Quill hung up the phone.
"Another one?" said Dina. "That'll be the fourth."
"Have you seen John this morning?"
"Nope."
"Do you have the bookings ledger?"
"Couldn't find it. It's not behind the front desk, where I usually keep it, and it's not in the desk here. I know I had it this morning. It was on the counter, because all those people were checking out."
"There's a copy on disk in the computer," said Quill carefully. "Dina, I know you worked last night, but before you go, could you help me pull up the records on the PC and call everyone that's booked for this week? Just let them know that a... prank of some kind has been pulled. Tell them to disregard any phone calls they may have had. Tell them you're calling to confirm the reservations. If we split the list up, we can maybe salvage the week."
By noon, Quill thanked the exhausted Dina, sent her home, and totaled up the losses for the next business quarter. The caller had been busy; a dozen calls to the major revenue-producing tours had been made between eight-thirty and ten. The message in each case had been brief: the Inn was calling for John Raintree, to cancel confirmed reservations. Very sorry, but there's been a major problem. The Inn was closed. To those few customers who'd been loyal enough to inquire when the Inn would reopen, the message was curt: the Inn would not reopen.
-6-
At first baffled, Quill searched the grounds, talked to the staff, and made phone calls to a few of John's accounting clients. By two o'clock, Quill's concern for John's whereabouts had escalated to irritation.
Quill went to the first-floor rooms John had occupied for the past year. She knocked, received no answer, then used her master key. She'd been in the rooms no more than two or three times, and each time wondered at the Spartan quality of John's personal life. Three suits hung in the closet; one winter, two summer. Two sports coats. A modest number of white shirts, a handful of ties, and other necessities barely filled the bureau drawer and the bathroom cabinet.
A photograph of a pretty Indian girl leaning on the hood of a car stood on the night stand; the print had faded a little. The car was a 1978 aids Delta 88. John's diploma awarding him an MBA from the Rochester Institute of Technology was propped on the small desk. There were books on the shelf under the TV. Aztec, by Gary Jennings; Beggars in Spain, by Nancy Kress; dozens of science fiction and historical novels. There were perhaps half a dozen self-help books: all of them dealt with alcoholism.
Quill addressed the photograph. "I do not believe that this man did this," she said. "There is no way that I will ever believe John did this." The dark eyes stared back at her.
"We've got three questions to answer," Quill told her. "First one is, Where the hell is John? The second is, How did he get there? The third is, Who tried to pull the unfunniest joke in hotel history and blame it on him? Marge Schmidt? She wasn't even near the place this morning. Keith Baumer, playing tricks on his morning walk? Maybe Mavis-out of revenge for her fall from the balcony? When I get those answers, there won't be any more questions... just a major whack up the side of the head for whoever gets in my way."
Quill slammed outside to the gardens in a highly satisfying rage. She collared a clearly startled Mike the groundskeeper, who said No, he hadn't seen John; his car was gone, but he hadn't seen John leave. Balked, Quill went to find her sister.
"You're kidding!" said Meg. She was in the storeroom, stacking fresh vegetables in the wire bins. "Would you look at those Vidalias I got this morning? God, they're gorgeous! I'm putting French onion soup on the specials tonight."
"You can't, Meg," said Quill, momentarily distracted. "You use raw egg in the stock."
"So? Makes it richer. Did the Buffalo Gourmet Club cancel? That's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one. Remember last year when they had that food fight in the bar?"
"That was the Kiwanis from Schenectady. Are you listening to me?"
Meg breathed on a tomato, polished it with the bottom of her T-shirt, and set it on the shelf. "Yes, sweetie. I'm listening to you. John's gone. About thirty per cent of the business is gone because somebody pulled a jerky joke. But the bank hasn't called the mortgage or anything, has it? The business will come back. And we can get another hotel manager - the Cornell School's filled with wannabees. I mean, look at the luck I've had with the sous chefs from there."
"And salmonella hasn't poisoned anybody - yet." Meg grinned and bit her lip. "Okay. I'll make onion souffl‚. Or maybe just chop it up fresh with these beefsteak tomatoes. They're the most beautiful tomato in the world, these beefsteaks."
Quill sat on a hundred-pound sack of rice and put her chin in her hands. "So what do you think I should do?"
"What can you do? Myles is right, don't fuss so much, Quill. John will come back with a perfectly logical explanation, and if he doesn't - done's done."
"And those phone calls?"
"That foul Baumer is capable of anything, if you ask me. You turned down his gallant advances yesterday morning, didn't you? Well, in my vast experience of disappointed harassers, it'd be right up his mean, spiteful alley."
"You don't think it was Marge?"
"The bookings ledger was here this morning, and Marge wasn't. It would have taken her an hour to copy all those names and numbers. She wasn't here long enough last night to do it."
"And that missing bolt?"
"What possible connection could poor Gil's accident have with John running off on a toot, most likely, and a series of malicious phone calls?"
"I don't know," Quill said, "but by God, there is one."
Sitting at her desk, contemplating the display of Apricot Nectar roses outside her office window, Quill failed to find any connection at all.
She shuffled through her phone messages: nothing from Myles; one from Esther reading "The show must go on! Rehearsal at the Inn 4:00 P.M."; a few from tour directors wanting a chance to discuss the practical joke, which she set aside for Monday during business hours; and one scrawled on a piece of the wrapper for the paper towels the Inn bought in bulk: AND WORMS SHALL CRAWL THROUGH HER NOSE. "Doreen!" said Quill. "Dammit, whose nose?"
"Whose nose?" she repeated when she found the housekeeper scrubbing the toilets in 218. Doreen had listened stolidly to Quill's succinct summary of why she was not to impose her beliefs on the guests.
"That scarlet woman," said Doreen, "that whore of Babylon."
"I thought it was the whore of Detroit."
"Don't you laugh at me, missy. I need a little Bible study is all." She sat back on her heels and contemplated the gleaming porcelain with satisfaction. "I joined the Reverend Shuttleworth's Bible classes this morning. Learn me a bit more."
"Let's get back to this wormy person," suggested Quill. "You haven't whacked the orthodontist's wife, have you?"