Dread on Arrival (19 page)

She found herself repeating the invitation to Marge some twenty minutes later at her realty office.

The offices were pleasant, if rather utilitarian. Hunter green indoor-outdoor carpeting covered the floor. Two artificial ficus stood in one corner. A brass coat tree stood in another. Marge’s desk was a good quality maple and an impressive row of metal filing cabinets lined one wall. Marge was in the middle of one of her periodic cleanups. Her desk was piled high with manila envelopes and her shredder was whirring away in the corner. Quill found it all oddly soothing.

Marge raised one ginger-colored eyebrow. “You sure about the invitation? I heard the invites are scarcer than hen’s teeth.”

“Of course. They need a hundred people in the audience. Clare’s arranged for a loan of folding chairs from the Church of the Word of God. I just hope enough people turn out to fill them up.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that. Everybody and his brother wants to watch Belter and Tree duke it out.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to blows. Anyhow. Bring Harland, too, if he can stand to sit through it.”

“He’d like it, but he’s getting a third cut of hay in. Doubt that he can get away.”

“Then just come yourself. I just dropped by to see if I could borrow a couple of food processors. I’ve got to get them back up to the academy.”

“I don’t see why not. Walk with me over to the diner and we’ll see what Betts can spare.” She looked at the wall clock. “Maybe get some lunch, too.”

“I’d like that.” Although she was perfectly aware that she and Marge were alone in the office, she couldn’t help glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “Before we go, I’d like a favor.”

“Ay-uh.”

This was a classic Hemlock Falls response. It meant: I’m listening, but I’m not committed.

“This wouldn’t be about this restaurant association, by any chance?”

“No. But I still think it would be a good idea.”

“… Because if it is, it’s all about Carol Ann Spinoza and her maybe getting that food inspection license.”

“Well, yes, it …”

“You really think there’s anything going on in this town that I don’t know about? Restaurant association, my foot. You want me to scare Spinoza off. All I can tell you, missy, is that you don’t have to worry.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope. I’m going to fix her little red wagon but good.”

Quill considered this statement for a moment. “Do I want to know?”

Marge grinned in a sharklike way. “I dunno if you want to know, but I’ll tell you if you keep it to yourself.”

Quill debated with herself. Marge wasn’t above a bit of blackmail when the circumstances warranted it. “If it’s anything illegal …”

“Pooh. Of course it isn’t.” Marge leaned back in her chair and laced her fingers across her belly. “You know when this town was incorporated? Of course you don’t: 1825. You know what I found when I looked up those articles of incorporation? That you have to have a residence
within
the village of Hemlock Falls to run for an elected office. You know who doesn’t?”

“Carol Ann?”

“Got it in one. She lives two hundred feet over the village boundary. I checked.”

“But she’s still within the township.”

“Doesn’t matter. So I’ll be giving her a choice; she can still run for mayor but she’s got to keep her squeaky clean little paws out of village restaurants. If she does get her license, and that’s by no means a cakewalk, she’s going to write a letter to the state authority that due to the potential conflict of interest of poking her nose around restaurants where she has dear friends and neighbors, she will not be taking any assignments in her hometown.”

“Do you suppose the state will honor that?”

“Do I have a lawyer who’ll sue Carol Ann and the state for the union pension fund if they don’t?” Marge slapped her desk top in satisfaction. “You bet your sweet patootie I do.”

“So it’s still a three-way race for mayor?” Myles said.

“Looks like it.” Quill yawned. It’d been a long day and Myles’s call was later than usual. She’d fallen asleep waiting for it and her head felt fuzzy. “I pointed out to Marge that this wasn’t the most honorable way to handle the situation, and Carol Ann is bound to plot some kind of revenge, but she just looked smug and laughed to herself every time I tried to bring it up. I’m not sure who I’d back in a contest between Marge and Carol Ann. Marge is tough, but Carol Ann’s mean. And can a town stipulate how long a person has to live in a place? You said five years. Five years seems excessive.”

“A town can pass any ordinance the town board approves. It can be challenged, of course, but that’s a lot of time and expense on the part of the plaintiff.”

“Anyhow. Marge was in such a good mood at the thought of settling Carol Ann’s hash, she agreed to make some calls concerning Tree’s creditworthiness. I told her I was concerned about the huge bills he was running up at the Inn. That’s one of the nice things about Marge. She’s always ready to lend support if finances are involved.” She didn’t mention the rather knowing look Marge had given her when she’d made the request—or the comment: “Detecting again, huh? Well, lemme know if you need to break in anywhere. Kinda got a taste for it the last time we detected together.”

“We had a good idea about looking for commonalities among the victims,” Myles said. “Did Davy come across anything yet?”

“He left a voice mail for me. Said he’d bring the information he found to the Slap Down tomorrow night.”

“I’m going to try to get back earlier than I planned.”

Quill sat up. “Oh, Myles. Do you think you could?”

“We’ll see. Things are pretty well in hand here, considering.”

Quill closed her eyes. She bet it was Libya. But she wouldn’t think about that now. She made an effort and kept her voice light. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed. How soon, do you think?”

“A week or two.”

“Darn. You realize, don’t you, that you’re going to miss the Slap Down tomorrow night. Although according to Dina, you don’t have to. She can set up her computer so you can watch with the rest of us.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Myles said agreeably. “I’ll look in from time to time.”

“Getting all of this in place is like herding cats. Hissing, cranky cats.”

“I thought you and Dina had discussed the joys of nonintervention.”

“The no busybodying rule? That was two days ago. I’d forgotten all about it. I’m going to write it on my bathroom mirror with a piece of soap and look at it every morning when I brush my teeth.”

“Hm.”

“That’s a very skeptical ‘hm’. You just watch. I’m taking most of tomorrow off. Jack and I will go to Peterson Park. We’ll wade in the Hemlock River. I will refuse to make campaign posters. I will leave the Trees and the Barcinis strictly alone. What’s more, I will refuse to be made indignant, discomposed, or dismayed by any of their hangers-on. Unless an event directly affects me or mine, I’m out of it.”

“That’s a promise?”

“It’s more than a promise. You can’t see it, but I’m raising my right hand. It’s a solemn oath.”

12

∼Zabaglione∼
2 servings

4 egg yolks¼ cup superfine sugar½ cup heavy sweet red wine, such as Marsala or portPlace egg yolks in a metal chafing dish, either copper or stainless steel. Place heat source beneath the dish, either Sterno or a similar high-temperature heat. Whip yolks to a creamy froth. Add sugar in a thin stream, whisking continuously. Mixture will begin to emulsify. When custard is smooth and thick, remove from heat. Beat in wine. Serve warm or chilled with mint leaves and sugar wafers. Quill’s new policy of nonintervention lasted until six forty-five Thursday evening when she arrived at the academy for the Tree-Barcini Slap Down.

She’d spent most of the day with Jack, having little to do at the Inn other than ask Dina to set up a Skype connection to stream the Slap Down to Myles. Everyone was caught up in Slap Down fever. Nobody called. Nobody dropped by. Nobody asked her for her endorsement for their mayoral campaign. Even the kitchen was free of squabbles since Meg spent most of the day at Bonne Goutè with Clare.

The peace and quiet were absolutely wonderful.

She was in a relaxed and happy mood when she turned Jack over to Doreen for the night and began to prepare for the event. She wasn’t sure how to dress. Belter would be in his shorts and flip-flops. Edmund and Rose Ellen would look like they were ready for a photo montage in
Vanity Fair
. Everybody else would be somewhere in between. She settled for a calf-length black skirt, boots, and a cream wool turtleneck sweater.

Bonne Goutè was lit up like a cruise ship. The parking lot was full. So was the lot around back, where the staff parked. After a fruitless five minutes looking for a parking spot, she tucked the Honda under an oak tree off the road and walked up the circular drive to the front doors. Marco was waiting for her as she stepped inside. He held a clicker in his hand and punched it. “Two hundred,” he said. “That’s it. You’re the last.”

“There are two hundred people in those kitchens?”

Marco jerked his chin down in a curt nod. The bulge in his sports coat told her he was armed. The ideal security guard, complete with a no-smile policy. At least he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. “Not counting the ones who tried to get in through the kitchen. I sent Bruce back there about half an hour ago to make sure we don’t get too full. We don’t want to violate any fire codes.”

“No, indeed.”

Marco locked the door and followed her as she headed to the back.

The long hallway to the kitchens held an overflow of people. The air was humid. It smelled sweaty. Quill didn’t like subways, elevators, or crowds very much, and she stopped. “You know, they don’t really need me in there, and one of my employees has her computer set to stream the event, which I can watch just as well from back home as here.”

“No can do. Ms. Whitman’s set up a spot for you at the judge’s table.” He grabbed her elbow and marched her forward. Quill caught a glimpse of Elmer and Adela, Nadine Peterson, and the Nickersons. All of them waved hopefully at her. Quill couldn’t get her arm raised to wave back. Marco pushed her through the thickest of the crowd—which was clustered at the entrance—and she emerged into the kitchens with a gasp.

Despite the chaos outside, the room was calm and well ordered. Somebody—probably Rose Ellen, who had a genius for design, had made excellent use of the space available.

The kitchen had six work areas; each area was a square formed of four stoves, with a prep sink at each end. The work areas faced one another, leaving a large open space in the middle, where Clare and her chefs stood to teach. The open space had been set up with two metal prep tables, angled so that Tree and Barcini could face each other and the cameras. Quill was surprised to see how little equipment seemed to be required to shoot a TV show. There were two small cameras on tripods, a monitor on a stand, and two tall skinny lights, all placed discreetly out of the way.

Eight of the twenty-four Viking stoves were set up with twelve-inch sauté pans, ready to heat the zabaglione. Bottles of Marsala stood at the ready and the eight food processors were stocked with egg yolks. Brunswick stew bubbled away in pots on the others.

The metal folding chairs were placed in four long rows around the walls. They were all occupied.

Meg, Clare, and Raleigh Brewster sat in a row behind a third prep table off in the corner by the refrigerators. Dina sat at one end, her laptop open and pointed center stage. An empty chair was at the other end. Still holding her by the arm, Marco dragged Quill over to the judge’s table. Clare smiled at her and nodded at the empty chair. “Last seat in the house.”

Quill sat down, tucked her tote beneath her feet, and said hi to everyone. She looked at Dina. “Is Myles on there?”

“I’m streaming it to his computer, but he’s not on, no. I got an email from him. He’ll try to catch us later.”

“When he comes on, let me know so I can say hey. Wow. I can’t believe how … efficient this all is.” She looked around. “Where are the Trees? Where’s Mr. Barcini?”

Raleigh rolled her eyes. “Squashed in the office with Madame. They’re going to roll out one after the other as soon as the shoot begins. There was a whole lot of squabbling over who was going to host the thing. Barcini wanted Josephine to do it, since she’s his producer and Edmund flatly refused. Edmund wanted Skipper Bryant to do it, and Barcini flatly refused. So they were at an impasse for a while. Barcini threw a punch at Edmund, but he ducked. Then Marco and Bruce—you know, the security guys—puffed up like a couple of male turkeys in mating season and things got a little dicey. But everyone settled down eventually.”

“So who’s going to host the show?”

Meg smiled. “Harvey.”

Quill laughed. “Hooray for Harvey. I’ll bet he’s over the moon.”

“He’s the only one,” Clare said. “Edmund said Harvey was too ‘unpolished.’ Barcini said Harvey was …” She stopped for a moment, clearly thinking of a more tactful word—“too effete. Then there was another squabble about who was going to whip up the zabaglione for the masses. Edmund insisted that his staff do it and Belter pitched a fit about how much air time they’d have because it’ll be very dramatic, seeing all those whisks flailing away, so we ended up with a bunch of nonprofessionals making one of the toughest desserts there is.”