"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?"
"Sure. But I'm only halfway through and it's due back at the Cornell library next week. Mrs. Doncaster at the library here said the waiting list is two weeks for the Hemlock falls copy. You could buy your own copy. The Wal-Mart's carrying it. It's been deep-discounted to twenty bucks."
"Twenty dollars? I'll get on the waiting list at the library."
"That won't give you enough time. You want tot read it before he gets here, don't you?"
"Before who gets here?"
"Evan Blight."
"Evan Blight? Evan Blight's coming to Hemlock Falls?"
"Well, sure."
"Wow."
John, walking into the foyer, shook his head, gave Dina a pat on the back, and opened the office door, gesturing Quill in side. "After you, you felon, you," he said, and shut the door in Dina's interested face.
Quill walked over to her desk and regarded the pile of mail stacked in her In-box. John settled into the leather chair behind the desk. She tugged at her hair and attempted unconcern.
"Quill. Some of this mail has been sitting here for two weeks."
"Hmm," Quill said. "Anything urgent?"
"If you mean are we going to get the phones cut off, like the last time you let the mail sit, no. But there's this." He waved a scarlet envelope at her.
Quill sank meekly into the chair in front of the desk. "What/"
"It looks like a bench warrant."
"A what/"
"A warrant for your arrest. For a speeding ticket."
"Me? I didn't get a speeding ticket." Quill took the envelope with a strong sense of indignation. "I would have remembered getting a speeding ticket. Now the equivalent of a parking ticket, yeah. I remember that. Last week."
"You didn't remember the phone bill last year," John said mildly. "And the phones were shut off for three hours."
"Yeah, but." She opened the envelope and took out a piece of cardboard marked Bureau of
Traffic Violations, Village of Hemlock Falls, Notice of Violation and Impending Default Judgment. This is your final notice.
"I never got a first notice," Quill said indignantly.
John waved a second, unopened envelope at her.
Quill ignored it and stared at the warrant. "We don't' have a Bureau of Traffic Violations in Hemlock Falls."
"We do now. Sheriff Dorset and Bernie Bristol arranged for it last week. Don't you read the Gazette? It was part of their campaign platform."
Quill turned the cardboard over. "It says here I can plead not guilty by requesting a hearing Wednesday morning at nine a.m. Which Wednesday?"
"Any Wednesday."
"But I didn't get a speeding ticket!" She read it again. "This says I got a speeding ticket last Friday. Davy Kiddermeister stopped me near the school. He gave me a warning and the equivalent of a parking ticket. But he didn't' give me a speeding ticket."
"You'd better give Howie a call and get on down to the courthouse tomorrow to get it straightened out."
"I won't. This is ridiculous!"
"Then they'll come after you."
"Who's going to come after me?"
"Deputy Dave, most likely. Maybe Dorset himself."
"I'll just call Myles. Oh. I can't call Myles, can I? He's not sheriff anymore. And besides.... " She trailed off. John's eyes were uncomfortably shrewd.
John held one hand up and took the phone with the other. He dialed, waited a moment, got Howie Murchison on the line, described the situation briefly, then said, "I can't, Howie. I've got a meeting with some suppliers. Meg will have to do it. You want tot talk to Quill? She's right here."
He held the phone out.
"Do what?" asked Quill, hesitating to take the receiver. "What will Meg have to do instead?"
"Just talk to him, Quill. He's agreed to represent you in traffic court tomorrow, but he wants more details."
Quill put the receiver to her ear. "Howie?"
Howie, who was one of the most patient, equably tempered men Quill knew, was admirably calm and agreed to meet her at the courthouse the following morning. He asked her questions about the ticket. Quill expostulated, Howie demurred; Meg, he said, would be needed as a character witness. He'd heard odd things about this sheriff. Quill thanked him, hung up, and looked at John. "Are you still upset?"
"About the mail? No, Quill. I know about you and mail. About the traffic ticket, yeah. It's dumb. Meg's told me often enough about you and traffic tickets. When you offered to take care of the mail last week when I was finishing up the year-end accounting, I should have followed up. But this ticket stuff isn't anything to mess with. I've heard funny things about this new sheriff."
"What kind of funny things?"
John shrugged. "Nothing specific. But the town's changing."
Quill made a face. "Everything's changing." She brooded a moment, shook herself, then said, "About the mail. I'm sorry, John. I booted it."
He reached over and squeezed her hand. "It seems to be taken care of. And you've had a lot on your mind lately. I thought you were going to Syracuse today."
"Yep."
"You'll feel more like yourself after you've settled things. Weather's getting bad. You want to give yourself enough time. Just let me run over a few of the arrangements for the rest of December, then I think you should get on the road early. You know this is the first year we're totally booked through the holidays."
Quill nodded. "Dina told me. I hadn't heard about Evan Who sis. When is he coming to Hemlock Falls?"
"Day after tomorrow."
"Two days before the wedding? He's not staying here, is he?'
"Yes, he's staying here."
"I thought we were booked up for the Santini wedding."
"I moved one of the bridesmaids to the Marriott instead." He leaned forward and flipped through the registry. "A Meredith Phelan. I called to ask about the change. She was charming about it."
Quill put her head in her hands. "why here!?"
"Elmer Henry wrote to him. He's a guest of S. O. A. P."
"Are they paying for him?"
John nodded again. "We received a deposit check from Harland Peterson in yesterday's mail. He's the treasurer. I thought it'd be better to have Blight here - it's good for business."
Quill exhaled. A long, long sigh. She'd always thought John's pragmatic approach to celebrity guests rude. It wasn't right to exile poor Ms. Phelan to the Marriott in favor of a more prominent guest. If she protested, John would merely point out that the Inn was making money.
But the implied insult to a prospective guest paled beside the public relations problem she was going to have. When word got out that they were the hosts for Evan Blight, proponent of manly men, Adela Henry would blow a gasket. The H. O. W. membership was furious with S. O. A. P. and all it stood for. Quill's imagination rioted. The foyer would be yet another scene of confrontation between agitated people of varying age, sex, and gender. Elmer, Harland, Dookie, and the other earnest disciples of primitive man (or whatever the heck Blight called it) would show up half-naked and painted blue right in the middle of the Santini wedding. Alphonse, his prospective in-laws, and Claire, the bride-to-be, would be furious. They'd all be furious.
She'd spend Christmas like a gerbil on an exercise wheel.
Her face got warm. She realized she was furious. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to throw something. "You know this is going to create more hassle for us. Why didn`t you just tell the stupid jerk to STAY HOME!"
John looked sympathetic, but firm.
Quill took several deep breaths, tried to calm down, then said gloomily after a long pause, "Everybody's paying for my bad mood."
"Not everybody." He laughed a little. "Me, maybe. And Meg. And Myles, of course."
She stretched her legs out, folded her hands over her middle, and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. The office had a tin ceiling which she'd never really liked. The stamped ivy design marched from molding to molding in regular patterns. She'd always found this regularity, this dependability that one square looked exactly like the next, a little depressing. "You know what?"
"What?"
"It's people I want to be dependable. Not art."
John blinked.
Quill sat up. "I've been thinking about this a lot, John. I mean, I'm thirty-four years old and I just realized I don't like people to be... to be... well, people. Normal, rowdy, un-self-controlled. That artist's retreat I went to? Just before Thanksgiving? For a bit after I came home, I was painting really well. Then I stopped. When Myles asked me to change my whole way of life and marry him. He wants children. John, companionship every day, someone to be there when he comes home at night. I can't do it. It freezes me. I want all the randomness, all the ambiguity, all the uncertainty, all the uncertainty of life in my paintings. And yet, not in people. And I don't know if I'm right or I'm wrong. Meg just told me I've got my emotions all wrapped up in Ace bandages. People like Meg may be right. If I don't allow that... that... direct sort of messiness of emotion into my life, it can't get back to my work."
Quill fiddled with a sofa cushion. It was a wild iris in needlepoint, the gift of one of their regular guests. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm so tired, John."
"You can, you know. Talk about it. I'm always here."
Quill took a breath. "You are. And I'm taking advantage of it. I swear as soon as - I mean after I get back from Syracuse you are going to see a new reformed Quill. I'll got through the mail. Remember to pay all my parking tickets. Be diplomatic to all the guests." She groaned suddenly. "Nuts. What am I supposed to do about this stupid bachelor party for Santini? Tell me you really don't want me to kick S. O. A. P. out and cancel H. O. W. and get everyone mad at me."
"Why don't we put the Santini bachelor party in the dining room, H. O. W. in the conference room, and S. O. A. P. on the terrace?"
"In winter?"
"Sure. We'll get some smut pots from Richardson's apple farm
and line the terrace with nice primitive light and a modicum of warmth. They'll love it."
"A modicum," muttered Quill. "The warmth will certainly be less than a modicum. What's less than a modicum?"
John shrugged. "I don't think they'll complain. From what I can gather, the rites of passage involve exposure to extremes. They're spending all day in the woods barbecuing a steer the day of the meeting, and Elmer said they'll be bringing it with them. They don't want service or food - just the space. I'll get Mike to bring up the barbecue spit from the shed. And we'll put the bridal shower in the lounge. So all you have to do is let everyone know the schedule."
Murder Well-Done Page 5