Dread on Arrival (11 page)

“People like you. Even if you are a nitwit about the minutes.”

“Oh.” She could feel herself blushing. “Um. Well.”

“You don’t push, see. Anyone can run right over you, and people like that.”

“I doubt that,” she said indignantly.

“You think? It’s a fact. Now me, not many people can run right over me.”

Quill thought of several replies to this and rejected all of them. “That’s true.”

“I’m not all that likeable, though.”

“I like you.”

“Yeah, but you’re a pushover. You like everybody. Except that Carol Ann.”

“Speaking of Carol Ann …”

Marge was in steamroller mode and rolled right over this. She hunched over confidingly. “There is a direct relationship between success in business and the likeability factor, if you will. The more likeable a person is, the less chance they have of making it big. It’s a constant surprise to Betts and me that you’ve managed to hang onto the Inn all these years.”

Quill rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache.

“You ought to read more of the
Wall Street Journal.
You think anyone loves Rupert Murdoch? One of the richest men in the world and definitely the toughest son of a gun in the valley.” She sat back and slapped her hands on the tabletop. “Anyway. I don’t give a rat’s behind about being liked or not, but when I set out to do something, I do it. I’m fixing to be the next mayor of this town, and you’re going to help me do it.”

“So this isn’t about the parking meters. Not really.”

“I need a popular platform, and getting rid of those parking meters is about the hottest political issue in town at the moment.”

Betty Hall came up to the table, balancing a plate of eggs in one hand and a coffeepot in the other. She didn’t say anything—she never did—but she put the plate down, poured Quill a cup of coffee, then gripped Quill’s shoulder in solidarity.

“We’re on it, Bets,” Marge said. “She’s gonna go for it. She’s gonna design the campaign poster, too. I’ve got Harvey lined up to do the printing on it. We’re having a strategy meeting right now.”

Betty nodded and stumped away. Quill looked at the special; two perfectly poached eggs on a bed of freshly sautéed spinach. The whole meal was drizzled with hollandaise. A round of golden potato straws nestled in one corner of the plate. She picked up a forkful and put it down.

“I’ve been thinking about a campaign slogan.” Marge shoved her plate to one side and put her elbows on the table. “This People for Free Parking has got a ring to it, there’s no doubt about that. But I’m thinking there ought to be something catchy, too. A slogan, like. You know what I mean?”

Quill felt herself nodding yes.

“Tote bags are big. You remember those tote bags up to the academy?”

“The ones with Monsieur LeVasque’s face on them? Everybody remembers those. They were gross, Marge. And Madame LeVasque had to recycle every single one of them after he … um … died.”

“Good PR, though. I’m thinking I should order a couple of thousand totes and with the right kind of message my face would be all over Hemlock Falls. Maybe a replica of the ballot with a big red check on my name that says Park It Here. And underneath, one of those little sketches you do at the Chamber meetings.”

“Sketches?”

“The doodling you do when you’re supposed to be taking the minutes. I saw that one you did a couple of years ago of me chasing Elmer with a Whac-a-Mole mallet.”

“You did? How did …”

“You leave the sketch pad laying on the conference table half the time. Everybody knows to look for those cartoons. Anyhow. The Whac-a Mole one was cute. Except I’m not that fat. I was thinking if you did the same kind of doodle, only it’s me sitting on Elmer, not whacking him with the mallet, it would make that tote stand out, for sure. You know, you could draw him wriggling and screaming like. It would give a what-do-you-call-it, double meaning to the slogan. ‘Park It Here’ on the ballot, so it’s like ‘vote for me,’ and ‘Park It Here’ with me squashing Elmer. Like, ‘get rid of this mayor.’”

Quill grabbed her hair with both hands and tugged at it.

“Harland’s all for it, of course.” Then, her cheeks slightly pink, she said. “Seems to think it’s creative. Says he’s never heard of anything like it before. You aren’t eating your eggs. Something wrong with ’em?”

Quill picked up her fork and began to eat her eggs. “Terrific,” she said, through a mouthful of hollandaise.

“Anyway, we need to get started right away.”

Quill swallowed. “If we could just set that aside for the moment, I was wondering what you’d think about starting a restaurant owners group.”

“Don’t have time for it. Don’t see a need for it, anyways.”

“Well, with all of the growth in town, I was thinking it might be good if we had an association of our own. Those of us in the food business, you see, have a lot of common interests.”

Marge grunted.

“And we aren’t very well represented in a … governmental sort of way. There’s a Realtors association, and you’re president of that, and Tompkins County insurance group, and you’re president of that. I think you’d make a splendid president of a restaurant owners group. We could call it the Village Restaurant Association.”

“Doesn’t have a lot of zing to it.”

“I’m sure you could think of something better. But this organization could act as a go-between with oh, say, the New York State food inspectors, the USDA, that kind of thing.”

“I’ll think about it.” Marge looked at her watch. “It’s getting on toward ten. You going down to the high school for the auditions?”

“I told Rose Ellen I’d be there, yes. But if you wanted to talk more about this association idea I have …”

“I figure the shoot’s as good a place as any to start letting folks know about my campaign. That’s what they call it, right? A shoot?”

“It’s just the assessors checking out the items to be evaluated. It’s quite pleasant here, Marge, and we could sort of sketch out a battle plan for this restaurant thing.”

“Everybody in town’s bound to be there.”

“This association could take a firm stand, a very firm stand, on some of the more unreasonable demands of, say, the food inspectors.”

“Bets never has problems with the food inspectors. Keeps the cleanest kitchen in Tompkins County. C’mon. I want to get to the auditions.” Marge slid out of the booth and stood up. “Harland went through the old barn and found a whole bunch of stuff his grandpa used to farm back before the war. Some of those tools are pretty interesting. Might be valuable, too. You and Meg dig anything up?”

“Actually, since Myles and I were out of town in August, I forgot all about it. To tell you the truth I can’t think of anything that’d be suitable anyway. Honestly, Marge, the real problem behind the …”

Marge grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her to her feet. “You drive down from the Inn or did you walk? Walked, I bet. Come on and hop in. You can ride with me. I brought the farm pickup to carry the old tools. You can help me unload ’em.”

Quill gave up and followed Marge to her pickup truck.

It was quite a nice one, with the Peterson Dairy Farm logo on the driver’s side door. The rear bed was filled with an assortment of scythes, hay forks, a butter churn, and half a dozen old metal milk jugs. Marge paused halfway into the driver’s seat. “So what d’ya think that lot’s worth?”

“Quite a lot, I should expect,” Quill said diplomatically. She hoisted herself into the passenger side, which was partly obscured by Marge’s purse and a tattered copy of a price guide to antique farm tools. She picked it up and handed it over. “Actually, you know I haven’t a clue. Do you think you have something valuable?”

Marge shoved the catalogue under the seat. “Well, we’re going to find out what some people think, anyways.”

The high school sat between the southern border of Peterson Park and Maple Avenue, the last residential street within the village limits. It served around seven hundred students, much reduced from the tide of postwar babies in the ’60s. The two-story brick school complex always reminded Quill of a movie she had seen with Meg when she was six and Quill was twelve. It was set in a two-story brick insane asylum. Meg had nightmares for a week.

The brick was a grouchy orange red. The roof was an uninspiring asphalt shingle. English ivy straggled around the foundation in a dispirited way. The trim around the double-hung windows was an off-white doing its best to look lively. The whole school was saved by the grounds. Black walnuts, oaks, aspen, mountain ash, and birch surrounded the school on three sides. The lawns were patchy, but the magnificence of the trees gave the school a glad serenity.

The administration offices, gym, and auditorium were in the middle, with the wings containing classrooms stretching out either side. The parking lot in front of the admin building was full, as both women had expected. A couple of kids in orange vests were directing traffic to the athletic field to the rear, which, Marge remarked philosophically, was just fine because the auditorium entrance was around the back, too.

They followed the single lane around the east end of the building

“Good grief,” Quill said as they came to a halt behind a line of cars waiting to park. “How can they possibly hold classes with all this commotion?”

“They aren’t,” Marge said. “The current mayor—who isn’t going to be mayor long—talked to the school board and everybody got the day off.”

“Looks like they didn’t take it.”

The athletic field was jammed with cars, vans, pickup trucks, SUVs, and even an old bus. A steady stream of people walked toward the large double doors to the auditorium. The doors were propped wide open. Two large men in sunglasses, sports coats, and chinos stood on either side of the entrance, arms folded. They looked so much like airport security guards that Quill expected them to pat down the people trying to get into the auditorium.

Most of the people in line carried an astonishing variety of stuff: paintings, vases, lamps, old books, small tables, ladder-backed chairs, antique boxes, old clothes, tote bags, wrapped parcels. A smell of mold drifted through the air. The mood of the people streaming in was cheery and hope-filled.

A smaller but equally steady stream of people came out the side door of the auditorium. They were also carrying stuff. Most of them looked huffy. A few were indignant. One or two turned and shouted into the auditorium. All were sour-faced. Quill began to see how Edmund Tree might feel the need for two hefty guys as a matter of defense.

“Rejects,” Marge said with interest. “I wondered how they were going to handle this. Must be another guy right inside the door. Takes one look at what you’ve got and you either get the old heave-ho or the go-ahead.”

“Uh-oh.” Quill opened the passenger side door and got out. “Look at that bus.”

“What bus?” Marge eased herself out of the pickup and squinted at it. “That bus? It’s an old school bus painted like the hippie vans in the sixties. What about … oh. Well, well, well.”

“That’s the
Pawn-o-Rama
bus,” Quill said, quite unnecessarily, since the side was scrawled with the name of the show in neon orange.

“I watch
Pawn-o-Rama
. Old Belter knows his stuff.” She nudged Quill in the ribs. “Look. There he is getting out of the bus. Belter himself. Who’s that in the sequin T-shirt? The one carrying the camera?”

“That’s a Steadicam,” Quill said knowledgeably. “And that’s his mother.”

“Kind of young to be his mother.”

Quill cocked her head and squinted into the sunlight. The woman with the Steadicam was a younger, smoother-faced version of Mrs. Barcini. “You’re right. I’ll bet it’s Josephine, his sister. They’re all named alike. His mother’s name is Josepha. His name is Joseph. His sister’s the camera person on the show from the looks of it. His mother’s the producer. They all look amazingly similar, don’t they?”

Marge grunted.

“His mother is the one in the tie-dye T-shirt, right behind him.” Quill closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it. Then she opened them again. “What do you suppose they’re doing here?”

Marge chuckled. “I got a pretty good idea.”

“You do?” Quill did, too. She bit her fingernail.

Belter’s standard uniform appeared to be shorts, flip-flops, and a succession of T-shirts sized for a thinner man. Today’s T-shirt was black. The Pawn-o-rama logo stretched over his belly in electric yellow, orange, and red. He sauntered up to security guy number one, and slapped him on the back. He gave the high sign to security guard number two. Then he waded into the line of hopefuls streaming into the auditorium, grinning, shaking hands, and slapping backs.

“Preemptive strike,” Marge said. “Telling people to check with him before they sell anything to Tree.”

Belter put one arm around Nadine Peterson in a friendly way. She blushed and opened up the large green garbage bag she carried. He peered into it and shouted “Yahoo!” The security guards exchanged glances and squared their shoulders. The shorter one pulled out his cell phone. The other started after Belter.

Marge began to chuckle. “Good old Belter. You coming with me? I want to get over there.”

“Belter wants to talk to them before they sell anything to Tree?” Quill echoed. “But the show just values antiques, they don’t buy anything.”

Marge rolled her eyes. “Rose Ellen Whitman’s got a junk shop, right?”