Murder Well-Done Read online

  Claudia Bishop - Murder Well-Done

  The Cast of Characters

  The Inn at Hemlock Falls

  Sarah Quilliam-owner-manager

  Margaret Quilliam-her sister, gourmet chef

  John Raintree-their business manager and partner

  Doreen Muxworthy-head housekeeper

  Dina Muir-receptionist

  Kathleen Kiddermeister-head waitress

  Mike-the groundskeeper

  Bjarne-a Finnish sous-chef

  Claire McIntosh-the bride, a guest

  Elaine McIntosh-Claire's mother, a guest

  Vittorio Mclntosh-Claire's father, a guest

  Alphonse Santini-the bridegroom, former senator

  Tutti McIntosh-Vittorio's mother, a guest

  Evan Blight-world-famous author, a guest

  Nora Cahill-TV anchor, a guest

  -various bridesmaids, groomsmen, and aides to Senator Santini

  Members of S.O.A.P.

  Elmer Henry-mayor of Hemlock Falls

  Dookie Shuttleworth-minister, Church of the Word of God

  Harland Peterson-a farmer

  -among others

  Members of H.O.W.

  Adela Henry-the mayor's wife

  Marge Schmidt-owner, the Hemlock Hometown Diner

  Betty Hall-Marge's partner

  Esther West-owner, West's Best Dress Shoppe

  Miriam Doncaster-a librarian

  The Village Officials, and others

  Frank Dorset-the sheriff

  Davy Kiddermeister-Kathleen's brother, a deputy

  Dwight Riorden-the bailiff

  Bernie Bristol-the town justice

  Myles McHale-a citizen

  Howie Murchison-a lawyer

  -1-

  "You've sure got one heck of a life-style," Nora Cahill said enviously. "Your Inn is gorgeous, your sister's food is terrific, and your business manager is the best-looking guy I've seen since I nailed an exclusive interview with Kevin Costner after his divorce. I've heard that little boutique restaurant you've invested in got a franchise offer. Even the show of your paintings last month got great reviews." Resentment crept into her voice, souring its carefully cultivated modulations. Pensively, she shoved her sour cream crepe with her fork. "No offense, but if you tell me you've got your love life socked, too, I'm going to hit you with a stick. I haven't had a date for eight months."

  Sarah Quilliam set her cup into her saucer in awkward silence. Nora had checked into the Inn the night before and asked if she could speak to the owner. Quill, with a jammed schedule, had suggested an early breakfast. She was curious about Nora, one of Syracuse's most popular television anchors. They'd met at seven in the Tavern Lounge of the twenty-seven-room Inn Quill owned with her sister Meg and their partner, John Raintree. Nora was smaller-boned than she appeared on television, and her hair was darker. She was tall for a woman, about Quill's height. She had the well-buffed perfection characteristic of the very wealthy or the fairly famous: short, precision-cut hair; skin like the outside of a choice fruit; clothes that were so expensively made they never wrinkled. She was probably in her early thirties - about Quill's own age - and the six o'clock anchor for a Syracuse network television affiliate.

  Quill, not sure how to respond to Nora's slightly rancorous catalog, said vaguely that she hoped she liked the Inn.

  "Perfect," said Nora. Then, "I hope nothing happens to spoil it for you. You did all the decorating in here yourself, too?"

  The Lounge was a pleasant room, although during those times when Quill's work as a painter wasn't going well, she tended to avoid it. At her sister's insistence, the deep teal walls were hung with Quill's own acrylics from her award-winning Flower series. Sometimes, Quill would look at her work with deep - if slightly guilty - pleasure. More often she despaired of ever achieving that height of line and intense color again. This morning, if the staff hadn't been setting up a fund-raiser brunch for the Inn's most prominent guest, Senator Alphonse Santini (R., New York), she would have taken Nora Cahill to the dining room; her painting hadn't been going well at all. Not for the last few weeks. Not since the trouble with Myles. Which was going to be resolved once and for all at lunch in Syracuse today.

  "Was the breakfast okay?" asked Quill. She looked dubiously at Nora's half-eaten crepe Quilliam. It was a specialty of Meg's, cheese souffl‚ with sour cream and caviar wrapped in a thin Cointreau-flavored pancake.

  "Fine," Nora said absently. "Too fine. I've got a lot to accomplish while I'm here. I don't know now if I want to do it. The whole place is so seductive I just want to sit and stuff myself."

  A fire snapped warmly in the stone fireplace. The air was filled with the fresh scent of the pine wreaths over the mantle. The long mahogany bar gleamed with lemon-scented polish, and Nate the bartender whistled under his breath as he restocked the shelves. To Nora, here for a week's stay while she covered the Santini wedding, it must have seemed like a refuge. To Quill, who was facing the emotional equivalent of a train wreck - in the middle of the busiest holiday season the Inn had ever had - it felt like jail. She resisted the impulse to run shouting into the snow, and asked again how she could help make Nora's stay at the Inn more comfortable.

  "I don't see how you could make it more comfortable." Nora tucked one long leg under the other.

  Quill watched Nora's show on the rare occasion when she had free time in the early evenings. Nora had brains and style underneath the glamour. The stories the station permitted her to cover on her own were pungent and well-balanced. "I liked that story you did on teen mothers," Quill offered. "Every time the station lets you do investigative reporting, the show is wonderful. Are you working on anything in particular now?"

  Instead of answering Quill's question, Nora admired her teacup. "Even the china's terrific. I've never seen anything like it. It's like that Wedgwood pattern Kutani Crane, only the birds are more vibrant."

  "It's a rose-breasted grosbeak," said Quill. "The design was created right here in Hemlock Falls by some friends of ours. They made the Inn a present of a service for twenty-four. I use it a lot."

  "Heaven," said Nora, waving a well-groomed hand. "This place is absolute heaven. From the plates to the location. And so peaceful. All this snow and the gorge and the waterfall - it's like something out of a fantasy."

  "There are drawbacks," Quill said.

  Nora's eyes, which were black and uncomfortably sharp, flicked over her, but she said merely, "Oh, right. Your sister's a three-star chef, the rooms are stuffed with some of the most gorgeous antiques I've seen outside of a museum, and in case you get bored, you can chat up the famous people who stay here." The corners of her mouth turned up. "Of course, I've heard about the ones who come to stay and leave in body bags. You've had more than your fair share of murders in your swell little village, haven't you?"

  Quill rubbed her nose. "I suppose that's true."

  "Well, it all sounds like fun. Frankly, a nice little domestic murder'd be a welcome change from the stuff I've got to deal with. Ten-car pileups on Interstate 81, teenage hookers, kids who've been beaten to death."

  Quill made a noise in protest. Nora shrugged dismissively. "Life of a small-town anchor."

  Quill, who'd been reacting to the listing of society's horrors rather than the impediments to Nora's career, glanced at her in surprise.

  "So I'm egocentric," Nora said in shrewd response to Quill's expression. "It doesn't take long to knock compassion out of you - not in my business. Too few plum assignments and too many hotshot kids waiting to take your place if you screw up. Nice guys finish last. If they even get in the race at all."

  Quill, despite the press of her schedule for the day, was genuinely curious about a life so different from her own. "Why did you choose it a
s a career?"

  "I could say: You don't know how many journalism students get inspired by the Woodward and Bernstein affair. I could tell you: I got suspended from school for staying home to watch the Watergate hearings when I was sixteen. But the truth of the matter is, I like to bug people. I like to get in their faces."

  "Watergate?" said Quill.

  "Surely not."

  "Oh, yeah, I'm a lot older than I look, Quill. A large part of my salary goes to what's euphemistically known as aging face procedures. I had my first lift at thirty-seven. Which was two years later than Mrs. Kennedy had hers." She grinned abruptly. "You know, kiddo, come to think of it, I can see where you might have big-time problems as an innkeeper. Anybody could read your face like a book. How do you keep your guests from finding out how you really feel about stuff like face-lifts?"

  Quill blushed so hard she felt warm. "I don't... I mean, if a face-lift's what you want - " She abandoned this defense, which sounded lame even to herself, and stood up. "Would you like a few more of these pastry bows? I'd be happy to send Kathleen for some. Unfortunately I've got a full morning and I have to get to Syracuse this afternoon, so unless there's something specific we can do for you, I'm going to have to excuse myself."

  "Sit down and don't mind me, Quill. I'm in the business of needling people. What I'd like is a tour of the Inn. Officially, I've got two days vacation before I go back on duty to report on the senator's wedding - "

  "Ex-senator," Quill said automatically.

  "And thank God for that, right?" said Nora. "I mean the dirt I've got on that guy. I wish I could broadcast the half of it, but I can't. Not for a while yet. It'll curl your toes when I do, cookie, let me tell you." She examined Quill thoughtfully, and a catlike grin crossed her face. "You might find out yourself, soon enough. Anyhow, as one of the few members of the media brotherhood to be allowed to cover the Santini wedding, I'm practically guaranteed a network feed, but I might as well see what other programming I can scrape up while I'm here. The Inn'd be just right for a little Christmas Eve spot - you know, as background for the station's Christmas message. Maybe a ten-second spot on holiday food or child carolers. Too much to hope you've got a local bunch of photogenic carolers, I suppose."

  "Carolers we've got. The Reverend Mr. Shuttleworth's children's choir from the Church of the Word of God, the Women's chorus from H.O.W, and I'm pretty sure the volunteer firemen are - "

  "Wait, Wait, Wait, Wait, Wait. H.O.W.? H.O.W. what?"

  "The Hemlock Organization for Women," said Quill. "Most of them are here at the Inn right now. Mr. Santini's organized a series of fund-raisers involving some of the local groups. H. O. W. was the first to accept."

  "A feminist organization? In a country village the size of what-three thousand and something? And here I thought the happy villagers were farmer's wives and quilters. Well, I'll be dipped. How long has this been going on?"

  "Just a few weeks," Quill said uncomfortably. "And it's not anything really radical. At least, they aren't violently radical."

  "There's that readable face again." Nora almost purred. "Come on, cookie, there's a story here. Give."

  "There's nothing to give." Quill stood up again. (And this time, she thought, I really mean it.) "I love the idea of the Inn as background for the station's Christmas message. John's always after us to be more public-relations oriented. We used to use a small advertising agency here in town for P.R., but the guy moved on to New York a few weeks ago. So I've sort of assumed the responsibility. What about collecting the staff around the Christmas tree in the foyer? Or the dining room. We put pine garlands around the windows overlooking Hemlock Gorge every year. That'd make a great backdrop, especially if it snows. When it snows, I should say, since it always snows up here in December."

  Nora closed a cool hand firmly around Quill's wrist. "Just call me Bird Dog. What about H. O. W.?"

  Quill sat down at the tea table again. The table was a drop leaf, made of cherry. She'd found a set of four fan-backed chairs in the back room at a farmhouse auction and refinished them to go with the table. She looked at the empty chair opposite Nora with critical attention. The cotton damask upholstery wasn't wearing well.

  "Quill?"

  "Hmm?"

  "The investigative reporter thing is in my blood. If you don't tell me, I'll just ask somebody else. Like that Mrs. Muxworthy, your housekeeper?"

  "Doreen," said Quill. She bit her finger nervously, then folded both hands firmly in her lap.

  "That's the one. She looks just like somebody who'd know everything about everybody in a town this size. Kind of like a nosy rooster."

  Quill was conscious of exasperation. "Doreen's a friend of mine," she said stiffly, and then immediately regretted it. The most irritating thing about Nora was her gift for backing people - okay, her, Quill - into defensive positions. And for demanding and getting sententious responses. "There's nothing special or unusual about H. O. W."

  Nora picked up a pastry bow, inspected it, took a large bite, and set it back on the plate. Quill tugged at her hair in irritation. Who was going to eat a half-bitten pastry bow? The recipe was one of Meg's best. And it was I expensive to make. And it wasn't just the one mangled pastry bow, there were three half-eaten ones abandoned on Nora's plate as well as the half-gutted crepe. This was significant of Nora's attitude in general. Mentally she counted backward from five, then said, "H. O. W.'s not a story, really. Just an incident in the life of a small town. We had village elections this year in November and in the general upset - "

  "All of New York's Democrats lost their seats. I wouldn't call it a general upset. The whole thing was a rout."

  "Well, we both know a lot of incumbents lost their seats. And not just the governor and Alphonse Santini. The Village of Hemlock Falls town government toppled, too. Our justice of the peace has been replaced." Quill hoped her smile wasn't too stiff. "And so was our sheriff, and a couple of other officials."

  "The sheriff, yeah," said Nora, clearly bored, "so what kind of job does a small-town sheriff get after he's been dumped?"

  "A pretty remunerative one. Myles, that is, Sheriff McHale had been one of the top detectives with the N.Y.P.D. before he retired here. After the - um - upset, he took a job with one of those global investigative bureaus. They made him quite an offer. They're sending him overseas for a year." Quill carefully pulled the mint out of her grapefruit juice and set it on the rim of her saucer. Her hands were steady.

  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 sto
ry 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.