'You knew Lane McIntosh in school, didn't you, Doreen?' asked Meg.
'Wasn't Lane, then. She was Ee-laine. Elaine Herkemeyer. Daddy owns that there dairy farm up on Route 96. Marge Schmidt knew her, too. Marge says she's done pretty well for herself, marrying that Vittorio.'
Marge, owner and senior partner in the Hemlock Hometown Diner (Fine Food! and Fast!), was probably the wealthiest (and certainly the nosiest) citizen in Hemlock Falls. Lane McIntosh was a former Hemlockian; Marge would know the McIntoshes' balance sheet to the penny because Marge knew every past and current Hemlockian's net worth to the penny.
'I like her,' said Meg, although nobody'd said anything derogatory about Lane.
'I like her, too,' said John. 'But she is... ummm...'
'Nervous,' Quill supplied.
'A little dithery,' Meg offered. 'Now, that Claire...'
'Ugh,' Quill agreed.
'That Elaine's gone crazier than an outhouse rat,' said Doreen. 'Didn't used to be. Always full of piss and vinegar, that one. And now look at her. Worrit about keeping holt of all that money, I shouldn't wonder.'
'Well, I think it's very nice that she wants her daughter to be married in Dookie Shuttleworth's church,' said Quill. 'She told me that's where she married Vittorio, twenty-five years ago. Did you go to her wedding, Doreen?'
Doreen snorted. 'Me? Not likely. Marge didn't go neither. On'y ones ast to that weddin' were Vittorio's fancy friends from New York City.' Her beady eyes narrowed in recollection. 'Elaine tolt you twenty-five? That was thirty years ago, or I'm a Chinaman. Elaine shaving a few years off herself?' She eyed Quill from beneath her graying frizz. 'There's plenty of us remember how long ago it was. So. I don't expect to get invited to this one, neither. This Alphonse Santini's some hot-shot senator, ain't he?'
'Was,' said Quill. Santini's defeat in the recent elections had revived her somewhat shaky faith in the electorate. 'He lost. By the way, who gave you all that information about him?'
'Hah?'
'Don't 'hah' me. All that stuff about Mafia hearings and kickbacks you were hollering about at breakfast. Did you read it somewhere?'
Doreen gave her an innocent blink. 'I'm a citizen, ain't I? I can subscribe to Newsweek like anybody else. Thing is, Santini never shoulda bin elected in the first place. Stuffing the payroll with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. Bein' bought off by fat-cat political interests.'
'Allegedly,' said John. 'Nothing was ever proven. The official line is that Santini was defeated in this eyar's general ousting of incumbents, Democratic and Republican.'
Doreen's snort, honed by years of use against those guests she felt to be both intemperate and obstreperous (Quill surmised this was approximately ninety percent of the Inn's registry at any given moment) had the force of conviction behind it. 'Ha!' she said. 'And ha! I bin readin' about conspiracy ever since Sheriff McHale and Mr. Murchison got their asses booted out of office six weeks ago. Conspiracy's behind this whole crapola about S. O. A. P., too.'
'Conspiracy?' asked Quill. 'What conspiracy?'
'On account of Al Santini.'
'Doreen, Al Santini lost the election,' said Meg. 'This is a good thing. He was a bad senior. I voted against him, and I assure you. I am not part of any conspiracy. The election for the Senate has nothing to do with the town elections. Although the town elections may have a lot to do with S. O. A. P. That's a possible conspiracy, I admit it.'
'There's a pile that goes on that us citizens don't know nuthin' about. I ast Stoke to look into it on account of it's time he did an editorial.'
Doreen's husband, her fourth, was Axminster Stoker, editor and publisher of the Hemlock Falls Gazette. The Gazette specialized in weddings, funerals, lost dog reports, and, in February in central New York State, a 'Notes From Florida' column, which consisted of chatty notes from those residents of Hemlock Falls fortunate enough to afford to escape the brutal winters.
Quill, conscious of foreboding, asked anxiously, 'About this protest, Doreen? And this political group? Did you mean H. O. W.? I didn't know H. O. W. considered itself a political group as such.'
'Depends on what you mean, `groups.' '
This was ominous. 'Citizen committees. Or anti-federalist committees. Or, you know,' Quill floundered for a moment, 'activists.'
Doreen was a joiner. Her joining proclivities could be relatively innocent - like Amway - or on more than one occasion, riot-inducing, like the Church of the Rolling Moses. Up until now, her intentions had been good - even worthwhile, but with Doreen, one never knew for sure.
Meg, her attention drawn from her menu planning, looked up. 'You signed up for the NRA, Doreen? Or maybe with those guys who dress up in camouflage on weekends and mutter about the FBI planting transmitters in their rear ends?'
Doreen's expression brightened at the mention of gluteal implants.
'Never mind,' Quill said hastily. 'Just please, Doreen. No more throwing stuff at the guests. No forks. No spoons. Got it?'
Doreen grunted. Quill couldn't tell if this signaled agreement or indigestion.
Meg scowled. 'We've got a final count for the Santini reception, Doreen. It's a lot larger than we'd thought, so we may be looking at more overnight guests. That's going to affect your maid staffing. What about registration, John? How many people will actually be staying? And for how long?'
