"There's a pile that goes on that us citizens don't know nuthin' about. I ast Stoke to look into it on account of it's time he did an editorial."
Doreen's husband, her fourth, was Axminster Stoker, editor and publisher of the Hemlock Falls Gazette. The Gazette specialized in weddings, funerals, lost dog reports, and, in February in central New York State, a "Notes From Florida" column, which consisted of chatty notes from those residents of Hemlock Falls fortunate enough to afford to escape the brutal winters.
Quill, conscious of foreboding, asked anxiously, "About this protest, Doreen? And this political group? Did you mean H. O. W.? I didn't know H. O. W. considered itself a political group as such."
"Depends on what you mean, `groups.' "
This was ominous. "Citizen committees. Or anti-federalist committees. Or, you know," Quill floundered for a moment, "activists."
Doreen was a joiner. Her joining proclivities could be relatively innocent - like Amway - or on more than one occasion, riot-inducing, like the Church of the Rolling Moses. Up until now, her intentions had been good - even worthwhile, but with Doreen, one never knew for sure.
Meg, her attention drawn from her menu planning, looked up. "You signed up for the NRA, Doreen? Or maybe with those guys who dress up in camouflage on weekends and mutter about the FBI planting transmitters in their rear ends?"
Doreen's expression brightened at the mention of gluteal implants.
"Never mind," Quill said hastily. "Just please, Doreen. No more throwing stuff at the guests. No forks. No spoons. Got it?"
Doreen grunted. Quill couldn't tell if this signaled agreement or indigestion.
Meg scowled. "We've got a final count for the Santini reception, Doreen. It's a lot larger than we'd thought, so we may be looking at more overnight guests. That's going to affect your maid staffing. What about registration, John? How many people will actually be staying? And for how long?"
John scratched his ear. "Slight overbooking problem."
"That's terrific," Quill said warmly. "I mean, usually we're scrabbling for guests in the winter months. And we've got too many? We can just send the overflow to the Marriott. I've already discussed that with Lane McIntosh, anyhow. She won't mind."
"It isn't overnight guests. It's the conference room. Mrs. McIntosh would like Santini's bachelor party to be held the night before the rehearsal dinner in the conference room. They - er - would prefer not to have to drive after the event."
Doreen sniffed.
"Well, that's okay, isn't it? I mean, ever since the Chamber of Commerce breakup over S. O. A. P., we haven't had any meetings scheduled there at all. I mean, the only thing all December is... " She faltered. "Damn and blast. The S. O. A. P. meeting. On the twenty-second. The day before the rehearsal dinner. That's what I was trying to remember this morning."
"Right. So?"
"So Adela wants that date for a H. O. W. meeting. And if I tell Mayor Henry and the guys we need them to cancel the S. O. A. P. meeting, they'll be totally bummed, and if I cancel H. O. W., Adela Henry's going to have my guts for garters. She's mad at us already for allowing the men to meet here last month. I can't break my commitment to either one. Now if I ask them to reschedule, she'll think this is a direct shot at H. O. W."
"Right again," John said.
"Ugh." Quill slid down in the rocker. "ugh, ugh, ugh." Meg was right. The dissolution of the Chamber of Commerce and the formation of the rival rights groups had done a lot more than affect the election for sheriff and town justice.
"Nuts," said Quill. "Any suggestions?"
"Let's lay out the options," John suggested. "We can cancel both and have Adela Henry and the S. O. A. P. membership really annoyed at us. This is not a good idea. Village meetings account for a large portion of revenues in our off-season. We can tell Mrs. McIntosh that we can't handle the stag party and risk having her move the whole wedding party to the Marriott."
"There's a good idea," Meg muttered. "Seventy extra people. Three days to prepare. Phuut!"
"Or?" said Quill.
"Or what?"
"There's got to be another option!"
John grinned. "The only other thing I can think of is to disband S. O. A. P."
"There's another good idea." Meg tossed her pencil onto the butcher block countertop. `You're just full of good news, John. I don't suppose there's anything else to gladden our hearts and minds?"
"Not," John said, "unless you count the warrant out for Quill's arrest."
-3-
"Jeez," Doreen said into the silence.
"Good grief," said Meg.
"A what?" said Quill. "A warrant?"
John smiled. "Follow me."
Quill got to her feet and followed John through the double doors to the dining room. Winter pressed in on them from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Hemlock Gorge, dulling the mauve and cream of the walls. The wind had risen; swirls of snow the width of a hand slapped against the glass with a sound like shifting sand. Quill glanced at the familiar view, so welcoming in spring, and was oppressed.
"A warrant?" she said feebly to John's back.
Kathleen Kiddermeister, dressed in the fitted mauve jacket and slim black skirt of the dining room staff, sat at the table Quill permanently reserved for Inn personnel. She was sipping coffee. Otherwise, the dining room was empty. John, maddeningly, slowed to talk to her. "Any lunch reservations, Kathleen?"
"Not yet. The weather's too punky. We might get a few drop-ins, though. There's an RV convention at the Marriott, and those guys are nuts for snowmobiles. Big tippers, too."
"If no one's here by one-fifteen or so, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off. I can handle any late lunches."
"You sure?"
quill fidgeted.
John smiled, and continued, "Absolutely, Kath. You know what things are like this time of year."
"Uh, John," said Quill.
"Why don't you go ahead to the office, Quill. I want tot talk with Kathleen about scheduling for the wedding reception."
"John!"
He feigned surprise. "And while you're at it, why don't you go through the mail."
"The mail?"
"Yeah, you know. Little envelopes with stamps on them? Letters. Bills. Communications from the Justice Department?"
Quill blushed. "You mean the mail that's been stacked up on my desk for the past week? That mail?"
"That mail."
"There was," said Quill, " a parking ticket. Last week. I sort of forgot about it."
"Parking ticket?" John looked politely skeptical.
"Well, that's all Davy said it was. Actually what he said was that it was the equivalent of a parking ticket."
John's teeth flashed white in his brown face. "Take a look."