Dread on Arrival (7 page)

“You don’t think you’re overreacting? Just a bit?”

Quill thought about it. “Maybe,” she said. “Although the thought of Carol Ann as mayor is totally sickening. Even you have to agree to that.”

“You know, dear heart, if you took a few days off, things would settle into …”

“Perspective?” Quill demanded.

“Perspective,” Myles said. “The very word.”

“You think I’m losing my perspective?”

“I think you might need some time for yourself. Why don’t you and Jack go back up to the Adirondacks for a week or two? Or do you think the place will combust without you?”

“I’m sounding a bit witless, aren’t I?” Quill settled back into the pillows with a sigh. “It’s not like me, having this short a fuse.”

“You’re settled into your old quarters all right?” His voice was warm and deep, and if she closed her eyes, she could imagine, just barely, that he was across the room, his big shoulders blocking out the moonlight streaming in from the balcony.

“Oh, yes. Everyone’s used to it by now. You take off for a month to God knows where, and we settle back in here. And it’s just as well we’re not in the house, Jack and I. Too lonesome without you. We’re doing just fine. And if you say ‘that’s my brave girl’ I’ll make a rude noise into the phone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“It’s not just missing you, which I do, and it’s not the spat with Meg, which will resolve itself one way or the other or even the awful Edmund Tree and the equally awful Barcinis. We’ve had worse guests. Meg and I have had worse fights. It’s something fundamental. I guess it’s the changes in the village. You know, Myles, the guests and tourists and visitors come and bring their outside universes with them and then they go and things settle back the way they were. Except not this time. They’ve brought a lot of money with them and it’s sticking and things seem to be changing permanently. Progress for the People,” she added. “What a lot of hooey.”

“You’re upset by success?”

“I’m not upset by success. Success is great. It’s how people go about being successful that bugs me.”

Myles didn’t say anything.

“Hello? Myles?”

“Still here.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Never.”

“You’re thinking I should have a glass of wine and go to sleep.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“I told you that those wretched Barcinis had dinner and refused to pay for it? Mamma Barcini insisted I’d offered them a free meal to make up for messing up their room reservation.”

“You did tell me that, yes.”

“And did I tell you Edmund Tree had dinner with Rose Ellen and when Tree wasn’t sneering at Belter he was sneering at Rose Ellen’s plans for the wedding. He doesn’t think the Inn is grand enough for the nuptials. That’s what he called his wedding. Nuptials. Ha.”

“You mentioned that, too.”

“And did I tell you they have
separate rooms
! Rose Ellen’s moving in here the night before the wedding. She told me Edmund has old-fashioned ideas about purity.” She snorted. “The man’s a fruitcake.”

“Undoubtedly. Dear heart, I have to go.”

Quill sighed. The phone calls were always too short. “Okay. I e-mailed you today’s pictures of Jack.”

“I downloaded them right away.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“I’ll look again and let you know when we talk tomorrow. I love you, Quill.”

“I know, I know. You’re going, going, gone. I love you, Myles. Stay safe.”

The cell went dead. Quill tossed the phone onto the coverlet and got out of bed. She cracked open the door that led to Jack’s tiny bedroom and checked on her sleeping son. Moonlight streamed in through the open window. He lay on his back, face upturned, mouth slightly open, one hand curled around his stuffed pig. Her angelic boy. She swallowed hard. She was in need of time off if the mere sight of her sleeping son could bring her to tears.

Max snored at his feet. The old dog was getting deaf, and Quill gently smoothed his fur. He was also getting … fat?

Puzzled, Quill bent down and peered at his stomach. Max hadn’t gained an ounce. There was a large cat curled beneath his perfectly normal-sized belly. The moonlight turned everything in the room silvery gray, but she knew the shape. It was orange, large, and familiar.

“Bismarck,” she whispered. “What the heck are you doing here?”

Bismarck mewed. Jack stirred in his sleep. Quill made a small, exasperated sound and hoisted Bismarck onto her hip. He was a Maine coon cat, and weighed upwards of thirty pounds. He belonged to Clare Sparrow and usually watched over the kitchens at Bonne Goutè, but he had a nomad’s habit, and a fondness for either Jack or Max or Meg’s leftovers. Quill wasn’t sure which. Probably all three.

She edged into the light, shut the bedroom door softly, and set the cat on his feet.

“So,” she said. “What brings you calling so late?”

Bismarck squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, in an ingratiating way.

“Clare feeds you. Half the staff at Bonne Goutè feeds you. That’s partly why you’re such a monster. You think I’m going to feed you, too?”

Bismarck wound himself around her ankles and mewed again.

“You really have to stop sneaking over here at night, Bismarck. What time is it … ten? Not too late to call your mistress, then.” She picked up her cell phone. Clare was on speed dial and answered almost immediately.

“Don’t tell me,” Clare said. “I saw it was your number and my cat’s missing and I’ll bet he’s after Meg’s pâté again. You want me to come get him?”

“He’s perfectly welcome to spend the night, Clare.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting out of here for a bit. It’s Monday and things are a little slow. Jack will be asleep in your rooms, won’t he? Maybe we could meet across the hall at Meg’s. It’s been a while since we’ve had a girl’s night out.” She hesitated, and then said in a rush, “I have a bit of a problem. I’d like your advice.”

Quill caught the hesitancy in Clare’s voice. This rift with Meg had to be affecting her, too. Suddenly, she felt very much like a girl’s night out. Maybe the three of them could settle this stupid rivalry and things could get back to normal. “That sounds great. Tell Meg when you come through the kitchen. Our last order’s at ten, so she should be free by the time you get here.”

Bismarck gave her ankle a determined nudge and gave her a loud “I’m starved” mew. Quill folded and opened a can of tuna fish she’d been saving for Jack’s lunch.

She left him to it and wandered out onto her balcony. That Clare was willing to take the first step in mending fences with Meg was great. She knew Meg almost as well as she knew herself; her sister had a generous heart, even when it came to her cherished career. This could all be smoothed over. They’d bonded over Rose Ellen’s nit-picking at the menu meeting.

She leaned against the balcony and took a deep breath of the fragrant air. The moon floated on a wispy ocean of clouds. The distinctive scent of autumn was a poignant herald of the winter to come. Her rooms were over the kitchen door two floors below, and she could hear the faint clatter of pans, a murmur of voices, the sounds of the Inn winding down for the night. The kitchen door banged open and a tall, slim figure walked down the short brick path to the parking lot. Bjarne, headed home to his wife in nearby Covert. Then Elizabeth Chou left, always in a hurry, even at the end of a long day.

And then a scrape of heel on iron, quite near.

Startled, Quill bent over the iron balustrade and peered to her left. There were fire escapes on each side of the main building. It sounded very much as if someone had come out the third-floor fire door. The fire door locked automatically on the outside; she hoped whoever it was had figured that out. There was a pause, the rattle of a doorknob, and then the soft thud, thud, thud of feet coming down the iron steps.

“Hello?” Quill said. “If you’re locked out, I’ll be happy to let you in.”

The footsteps paused, and then kept on going down, in a rush.

“Hello?”

No answer. The stairs ended in rosebushes—a flourishing bed of Apricot Nectar, which was exceptionally thorny. There was a solid thump as whoever it was stumbled off the last step, then a muffled, hissed expletive. The footsteps scraped against the gravel and faded away.

In the parking lot, a car door slammed. She heard the low rumble of the motor and whoever it was—she shivered in the chilling air—whatever it was, had gone.

Troubled, she went inside, cracked Jack’s bedroom door to assure herself he was still asleep, and then went into the hallway, Bismarck at her heels. She and Meg had re-carpeted all the hallways just last year, in a thick navy blue patterned with pale pink stripes. It suited the old building (to everyone’s surprise except her own) and it was excellent soundproofing. Leaving her own door opened, she went to the end of the hallway and to the fire door, which opened directly onto the fire escape. There were carriage lights at each of the three landings and to her surprise, they were out.

Bismarck threaded around her ankles and went out onto the wrought-iron landing. She made a lunge for him and missed. “Darn it, Biz. Come back here.”

“Is he being a pain in the neck again?”

Quill jumped.

“Sorry,” Clare said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Her hair was a tangle, there was a smudge on her cheek, and she smelled of food. She’d exchanged her chef’s whites for jeans and a sweatshirt, but she’d obviously had a long night in the kitchen.

Quill gave her a quick hug. “It’s good to see you. I didn’t mean to jump. I didn’t hear the elevator.”

“I walked up the stairs. The elevator didn’t come down and didn’t come down and I finally gave up waiting.”

Bismarck crouched on the iron grill and batted at something. Quill lunged after him.

Clare nudged her gently aside. “Here, let me. It’s my lousy cat. Come on, Biz. Come to Mamma. What have you got there? Whatever it is, drop it.”

Quill caught it just before whatever it was fell and bounced down the fire escape. “It’s the lightbulb from the carriage lamp.”

Bismarck jumped up and batted it out of her hands.

“So that’s why it’s so dark out here.” Clare clutched the cat by the scruff of the neck, “Oof, he’s heavy. Here, Quill. I’ve got him. Close the door before he scoots off again.” Clare backed into the hallway, Bismarck clutched awkwardly around his middle. His forepaws dangled over her arms and his hindquarters bumped gently against Clare’s knees. He regarded Quill placidly. There was tuna fish on his nose.

Clare straightened up with a whoosh of air. “Jeez. He’s either getting fatter or I’m aging faster than I should. I’ll put him down and get the lightbulb.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got to give Mike a call anyway. We’ve got to replace the bulbs on the landings or we’ll be in violation of some darn code or another. There’s this special screwdriver that opens the carriage lamps and …” She broke off. “On second thought, maybe I ought to give Davy Kiddermeister a call.”

“The sheriff? Why in the world would you want to call the sheriff about a missing lightbulb?”

Quill patted her skirt pocket and found a tissue. “Fingerprints.” The lightbulb sat on the top of the stairway. She stepped out and picked it up, careful to avoid touching the surface with her bare hands.

“O-o-o-kay,” Clare said dubiously.

Quill wrapped the bulb in the tissue and stowed it in her pocket. “I’ll put it in a Baggie, just to be sure.” She came back inside and closed the fire door behind her. “Did you park in front or in the back?”

“Just now? I parked in the front and came in the front door. How come?”

“Did you meet a car coming down the driveway?”

“I met a couple of cars coming down the driveway. Your kitchens close at ten on weekdays. It’s ten twenty, now. A bunch of people were headed out. Why? What’s going on?”

“Somebody just left down the fire escape.”

“From here?”

“Well, of course, from here,” Quill said.

“You mean, somebody was sneaking around like a burglar?”

“Well. No. He, she, whatever didn’t sneak, exactly. But why leave by the fire escape?”

“Umm … because I waited and waited for the elevator and it didn’t come and whoever it was got tired of waiting for the elevator, too?”

Quill sighed. “That’d be the charming Mr. Edmund Tree. We put him on the second floor, in the Provencal suite.”

“That’s the one with the blue-and-yellow-print fabric on the bedspread and the drapes. I just love that room, Quill.”

“Whatever. I mean, thank you. And yes, it’s our most expensive room. Anyhow, Mr. Tree doesn’t like having to wait for the elevator, so he wedges it open so it’s always available and housekeeping comes along and unwedges it and he wedges it back again.”

“Oh, Lord. One of those.” Clare wrinkled her nose. It didn’t take long for people in the hospitality business to realize a fair number of patrons were hell on wheels to deal with. “How long is he staying?”

“Two weeks. At least he’s going to be away from here most of the time. The preliminary auditions for the antiques show begin tomorrow, and then there’s the shoot itself, and of course, the wedding. Anyway—that’s probably why the elevator didn’t come. But how come my burglar didn’t use the inside stairs?”

“Why not use the fire escape if the fire door was closer?” Clare asked reasonably. “Really, Quill. A burglar at ten o’clock in the evening? With half the dining room filled with happy eaters? I don’t think so.”