For less than two and fifty
We can have a lot of fun."
She and Marge locked arms and swayed together in
"Hot-Hot-Hot dog
Doggone Doggone good.
Bet you'd love our hot dogs
Anyway you could."
Harvey Bozzel broke the silence. "Could use a leetle bit of editing, but it's good. Pretty good."
"Sing it again," said Gil Gilmeister huskily. "You looked great, Mavis. You, too, Marge."
Mavis tossed her head, and dimpled. Her dangling earrings clicked. She reminded Quill of someone: a chubby Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara. Quill cleared her throat and stood up. "This is a wonderful opportunity, don't you think? I mean, we practically have a professional right here. We'd be crazy not to take advantage of it. If you don't mind, Mavis, I think you'd make a wonderful Clarissa."
"We voted on Quill and we should stick with her," said Betty Hall. "Some newcomer just swanking on in here, even if she is a famous actress-I don't know how the town is going to feel about that."
"She's not a famous actress, Betty," Esther snapped. "She's a Human Resources Director."
"Whatever." Resentment was in every line of Betty's bowling jacket.
"Marge, you have the best judgment of anybody in the Chamber I know of," said Gil earnestly. "And I think this is a prime example of it."
"We gotta talk about that loan, Gil," said Marge jovially. "What d'ya think?"
"I move to have Mavis Collin wood take on the role of Clarissa in the History Days play," said Quill immediately. She ignored Myles's sardonic grin with the restrained dignity appropriate to an innkeeper rescued from public humiliation at the last minute.
"Second," said Gil.
Elmer called for a vote. Esther and Betty abstained, with what Quill identified as darkling glances, but the motion passed. Quill entertained a fleeting thought about the efficacy of Doreen's new commitment to prayer; she decided she was inclined to leniency in the matter of religious fervor. This was much more satisfactory than a tornado.
"I suppose we'll discover just how quick a study you are, Miss Collinwood?" Esther said stiffly. "Come, people, we're running behind schedule. Everybody at the pond in ten minutes."
Quill stopped John in the hall during the general exodus. "Do your plans include watching the rehearsal?"
He smiled faintly. "Not if you're a member of the audience rather than the cast."
"Thank you so much."
He glanced at her out of the comer of his eye. "Did you talk to the widows?"
"Yes."
"Is Myles going to continue with the background checks?"
"I'm not sure. John, Mrs. Hallenbeck's sitting by herself by the fireplace." Quill looked back at the chattering crowd leaving the Inn. Mavis, expansive, was in the center. "I'll just speak to her."
She crossed the lobby and sat next to Mrs. Hallenbeck. "Did you get a chance to walk in the gardens today, Mrs. Hallenbeck?"
"Not yet. Mavis and I were going to go this afternoon, but she appears to be busy. Perhaps we'll go tomorrow."
She folded her hands. "I'll wait until she is finished with her friends. The old are boring to you youngsters."
Quill was quiet a moment. It was pathetic, this small confession. "Would you like to walk down to the rehearsal with me? Only part of the cast will be in costume, but it might be kind of fun. I can't stay for the whole thing, but you're more than welcome to. There's always a crowd watching. Mostly townspeople."
"I'd like that very much."
It was one of those July afternoons that made Quill glad to be in Central New York in summer. The sky was a Breughel-blue, the sun a clear glancing light that made Quill's hands itch for her acrylics. As they came to the edge of the Falls Park and the small man-made pond that had been formed from the river water, Edward Lancashire picked his way over the grass to them.
"I'd call this a paintable day," he said by way of greeting.
"Do you paint, Sarah?" asked Mrs. Hallenbeck.
"I used to. Not much anymore."
"She was becoming quite well-known when she quit," said Lancashire. His dark eyes narrowed against the bright sun, he smiled down at Quill.
"A painter," said Mrs. Hallenbeck with satisfaction. "I knew you were quite out of the ordinary, my dear. I should like to see your work."
"My sister's work is more impressive," said Quill. "Are you finding the food to your liking, Mr. Lancashire?"
"Call me Edward. And the food's terrific."
"And what do you do?" asked Mrs. Hallenbeck.
"Oh. Reporting, mostly," he said vaguely. "What's going on down there?"
"This is the part of the play that's the witch test."
"The witch test?"
"Yes. When a person was accused of witchcraft, there was sort of a preliminary cut made of witches and non-witches. A real witch could swim. Innocent victims couldn't. So many American villages used the ducking stool as a test. The real witches swam to shore and were tried and convicted at a later trial."
"And the innocent victims?" asked Mrs. Hallenbeck.
"Drowned," said Quill.
"My goodness!" With a certain degree of ceremony, Mrs. Hallenbeck took a pair of glasses from her purse, fitted them on carefully, and peered at the makeshift stage by the ducking stool.
With the steadily increasing popularity of Hemlock History Week, the town had turned the area adjacent to the ducking pond into a twenty-acre municipal park some years before. An asphalt parking lot lay at the north edge, and half a dozen picnic tables surrounded the pavilion. The pavilion itself consisted of a large bandstand surrounded by enough wooden benches to seat two hundred spectators. The entire park fronted the Hemlock River; the Falls that formed such a unique backdrop to Meg and Quill's inn rushed gently into the river at the south of the park. The ducking pond was edged with concrete. A sluiceway was lowered to fill the pond in spring, and lifted to empty it in winter. A ten-foot fence of treated lumber stood at right angles to the pond's edge, where Harland Peterson parked his ancient John Deere farm tractor every year to power the ducking stool into the water. A chorus of cheers greeted him as the John Deere chugged into place behind the fence. He hopped out of the cab, waved his baseball hat to the crowd, and began hooking the ropes attached to the ducking stool to the metal arms on the front loader.
"That thing is old," Edward observed. "Fifty-six or fifty-seven at least."
"The Petersons are pretty thrifty," said Quill. She avoided Mrs. Hallenbeck's eye. Harland jumped back into the cab and raced the motor. Belching black smoke, the tractor jerked the front loader aloft. The ducking stool dangled freely in the breeze from the river.
"I thought a ducking stool was sort of a teeter-totter," said Edward. "The judge or whoever sat on one end, the accused witch on the other, and then the judge got up."
"Yes," said Quill.
"That's a lot simpler than using a tractor, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Quill. "So why..."