"You're right. I should be addressing you as Inspector Alleyn. He always gathered the suspects in the drawing room and exposed the murderer. Nope. Sorry. Wrong again. It's Holmes himself and the Baker Street Irregulars."
"Why are you bugging me, Meg? I've had a tough day. And you didn't tell me what went on at that s‚ance."
"You didn't give me a chance to tell you about the s‚ance!"
"Tutti's clearly in danger, and you didn't do a thing about it."
"I most certainly did," Meg said indignantly. "Why the heck do you think she was in the kitchen with me all day? I mean she's a sweetie, quill, and I learned a great new recipe for homemade pasta, but this is one of the busiest days of the whole darn year!"
"Oh," Quill said.
"I mean, really. How irresponsible do you think I am? You never look at anybody the way they really are, Quill. You look at them the way you think they should be."
"I do?"
"Yes, you do. You make up your mind first and then you decide what's happening. Have you ever known me to boot an important clue like the one Tutti rolled out this afternoon?"
"No, Meg."
"And don't we usually solve these cases together?"
"Yes, Meg."
"So how come you came in all hissy this afternoon and picked a fight with me?"
"Because I was scared out of my mind!"
"Then why didn't you tell me? Honestly, Quill, it does nobody any good if you keep your emotions buttoned up. It doesn't do any good with me, that's for sure. And look what happened with that lunch with Myles. You were so busy keeping a stiff upper lip that you didn't even talk to each other. And look what almost happened. If Myles hadn't taken the risk to come back... restraint is all very well, Quillie. But not when it screws up your emotional life."
Quill stared at her. "You really think so?"
"I really think... what the devil is that noise?"
"The bachelor party, I suppose. Meg, I was scared out of my mind, but only partly from being almost run off the road."
"Somebody really did? Quill!"
"Soembody really did. But that's not what's bothering me."
"My Lord, Quill. Did you report this man? Are you hurt? It's a good thing you have that big heavy car."
"I'm pretty sure that the truck's at Bernie's and Joseph Greenwald is in the hospital. Do you think you could call Andy and verify that he's going to be in overnight?"
"Joseph Greenwald?" said Meg.
"'There's a funny look on your face."
"He showed up here right after you left for Syracuse. Good-looking guy? Looks like a Philadelphia lawyer?"
"He showed up here?"
"Tried to check in, but of course there wasn't any room. So I sent him on to the Marriott."
"Well, I'll be dipped, as Nora Cahill once said."
"That's not the reason you should be dipped. The reason you should be dipped is that he's an attorney. And he asked for Alphonse Santini at the desk."
"Wow. Meg, I think we should interrupt that bridge game."
"I think you're - Quill. If that's the bachelor party I hear, it's getting really out of hand. We'd better check that out first. It sounds like a riot."
Quill had heard sounds like that before: whoops, yells, screams of laughter, cheers, the thump of running feet. "Pamplona, Meg. The summer I spent in Madrid? With the foreign exchange group?"
The thrumming of running feet drew nearer and shook the walls of the solid old building. Marge burst from the conference room. Tutti, with a perplexed expression, trotted after her, her bridge cards in her hand. Her two other guards peered over Marge's shoulder.
"What'n the hell?" asked Marge.
The door at the end of the east end of the hall led to the Tavern Lounge. It shuddered, rattled, and for a moment seemed to bow outward from a massive weight on the other side. It burst open, to reveal Mayor Henry, naked but for a loincloth, with red stripes on his cheeks and his forehead painted stark white, dragging Claire's bridesmaid by the hand.
"Meredith!" called Quill. `Are you all right?"
"Let go, you geezer!" Meredith said irritably.
"Lances UP!" shouted the mayor.
"Lances UP! Came a male chorus in response.
"Lances UP, UP, UP!" yelled Evan Blight.
The members of S. O. A. P. stampeded through the hall like maddened buffalo. Most of them dragged a person of the opposite sex by the handiest protuberance: an arm here, a collar there, three or four by the hair, for those participants of H. O. W. and the bridal party whose hair was long enough for the S. O. A. P. snatch-and-grab technique. One of Harland Peterson's Norwegian cousins - a blacksmith notable for the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his back - carried Esther West over his shoulder. She looked thoughtful. Her screams were perfunctory.
Evan Blight himself - womanless - cried, "on, men, on! Remember Romulus! Forward, in the name of Romulus. Lance UP! UP! UP!"
Meg and Quill shoved themselves against the wall. Marge and the rest if the bridge party beat a prudent retreat into the conference room, to reemerge as the sounds of the raid faded on the nighttime air.
"They left the back door open," Marge observed.
"I'll get it." Meg walked down the hall, turned around, walked back, and said crossly, `You didn't see Any with those idiots?"
"They weren't carrying any lances," Tutti observed after a moment.
"Heck, no," said Marge. "The `Lances UP!' part of this is pret' obvious. But who's this Romulus guy?"
"Um," said Quill. "The Sabines. He needed wives for his troops." She went to the west door, opened it, and peered out. "It's turned into a snowball fight." She paused. "And the women are winning."
Myles was late. Quill stood at the French doors to her balcony and watched the clearing sky. The storm left a swathe of tatterdemalion clouds. Stars emerged through the misty remnants like lilies floating up from the bottom of a pond. A chilly breeze sprang up. The moon came out. And Quill waited, a cup of coffee in her hand, until she heard him at the door.
-10-
Sunlight crept across the lace coverlet Quill's grandmother had brought from England almost a century ago. The fabric lay in folds at the foot of the bed, and the sunshine threw the rose design into sharp relief. The years had aged the lace from white to cream. Quill, propped against the pillows, thought about how the lace had traveled for over ninety years, to end up here, covering her bed.
She was facing the large mullioned window that kept her bedroom light and airy, even in the depths of winter. The glass was old, perhaps even older than the lace, and her view of the snowy fields outside was distorted, wavy, as though she were underwater.
Myles walked in carrying a tray of coffee and fresh brioche. A pink rose nodded at her from a crystal vase, and the scent of the flower mingled with the odor of fresh yeast.
"Wow." She smiled at him. "You didn't go downstairs dressed like that?"
"Undressed like this?" He grinned. "The bread and the rose were outside the door. Doreen must have left it for you. Or Meg."