Dread on Arrival Page 5

  Dina snapped her fingers. “Sure it is. Belter Barcini. That’s the show that rips off Pawn Stars. Just like Your Ancestor’s Attic rips off Antiques Roadshow. Why is it when something kind of cool comes along everybody jumps on the bandwagon and wrecks it?”

  “Greed,” Quill said darkly. “It’s an infection. Competitiveness. That’s an infection, too. Progress for the People. Phooey.”

  Barcini caught sight of Dina. His rubber flip-flops squeaked to a halt. He snapped his fingers. “There you are. That your boss with you? Good. I got a complaint.” He hunched his shoulders in a confidential way as Quill walked up to him and said loudly, “Your girlie here screwed up. I made a reservation. Your best suite. For a week. Beginning today. I want my room. Right now.”

  Quill, mindful of the early diners coming in the front door, smiled pleasantly. “Why don’t we talk about this in my office, Mr. Barcini? It’s right back here.” She stepped behind the reception desk, opened her office door, and waited while he preceded her.

  He flung himself back on the couch, legs spraddled, and looked around.

  The office was small, but Quill had taken a great deal of care when she’d furnished it. The small overstuffed couch was covered in a chintz woven with bronze chrysanthemums. A small Queen Anne–style table served as an informal conference area. Her desk was cherrywood, with an arrangement of cloisonné bowls next to the landline. She’d restored the tin ceiling overhead.

  “Nice,” he said. “You know that Queen Anne table’s a fake, though.”

  “It’s a reproduction,” Quill said. “Not a fake. A fake is when you think you’ve got the real thing and you don’t. Like your reservation.”

  Barcini grinned and shrugged. “Hey,” he said. “Had to give it a try, didn’t I? C’mon, Miss …”

  “McHale,” Quill said. “And it’s ‘missus.’”

  “Mrs. McHale. You got a mother, right?”

  “I did,” Quill said, her smile still pleasant. “She passed away quite some time ago.”

  “So you understand my problem here.”

  “I’m afraid …”

  “Thing is, my mamma and my sister are in the car outside …”

  The door to Quill’s office banged open and a short, round, belligerent lady stumped into the room, an aluminum cane in her right hand and a large black leather purse in her left. Her resemblance to Belter Barcini was marked, except that her hair was dyed an aggressive black.

  “… Or she was,” Belter concluded. “Hey, Mamma.”

  “Don’t you say hey to me, you stupid boy. Why are we not checked in? Josephine is waiting in the bus. She has to pee.” She tossed a throw pillow from the couch onto the floor and sat down. She set the cane between her feet and leaned on it. She wore crop pants, and a glittery T-shirt that barely contained her considerable bosom. She jerked her chin at Quill. “I am Josepha Barcini, the producer of the famous TV show Pawn-o-Rama, which is shot live in New Jersey. This is my son, the famous Joseph Barcini. He is called Belter because of his mighty arm. You are in charge here? Why are we not checked in?”

  “Yes, I am Mrs. Barcini. And I’m very sorry indeed, but the Inn is fully booked, or rather, it will be, for the period that you’ve requested.”

  “We have a reservation,” Mrs. Barcini said. “This stupid boy here, he made it. I hear him myself.”

  “Let me have our receptionist call the resort across the river. The managers are friends of ours, and we may be able to get you a room there.”

  “I will tell Josephine to get out of the bus and bring the suitcases in. You hand over the room key and I will settle myself and this stupid boy and his sister. You make sure it is a suite. Joseph will require your best roll-away bed.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand, signora. You do not have a reservation. We do not have a room available for an entire week. There is undoubtedly a suite available at the resort across the river.” Quill’s landline had an intercom system, which she rarely used, since it was easier to call Dina through the open office door, but she decided it would be impressive if she used it now. She punched the intercom button and Dina’s startled voice said, “Who’s this?”

  “Dina, please arrange a suite at the resort for the Barcinis. If they’re booked up, try the Marriott on Route Fifteen. And please send for Mike to help with their luggage.” Mike Santini, the groundskeeper, was short, phlegmatic, and muscular. His stolid attitude was a lot of help with fractious guests. Quill hoped she wouldn’t need his muscles, too.

  “I’m on it, Boss.”

  Quill got up and opened the office door. “I am truly sorry for the disappointment. While Dina’s making arrangements, let me take you to our Tavern Lounge. Please feel free to order anything you like.”

  “You mean drinks?” Belter said. “Wouldn’t mind a beer, I’ll tell you that right now. That was some long drive from New Jersey.”

  “You don’t charge us, eh?” Mrs. Barcini said. “We have been very much agitated by your screwup.” She extended her hand imperiously. Belter hauled her up. Quill, who still couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh or scream, said, “Absolutely,” and stood aside to usher them both into the foyer.

  Her relief was short-lived.

  Edmund Tree stood at his elegant ease at the reception desk. A pile of Hartmann luggage behind him impeded traffic. He was dressed in his signature three-piece suit, an Armani, if Quill was any judge. It was pale gray, with even paler gray pinstripes. His yellow tie was a masterpiece of silk. Harvey Bozzel, Hemlock Falls’s best (and only) advertising executive, would have been pea green with envy.

  “You!” Mrs. Barcini said in tones of loathing.

  “Yo, Eddie,” Belter Barcini said.

  “Doughhead!” Mrs. Barcini shouted. She smacked her son in the arm. “What is this person doing here?”

  “Beats the hell out of me” Belter said. “Guess he must be here to cheat the good people of Hemlock Falls, New York. What do you think, Ma?”

  “I think you are right, mio filio. And to steal our ratings.”

  Edmund raised a meticulously groomed eyebrow. “If it isn’t the star of the lowest-rated antiques show on national television. Well, well, well. It’s interesting to meet you in the flesh at last. And what a great amount of it there is—the flesh, I mean. What brings you here, Barcini? The cable network finally get around to canceling you? Gotten through all of the town dumps in New Jersey already?”

  “Maybe I think this town needs an honest man to take the stink out of your show.”

  “Indeed.” Edmund sneered.

  Quill’s fingers itched for her sketch pad. It was a grade A, number one deluxe sneer and you just didn’t see that many of them in Hemlock Falls. On the other hand, if she didn’t do something soon, one of the two might throw a punch, and good innkeepers kept physical altercations to a minimum. “Mr. Barcini was just on his way to the lounge, Mr. Tree, while we find him and his family a comfortable room at the resort. And you, I know, need to get checked in.”

  Edmund smiled nastily. “No room at the Inn, Barcini? I’m not surprised. Mrs. Quilliam-McHale has a reputation to maintain, after all.”

  “I wouldn’t stay in a dump if you were there, Eddie.”

  Quill tried to work this out and couldn’t. She invoked the fourth rule of innkeeping: calm above all. “I was just about to get you settled in the Lounge, Mrs. Barcini. If you would just come with me?” She tucked her arm under Belter’s elbow and led the way down the hall to the rear of the Inn.

  Mrs. Barcini turned and shouted over her shoulder: “Doughhead!”

  4

  ∼Jack McHale’s Favorite∼

  Tuna Fish Sandwich

  1 8-ounce can albacore tuna in water

  ¼ cup sour cream

  ¼ cup mayonnaise

  2 tablespoons finely chopped sweet onion

  2 tablespoons finely chopped celery

  1 teaspoon Turkish capers

  1 teaspoon finely chopped radish

  Mix all ing
redients and serve on twelve-grain bread.

  “So that,” Quill said to her husband several hours later, “was my day. I haven’t quite figured out what a doughhead is, precisely, but it can’t be anything good.”

  She lay curled up in the queen-sized bed in her suite on the third floor of the Inn, her phone at her ear. Myles sounded close, but she knew he was across at least one ocean and thousands of miles from her. They had been together a blissful month before he’d had to take off again. She hoped it wasn’t Libya.

  Myles’s voice was amused. “Let’s see if I’ve got it straight. Marge Schmidt is staging a revolution over the parking meters. Carol Ann Spinoza is running for mayor on a law-and-order platform. Belter Barcini and Edmund Tree hated each other on sight and are going to face off with pistols at dawn. Meg’s determined to swipe Clare Sparrow’s staff and turn the Inn into a megaplex.”

  “You forgot about the burglaries,” Quill said indignantly. “We never had a crime wave when you were in charge.”

  Myles had been village sheriff until the federal government had coaxed him into his current antiterrorism job.

  “That’s disturbing, I agree. But not unusual. When times are hard, personal property crime always goes up.”

  “Miriam seems to think the thefts are related to the taping of the TV show.”

  “Hm.” Myles’s tone was doubtful.

  “It’s possible she’s right, you know. None of the new families in town have been burgled. Apparently it’s the longtime residents, anybody with an attic or basement full of old stuff. I suppose that somebody could be driven to look for forgotten items that might be of value to take to the auditions.”

  “And what’s the schedule for the show, again?”

  “They do elimination rounds to see if there are actually enough antiques to make a show set here worthwhile. The first one is tomorrow, at the high school. If there’s enough stuff to make a show, then they do a second round, then they select the people who are going to be on. Rose Ellen told me that you never know if the stuff you have is valuable or not until the live show itself. All you know is that you have something of interest. If stuff is being swiped because of the show, then there shouldn’t be any more burglaries after tomorrow, right? At that point, if you haven’t been selected, you’re out. So no need to steal more stuff.” She sighed. “It’s all horrible. The changes in the village, the bigger gap between the haves and the have-nots. I don’t like it at all, Myles.”

  “You don’t think you’re overreacting? Just a bit?”

  Quill thought about it. “Maybe,” she said. “Although the thought of Carol Ann as mayor is totally sickening. Even you have to agree to that.”

  “You know, dear heart, if you took a few days off, things would settle into …”

  “Perspective?” Quill demanded.

  “Perspective,” Myles said. “The very word.”

  “You think I’m losing my perspective?”

  “I think you might need some time for yourself. Why don’t you and Jack go back up to the Adirondacks for a week or two? Or do you think the place will combust without you?”

  “I’m sounding a bit witless, aren’t I?” Quill settled back into the pillows with a sigh. “It’s not like me, having this short a fuse.”

  “You’re settled into your old quarters all right?” His voice was warm and deep, and if she closed her eyes, she could imagine, just barely, that he was across the room, his big shoulders blocking out the moonlight streaming in from the balcony.

  “Oh, yes. Everyone’s used to it by now. You take off for a month to God knows where, and we settle back in here. And it’s just as well we’re not in the house, Jack and I. Too lonesome without you. We’re doing just fine. And if you say ‘that’s my brave girl’ I’ll make a rude noise into the phone.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “It’s not just missing you, which I do, and it’s not the spat with Meg, which will resolve itself one way or the other or even the awful Edmund Tree and the equally awful Barcinis. We’ve had worse guests. Meg and I have had worse fights. It’s something fundamental. I guess it’s the changes in the village. You know, Myles, the guests and tourists and visitors come and bring their outside universes with them and then they go and things settle back the way they were. Except not this time. They’ve brought a lot of money with them and it’s sticking and things seem to be changing permanently. Progress for the People,” she added. “What a lot of hooey.”

  “You’re upset by success?”

  “I’m not upset by success. Success is great. It’s how people go about being successful that bugs me.”

  Myles didn’t say anything.

  “Hello? Myles?”

  “Still here.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “Never.”

  “You’re thinking I should have a glass of wine and go to sleep.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “I told you that those wretched Barcinis had dinner and refused to pay for it? Mamma Barcini insisted I’d offered them a free meal to make up for messing up their room reservation.”

  “You did tell me that, yes.”

  “And did I tell you Edmund Tree had dinner with Rose Ellen and when Tree wasn’t sneering at Belter he was sneering at Rose Ellen’s plans for the wedding. He doesn’t think the Inn is grand enough for the nuptials. That’s what he called his wedding. Nuptials. Ha.”

  “You mentioned that, too.”

  “And did I tell you they have separate rooms! Rose Ellen’s moving in here the night before the wedding. She told me Edmund has old-fashioned ideas about purity.” She snorted. “The man’s a fruitcake.”

  “Undoubtedly. Dear heart, I have to go.”

  Quill sighed. The phone calls were always too short. “Okay. I e-mailed you today’s pictures of Jack.”

  “I downloaded them right away.”

  “Which is your favorite?”

  “I’ll look again and let you know when we talk tomorrow. I love you, Quill.”

  “I know, I know. You’re going, going, gone. I love you, Myles. Stay safe.”

  The cell went dead. Quill tossed the phone onto the coverlet and got out of bed. She cracked open the door that led to Jack’s tiny bedroom and checked on her sleeping son. Moonlight streamed in through the open window. He lay on his back, face upturned, mouth slightly open, one hand curled around his stuffed pig. Her angelic boy. She swallowed hard. She was in need of time off if the mere sight of her sleeping son could bring her to tears.

  Max snored at his feet. The old dog was getting deaf, and Quill gently smoothed his fur. He was also getting … fat?

  Puzzled, Quill bent down and peered at his stomach. Max hadn’t gained an ounce. There was a large cat curled beneath his perfectly normal-sized belly. The moonlight turned everything in the room silvery gray, but she knew the shape. It was orange, large, and familiar.

  “Bismarck,” she whispered. “What the heck are you doing here?”

  Bismarck mewed. Jack stirred in his sleep. Quill made a small, exasperated sound and hoisted Bismarck onto her hip. He was a Maine coon cat, and weighed upwards of thirty pounds. He belonged to Clare Sparrow and usually watched over the kitchens at Bonne Goutè, but he had a nomad’s habit, and a fondness for either Jack or Max or Meg’s leftovers. Quill wasn’t sure which. Probably all three.

  She edged into the light, shut the bedroom door softly, and set the cat on his feet.

  “So,” she said. “What brings you calling so late?”

  Bismarck squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, in an ingratiating way.

  “Clare feeds you. Half the staff at Bonne Goutè feeds you. That’s partly why you’re such a monster. You think I’m going to feed you, too?”

  Bismarck wound himself around her ankles and mewed again.

  “You really have to stop sneaking over here at night, Bismarck. What time is it … ten? Not too late to call your mistress, then.” She picked up her cell phone. Clare was on s
peed dial and answered almost immediately.

  “Don’t tell me,” Clare said. “I saw it was your number and my cat’s missing and I’ll bet he’s after Meg’s pâté again. You want me to come get him?”

  “He’s perfectly welcome to spend the night, Clare.”

  “I wouldn’t mind getting out of here for a bit. It’s Monday and things are a little slow. Jack will be asleep in your rooms, won’t he? Maybe we could meet across the hall at Meg’s. It’s been a while since we’ve had a girl’s night out.” She hesitated, and then said in a rush, “I have a bit of a problem. I’d like your advice.”

  Quill caught the hesitancy in Clare’s voice. This rift with Meg had to be affecting her, too. Suddenly, she felt very much like a girl’s night out. Maybe the three of them could settle this stupid rivalry and things could get back to normal. “That sounds great. Tell Meg when you come through the kitchen. Our last order’s at ten, so she should be free by the time you get here.”

  Bismarck gave her ankle a determined nudge and gave her a loud “I’m starved” mew. Quill folded and opened a can of tuna fish she’d been saving for Jack’s lunch.

  She left him to it and wandered out onto her balcony. That Clare was willing to take the first step in mending fences with Meg was great. She knew Meg almost as well as she knew herself; her sister had a generous heart, even when it came to her cherished career. This could all be smoothed over. They’d bonded over Rose Ellen’s nit-picking at the menu meeting.

  She leaned against the balcony and took a deep breath of the fragrant air. The moon floated on a wispy ocean of clouds. The distinctive scent of autumn was a poignant herald of the winter to come. Her rooms were over the kitchen door two floors below, and she could hear the faint clatter of pans, a murmur of voices, the sounds of the Inn winding down for the night. The kitchen door banged open and a tall, slim figure walked down the short brick path to the parking lot. Bjarne, headed home to his wife in nearby Covert. Then Elizabeth Chou left, always in a hurry, even at the end of a long day.