A Carol for a Corpse (6 page)

“Okay? You mean . . . you aren’t going to start a campaign of terror against Lydia?”

“Not,” Meg said, “unless she starts one first.”

Quill thought this over. “Look, even if she does come across in a kind of obnoxious way, it’d be a good thing to remember the Innkeeper’s Oath.”

“Quill, I never had a thing to do with that Innkeeper’s Oath. That was all your idea. Rule One: Don’t Belt the Guests. Rule Two: If You Have to Throw the Guest Out, Make Sure There’s Someplace for the Bozo to Go. Etcetera, etcetera. Besides”—Meg waved a pan of caramelized onions in the air—“there’s not one rule that applies to . . . whatever the Kingsfield people are. Intruders, that’s what they are.” Meg scooped a bit of the caramelized onion onto the ham, shaved some Parmesan over it, and cut a neat slice of Irish soda bread. She handed the lot to her sister. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Quill eyed the plate carefully.

“What are you looking for?”

“Not poison exactly. Maybe a bit of ipecac?”

Meg smiled. “I’m over it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Quill eyed her sister narrowly. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?”

“Like a rug.”

The back door to the kitchen opened. A small woman came in, bundled in a cheap, bright red parka and frayed rubber boots. She hung her parka on a coat hook, removed her snow boots, and neatly lined them up beneath her parka.

“There’s Melissa now,” Meg said. She raised her voice. “Hey! Mel! Come and have a slice of ham.”

Quill had conducted the initial interview, and she’d been struck at the time by both Melissa’s shyness and her intelligence. She was pale and walked with her shoulders hunched, as if expecting a sudden blow. Jinny Peterson hadn’t known where Melissa had lived before she’d arrived in Hemlock Falls; she’d no friends that Quill knew of. But she did have an adorable six-month-old baby named Caleb, and Quill asked after him now.

“Oh, he’s great,” Melissa said with a soft smile. “And you know we’ve moved, Caleb and I.”

“To a larger apartment, I hope.” Melissa had been living over Marge’s latest business acquisition, the Croh Bar. The late-night noise and the glare of the neon sign hadn’t been the ideal environment for the baby, and Quill was glad to hear they’d found a different place.

“Oh, even better than that, Ms. Peterson arranged for me to get a mortgage on a single-wide out at Gorgeous Gorges.”

“That’s terrific.” The trailer park was neat and orderly; its chief asset was its location on the banks of the Gorge River. It was a beautiful spot.

“Two hundred dollars a month,” Melissa said with a determined jut of her chin. “With this job, and the one I just found on the night shift at the grocery, I can afford the payments, if I’m careful.”

“And you’ve found a good place for Caleb?”

“There’s the nicest old lady that lives one trailer over from mine. Mrs. Huston. She’s a widow. She has eighteen grandchildren and not one of them comes to visit. She’s always talking about them and how badly she feels that they’re so . . . neglectful.” Melissa paused and twisted a strand of lank brown hair around her forefinger. “I think they’re ashamed she lives in a trailer park. But I’ll tell you something, after the life on the streets in Syracuse, it seems like paradise to me. Anyhow, I’ve been leaving Caleb with her, and it’s worked out just fine, although,” she added wistfully, “it’s hard, not seeing him all day.”

“And this job seems to be working out for you?”

Melissa directed an inquiring look at Meg. Meg grinned at her. “The only thing Kathleen tells me is that you’re a little shy with the rest of the guys. The work you’re doing here is just fine.”

Melissa shrugged. “Well, washing dishes. You don’t exactly have to be a rocket scientist, do you?”

“If anything else comes up here, we’ll let you know,” Quill promised. Melissa nodded, in a nicely judged combination of friendliness and aloofness. She wrapped her apron more firmly around her slim middle and went to her post by the dishwashers.

“Life on the streets in Syracuse,” Meg said softly. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say a thing about where she’s from.”

“She’s going to make it, though, don’t you think?”

Meg nodded. “Oh, yeah. I think it’s the baby, myself. There’s got to be something very focusing about a baby. I wish we could make things a little easier for her, though.”

“I wish we could let her bring Caleb to work, instead of just for little visits. Her whole life’s a struggle, Meg.” Quill shook her head. “And here we are complaining that we have to cede a little space to a perfectly pleasant and probably very interesting person.”

“Yeah.” Meg rubbed her nose. “Makes you think. And I’m glad you said what you did about keeping an eye out for something a little more challenging. In the meantime, I’ve got work to do.” She ducked out of Quill’s sight and clanked around the pots and pans stored under the prep table. “Sheesh! It’s a mess in here.”

Max, attracted by the metallic rattle—undoubtedly, Quill was sure, because it was a pleasant reminder of his forays into village Dumpsters—joined Meg under the prep table. Max had wandered into their lives several years ago. He was a stray, with courage and a loyal heart. He’d been an abused and neglected mess when Quill had taken him to the vet. Not the best dog food available or the most dedicated grooming could make Max other than a sorry example of the canine gene pool. His coat was a mixture of muddy browns, dismal gray, and streaks of black. It looked as if someone had thrown a can of motor oil over him. Quill scratched what she could see of his haunches. He wagged his tail furiously and wriggled further under the prep table.

Meg shrieked in protest. “Quill, this dog is not only the homeliest dog in Hemlock Falls, he’s the pushiest. Max, get
off
of me.”

Quill slipped off the stool and crouched down. “Come on, Max. Do you want to go for a walk? Walk, Max?”

“Um, Quill?” said a familiar voice from behind her.

Quill, having gotten on all fours in order to pull Max out from the pans, swiveled around to see two pairs of feet.

The first, size-seven clogs with a pair of knee socks embroidered with frogs, she recognized as Dina’s.

The second, highly polished wingtips and topped by dark blue wool trousers, she didn’t recognize at all. Nobody in Hemlock Falls wore wingtips. Not even Elmer Henry, who took his position as mayor seriously enough so that he never was without a tie, or Howie Murchison, the town’s most trusted lawyer and justice of the peace.

Quill backed away from the prep table and straightened to her full height. A tall, thin gentleman in a dark blue suit, striped tie, crisp white shirt, and the sourest expression Quill had seen looked her directly in the eye. He held Dina firmly by the shoulder. Dina looked nervous. The suited gentleman looked stern. Quill frowned at him and said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d take your hands off our receptionist.”

He gave a supercilious sniff.

Meg gave Max a final shove and emerged from beneath the prep table, her dark hair ruffled around her pink face. She smiled politely at Dina’s escort. “Nobody’s allowed back here but staff, sir. I don’t mean to be rude but we really need to get you back into the dining room. And while you’re at it, perhaps you could unhand our receptionist? If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sorry, Meg,” Dina said. “But I couldn’t really help it. Mr. McWhirter wouldn’t let me come and bring you out to him.”

“McWhirter?” Quill said.

“Albert McWhirter,” he said. His voice was as acidulous as his expression.

“Mr. McWhirter,” Dina continued, “says he’s been sent here from the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency. And he says he’s not leaving until he sees every book in the place.”

There was a prolonged and uncomfortable silence. Dina took the opportunity to sidle next to Max.

“Yikes,” Quill said. “Well. Um. How do you do?”

“Not at all well, at the moment,” McWhirter said sourly. He directed a fulminating glace at Dina. “This young lady appears to be laboring under a misapprehension about my credentials.”

“He’s not a cemetery salesman,” Dina said meekly.

“No,” Quill said. “I can see that.”

“Miss Quilliam? We need to talk.”

“It’s Mrs. McHale, actually,” Quill said a little frostily.

“And I think it would be a good idea to have our discussion in my office,” she added firmly.

“This is the guy Mark sent?” Meg said. “Yikes, indeed. Tell you what, Quill. You go right ahead and take Mr. McWhirter back to your office. I’ll send Melissa in with some coffee.”

“I’d prefer tea,” McWhirter said.

“Tea it is.” Meg grinned at her sister and waved. “Ta-ta.”

McWhirter was dourly silent as he followed Quill back to her office. It was a nervous-making silence, and despite an heroic attempt to shut herself up, Quill began to prattle.

“This,” she said as they passed through the dining room, “is our dining room.”

McWhirter looked at the tables, seating from four to six people, most of them filled with guests reading the menu of the special of the day. “It seems an appropriate use of the space.”

“We can seat one hundred and forty-six people at a time. We aim for two turns in an evening if we can. But we usually just have one. A turn is one sitting.”

“I know what a turn is.” He gave her a thin smile. “I specialize in restaurant turnarounds.”

“Yes, well. And we go through the archway here to our reception area.” She stopped short and gestured toward the east wall. “And there’s the wine racks, of course. And here, as I say, is our reception area. We have a very good receptionist. Well, of course, you met her. Dina. Dina Muir. A very smart, very polite, very valuable employee.”

McWhirter raised one eyebrow in a saturnine way.

She patted the waist-high sign-in desk. “This nice old piece dates from the late-nineteenth century.” She edged her way past the desk to her office door and flung it open with a flourish. “And this is my office.” She craned her neck and stared straight up. “The ceiling’s made of tin. I fell in love with those wonderful decorated squares. Well . . .” At last, thankfully, she faltered to a stop.

He stopped in the doorway and looked around. There was a faint expression of distaste on his face. With his thin legs, beaky nose, and wattled chin, he reminded Quill of a turkey buzzard. She gestured grandly toward her little Queen Anne conference table. “Please sit down, and let me know how I can help you.”

“Do I know him, Quill? Sure. They call him Scrooge McWhirter,” Marge Schmidt had a gleam of humor in her basilisk eye. She hefted a large slice of icing-topped cinnamon bread from the napkin-covered basket between them and slathered butter over the whole.

“Scrooge, huh?” Quill swallowed and looked past the bread to a poster of the Grecian Isles on the diner wall. She was overdue for a vacation. “Any particular reason? For calling him Scrooge, I mean.”

Marge laughed unfeelingly. “Well, it ain’t because he’s filled with the old Christmas spirit, that’s for sure.” Quill’s stomach lurched. She wasn’t getting the flu. She was getting an ulcer.

“Scrooge McWhirter,” Quill said, as if this third repetition would invoke a kindly Christmas spirit.

He’d requested all her accounts and her appointment diary. He intended to interview each one of the staff in the coming week. And he had been quite nosy about training programs for staff—particularly staff that answered the phone.

Nonetheless—with a feeling that it was all in the lap of the gods, and they’d been treating her pretty well, lately, considering everything—she’d gone about her business the rest of the day in a mostly optimistic frame of mind. Until her breakfast date with Marge Schmidt the following morning.

“Tough, is he?” she asked Marge.

“Tough enough.”

She’d wakened that morning determined to get a grip on anything that needed gripping. And the day was shaping up to be a pleasant one. The Kingsfield contingent was due to arrive. They wanted to start shooting background for
Good Taste
right away. She talked to Meg, and they decided to offer a reduced menu in the dining room until after Christmas, since the guests were few and the walk-ins even fewer. She called the bank to make sure that the very large check, which sealed the contract to lease the name and premises of the Inn, was still residing in the company bank account. Everybody would get a Christmas bonus. The mortgage was paid up. New York State Electric and Gas would put the Inn back on its Christmas card list. The terrible anxiety—the sense of failure—that had dogged her for the past few months was gone. She was in charge, and things were going well. And then Marge had called and asked her to come to breakfast.

“Well, he’s certainly living up to his name,” she said.

All but one of the twenty-seven guest rooms at the Inn could compete with luxury hotels anywhere in the world. There was one cramped single, in the northwest corner of the Inn with a view of the now-defunct paint factory on the outskirts of the village. Quill put McWhirter in it because he’d asked for it.

Quill nibbled at a bit of cinnamon roll. “He ordered consommé and toast for dinner, and oatmeal with skim milk for breakfast. He knows he has the pick of the menu, too. Can you imagine anyone passing up Meg’s food? Especially when he doesn’t have to pay for it? And he asked for the cheapest room we had, which I almost never use for guests, unless it’s an emergency, and he seemed perfectly happy with it.”

“He’s not real big on the comforts of life,” Marge said briefly, “or so I hear. Did he have any first impressions? I’ll say this for him: he doesn’t waste any time.”

Quill unfolded the napkin covering the bread basket. “Well, it was a bit like going to the dentist, to tell you the truth. More wincing than actual pain, at least on my part.” There was freshly baked cranberry-orange bread, right next to the cinnamon bread. It looked terrific. Quill didn’t think her ulcer would object to Betty Hall’s cranberry-orange bread. It had a statewide reputation.