A Puree of Poison

by Claudia Bishop

  “Will your father stay with us long?”

  “It depends. He’s interested in your mini-mall project. A few of the men from the Chamber talked to him last night. He’s asked me to help with translation. I’ve agreed. I’m leaving tomorrow, since I’m needed back at Cornell, but I’ll drop in every few days to see how I can help.”

  “I’d like to talk with you. About why ...” She took a deep breath. “About why I haven’t been painting.” She waited, rubbing one thumb over the other. “It’s an imposition, I know, but would you have any free time today?”

  “Today? Today I have completely free. Motoyama has taken my father on a drive to the Finger Lakes. And I’ve admired your work—what I’ve seen so far. Shall we sit here, by the water? This grass is very appealing.”

  Quill settled next to him. Her arm brushed his shoulder. Aware that she was being quixotic, nervous about the inevitable, she demurred, “Isn’t the mall a rather small project for someone like your father? I mean Sakura Industries is huge, isn’t it?”

  “He hasn’t been active in the business for years, Sarah, since a small contretemps forced him to retire. A public brush with a woman, not my mother, which is something of an affront to decency in conservative Japan. The public nature of it, you understand, not the affaire itself. The mini-mall project is just a way of keeping his hand in.” He seemed to accept, and understand, her evasiveness, and continued in a comfortable way, “This is a vacation trip for him. He went to see my children, of whom he’s very fond, and then came here to see me. I thought he’d enjoy the Inn. It’s serene. Quite lovely. Quite Japanese. And of course, the fact that he’s staying here gave me a chance to meet you. Perhaps to see your work. I’ve seen it in New York, of course, but nothing that you’ve done since your last show.”

  The sound of falling water cradled Quill’s silence.

  “So, are you an artist that can talk about work in progress? Are you shy of supposed experts with reputations like mine? May I intrude on your pleasant life here, Sarah Quilliam?”

  Quill caught his glance and held it. The sound of the water receded. She thought of all the things she had to do today: check on the preparations for goodness knew how many guests; make sure that the Kiplings had a stage for their presentation; review the reservations for the next month; not think about Myles.

  “There are a few pieces,” she mumbled. “I’ve packed them away. But we could... I’d like your opinion. Even,” she added anxiously, “if you think they’re not very good. You must promise to tell me the truth.”

  It’d been too many years since she’d talked about the balance of color and form, the transformation from perception to idea to canvas, the carrying forward of her voice as an artist. And he was easy to be with. With the rapid intuition of a passionate expert, he understood her sentences before they were completed. And her work, itself, that burden which she carried sometimes like a black dog on her back, sometimes like a treasured child, he saw what she was trying to do, when she succeeded and when she failed. And he talked about it. Not as Myles did, or Meg, with expressions of support (“It’s ... nice.”), but with passion. Often with gratitude, once with astonishment—and twice with disapproval for the abuse of her gift.

  “And that’s all you did all day? Looked at your paintings?” Meg pursed her lips and sliced the yellowfin tuna with quick, delicate strokes of her sharpest kitchen knife.

  “We had lunch in Ithaca. At Renee’s. We had the most marvelous wine, Meg.”

  “So are you ready to work again?”

  Quill moved the wooden mallet three inches to the right and back again.

  “Or did you spend most of the day in the fetal position? Curled up and defensive—”

  “Stop.”

  Meg rubbed one hand through her hair, leaving a bit of fish stuck over her left eyebrow. “I should make this sushi right on the patio, except that I’d die to have Mr. Sakura see me. Why the heck did I decide to do sushi for people who eat it every day of their lives and can tell good from bad, from C-minus?”

  “Because you’ve got guts. No risk, no gain. You’re an artist.”

  Meg shot her a shrewd glance. She deftly rolled a tablespoon of rice into a piece of seaweed. “So. About this investigation. You’ll just have to lift that goods book from Hedrick’s pants pocket all by yourself. I’m going to be stuck in here for hours.”

  “I’ll manage just fine.” Meg’s hair was standing up in short dark spikes, her usual response to the stress of preparations for a large party, and Quill added gently, “It’s not a big deal, you know. It’s not like we’re serving a gourmet club, or a New York crowd.”

  “It’s always a big deal. Have you thought about a diversion so Hedrick doesn’t catch you committing a grade-one felony or whatever it is?”

  “The Kiplings should provide enough. Dina told me that they’ve been distributing posters about their act all over town. Come to think of it, maybe that’s another reason why we’re getting all these uninvited guests. But I can’t imagine that Georgia would let them do it. Or that the prospect of a thousand lines of Kipling’s poetry in sixty minutes would attract anybody but Dookie Shuttleworth. Anyhow, the act is called The Kipling One Thousand! And I didn’t totally forget my responsibilities, Meg. I asked Dina to take charge of the staging and the microphone and whatever before I went to lunch with Ken, and I checked with her when I got back when I went up to change for the party. She thinks it’s going to be...” Quill stopped, searching for a reassuring translation of Dina’s expressed opinion that the Kip-lings were crazy. “Interesting.”

  “As in ‘oh, what an interesting baby’ when it’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen in your life? Hah!”

  Quill decided to abandon this line of discussion. “And I had an interesting talk with John this morning. About those guns. He’s been concerned, too.”

  “I knew something was up. What is it?”

  “Myles has been checking up on the contractor for the mall, DeMarco. There’s something suspicious going on.”

  “Yeah? So maybe we’ll find out why from that goods book.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m glad to see the old detective juices have started to ... rats! What time is it?”

  “Six forty-five.”

  “Damn!”

  “Are you wearing that for the party?”

  “This? My shorts? My bandanna? And why not? You expect white tie? You expect me to go up and change now! Into a little summer something in gauze and cotton lace like that!” She waved the knife in Quill’s direction. “Now!? When I’m cooking?!”

  “Why don’t I go check on the buffet?”

  “Why don’t you? Bjorn!” she shouted suddenly, over her shoulder. “You guys have that tapanade ready yet? Will you get on the stick!”

  Quill escaped to the patio, where she found John and Nate the bartender supervising the placement of the bar.

  “You look great,” said John absently. “How’s the chef?”

  “The usual. Testy, cranky, and bossy.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve decided on a compromise for the drinks, Quill, if it’s all right with you. Nate’s selected five dozen cases of the Glenora chardonnays and chablis to circulate among the guests. If they want hard liquor, they’ll pay the regular rates.”

  “Okay,” said Quill meekly.

  “I don’t think we’ll have too much of a problem with drunks. Myles and the deputies are guests,” Nate said. “But you never know. Couple of the volunteer firemen can swill it down like anything, and they don’t give a damn if they get arrested.”

  “They’re coming, too?”

  “That Mr. Stoker’s been—”

  “So I heard.” She exchanged a rueful grin with John. “All we can do is our best.”

  “Halfway through, we run out, I’ll bring up some of the Gallo,” said Nate. “Kathleen knows who to give it to, so’s no one will notice.”

  “You guys have covered everything,” said Quill gratefully. “I didn’t exac
tly mean to take time off today, but...”

  John and Nate exchanged a look.

  “That guy’s an art critic?” Nate polished a glass with particular attention to the inside. “Saw him looking at your stuff this morning. Seemed to have an awful lot to say about it.” He set the glass on the temporary bar and looked at her earnestly. “Maybe I never told you, Quill, but I really like your paintings. I mean, it’s ... nice. You know what I mean? Some of it, it makes me happy to look at it. Some of the other—I don’t know. Makes me kind of sad to look at. That picture that used to be in the lobby and that Mike put back up again? Makes me happy-sad. Just thought I’d let you know I really like it. Not that anyone had to tell me to tell you I really like it.”

  “Thank you, Nate.”

  “Thing is, John and I were thinking that we don’t tell you how much we like your painting. So I don’t know that you need to import some Jap—sorry, Japanese art critic to tell you the things we can tell you here.”

  “Seemed to like your work,” said John. “And he’s a fairly big noise in the art world, isn’t he, Quill?”

  “Myles likes your pictures, too.” Nate started in on another glass. “Told me so a couple of times.”

  “How nice,” said Quill through gritted teeth, “to have the love and concern of the staff.” Both men avoided looking at her. “I appreciate the commentary, Nate. And John. But I’m standing here to tell you that my affairs are my affairs. I mean, not that I’m having an affair-affair, I mean affairs in the sense of—” She stopped. “Never mind!”

  “What about a glass of that nice little Montrachet,” Nate suggested. “Smooth you right out.”

  “I don’t need smoothing out, thank you very much. What I need to do is take a look at the staging for the Kipling’s show. Which I am going to do. Right now. Leaving you guys to gossip about me to your heart’s content.”

  The Kiplings milled around the French doors leading to the patio like lambs in search of a sheepdog. Quill counted backward from ten as she marched to meet them. Just once, she thought, it’d be nice to have a little life crisis all by herself, with people (unspecified) indifferent to her state of mind, and unsolicitous of her well being. Although, she admitted, to be fair, she wouldn’t like it for long.

  She half turned in her march across the floor to the Kip-lings. Nate and John were staring after her with—what had Meg called her expression this morning? Abashed. They had abashed looks on their faces. She stopped Kathleen Kiddermeister on the way to the bar with a tray of wineglasses. “You’re going to the bar? Would you do me a favor? Tell the guys I’m sorry I blew up at them. Tell them it’s just agita. Tell them it’s PMS.”

  “Nate and John? PMS? That’s it? Got it.” She gave Quill a nudge. “That Mr. Sakura’s son? I saw you two today. Wow! You introduced him to Myles?”

  “ ‘They are the closest of friends. True buddies. Brothers under the skin.’ ”

  “O-kay. Just asking a simple little question. Uh, Quill. I know I told you before, at least, I’m pretty sure I have, but that iris painting that used to hang in the Tavern bar, over the fireplace? It’s ...”

  “Nice?” supplied Quill helpfully.

  “Yeah! That’s it. Nice!” She hitched the tray to one hand and used the other to pat Quill on the shoulder. “John told us we should appreciate you more. Meg, too—told us, I mean.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And we do. That Georgia Hardwicke’s calling you. See what she’s got on? That dress is really nice.”

  “You look gorgeous!” Georgia Hardwicke boomed across the floor. “Nettled, but gorgeous. What’s the problem, sweetie?” With the Fairbanks, Miss Kent, and Jerzey Paulovich trailing, she swept toward Quill in a blaze of teal green and gold thread and enveloped her in a hug. Quill hugged her fiercely back. Georgia, with her cheerful, matter-of-fact approach to life crises, was just the person she wanted to see.

  Quill said into her ear, “Listen, before we’re engulfed here, do you want to come up to my room after the party? I have to talk to somebody, and you’re just about perfect.”

  “As soon as it’s over.” Georgia released her, gave her a wink, and said loudly, “Well, here we all are. What do you think?”

  “You’re dressed like Victorians!” Quill was delighted. “You all look terrific!”

  “It’s authentic evening dress,” said Miss Kent proudly.

  “The Victorians, as you know, had a sense of decorum and order lacking in today’s present fashions. Georgia’s turban and satins distinguish her as a widow of substance. My lace cap and black taffeta state clearly I am an unmarried lady of certain means and une age certaine and Mrs. Fairbanks is quite obviously a married belle. The color of her over-skirt was quite popular in the 1880s—it’s called feuille morte.”

  “Dead leaves?” Quill smiled. “It sounds lovely in French.”

  “Our men, of course, don’t have the colorful options open to them that we ladies do. But they are quite correct in crisp black and white. Except for Jerzey’s waistcoat. We’ve never been able to do a thing about Jerzey’s waistcoats. He claims that the Polish aristocracy is of a tradition older than the Empire’s—and who’s to say he is not correct? When one thinks of the Mongols! Well. I shall not bore you with the historical details. Do you think,” she asked a little anxiously, “that there will be sufficient numbers in the audience?”

  Quill eyed Jerzey’s crimson brocade. “I think the brocade’s lovely. And we hope for a very good turnout. Is the stage satisfactory?”

  “Miked and ready to go!” boomed Lyle Fairbanks. “We’ll start in fifteen minutes, run for an hour, with a ten-minute intermission, and then circulate among the guests, in costume of course, to answer any questions they might have about the poet. One wouldn’t, by any chance, have notified the—ah—press?”

  Carlyle Conway came onto the patio from the lawn, wearing a black slip. Quill squinted. No, it wasn’t a slip. You couldn’t really call it a dress, either, except that it did cover her stomach and rear end. But that was about it. If the earrings brushing her shoulders were diamonds, she could buy the mini-mall three times over—and the Inn, as well. Hedrick shambled along beside her, carrying a camera. She didn’t see Myles.

  “One did, sort of,” said Quill, in response to Lyle’s disingenuous question. “But one isn’t sure what the coverage will be like. That’s our local newspaperman over there.”

  “Who’s the tart with him?” asked Miss Kent with a delicate air.

  Quill smiled at her. “His sister.”

  “Tell them we shall be available for interviews immediately after the show,” said Lyle with an expansive gesture. “Friends?” to his cohorts. “Shall we circulate?”

  “As soon as I circulate to the ladies’, dear.” Georgia winked at Quill. “Bit of tummy trouble. I’ll see you later, will I? After the show.”

  Carlyle and Hedrick headed straight for the bar. Quill pushed herself in their direction, stopping to greet people as the patio began to fill up. By the time she reached them, Myles had come in from the dining room entrance. That, and the affable but distancing sort of way he greeted the Conways, made Quill wonder if she’d been jumping to conclusions. Then she wondered why she was bothering to jump to conclusions, since she didn’t care.

  “Hello, Myles. Ken Sakura said that the business over Mr. Motoyama was settled peacefully.”

  “I like that dress,” he said. “You should wear lace more often.”

  “It’s just the most useful fabric,” said Carlyle, wriggling her way past a goggling volunteer fireman, his indignant-looking wife, and two gaping deacons from Dookie Shut-tleworth’s church to join them. “Lace hides all kinds of flaws, don’t you think so, Sarah? That sort of crepeyness at the neck that creeps in after thirty-five. Or so I’m told.”

  “We were all very sorry to hear about your mother,” Quill said a little stiffly. “If there’s anything we can do, please let us know.”

  “Poor Mamma.” Carlyle’s eyes filled with tears. She
took a hefty swig of champagne. “A party animal like her would have loved this.” She examined the glass with a critical eye. “Wouldn’t have liked the champagne, though. Tastes flat.”

  “Press room?” demanded Hedrick.

  “Excuse me?” Quill eyed his sports jacket. There was a notebook-sized bulge at the breast pocket.

  “Place for this reporter to sit, take notes, that kind of thing. Places like this usually have a press room all set up, with special food for the reporters.”

  “Who in the world are all these people?” Carlyle frowned, then stretched her hand over the bar to Nate for a refill. “You have anything a little less provincial back there?”

  Nate raised his eyebrows. Quill shook her head slightly, then caught Myles’s eye. He grinned.

  “Sorry, ma’am. We’re out.”

  “You might find the hors d’oeuvres less provincial, Carlyle,” said Quill. “How do you feel about sushi? Lo-cal, in case you want to take off a few pounds, and really quite delicious. It’s not to everyone’s taste, of course, but a woman with your experience might find it just the ticket.”

  Carlyle smoothed her throat with one red-tipped nail. “Myles, what do you think?” She drew her finger down to the top of her cleavage. “Mamma always told me men didn’t like a skinny woman. A question of geometry, she always said. ‘Curves, Cay’ “—she flicked an eye in Quill’s direction—” ‘rather than angles.’ You want to escort me over to the sushi tray? I see the two Japanese gentlemen appear to be enjoying it.”

  “That’s the one, Cay.” Hedrick scooped a fistful of tapanade from a passing waiter’s tray and tossed the toast triangles into his mouth one by one. “The old guy. Worth a bundle.”

  “As though that mattered, Heddie.” Speculation narrowed her eyes. “But the fish looks wonderful.”

  “Do try it,” urged Quill. “And Hedrick, we don’t have a press room, but I did set up the possibility of an interview for you. Why don’t we see if we can get Mr. Fairbanks aside for a moment? He’d love to tell you about his performance for this interview.”