too, as a matter of fact - ' She stopped, aware that the flippant conversation was heading into dangerous waters. John's quiet, lonely existence was his business. 'Never mind. Where is she?'
'Lobby.' He grinned, teeth white in his dark face. 'Good luck.'
Quill took the steps up to the lobby with a practiced smile firmly in place. She and Meg had bought the twenty-seven-room Inn two years before with the combined proceeds of her last art show and Meg's early and wholly unexpected widowhood. Driving through Central New York on a short vacation, Meg and Quill had come upon the Inn unexpectedly. They came back. Shouldered between the granite ridges left by glaciers, on land too thin for farming, Inn and village were fragrant in spring, lush in summer, brilliant with color in the fall. Even the winters weren't too bad, for those tolerant of heavy snowfall, and Hemlockians resigned themselves to a partial dependence on tourists in search of peak season vacations. The Inn had always attracted travelers; as a commercial property, it proved easy to sell and less easy to manage. It had passed from hand to hand over the years. New owners bought and sold with depressing regularity, most defeated by the difficulty of targeting exactly the right customer market. The relationships among longtime residents of Hemlock Falls were so labyrinthine, it was a year before Quill realized that Marge Schmidt and Tom Peterson, Gil Gilmeister's partner, had owned the Inn some years before. Marge had made a stab at modernizing. She installed wall-to-wall Astro-turf indoors ('Wears good,' said Marge some months after Quill removed it. 'Whattaya, stupid?') and plywood trolls in the garden.
The reception-lobby was all that remained of the original eighteenth-century Inn, and the low ceilings and leaded windows had a lot to do with Quill's final decision to buy it. Guests were in search of an authentic historical experience, as long as it was accompanied by heated towel racks, outstanding mattresses, and her sister's terrific food. If they could restore the Inn with the right degree of twentieth-century luxury, people would come in busloads. Quill had stripped layers of paint and wallpaper from the plaster-and-lathe walls, replaced vinyl-backed draperies with simple valances of Scottish lace, and tore up the Astro-turf carpeting. The sisters had refinished the floors and wainscoting to a honeyed pine, and landscaped the grounds.
The leaded windows in the lobby framed a view of the long sweep of lawn and gardens to the lip of Hemlock Gorge. Creamy wool rugs, overwoven in florals of peach, celadon, taupe, and sky blue, lightened the effect of the low ceiling. Two massive Japanese urns flanked the reception desk where Dina Muir checked guests in. Mike, the groundskeeper, filled the urns every other morning with flowers from the Inn's extensive perennial gardens. As usual this early in July, they held Queen Elizabeth roses, Oriental lilies of gold, peach, and white, and spars of purple heather.
The lobby was welcoming and peaceful. Quill smiled at Dina, the daytime receptionist, and raised an inquiring eye- brow. Dina made an expressive face, and jerked her head slightly in the direction of the fireplace.
An elderly woman with a fierce frown sat on the pale leather couch in front of the cobblestone hearth. A woman at least thirty years her junior stood behind the chair. The younger one had a submissive, tentative air for all the world like that anachronism, the companion. Quill's painter's eye registered almost automatically the lush figure behind the modestly buttoned shirtwaist. She could have used a little makeup, Quill thought, besides the slash of red lipstick she allowed herself. Something in the attitude of the two women made her revise that thought; the elder one clearly dominated her attendant and just as clearly disapproved of excess.
'I'm Sarah Quilliam,' she said, her hand extended in welcome.
'I'm Mavis Collinwood?' said the younger woman in a southern drawl that seemed to question it. Her brown hair was lacquered like a Chinese table and back-combed into a tightly restrained knot. 'Mrs. Hallenbeck doesn't shake hands,' Mavis, in a voice both assured and respectful. 'Her arthritis is a little painful this time of year.'
Only the glaucous clouding of Mrs. Hallenbeck's blue eyes and the gnarled hands told Quill that she must be over eighty. Her skin was smooth, shadowed by a fine net of wrinkles at eye and mouth. She sat rigidly upright, chin high to avoid the sagging of throat and jowl. Her figure was slim rather than gaunt, and Quill took in the expensive watch and the elegant Chanel suit. Mrs. Hallenbeck fixed Quill with a basilisk glare. 'I wish to speak to the owner.'
'You are,' said Quill cheerfully. 'What can I do for you?'
'Our reservations were not in order.' The old lady was clearly displeased.
'I'm very sorry,' said Quill, going to the ledger. 'You weren't recorded in the book? I'll arrange a room for you immediately.'
'We were in the book. I had requested the third-floor suite. The one overlooking the gorge, with that marvelous balcony that makes you feel as though you were flying.' She paused, and the clouded blue eyes teared up a little. 'My husband and I stayed here, years ago. I am retracing our days together.'
Quill's look expressed sympathy. 'That girl of yours. She put us into two rooms on the second floor. It overlooks the back lawn. It is not a suite. It is not what I require. I demanded to see the owner, and John Raintree said that these arrangements had been made and could not be changed.'
'Let me see what we can do.' Quill checked the booking: Hallenbeck, Amelia, and Collinwood, Mavis. The reservation had been made three months ago, by one of the gilt-edged travel agencies in South Carolina. Paid for in advance with an American Express Gold card. There it was: Requested Suite 312-314. And just as clearly marked in John's handwriting were their current rooms: Confirmed 101 and 104. 'Did Mr. Raintree say anything at all about why the rooms were booked this way? He's a wonderful help to us, Mrs. Hallenbeck, and rarely makes mistakes. It's not like him to make a change like this without a reason.'
'He did not say one word.' The tones were decisive. If she'd had a whip, she would have cracked it.
Quill suppressed a grin. 'I'm certain that no one's in three-fourteen. Shall we go up and see if it's suitable for you?' Mrs. Hallenbeck nodded regally. The three of them went up the stairs. Any notion that John may have booked them into first-floor rooms due to Mrs. Hallenbeck's arthritis was quickly dispelled; she took the steps with a lot less effort than Mavis Collinwood, who began to breathe heavily at the second-floor landing. Quill unlocked the door to the suite and stepped aside to let them enter.
Quill loved all twenty-seven rooms at the Inn, but 314 was one of her favorites. A white Adams-style fireplace dominated the wall opposite the balcony. The carpeting was crisp navy-blue. The couch and occasional chairs were covered in blue-and-yellow chintz, the colors of Provence. French doors opened out onto a white- painted iron balcony cantilevered over the lip of Hemlock Gorge, giving 314 a panoramic view of the Falls.
Quill stepped out and watched the cascade of water over granite. Bird calls came from the pines and joined the water's rush. Sweet smells from the gardens and the hemlock groves mingled with the daffodil-scent of fresh water. Mrs. Hallenbeck followed Quill onto the balcony, her chin jutting imperiously. She inhaled. 'Dogwood,' she stated precisely, 'and one of the scented roses.'
'Scented Cloud,' said Quill. 'It's a lovely rose, too. We grow it out back.'
'This,' Mrs. Hallenbeck said, 'is what I asked for. I will walk in the hemlock glade after dinner.'
