and Hemlock History Days, and the boutique mall where our restaurant...' She trailed off. Each of these events, in one way or another, had ended in some degree of disaster. 'Urn,' said Quill. She thought a moment. 'Did I tell you I checked the Innkeeper's Code of Laws?'
'You did not. I was not aware there was any such institutionalization of innkeeping behaviors.'
There would be by nightfall if she had a few minutes with her computer and printer. Quill gestured vaguely. 'The code bars me from any political affiliation. Sort of like judges, you know.' She gave Doreen a meaningful stare. 'It bars housekeepers, too.'
Doreen made a noise like 'T'uh!'
'I see.' Adela regarded Al Santini, who was shaking hands with as many departing H. O. W. members as would allow it, with disapproval. 'We've determined, as you may know, that the fourth Thursday of every month shall be the official H. O. W. meeting date. That's the day after tomorrow, assuming that the conference room here will be free at that time. The Innkeeper's Code cannot possibly bar political meetings of ordinary citizens.'
Quill tried to concentrate. There was something about that date... She shook her head. 'I'll have to check the calendar. I think it will be okay, but I'm not altogether certain.'
'I will take that as a yes. Come, Marge, Doreen. We'll retire to Marge's diner. I have a few ideas about the protest that I'd like you to hear.'
'Protest?' asked Quill. 'Wait a minute. What protest?'
'Never you mind,' said Doreen. 'I'll see ya later.'
'Doreen!' Quill yelled in frustration at their retreating backs. 'Are you planning to come into work today, or what?!'
'Labor troubles?' asked Al Santini in passing. 'You should vote Republican.'
'It's not going to affect the wedding, is it?' Claire, tagging behind her betrothed like a dingy caboose, clutched Quill's arm. She demanded in her nasal twang, 'Daddy'd be reeely upset if anything affected the wedding.'
Quill opened her mouth to assure Claire of the absolute integrity and quality of the Inn's level of service, but Claire rolled on, 'You go ahead, AI. Quill? We need to talk. Where can we talk?'
Quill surveyed the dining room. It had emptied with dismaying rapidity. Even the nosy Nora had gone - before, Quill hoped, she'd heard any intimations of a political protest to be staged by H. O. W. 'Of course, Claire. Let's sit down here.'
'The tables haven't been cleared,' Claire said. 'I hate it when the tables haven't been cleared. You're sure that your staff is up to this? I mean, I've had my doubts about this little backwater even though Mummy said your sister is absolutely famous. But, I mean, my Go-od, there's nothing here. It's all very well for you. Mummy said everybody who's anybody knows about your painting, although I never heard of you in my art appreciation classes, and I guess you can paint on the moon or anyplace like that if you want to.'
'Claire,' said Quill. 'Follow me over here. To the window.'
Claire trailed Quill like a quarrelsome duckling. Quill pushed her gently into a chair at table seven, sat down opposite her, and fixed her with a firm - yet friendly - glare. 'Now. How can I help you?'
Somebody, Kathleen the head waitress, most likely, who had been taking evening courses at the nearby Cornell Hotel school, had folded the crisp white napkins into elaborate tulip shapes. Claire picked one up, unfolded it, tried to refold it, and blew her nose in it. 'Sorry. Allergies. Look. You've got to think of some way to keep my grandmother out of this wedding.'
'Excuse me?'
Claire frowned. She was a natural blonde, in her late twenties, with the dry papery skin that affects thin women who spend too much time in the sun. In a few years, she was going to need the services of Nora Cahill's plastic surgeon. 'Tutti,' she said impatiently, 'Daddy's mother. My grandmother.'
Quill tugged at her hair, examined a curl, then said, 'You don't want your grandmother at the wedding?'
'Of course not. She'll spoil everything!'
'This is just a little case of nerves, Claire. You'll be fine. I can't imagine how your grandmother could spoil your wedding. Is she ill? Are you afraid it might be too much for her? We have an excellent internist here, and a very fine small clinic. If she needs medical help, we'll be happy to make arrangements for a nurse.'
'She doesn't need a nurse. She's crazy,' Claire said resentfully.
'Oh, dear. Is it Alzheimer's? I'm so sorry, Claire.'
'Good grief, no. She's not certifiable. At least a judge wouldn't think so. Stupid jerk.'
Quill wasn't sure if this last referred to her, to the unknown judge, or to Tutti, and she wasn't about to inquire. Her own grandmother had been an elegant, forceful lady whom she had loved very much. 'Gosh, Claire. I don't think I can do too much about your guest list. That's really the province of, um... the family. What does your mother say?'
'You know Mummy. She doesn't inhale without Daddy's okay.'
'And this is your father's mother.'
'My grand - '
'Yes,' said Quill. Her temper - not at its equable best in the past few weeks - suddenly snapped. 'I can't imagine how in the world I would prevent her from coming. Even if I wanted to. Which I don't.'
'You could tell her the Inn is full. You could give her room to somebody.'
'No,' Quill said flatly. 'As I said, we can suggest a good nursing service, if you really find it necessary...'
Claire sniffed scornfully. 'A nurse for Tutti? Tutti can flatten a nurse in two seconds. Maybe less.' She blew her nose once more in the napkin and dropped it disdainfully on the table. 'All I have to say, if this wedding's wrecked...' She stood up, leaned over Quill, and hissed, 'It'll be all your fault!'
