Murder Well-Done hf-4 Read online

  Bjarne shrugged. "I hear. From the other students. At the hotel school. This S. O. A. P. is the Search for Our Authentic Primitive. It is perhaps based in a true Norse heritage. The heritage of the dominant, all-conquering male. There is a warrior code, involving this pig. Pigs are well-known hunter-gatherers of the animal kingdom. They are a forest animal, living off of roots and berries. There is a spiritual link to the earth when you eat a pig. This is not merely a pig. This is an emblem for the wild boar. Wild boar is warrior food. The strong, the heroic, the conqueror warrior male is very Finnish. This S. O. A. P. search is a familiar one to us Finns."

  "We Finns," Meg said, a little testily. "Norse. Indian. Druid. Whatever. It's hooey. If I catch you joining these bozos, Bjarne, I'll turn you blue myself. With a rolling pin."

  Bjarne grinned. Meg's temper was a matter of legend among the Cornell students who apprenticed in her kitchen.

  "Besides, in this weather you'll catch cold and sneeze allover the sauces."

  Bjarne frowned. "This cold, it is nothing. You should be in Helsinki in November. Besides, Finns don't catch cold. We are quite tough."

  Meg planted her wooden spoon firmly in the middle of Bjarne's chest. "Wrap the pig. Then deliver it to the park. To the statue of General Hemlock. And forget spying and get back here fast. We've got a lot to do today."

  Quill looked past Meg, Bjarne, and the pig to the mullioned windows. One of the big advantages of the location of the twenty-seven-room Inn she owned with Meg and their partner John Raintree was the sprawling grounds and the room for a good-sized vegetable garden. Quill could see most of this garden from her seat by the fire. The snow was falling faster than ever and the parsnips weren't visible at all. She said aloud, "It's going to be cold and miserable in those woods. Maybe we should add hot coffee to the delivery. Those S. O. A. P. guys will freeze their blue-painted chests off. Or what about some mulled cider?"

  "Nothing but what the woods provide," said Bjarne. "They cannot eat or drink food from unauthentic civilizations."

  "Unauthentic?" asked Quill.

  "Any culture that's been afflicted by technology."

  Meg snorted. "Well, this pig's the product of some of the best farm technology around." She leered like Jack Nicholson after his wife in The Shining. "It was a happy pig. A clean pig. A pig with buddies. A pig that never even knew the end was coming."

  "Cut it out," Quill said testily.

  "Anyhow, this pig came straight from the Heavenly Hoggs farm yesterday morning. They're not only the best pork producers in central New York, they're the most up-to-date. This pig's never even seen a tree, much less rooted in the mud for grubs. Half the guys in S. O. A. P. know this. So, phooey on this authentic wild man stuff, and phooey on thinking it's a stand-in for a wild boar."

  Bjarne frowned again, then gazed at the pig with a fond expression. "Perhaps I am wrong about this being a boar. Perhaps it is a representation of a poem," he said to Meg, his pale blue eyes alight with passion. "Yes! This pig is an epic poem. An Edda."

  "It's not a poem, it's a pig. Headed for a party in the woods. 'The woods.' " Meg added, with inspiration if little accuracy, " 'are lovely dark and deep/and we have promises to keep.' "

  Quill smiled. "What part of the cold and snowy woods does this get delivered to, Meg?"

  "Just to the park. Mayor Henry will be there at noon to pick it up." Meg looked at Bjarne in an abstracted way, as if calculating his market weight. "I'd almost sell my Aga stove for a chance to see what those guys really do in the woods. Myles has got to know where they meet. He was the sheriff, for goodness sake. I don't suppose you'd want to ask him about it at-never mind. I'll join the women's group and bring it up at the next H. O. W. meeting. We'll find out. Nothing can stop a bunch of women with their minds made up."

  Quill set her feet on the hearth with a thump. "Why don't you just leave the poor guys alone? If they want to meet in the woods, let them. And let's stay out of this whole village contretemps. We've talked about that before."

  Meg gestured grandly with the wooden spoon. "Because the village is falling apart. We don't have a Chamber of Commerce anymore. We've got the Search for Our Authentic Primitive instead and their archrivals the Hemlock Organization for Women and goodness knows what else. Now, I don't care that Elmer and those guys bounce bare-naked around the statue of General Hemlock in twenty-degree weather. But I do care that what passes for town government and plain old social intercourse has come to a screeching halt. Not to mention other kinds of intercourse. Most of the members of the rival groups are married to each other, and nobody's speaking to anyone else. Ever since Elmer started S. O. A. P. and Adela Henry started H. O. W. it's been chaos. Total chaos. Look at what happened with the town elections. Howie and Myles are right out on their kiesters. And we've got some weird new guy in charge of the sheriff's office that gives me and anyone who gets a traffic ticket the creeps. It's not just that S. O. A. P. is ridiculous. It's that something is going on in those meetings that's a threat to comfortable community living."

  "I am going now," Bjarne announced. He picked up the foil-wrapped pig. "You will come with me, Meg?"

  "No," Meg said. "Don't go out without your hat and gloves. It's freezing out there!"

  "I am not so cold," Bjarne said stubbornly. "You just think it's not so manly to protect yourself against the snow. Wear a hat. And if you drop that pig or join that men's group, don't bother coming back!"

  She scolded him out the back door, then returned, accompanied by a swirl of cold air. "Now, where was I?"

  "You were giving a Margaret Quilliam lecture, 'The Decline and Fall of Hemlock Falls.' We'd be better off planning the Santini wedding."

  "Let me tell you something about the Santini wedding, I've decided we can't plan it until after it's over."

  "You might have something there," Quill said.

  "So, since we can't plan the Santini wedding, we can plan your love life." Meg settled on a stool behind the butcher block countertop and tugged at her short dark hair. She was wearing a fleecy green sweatshirt with the emblem of the Cornell medical school, a red bandanna around her forehead, and her favorite fleece-lined jeans. She looked about sixteen. "How come you've decided to whack Myles around? I thought things were going relatively well. A couple of months ago, you two were talking marriage. Does he even know you're planning on dumping him this afternoon?"

  "I'm not planning on dumping him," Quill said indignantly. "I'm terminating the relationship with tact and affection. And does he expect it? Probably not. This new job keeps him on the road. I don't have a chance to see him."

  "I can't believe we lost the election," Meg said, momentarily diverted. The results of the town elections in early November had been the topic of exhaustive, repetitive discussion for weeks, Myles had been replaced as sheriff by newcomer Frank Dorset. Howie Murchison was no longer town justice. Bernie Bristol, a retired Xerox engineer from nearby Rochester, had campaigned successfully for Howie's job. The only member of the Old Guard left was Elmer Henry who was the founding father of S. O. A. P. The mayor had retained his job by the merest margin, since H. O. W. sympathizers represented slightly less than fifty percent of the voting population. While most townspeople put the election upset down to what Howie Murchison called the gender wars, Quill herself wasn't so sure. Meg was right. Something very peculiar was going on in the village.

  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.
r />   "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."

  "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."