Quill winked comfortingly at the young Cornell student behind the counter. "He's on an errand for me," said Quill. "I'm the owner. What can I do for you? I'm afraid we're booked solid at the moment."
"But I've got a room." Quill moved behind the front desk to check the bookings. The missing ledger had reappeared as mysteriously as it had gone. "And your name?"
"Celeste Baumer. Mrs. Keith Baumer." If that was a snigger from Doreen, Quill thought furiously, she was going to do some "exercising" of her Inn's own devils: the housekeeping kind.
"She's got ill," said the Cornell student apologetically. "But I called Mr. Baumer's room, and he doesn't answer. Mr. Baumer's booked a single for the week, not a double, and John always told us to check with the customer when something like this happens."
"And he was right," said Quill. "Was your husband expecting you, Mrs. Baumer?"
"Oh, no." She exposed a bright row of teeth in what Quill took to be a smile. "I wanted it to be a.surprise."
"Why don't you sit and have a glass of wine in the bar, Mrs. Baumer? On the house, of course. We'll see if we can find Mr. Baumer."
"Are you going up to his room?"
"Um," said Quill, "actually I think he's out on... on... a sales call or something."
"I've been on that damn train for hours. I want a bath and then I'll take you up on that free drink. But first I want to check in."
Maybe, Quill thought as she, Celeste Baumer, Doreen, and the Cornell student (who was carrying the suitcases) trooped up the stairs to the second floor, Keith Baumer left Mavis at the bar and was freshening up. Maybe he was making phone calls to his neglected customers. Maybe he'd fallen asleep dead-drunk. And alone.
Quill knocked on the door to 221.
"I don't think he's here," she said after a few moments. "Open it up, darling," Celeste Baumer demanded. "You wouldn't believe how I have to pee."
Quill unlocked the door. Mrs. Baumer pushed past her and switched on the lights. Two twenty-one was decorated in Waverly chintz with scarlet poppies against a cream background.
The poppies on the tailored bedspread moved up and down with the briskness of waves on a breezy sea.
"Oops," said the Cornell student. "Dang!" said Quill.
"You bastard!" shrieked Celeste Baumer with enormous satisfaction.
"Heh-heh-heh," chortled Doreen.
"God-damn!" shouted a nude and sweaty Keith Baumer. Mavis screamed in a very ladylike way.
-8-
July in Central New York is not the usual mating season for songbirds, but the repeated attacks of the cardinal flying into its own image on the sunrise side of Quill's bedroom window woke her at six. She squinted against the sunshine pouring in and addressed the bird. "That's not a hostile rival, that's you," she said.
Ta-Ching! The bird flattened its beak against its reflection, intent on assassination.
"Has the word gotten to the bird world, too? You think your sweetie's in here with some other guy?"
Ta-ching!
"You're related to Baumer, maybe, and have faith in the triumph of hope over experience."
Ta-CHANG! The bird, with one last mighty effort, hit the window and dropped out of sight. Quill got out of bed and peered out the window to the lawn. The cardinal lay on its back, feet up. It chirped, righted itself and flew at the window, beady eyes glittering.
Ta-ching!
Quill went back to bed and pulled her pillow over her head.
Myles, dressed in his grays, came out of the kitchenette carrying two cups of coffee. Quill groaned, sat up, and peered at him. "Are you going to let Mrs. Baumer out of the pokey?"
"Probably." He handed Quill a cup, then sat at the foot of the bed.
"You think it'll hit the papers?"
"Probably. The local's stringer's in town to cover the opening ceremonies of History Days."
"Oh, God."
"It'll blow over, honey." He rose, stretched, and drained his coffee. "Of course, you could always give up innkeeping as a profession and marry me."
"No, Myles."
"Or you could continue being an innkeeper and marry me." "I tried marriage. It stinks. You didn't find marriage all that terrific, either."
"Youthful folly. On both our parts." The cardinal hit the window again.
Quill got out of bed. Further sleep was impossible. "Would you like some breakfast? Meg's got an assistant in the kitchen that makes a mean Eggs Benedict."
"I'm going down to the jail to let Mrs. Baumer go. Unless you want to press charges for the damage to two twenty-one."
"I don't think so. I didn't like that lamp anyway, and I can fix the dent in the wall. Just a matter of replacing the sheetrock and repainting. I feel so sorry for her, Myles. I can't believe that jerk Baumer."
He kissed her, a process that always softened Quill's resolve to never marry again. "I don't know when I'll see you today, kiddo. Just relax and enjoy yourself."
"Easy for you to say - all you have to do is make sure that four thousand tourists in Dodge Caravans don't all crash into each other on Main Street."
"All you have to do is keep the doors barred against irate spouses, supervise the extra help, keep Doreen from rending Keith Baumer limb from limb in fine Old Testament outrage, hold your sister's hand if her souffl‚ flops, and generally wear yourself ragged."
"It's not that tough, Myles. Not when you've got good staff. And I've got good staff."
They both carefully avoided any mention of John Raintree. She closed the door after him and took a long leisurely shower, getting down to the dining room at seven o'clock. Meg was seated at their table for two by the kitchen door, and Quill went to join her. Meg had abandoned her leggings, ratty tennis shoes, and sweatbands for well-pressed jeans and a lacy top. She'd taken a curling iron to her dark hair, and wore a pair of gold hoop earrings.
"Well you look totally cool," said Quill.
Meg batted her eyelashes. "Guess who's going on a picnic with the best-looking gourmet critic in Hemlock Falls?"
"Really? Did you pack the basket?"
"Cold gravlax with my Scotch Bonnet salsa. Homemade flatbread, dilled potato salad. Nice chilly bottle of a sparkling Vouvray. Strawberries with that crŠme br–l‚e from last night. If we get a good seat for the opening ceremonies, I guarantee you that fourth star."
"Everything okay in the kitchen?"
"Frank's supervising. All we're going to get today is a zillion orders for roast beef sandwiches to go," She hesitated. "Any word from John?"
Quill shook her head.
"Jeez." Meg sighed. "Poor old you. At least you've got that creep Baumer out of your hair."
"Nope."
"Nope? Are you serious? After all that ranting and raving last night? I would have thought the son of a gun would be embarrassed to show his sniveling face in town."