Quill experienced a strong desire to bang her head against the solid edge of the banquet table. This was followed by an even stronger desire to bang Myles McHale's head against the banquet table, since he'd started the whole mess in the first place. She took a deep breath and was preparing to argue, when the Hemlock Inn's business manager, John Raintree, appeared at the door to the Banquet Room.
'Yo, John!' said Gil. 'Mighty glad to see you. Sorry I missed our meeting last night. I figured you and Tom could handle any stuff that needed to be decided anyways, and I had some things come up at home.'
Esther looked significantly at Quill and mouthed, 'Nadine!' Then more audibly, 'Poor Gil.'
'No problem, Gil,' said John easily, 'but I won't be able m to get the audit to you until next week.'
'That's okay with you, innit, Mark?' Gil wiped a handkerchief over his sweaty neck. 'It's not gonna hold up the loan or anything?'
Mark Anthony Jefferson, vice-president of the Hemlock Palls Savings and Loan, tightened his lips. 'Why don't we discuss this later, Gil? Your partner should be present anyway, and John's on Quill's time, now.'
'Oh, I don't mind,' said Quill. 'John's moonlighting has never interfered with our business.' She looked hopefully at him. 'Do you need me, John?'
'Yep.'
Quill sprang out of her chair with relief. 'I'll be right there. Would you all excuse me? Esther, could you take over the minutes? I'd appreciate it.'
Quill made her way swiftly into the hall and closed the door behind her. 'Just in the nick of time. I was about to be forced into taking Julie Offenbach's star turn. I have no desire to be dunked and squashed in front of two hundred gawking tourists.' She frowned at his glum expression. 'Any problems?'
John claimed three-quarters Onondaga blood, whose heritage gave him skin the color of a bronze medallion and hair as thickly black as charred toast. He had an erratic, whimsical sense of humor that Quill found very un- Indian. Not, Quill thought, that she knew all that much about Indians, John in particular. He'd been with them less than a year, and for the first time, the Inn was showing a profit. Despite the money he made between his job at the Inn and his small accounting business, John lived modestly, driving an old car, wearing carefully cleaned suits that were years out of date. He refused to touch alcohol, for reasons tacitly understood between them, and never discussed his personal life. He nodded. 'Guest complaint. And one of the waitresses called in sick for the three to eleven shift. Doreen's on vacation this week; otherwise she could pinch-hit. So that means we're short two staff for the dinner trade.'
'Did you try the backup list?' John nodded Yes to the phone calls and No to the results. 'Exam week for summer session,' he said briefly.
'Damn.' Most of the summer season help came from near-by Cornell University. 'All right. I'll take the shift myself. Unless Meg's short-handed in the kitchen?'
'Not so far.'
'And the guest complaint?' She swallowed nervously. 'No digestive problems or anything like that? Meg had Caesar salad on the menu for lunch, and she just refuses to omit the raw egg.'
'Not food poisoning, no. But we'd better comply with the raw egg ban, Quill. We're liable to a fine if we don't.'
'I know.' Quill bit her thumb. 'You tell Meg, will you, John? I mean, I should take care of this guest problem.'
'Tell your sister she can't use raw eggs anymore? Not me, Quill. No way. I'd walk three miles over hot coals for you, shave my head bald for you, but I will not tell your sister how to cook.'
'John,' said Quill, with far more decisiveness than she felt, 'you can't be afraid of my sister. She's all of five feet two and a hundred pounds, dripping wet. That makes her a third your size, probably.'
'You're half again as tall as she is, and you're afraid of your sister.'
'Then you're fired.'
'You can't fire me. I quit.'
They grinned at each other. 'I'll flip you for it,' said Quill. John pulled a nickel from his pocket and sent it spinning with a quick snap of his thumb. 'Call it.'
'Heads.'
'Tails.' John caught the coin and showed her an Indian-head nickel, tail-up. 'My lucky coin. Came to me from my grandfather, the Chief. I told you about the Chief before. You want to keep this in your pocket while you tell her no more raw eggs?'
'I'll take care of the guest first. Is it a him or a her?'
'Her.'
'Perennial?' This was house code for the retired couples who flooded the Inn in the spring, disappeared in autumn, and reappeared with the early crocus. In general, Quill liked them. They tended to be good guests, rarely, if ever, stiffing the management, and except for a universal disinclination to tip the help more than ten percent, treated the support staff well. This was in marked contrast to traveling businessmen who left used condoms rolled under the beds - which sent Doreen, their obsessive-compulsive housekeeper, into fits - or businesswomen demanding big-city amenities like valet services, a gym, and pool boys.
'It's an older woman,' said John. He paused reflectively. 'Kind of mean.'
'I'm good with mean.' She glanced at her watch; fifteen minutes before the start of the afternoon shift. She'd just make it if John's complainer didn't have a real problem 'The wine shipment's due at four. The bill of lading is...um... somewhere on my desk.'
'I'll find it. My grandfather, the Chief...'
'Was a tracker,' Quill finished for him. 'I'd like to meet your grandfather. I'd like to meet your grandmother,
