collided with her commitment to courteous service, smiled, ducked the issue of honorifics altogether, and once again offered the services of Mike and the van. “It will be easier for you to find the construction site. And the van is much more comfortable than the rental car.”

  “A Toyota?”

  “Oh, dear. No. I’m afraid it’s a Chevy Lumina.”

  “Hai. Yes. Velly good, then.”

  “Ms. Muxworthy,” Quill addressed Doreen, feeling an obscure need to make her democratic principles clear, “would you let Mike know? They can all go together.”

  “So, you want I should get these bags up to the room first, or what?”

  “I’ll take the bags up.”

  “Hell, no. You go back to the kitchen. Tolt the sher’f you’d be right back. I’ll take care of Mr. Sakra, then I’ll get a holt of Mike.”

  Mr. Sakura watched this fine example of employer-employee relations with interest. “Fine,” said Quill, reminding herself good managers never minded a bit of affectionate bullying. In front of other people. Who understood more English than one could wish. She bowed to Mr. Sakura, who bowed politely back, and went to the kitchen to find that Myles had left and Meg was giving the last of the dinner instructions to the kitchen help. The sous chefs, she noticed crossly, never bullied Meg. Quill sat in the rocker by the cobblestone fireplace and brooded.

  The sous chefs and dishwashers dispersed. Meg stowed her clipboard neatly in the shelves she used as a desk. “So, you asked Myles to the party?”

  Quill roused herself from a confused contemplation of Kipling, men, the proper way to address a chauffeur, and a strong desire to show some really marvelous work to Mr. Sakura and his billion-dollar corporation. “Myles asked himself to the party. And, you recall, he asked himself to the party after I said I’d invite the Horrible Hedrick and his relatives, specifically the sister with the overlarge hooters.”

  “This Carlyle must be a ripsnorter.” She narrowed her eyes. “But that sort of thing’s never bothered you before. What’s really
wrong?”

  “Mr. Sakura recognized my work.”

  Meg gave her a self-satisfied grin.

  Quill stretched restlessly in the chair. “Of course, he seems to be fond of Rudyard Kipling, which says a lot about his politics, so make of that what you will.”

  Meg rolled her eyes. “Don’t sulk, Quill. Here’s what you do. Take some time off this afternoon.”

  “Time off?”

  “It’s hot. Go swimming.”

  “I can’t. There’s a Chamber meeting this afternoon.”

  “Sure you can. It’s not until four o’clock. It’s two now. Nothing like exercise to get those endorphins up and circulating.”

  “I’ll go if you go.”

  “As soon as I settle the menu for this party you’ve arranged. What do you think about tapanade?”

  Glad to concentrate on something concrete and practical, like a menu, Quill said that she loved tapanade. “But we ought to have something a little more conservative to offer the Kiplings.”

  “Tapanade and Parmesan-artichoke cheese dip, then.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic.”

  “You started it.”

  “Never mind.” She pulled at her lip. “About the sushi, I’ve already made arrangements for the fish. And the usual cheeses and fruits. Okay. Did you decide to go swimming?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll go with you. You can contemplate your future and get some exercise at the same time.”

  “How’s about if I just swim?” Quill sighed. “Just once I’d like to do one thing at a time. Just once, I’d like to get up in the morning and have no schedule, no meetings, no feelings to soothe, no guests to coddle, no nothing. Just time. Lots of time, stretching ahead of me like a lovely trail with no beginning and no destination.”

  Meg shook her head. “That’s not going to help. You’ll just go frantic concentrating on all the meetings you’re missing and all the soothing you’re not doing. You remember what helped me for quite a while after Colin died.”

  “Work.”

  Meg nodded. “Work lets your subconscious take care of itself. That first year after he’d gone, I barely remember parts of it. But I do remember the cooking.”