"You bad boy!" Mavis shrieked, whacking him energetically with the menu.
Quill ate her lamb absent-mindedly, trying to figure out a way to get Mavis alone. An after-dinner brandy in the Lounge was clearly a bad idea - she was three sheets to the wind, if not four. Maybe Mrs. Hallenbeck could help. Quill glanced across the table. The widow was listening with glazed attention to Norm Pasquale, who was able, without any encouragement at all, to recite the entire high-school-band program-listings for the past twenty years. "... clarinets in 'Mellow Yellow' " Quill heard him say. He was up to 1976.
"Lemon?" said Howie in her ear.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said you don't want to eat your lemon, and you were about to." He took her fork, dumped the lemon slice on his plate, and placed the fork back in her hand, "No, You're right, I don't, Howie, could you do something for me?"
He peered at her over his wire-rimmed glasses, "You do want that stuff from the drugstore...."
"I want him" - she pointed to Baumer - "out of the way so I can talk to Mavis."
"I suppose I could take him into the Lounge for an after-dinner brandy."
"What a good idea," she said cordially. "It'll be on the house. As a matter of fact, why don't you give him several?"
Howie looked at Baumer doubtfully, "He's had quite a bit already."
"He's not going to drive anywhere, so I don't care if Nate has to carry him upstairs feet first.. Drink," she said recklessly, ''as much as you want, as long as you keep him occupied."
Quill stood up, tapped her water glass, and thanked the Chamber for its continued support of the Inn over the years. This was met with warm applause, She expressed her conviction that Sunday's presentation of The Trial of Goody Martin would be the best yet, This was met with enthusiastic shouts. She invited the members to have brandy and crŠme caramel on the house in the Lounge, which was met with more cheers, except for Marge, who rolled her eyes and yelled, "milk puddin' !" to no discernible purpose, Esther leaned across Elmer Henry and interpreted helpfully, "She wants to hold the meetings at the diner next year, She says these foreign puddings make Americans sick, She says..."
"Thanks, Esther. I get the picture."
In the general scraping of chairs, Quill edged around the table and grabbed Mavis by the arm. "I'm going to the ladies' room before I go to the Lounge, Want to come with me?"
"Why, sure, sugar," Mavis moved like a rudderless boat, amiably correcting course as Quill guided her to the main-floor bathrooms. Inside, she peered blearily at herself in the mirror, "Shee-it, Would you look at this hair?" She patted the stiffly lacquered waves delicately. Quill, confronted with a real live opportunity for detection, wondered wildly where to start. What would Myles do? Ask to see some identification, probably, which was no help at all, since she doubted that much would be gained by asking to see Mavis' driver's license. Besides, she already knew Mavis.
Or did she?
"Mrs. Hallenbeck seems a little... difficult... at times. I really admire the way you handle her. Have you known her long?"
Mavis stretched her lower lip with her little finger and applied a layer of lipstick. "Long enough."
Well, that answer was loaded with information. Quill took a moment to regroup. "I was absolutely fascinated to learn that you and Marge are old friends," Quill tried again. "Have you visited her in Hemlock Falls before this trip?"
"That ol' girl don' like you too much," said Mavis. "Why you want to know that?"
"John Raintree mentioned that he'd seen you before... I think," Quill said hastily. "I may have misunderstood."
"That Indian fella? You know what we say down South?" From the sly look in Mavis' eye, Quill didn't think she wanted to know what they said down South.
"Indians're worse liars than niggers." Quill drew a deep breath. Doreen pushed the swinging door to the bathroom open, stuck her head in, and said brusquely, "You're needed, Miss Quill."
Mavis dropped her lipstick into her evening bag and closed it with a snap. "I better be gettin' back to that party." She grabbed Quill with a giggle. "Think I'm gonna get lucky tonight. That ol' boy Keith may be baldin' on top, but there's fire in that oven, or I'm Mary Poppins." Her grip tightened and her eyes narrowed. "So I'll be in the Lounge for a while, if you want to have a little more innocent girl talk." Her long fingernails dug painfully into Quill's wrist. "After that, I'll have a sign out-readin' 'Do Not Disturb.' " She released Quill's wrist. Bosom outthrust, she sailed out the door.
"Huh!" sniffed Doreen, skipping aside as the door swung closed. "That's one of them wimmen that needs her devils cast out for sure."
"What women?"
Doreen dug into her capacious apron pocket and thrust a fistful of pamphlets at Quill. THE LORD DESPISES THE SINNER WITH LUST IN HIS HEART! the first one thundered in scarlet ink. HE SHALL CAST OUT THE DEMON OF UNRIGHTEOUSNESS screamed the next. And third, YE SHALL EXERCISE THE DEVlLS OF HOT DESIRE. The line art featured large men with beards shaking impressively large forefingers at big-breasted women.
Lightning featured prominently in the background. "Oh, my," said Quill.
"We exercised a right number of devils at the meetings in Boca Raton," Doreen said in satisfaction. "Bit noisy, but those devils skedaddled out of the sinners like you wouldn't believe."
"It's exorcise, Doreen, not exercise."
"We got right sweaty doin' it," said Doreen indignantly. "I mean to show these to the Reverend Shuttleworth. He ain't got enough fizz in his preaching. I'll bet the Reverend would fill the pews right up if he had a bit of exercising in his sermons. Stop puttin' people to sleep. There's this 1-800 number he can call any time of the day or night to get the lowdown on this stuff." Quill opened her mouth to lodge a protest, and Doreen swerved into an abrupt change of topic. "You're wanted at the reception. What're you standing around here for?"
Quill gave up. "What's the problem?"
"Somebody's here to check in."
"I think we're full."
"Hey, do I run this joint or do you?"
A strong impression of smug hilarity hung around Doreen. Quill's misgivings strengthened to dismay when she arrived at the reception desk, Doreen at her heels. The woman who stood at the front desk was both sophisticated and annoyed, a combination that guaranteed trouble. Dressed in a short tight skirt, platform shoes, and a well-cut jacket, she had the smooth, expensive hair and skin that meant money with access to Manhattan.
"Are you the manager here?" she said crossly.
Quill cocked an eyebrow at Doreen; there'd been a lot of women like this at the gallery when she was painting, and if Doreen thought she'd see her boss discomposed, she had another think coming. "I'm Sarah Quilliam," she said, extending her hand. "And excuse me for saying so, but that's the most marvelous jacket I've ever seen. It simply screams Donna Karan. Not everyone can wear her as well as you do."
The fashion plate relaxed a little. "Darling, the cut hides the most awful flaws. She's easier than you think. Can you help me out here? I'm trying to check in, and this little person behind the desk keeps saying she has to ask the manager. Nobody seems to be able to find the manager, for God's sake."