Nora lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. "Wow. So what was the reason behind this political cataclysm?"
Quill breathed a little easier. Evidently her readable face was in a foreign language, for once. "Our party lines were gender-based this year. No special reason, really," she added hastily, "I mean, none at all. It started with a marital spat between our mayor and his wife and kind of escalated from there. The women lost, the women voters, that is, and the male voters won, and so the Chamber of Commerce split up."
"What does the Chamber of Commerce have to do with the price of bananas in Brazil?" There was an impatient edge to Nora's voice.
Quill offered her the last intact pastry bow, grateful that she'd escaped interrogation about the gender wars, and even more grateful that she didn't have to attempt indifference about Myles McHale. "I'll get to that. You'd be amazed how labyrinthian small-town politics can be."
"If you think that life in Syracuse is any different, think again. It's just a bigger small town, that's all."
She dug into her purse for a cigarette, lit it, and blew the smoke upward. "I'm not going to be around that hick town for long if I can help it, or this one either, for that matter. So what about the relationship of the Chamber of Commerce to H. O. W.?"
"The Chamber of Commerce had always been the focal point of social and political village life. Not anymore. The men have formed their own organization and the women have formed theirs, and they meet separately instead of together. It's kind of stalled civic events. So I don't know how successful you'd be in finding a newsworthy story to add to your coverage of the Santini wedding. We have almost no crime here. Just a little shoplifting and that's mainly kids. And, as I said, village activity is at a temporary standstill. So," finished Quill, getting up from her chair with a decisive movement, "that's about it. I've got to get going, Nora. Between the wedding and Santini's entourage and their fundraiser and Christmas, I don't know which end is up today. I can ask one of the staff to take you around the Inn if you want to scout locations for a possible back- ground tape. Or I can call Reverend Shuttleworth and you can listen to the children's choir rehearse this afternoon. Or..." Inspiration hit. "You can go listen to Alphonse Santini in the dining room, talking to H. O. W. Maybe there's a story there."
"The camera crew won't be up until tomorrow. And I've listened to that fathead more times than I can count."
"I'd have to agree with you about the fathead part," Quill said incautiously. "Well, you'll let us know if there's anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant."
Nora grinned and brushed crumbs from her wool trousers. They were white wool, beautifully tailored. Quill was immediately conscious of her own calf-length wool skirt (which had never really recovered from an encounter with a damp paint palette) and the small hole in the elbow of her sweater.
"There's one thing you can do to make my stay more worthwhile." Nora cocked her head. With her long nose and high cheekbones she looked like an elegant heron. "I need the guest list for the Santini wedding."
Quill, with six years innkeeping experience behind her, had long accustomed herself to the necessity for small social lies. She shook her head regretfully. "We don't have it, Nora. I'm sorry. But I'm sure the senator does. Why don't you ask him?"
"Quill'"
Quill turned. Dina Muir, full-time Cornell graduate student and part-time receptionist at the Inn, stood at the Lounge entrance waving a sheaf of papers.
"Mrs. McIntosh just called. There's a new guest list for the wedding, she said. What do you want me to do with this one?"
"Um," said Quill. "I think the new one is much longer than the old one." Dina hesitated. "But before you take a look, I think you should know that there's some kind of problem in the dining room. With the fund-raiser buffet. Maybe you better take a look."
Nora swept past Quill like the bird she resembled and dived for the list in Dina's hand. "I'll throw this out for you, kid."
"Nora," said Quill. "I don't think - "
"Phooey," said Nora, "I can get it from Al anytime. I just want to see what good old paesanos the father of the bride's invited before I actually cover the damn thing."
"Paesanos?" said Quill.
Nora hummed a few bars of the theme from The Godfather.
"McIntosh," Quill said faintly. "The bride's family's name is McIntosh. That's Scot."
"You've met Vittorio McIntosh?"
"Claire's father? Well, no, I - "
"Surely you've heard about Vittorio McIntosh."
"Quill!" Dina said. "Honestly, I really, really think you should check out this breakfast thing."
Quill, who'd been aware of a rising hum from the direction of the dining room, rather like the distant sound of a very large wave offshore, resisted the impulse to clutch her head with both hands. "What's the prob - never mind. Nora, it was... it was... inappropriate," Quill concluded lamely, "that's the word, inappropriate, to grab that list. Even though you have been invited to the wedding. Could you please give it back to me?"
"Wow!" said Dina. "Hear that?"
"Shouts!" said Nora, with a pleased air. "Damn. And I don't have a camera with me. Excuse me, guys."
Quill took a deep breath and followed Nora through the lounge, past the foyer, and into the dining room at what she hoped was a casually unobvious pace: rapid but unworried.
The dining room was one of Quill's favorite spots at the Inn. In the mornings, sunshine streamed in the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Hemlock Gorge, flooding the room with light. In summer, the light was freshly gold; in winter, the snow and icebound Falls were a crystal prism, refracting white sunlight across the deep mauve carpet and the round tables. Quill especially liked the room just before they opened for meals with the deep wine carpet glowing and the glasses and cutlery sparkling. Even now, as a fork caught a shard of sunlight as it flew threw the air and landed in front of (ex) Senator Alphonse Santini, Quill found time to appreciate the beauty of the room.
He flung his hand in front of his face and ducked. An ominous grumbling filled the ranks of women seated before him. H. O. W.'s membership numbered around forty; forty annoyed women, Quill realized, made quite a formidable audience. She was the one who'd suggested that eight tables of five women each be arranged in a circle around Santini, his two blue-suited factotums, and his fianc‚e Claire McIntosh. Claire, blond hair stiffly teased in a sunburst around her angular face, sat pugnaciously silent.
"If I've offended any of you ladies, you certainly misunderstood my little joke." Santini raised his hands to either side of his ears in an eerily Nixonian gesture. Like Nixon, he had jowls that were rapidly moving from the incipient to the pendulous. Unlike Nixon, he was short, with a basketball-sized belly.
"Put a sock in it, AI!" yelled one of the supervisors from Paramount Paints.
"So we can boot your behind!" shrieked somebody else. Betty Hall, Quill thought, although she wasn't sure.
She hoped not. Betty was the best pitcher in the Hemlock Women's Softball League. If Betty threw forks, they'd hit the target.