when we have two huge parties - no, three, counting H. O. W. tonight. A rehearsal dinner tomorrow and a wedding on Saturday? And it's because of what the mayor said that you can't tell me?' Meg picked up a wooden spoon and threw it across the room. It bounced off a copper saut‚ pot and clattered to the floor.
'So I think we may be looking at kickbacks. I can't tell you any more than that.'
'Kickback?' Her eyes widened. 'You don't think the mayor is involved in anything illegal?'
'Of course not. I think he's a dupe.'
'Adela'd agree with you there.'
'My guess is that Nora was on track with the story, and I want tot go to Syracuse to talk to her editors at the news station.'
'Won't it keep?' Meg wailed.
'If I don't go now, when would be a better time? Tomorrow, with Claire and Elaine and Tutti getting more and more frantic about the wedding? At least tonight they'll all be at the shower Meredith is holding for Claire in the lounge. Saturday, the day of the wedding, not to mention Christmas Eve when all those editors at the station will want to go home? Sunday, which is Christmas Day? Besides, if I wait much longer, the station will have cleared out her desk, and unless they've reassigned the story, what evidence there is may be destroyed or sent home to her parents or whatever.'
'Look.' Meg set the sherry bottles down with care, primarily, Quill thought, so that she could gesticulate without disturbing the sediment. She thrust her hands through her hair, tugged at it, and said with exaggerated patience, 'Tell Myles. Have him go to Syracuse.'
'I can't.' Quill bit her lip. 'I would really like to, but I can't.'
'Why?!'
'Because I told the mayor I'd keep his secret.'
Meg went, 'Tuh!'
'Meg, I gave my word!'
'Then take Myles with you. Just don't tell him what they mayor told you.'
'That's hairsplitting, Meg.'
'You're right.' Meg picked the bottles up and carried them tenderly out of the storeroom into the kitchen. 'Myles swallowed his pride and came back here for you. Not because he heard you were in trouble. Not because he thought you'd welcome him with open arms. But because he loves you. Can't you at least call him and tell him where you're going?'
'It's not even noon. It's an hour round-trip to Syracuse and back. And it won't take me too long to talk to the editors. I'll be back before four.'
'You are driving? In this weather?' Bjarne walked to the windows overlooking the herb garden. 'You see this sky?'
'Blue,' Quill said promptly.
'Those wispy clouds at the edges? Like mushy potatoes with too much cream? Very bad. Very, very bad. In a few hours, perhaps, there will be snow.'
'Perhaps? Or for sure?' Quill hated driving in snowstorms.
Bjarne shrugged.
'I'll be back in less than four hours, Bjarne. Will it hold off until then?'
'It may not or it may.'
'Great,' said Meg. 'I just hope the heck we get those food deliveries.' She gave Quill a fierce hug. 'Go do your thing. If Myles calls, do you have a message?'
'We're meeting for dinner at six. He won't call.'
'Take my ski parka. And my hiking boots. And my hat.'
'And make sure the gas tank's filled, ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta.'
She went upstairs to her room and dressed for the drive, in a long sweater, ski pants, and long underwear. She rummaged through her bureau drawer for her 'Investigations' notebook, unused since her last foray into murder, and slipped it into her shoulder bag. She went back downstairs, and walked through the busy kitchen to the coatrack. The sleeves of Meg's parka were too short, but otherwise it was a comfortable fit. Quill added her own scarf and pulled out a pair of snow boots from the wooden box piled with odds and ends. She left by the back door to get her OIds from the garage.
The air outside was very cool and humid. A thin stream of water ran from the eaves, where the direct rays of the sun had melted the snow built up in the gutters. Mike the groundskeeper had shoveled the paths free, and she could see the Inn pickup truck, plow blade glinting in the sunlight, clearing the driveway to the road below their hill. The OIds would start easily in this weather. It always did. It was past time to get a new car, thought Quill, just like it was past time to get a new coat, but she was reluctant to give the OIds up. It was heavy, with front-wheel drive that gave her a lot of confidence in icy weather. It had also had its transmission replaced three times in its seventy-five-thousand-mile life, but the mechanic had assured her that this last install would last the life of the car. Quill skidded down the walkway to the outbuilding where they garaged their cars and maintenance equipment. She tugged on the latch of the overhead door, and it slid open, the bright day outside flooding the inside so that, for a moment, she saw the figure standing by the Oldsmobile as a blur of scarlet and tangled hair.
Despite herself, she gasped and jumped back, her heels skidding in the slush. Her voice was unexpectedly harsh. 'Get out of there!'
Robertson Davies? Wearing my coat?
She raised her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the sun. 'Mr. Blight?'
