trouble with the deliveries, you call me directly, Quill. See you tonight at the meeting.'
Quill drove back to the Inn, the matchbook and the photograph safely in her purse. Something, she told herself darkly, was definitely afoot.
She parked in her usual spot by the back door to the kitchen, turned the ignition off, and thought through the events of the past few days. John, the ready recipient of all her confidences over the past year, her true partner in the sometimes harrowing responsibilities of innkeeping, had to be protected somehow. Quill knew there was an explanation of the picture, of Tom Peterson's matchbook, of Gil's death, if she could just buy a little time for John. She had to talk to him.
But first she had to find him.
The dashboard clock said six-seventeen. The Chamber was in the middle of a costume rehearsal, followed by dinner at six-thirty. She and Myles had a standing date Saturday nights - subject to various Tompkins County or Hemlock Inn emergencies - which started about ten. The rest of the evening left very little time to search John's room for further clues - such as, a nasty voice whispered in her head, the bolt from Peterson's John Deere tractor. Quill bit her lip hard, and pushed the thought away.
She couldn't talk to Meg; the presence of L'Aperitifs critic coinciding with a dining room oversold to History Days tourists would already have her bouncing off the walls. As it was, with John still missing and unable to serve as sommelier, Quill would have to scrape her off the ceiling.
Myles could help, of course - with an All Points Bulletin. But exposure to official questions raised by the presence of that photograph in the wallet of a drowning victim could only endanger John, at least until she knew the facts.
No, Myles was out of the question. Besides, she'd interfered with his investigations before. The wrath of Moses on discovering the defalcations of the Israelites was nothing to it. She would just have to handle this herself. There was one advantage to half of Hemlock Falls stuffing the Inn tonight - somebody must have seen John. If she kept her inquiries discreet, she might find him before anyone other than she and Meg knew he'd gone missing.
'Did John show up yet?' Meg thrust her head in the open car window. 'Did he tell you where he'd been? Is he sober? Did you get the meat? And what the heck are you doing sitting in here doing absolutely nothing! Do you know what's happening?' Meg raked her hair forward in irritable bursts.
'What's happening?' asked Quill, calmly getting out of the car. 'Are the sous chefs all here?'
'Yes!'
'And the wine and fruit deliveries okay?'
'Yes! Yes! Yes!'
'And the Inn's not on fire.' Quill steered her sister back to the kitchen.
'No! Don't be such a smartass, Quill. We need John! Look!' Quill pushed the right half of the dining room door open and peered around it. Edward Lancashire, dressed in an elegant charcoal-gray suit, was talking to an equally elegant blonde by the windows overlooking the gorge. His wife, Quill bet. The dining room was filled with chattering tourists for the Early Bird specials. Quill squinted at a tuxedoed figure seating guests. Not John, but Peter Williams, the young graduate student who worked as headwaiter on weekends. Peter circled the room, quietly observant of the quality of service. Quill let out a small sigh of relief; Peter could pinch-hit as sommelier cum maitre d'. All she had to do was distract Meg long enough to get her back to the kitchen. Once absorbed in her cooking, Meg would be oblivious to Armageddon and stop plaguing her with questions she couldn't answer.
'I've seen the woman with Edward somewhere before,' Quill said mendaciously. 'Is that one of the editors, do you think?'
'Oh, God,' breathed Meg: 'I'll bet it is! Where's John, dammit. They'll need an aperitif.'
'I'll tell Peter to take care of them.'
'Don't tell him they're from L'Aperitif They're supposed to be incognito.'
'And you go back into the kitchen.'
'Right.'
'And cook like hell.'
'Right.' Face as tense as any Assyrian coming down like a wolf on the oblivious Sennacharib, Meg flexed her hands and returned to the Aga.
Quill looked at her watch and dashed to her room to change. One of these days she'd get organized enough to leave time for a real bath, but two years at the Inn had honed her fast-shower technique. The desire for a leisurely soak fell prey to necessity more and more often.
Quill's rooms were simply decorated, designed as a refuge from the demands of her day. Natural muslin curtains hung at the windows. A cream damask-stripe chair and couch sat under the mullioned south window. A cherry desk and armoire stood in the corner. Beige Berber carpet covered the pine floor. The eggshell walls held two paintings, both by friends from New York, and a few pen-and-ink sketches she'd done as a student. Her easel stood in the southwest window, a half-finished study of roses and iris glowing in the subdued light. She spared the roses a perplexed frown, then showered quickly, subdued her curly red hair into a knot at the top of her head, and slipped into a teal silk dress with a handkerchief hem. The Saturday night before the start of History Days was traditionally fancy dress. The costume rehearsal was an excuse for the actors to parade their elaborate outfits for the admiration of the tourists and those citizens unlucky enough to be merely bystanders.
By the time Quill clattered down to the dress rehearsal, the Inn was filled with the low hum of guests.
Quill slipped into the conference room unnoticed. Two of the salespeople from Esther's store had spent the afternoon cataloging and tagging the costumes in the conference room and Quill walked into a room transformed. Portable clothes racks filled with gold silks, pink taffetas, green velvets, and enough ecru lace to choke the entire flock of Marvin Finstedder's goat farm lined the walls. All twenty-four cast members of The Trial of Goody Martin (eighteen whose participation was limited to the repetition of the phrase 'Sink or swim !') squeezed together cheek by jowl. Esther laced Betty Hall into a fuschia chiffon townswoman's costume; Elmer Henry stood in front of a full- length mirror on wheels adjusting the gold lace on his cuffs; Howie Murchison paced gravely around the room, and flipped the lapel of his skirted coat forward to reveal a hand-lettered button that read 'Colonial Intelligence Agency' at anyone who'd stop long enough to read it.
