Meg dropped the perennially promising discussion about town politics and bored back in on Quill. "So what are you going to tell him?"
"I haven't thought about it."
Meg went "Phut!" and sprayed Quill.
"Don't go 'phut'!" said Quill.
Meg appeared to be honestly startled. "I went 'phut'?"
"Yes. Do you go 'phut' all over Andy?"
"I don't go 'phut' over anybody."
"You just went 'phut' all over me."
"I give up. Sit there, be a jerk, and just forget it."
Meg began to hum through her nose with an elaborate air of indifference.
"And while you're at it, don't make kazoo noises, either."
"All right," Meg said with a deceptive assumption of amiability. "Why don't I just wrap my emotions in Ace bandages like a certain red-haired, straightjacketed, uptight, rule-abiding lady manageress - "
"Lady manageress?"
"Victorian enough for you? Yes! Lady manageress who can't stand it when the seas aren't calm." Meg set her hands on her hips, leaned forward, went "Phuut! Phut! PHUT!" and started to hum a Sousa march through her nose so unmelodiously Quill couldn't tell what it was.
" 'Stars and Stripes Forever'?" asked John Raintree, coming through the doors that led into the dining room. Doreen stumped in after him.
Meg grinned and increased her volume.
"Has Meg got a new idiosyncrasy?" John guessed. "I liked the socks."
"This one sounds like two cats fightin' over a back fence," Doreen grumbled. "Whyn't you go back to them colored socks? At least they was quiet."
"Doreen," said Quill. "About this protest you mentioned at breakfast..."
Doreen glared at the grill sizzling in the fireplace, grabbed a pot holder, pulled the spit free with a sniff of disapproval, then disappeared out the back door, holding the spit. Quill gave it up. She'd find out only when Doreen was ready to spill it, and not before.
John frowned. He had an attractive frown. He was three-quarters Onondaga Indian, and his coal-black hair and coppery skin made him attractive altogether. He was a big success with a substantial portion of the Inn's female guests.
"What's wrong?" Quill asked. "There's no problem with the florist, is there?"
"No. We've got three thousand sweetheart roses arriving early Friday morning and a whole crew of Cornell students to drape them allover the Inn. The flowers are fine. But on the way back from Ithaca, Lane mentioned that she's made a few changes in the reception." John swung his long legs over a stool at the kitchen counter and drew his notebook from the breast pocket of his sports coat.
"We've got a final count?"
"One hundred and fifty. And she's changed to black-tie."
Meg shrieked. "It's for real!?"
Quill sat bolt upright. "One hundred and fifty?! You mean the senator was right?"
"This was supposed to be a small informal ceremony!" Meg yelled. "What are we going to do with one hundred and fifty guests? In evening dress, yet. That means champagne, salmon, the whole high-ticket lot."
"The ceremony's still small. It's the reception that's gotten bigger. So, no dinner, just heavy hors d'oeuvres."
Meg clutched her hair, muttered, and began scribbling frantically on her memo pad.
Quill took a deep breath. "Where the heck are we going to put them all, John?"
"The dining room will hold a hundred and fifty."
"The fire code's for one hundred and twenty. And I hate crowding guests."
A cold eddy of air from the back room announced Doreen's return, minus the spit. "Snowbank," she said in response to Quill's raised eyebrow. "Freeze that grease right offen it. And it's snowing a treat out there. You going to Syracuse, you better get a move on."
"You knew Lane McIntosh in school, didn't you, Doreen?" asked Meg.
"Wasn't Lane, then. She was Ee-laine. Elaine Herkemeyer. Daddy owns that there dairy farm up on Route 96. Marge Schmidt knew her, too. Marge says she's done pretty well for herself, marrying that Vittorio."
Marge, owner and senior partner in the Hemlock Hometown Diner (Fine Food! and Fast!), was probably the wealthiest (and certainly the nosiest) citizen in Hemlock Falls. Lane McIntosh was a former Hemlockian; Marge would know the McIntoshes' balance sheet to the penny because Marge knew every past and current Hemlockian's net worth to the penny.
"I like her," said Meg, although nobody'd said anything derogatory about Lane.
"I like her, too," said John. "But she is... ummm..."
"Nervous," Quill supplied.
"A little dithery," Meg offered. "Now, that Claire..."
"Ugh," Quill agreed.
"That Elaine's gone crazier than an outhouse rat," said Doreen. "Didn't used to be. Always full of piss and vinegar, that one. And now look at her. Worrit about keeping holt of all that money, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, I think it's very nice that she wants her daughter to be married in Dookie Shuttleworth's church," said Quill. "She told me that's where she married Vittorio, twenty-five years ago. Did you go to her wedding, Doreen?"
Doreen snorted. "Me? Not likely. Marge didn't go neither. On'y ones ast to that weddin' were Vittorio's fancy friends from New York City." Her beady eyes narrowed in recollection. "Elaine tolt you twenty-five? That was thirty years ago, or I'm a Chinaman. Elaine shaving a few years off herself?" She eyed Quill from beneath her graying frizz. "There's plenty of us remember how long ago it was. So. I don't expect to get invited to this one, neither. This Alphonse Santini's some hot-shot senator, ain't he?"
"Was," said Quill. Santini's defeat in the recent elections had revived her somewhat shaky faith in the electorate. "He lost. By the way, who gave you all that information about him?"
"Hah?"
"Don't 'hah' me. All that stuff about Mafia hearings and kickbacks you were hollering about at breakfast. Did you read it somewhere?"
Doreen gave her an innocent blink. "I'm a citizen, ain't I? I can subscribe to Newsweek like anybody else. Thing is, Santini never shoulda bin elected in the first place. Stuffing the payroll with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts. Bein' bought off by fat-cat political interests."
"Allegedly," said John. "Nothing was ever proven. The official line is that Santini was defeated in this eyar's general ousting of incumbents, Democratic and Republican."
Doreen's snort, honed by years of use against those guests she felt to be both intemperate and obstreperous (Quill surmised this was approximately ninety percent of the Inn's registry at any given moment) had the force of conviction behind it. "Ha!" she said. "And ha! I bin readin' about conspiracy ever since Sheriff McHale and Mr. Murchison got their asses booted out of office six weeks ago. Conspiracy's behind this whole crapola about S. O. A. P., too."
"Conspiracy?" asked Quill. "What conspiracy?"
"On account of Al Santini."
"Doreen, Al Santini lost the election," said Meg. "This is a good thing. He was a bad senior. I voted against him, and I assure you. I am not part of any conspiracy. The election for the Senate has nothing to do with the town elections. Although the town elections may have a lot to do with S. O. A. P. That's a possible conspiracy, I admit it."