It was only a few minutes by car from Marge’s All-American Diner to Clare Sparrow’s culinary academy, but Quill took the opportunity to set her worries about Adela aside and concentrated on getting through her next committee.
The Inn at Hemlock Falls sat directly across the Gorge from La Bonne Goute Culinary Academy. The late (and unlamented) Bernard LeVasque had purchased the twenty acres that lay between Peterson Park and the Resort and built a sprawling complex that included the three-story academy itself, an outbuilding for cars and extra wine storage, and an annex that had ten apartments for staff and visiting chefs.
Everyone not involved in the restaurant business in Hemlock Falls thought the academy was gorgeous. Meg had the same reaction to the architecture that she did to residential kitchens with stainless-steel appliances and acres of granite counters: too shiny, too new, and too generic. Quill, wisely, put this down to Meg’s competitive spirit. Marge was outraged at the uninhibited use of investors’ dollars. Quill herself admired it, without having the least desire to own it.
The main building was three stories high, with a copper roof, cream clapboard siding, hunter green shutters and window trim, and twenty-foot-wide pine balconies on each story. Two smaller matching buildings were tucked onto the meadow in the back; one held ten apartments for visitors, the chefs, and the instructors; the other was an eight-vehicle garage. The main building held wine cellars, a vast, elaborate tasting room, and a second-floor restaurant with a spectacular view over Hemlock Gorge.
Quill pulled into the first driveway, which led around to the employee parking lot, and sat in her car for a moment, looking at her inn across the way. The air was soft with late afternoon sunlight and the cobblestones glowed like the skin of new peaches. The roses massed at the foot of the sprawling building were a Monet-like blur of soft pink and cream. Her own copper roof was green with the patina of age. The academy looked like a young and vigorous upstart by comparison.
She sighed and went in through the restaurant kitchen to find Madame LeVasque flaying chickens at the fifteen-foot-long, stainless-steel-topped prep table.
“Hello, Dorothy. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Madame LeVasque had a nose like a hatchet, iron gray hair tucked neatly at the back of her head, and a very short fuse. She’d mellowed some, since the death of her husband (to no one’s surprise) and she greeted Quill with a faint smile. “What do you expect? You people have co-opted all my chefs to be judges for this stupid fete. Somebody’s got to keep the kitchen afloat.”
“I cook.” She whacked at the carcass in front of her and the chicken fell neatly in two. “I just didn’t cook when LeVasque was around. Rotten French bum that he was.” She jerked her chin toward the doors leading to the academy public rooms. “You’ll find all my chefs in the tasting room along with my director. A good few of the townspeople, too. I hope this fete comes off. With Adela out of the picture, you’ve got some organizing ahead of you.”
“True enough.”
Quill went ahead into the main part of the building, which had soaring ceilings crisscrossed with redwood beams, and a glass-fronted gift shop that held multiple copies of Bernard’s final cookbook Brilliance in the Kitchen. The teaching kitchen was at right angles to the tasting room. It had twenty Viking six-burner gas cook-tops, five prep sinks, and all the pots, pans, knives, graters, ladles, bowls, and measuring cups amateur chefs could wish for.
She pushed open the great wooden doors of the tasting room, which were carved with grapevines, and went inside.
The air was scented with wine and damp oak. Bernard had imported his wine shelving from his native Brittany and lined the large room with them. Chest-high marble-topped counters formed a U against the tiers of wine bottles. A long oak refectory table occupied the center of the floor with the proposed judges for the fall fete seated around it.
Clare sat at the head of the table wearing her toque. She jumped up as Quill came in. “Hey! We thought we’d lost you!”
“Sorry I’m late. The time got away from me.”
“Seen anything of that crook Adela?” somebody called out.
Quill frowned and scanned the table. She didn’t recognize the voice. There were fifteen food-related categories to judge at the fete every year and the judges were usually selected from the town. She waved at her own sous chefs, Elizabeth Chou and Bjarne Bjarneson, who wouldn’t have made a crack like that.
Althea Quince waved cheerily at her, her bracelets clanking. Quill doubted that she’d made the comment—but she had been at Brady Beale’s squash-Adela-flat meeting that morning, and you just never knew.
Betty Hall sat next to Althea—and as she never said anything aloud, Quill was pretty sure the comment hadn’t come from her, and she was on Adela’s side, anyway.
Raleigh Brewster, Jim Chen, and Pietro Giancava were all chefs from the academy and familiar to her. That left Dolly Jean Attenborough, president of the Crafty Ladies Art Guild, Brady Beale, who gave her an oily grin, and a tall blond woman of about thirty whom Quill had never seen before.
The blonde stood out like a torch ginger in a bed of sweet peas. She was slender, with a Florida tan, and the kind of white blond hair associated with Swedes. Her eyes were a pale blue—startling in the tanned face—and she stared back at Quill with an “it wasn’t me, Mom” expression that would have been funny under other circumstances.
Brady Beale smirked at her. Quill’s money was on him. She walked to the end of the table opposite Clare and said pleasantly, “Before we start, let’s talk about Adela Henry. I don’t believe she took that money. Now, I’ve always been proud to be part of this fete and I’m proud to be part of it this year, too. Yes, we’ve run into some irregularities this year. But the fete has an honorable history, and that is totally due to Adela.
“Adela Henry devoted a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a huge amount of expertise to the fete’s success for more than twenty years. I checked the records before I came out to see you all today—does anyone know how much money our village has donated to the literacy fund over those years? You’ll be amazed. I know I was. One. Million. Dollars. That’s an average of fifty thousand dollars a year. Under Adela Henry’s stewardship.” Quill paused. “I’d like to take a moment, before we go over the code of conduct for the judging, to thank her for her good work. She can’t be here today. It looks as though she may not be here for this year’s fete. But I know we’re all hoping she will be here for the next.” Quill shot Clare a quick glance and began to clap. Everybody joined in, except for Brady who, as Quill suspected he would, finally caved to peer pressure and applauded, too. Quill waited until the applause reached a crescendo. She raised her hands and said, “Thank you. I’m going to tell Adela of your good wishes tomorrow when I see her.”
Brady nudged Pietro Giancava, who was sitting next to him, and snickered. Pietro sneered at him, dusted his shirtsleeve as if to remove a piece of dirt, and shoved his chair back. Good. So maybe the entire town wasn’t out for Adela’s blood.
“Now, I’d like to get on to the code of conduct. It’s pretty simple. Each of you has the judging standards for your particular food category, and we can talk about those if you have any questions. I know you will all be fair and honest in your assessment of the entries, and that you’ll avoid any community pressure that might be brought to bear in the more hotly contested areas. I’d encourage those of you who’ve participated as judges in the past to offer support to the new guys. Does everyone have the code of conduct sheet? If not, I have some copies in my tote. Everyone’s got one? Great.” Quill smoothed her own copy on the tabletop and read. “Rule one is pretty self-explanatory. The fete opens at ten on Friday morning, which is the eighth of September. Judges are to check into the Green Room at seven thirty A.M.”
“Just for the newbies, the Green Room is the registration tent,” Dolly Jean caroled. She jumped up from her seat. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dolly Jean Attenborough, president of our very own craft guild. We’re known all through upstate New York as the Crafty Ladies.” She paused. There was a spatter of handclapping.
Dolly Jean’s wispy white hair flared lacelike around her rosy cheeks. She dimpled attractively at the tall blonde with the ocean blue eyes. “Actually, darlin’, I know everyone in this room except you.”
The blonde looked from side to side, as if Dolly Jean were addressing someone behind her. Then she got to her feet—she really was very tall, Quill thought—and extremely fit, to boot. “I’m Sophie Kilcannon.” Her voice was light and pleasant. “This is my first day working at the culinary academy for Chef Sparrow.” Then, with a slight note of defiance, she added, “I’m a chef.”
Clare stood up. “Forgive me, Sophie. I should have introduced you before this. Everybody? I’d like to introduce Sophie Kilcannon, who comes to the academy from her home in Florida. Sophie has been chef-in-residence for several internationally known clients in Palm Beach, and I’m delighted to welcome her to her new home at Bonne Goute. She will be assisting in cooking classes both in entrées and pastry. She will specialize in fruits and vegetables.”
Enthusiastic applause greeted this short speech. Clare sat down again.
“And what are you judging at the fete, Sophie?” Dolly Jean asked.
“I’ve been recruited to judge pies.”
A ripple of amusement (with a dash of commiseration) swept through the audience. Sophie didn’t seem to notice.
“How delightful,” Dolly Jean breathed. “Several of our Crafty Ladies will be entering the fruit and berry pie competition. You must let me introduce you to them.”
Quill cleared her throat. “Thank you, Dolly Jean. That segues nicely into the next item: avoiding charges of favoritism.”
~
Almost four hours later, Quill stretched out flat on her office couch and stared up at the tin ceiling. The ceiling was a relic of the 1850s when the Inn had been a young woman’s academy and it would have been a high point on any nineteenth-century architecture homes tour, if she’d been interested in running such tours, which she wasn’t.
“Can I get you something to eat?” Meg said. She sat behind Quill’s desk, playing solitaire on Quill’s laptop with one hand, a glass of wine in the other.
“Clare brought out cheese and fruit when nobody would shut up and go home. I’m too tired to eat anything else. What is it about volunteers and meetings, anyway? They just went on and on and on.”
“At least you got back in time for Jack.”
“Five minutes. That was it. He was out of his bath and headed for bed when I finally got here. Doreen gave me what-for.” She raised her right arm and looked at her watch. “And five minutes is when Linda Connelly will be here for another meeting. You can flip out from too many meetings, Meg, I’m sure of it. You can go stark staring bonkers.” She yawned, suddenly so sleepy that she wasn’t sure she could stand up. “I just want to crawl in bed and sleep for…oh, my goodness!” She jumped to her feet. “They’re going to walk through that door any minute. Mickey Greer and, um…what’s her name. Linda.”
“So?”
“So wait until you see Mickey.” Quill grabbed her tote, rummaged through it for her brush, and took out her little hand mirror. “I look like something Clare’s cat dragged in.” She ran the brush through her hair, whipped on some lip gloss, and hustled Meg out of her office chair.
Meg promptly sat down again, on the couch. “Who’s coming here again?”
Somebody tapped at the office door and opened it. Quill assumed a casual pose behind her desk and smiled brightly. “Come in, please, Mr. Greer. And Linda, of course. Welcome…oh. It’s you, Dina.”
“It’s me.” Dina adjusted her spectacles with one forefinger. “Were you expecting somebody else?”
“Linda Connelly and her assistant are coming by to talk about the fete.”
Meg stamped her foot. “Earth to Quill. Who is Linda Connelly and why should I give a hoot?”
“I told you guys about that, didn’t I? Elmer found an event organizer to take over Adela’s duties while she’s, umm…in the hospital. He hired her this morning. The organization is called Presentations and it’s Linda Connelly, plus two assistants. Two guys. George somebody and Mickey Greer.”
Dina’s eyes widened. “Is she sort of short in a good suit?”
“I imagine she’s short whether or not she’s in a good suit,” Meg said.
“Oh. My. God.” Dina sank onto the couch next to Meg. “If that’s the one, she’s in the dining room right now, with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Quill nodded. “That’s the one.”
Meg glanced at the brush in Quill’s hand. “Aha.”
“Whoa.” Dina shook her head. “Okay. So. I know I told you I was too busy with lab project to take on any fete duties, but I’ve changed my mind. Any committee this guy is on I want to be on.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “How good-looking is this guy, anyway?”
“Sort of Hugh Jackman–ish,” Dina said.
“More Robert Downey–ish,” Quill said. “Except he’s better built.”
Meg got up. “I’d better see this guy for myself.” She marched out the door, wheeled, marched back, grabbed Quill’s brush and ran it through her short dark hair, then wheeled out again.
“I thought you and Justin Alvarez were pretty tight!” Dina yelled after her.
Quill looked at her. “Well, you and Davy Kiddermeister are pretty tight.”
“And you’re married.”
Quill laughed. “True enough. I take it they had dinner in the dining room?”
“Steak frites, Pasta Quilliam, and Hammondsport trout amandine. A glass of wine each. They should be finishing up by now.”
“Good.” Quill yawned. “I’d like to get this meeting over with. It’s been a heck of a day. Is there anything else? Other than the gorgeous guy in the dining room?”
Dina clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear. Yes, there is. Nate needs you in the Tavern Lounge. You know that little old guy with the cane?”
“Mr. Swenson?” Immediately concerned, Quill got to her feet. “Is he okay? Do we need to call the paramedics?”
“He’s just peachy keen. We might need the paramedics for the guy he’s whacking around, though.”
Quill tugged at her hair, which made it fall halfway down her back. “Dina!”
“What? I was just kidding about the paramedics. Mr. Swenson’s ninety-eight years old, or so he keeps telling us, and he doesn’t pack that much of a wallop.” She followed Quill down the short hallway that led to both the Tavern Lounge and the conference room. “I have to say I don’t much care for the guy he’s walloping, which is why this isn’t all that urgent.”
Quill paused at the doorway leading into the lounge, to assess the situation.
The room had that indefinable atmosphere of a room immediately after a disruption. The patrons seemed to be settling back down to their drinks.
The lounge itself was a well-designed place to have a glass of wine. Quill had round tables made from a reclaimed gym floor and spaced them widely enough so that guests were comfortable talking to each other but didn’t feel isolated. The long, highly polished mahogany bar was a relic of the Inn’s early days as a genuine tavern, as was the cobblestone fireplace. Over the years, Quill had changed her mind about the walls—initially a teal blue, now a creamy coffee. She’d gone through what she privately called her Georgia O’Keeffe period, and five of her flower studies hung near the French doors leading to the flagstone terrace outside.
This time of night, the lounge was about half full. A few people cast sideways glances at the table nearest the end of the bar, where Jeeter Swenson sat with a middle-aged man and woman at a table for four.
Dina gave her a little nudge. “That’s who Mr. Swenson was whacking. The guy in the blue blazer.”
Quill walked over and sat down in the fourth chair.
Jeeter was thin and wiry, with a head of bright white hair. Great age had been kind to him; his skin was mottled with age spots, his gray eyes were filmy, and his hands were knobby with arthritis, but there was an alert, merry spitefulness to his expression and he greeted Quill with a wide smile. “The innkeeper,” he said with satisfaction. “Mrs. McHale to you, Portly. She’s come to throw your portly butt out of here. Didn’t you, Mrs. McHale?”
The man next to him nodded, and extended his hand. “Porter Swenson, Mrs. McHale. And this is my wife Melbourne.” Porter was portly, in a modest way, but he looked very like his father. Melbourne had the figure of a fiercely dedicated dieter. Her carefully applied makeup and unnaturally taut jaw didn’t do much to conceal her age, which Quill estimated to be in her mid-sixties.
“Please call me Quill. And no, I haven’t come to throw anyone out of anywhere. But I would like to offer assistance if you need it.”
Porter rose and put his hand under Quill’s elbow. “If you wouldn’t mind, could we step over here for a moment?”
Quill glanced at Jeeter, who winked at her. “Go on. Just remember that I’m footing the bill, here. Not him.”
Porter drew her to the end of the bar. “I hope you mean that offer of assistance.”
“Of course.”
He put his hand inside his blazer and pulled out a business card. He was a lawyer, with an office in Syracuse. “You can reach me here, or through Howie here in Hemlock Falls.”
“Howie Murchison?”
“Classmate of mine from Cornell. He understands the situation. You can see how it is.”
Quill glanced back at Jeeter, who was playfully poking Melbourne with the tip of his cane. There was a smile on her face, but her eyes glittered in a way that only could be described as homicidal.
“My father’s ninety-eight. He is clearly suffering from dementia. I’m going to need your help to get him out of here and into a safer place.”
“A safer place? You mean a nursing home or something like that?”
“Something like that.”
Melbourne shrieked, grabbed the cane, and threw it on the floor. She took a deep breath, and then called to her husband. “I’m going to sit in the car, Porter. Can you wrap it up, please? I’d like to get back to Syracuse before the damn sun comes up.” Then, between gritted teeth, she said, “Good-bye, Dad. You stay well, now.”
“Never been better,” Jeeter cackled. He bent over and picked up his cane with an effort. He waved it at Melbourne. “Scoot!”
Melbourne scooted.
Jeeter chuckled to himself, and then raised a finger in Nate’s direction. “Cup of coffee here, Nate, if you please. Just black.”
Porter shook his head in spurious sorrow. “You can see for yourself what we’re dealing with here.”
What Quill saw was a guy who was taking full advantage of his age to torment a daughter-in-law he didn’t like very much. But she said, “He’s been seen by a doctor? Your father, I mean?”
Porter’s gaze shifted sideways. “Well, the thing is, he’s very clever with it. The dementia, I mean. To talk to him, in a clinical setting, you’d never guess that the chandelier’s shy a few lightbulbs. And the damn doctors buy it. He’s clever, Dad is. Always has been.” Porter widened his lips in a grin. His teeth were too white. He smelled like wine and sweat. “Look. It’s important, for his sake, that we get him to a…a safer environment. And to do that, we’re going to need outside verification of what Melbourne and I have seen all along.”
Quill raised her eyebrows politely.
“Aggression. Inappropriate behavior in public.” Porter rubbed his elbow reflectively. “Assault.”
“You think he has dementia because he pokes people with his cane?”
“That’s it,” he said eagerly. “That’s it in a nutshell. Now, if you could just talk to your maids, and the waitstaff, and keep an eye out yourself and report on his behaviors, we will be very, very grateful. We will be happy to reimburse everyone for their time, of course. Handsomely.”
Quill stared at him for a long moment. Then she said, “Mr. Swenson checked in a week ago, and we haven’t seen any evidence that he’s…umm…demented. Quite the reverse, as a matter of fact. He’s made some friends here, including my son and his grandmother—well, his honorary grandmother—and our receptionist Dina Muir.”
Porter dropped the smile and stepped in close to her. “So it’s going to be like that, is it? You figure the money you’re getting for the next three months is more important than my father’s health?”
Bullies made Quill lose her temper. Pious bullies were even worse. “It’s not like anything, Mr. Swenson. If there’s nothing else, I have a meeting to get to.”
“I warn you, Mrs. McHale, that if anything happens to my father while he is under your care here at the Inn, you are leaving yourself wide open to legal action. You might think about booking that suite he’s in to someone else. The sooner the better.”
Quill was standing with her back to the fireplace, facing the door to the Inn proper. She saw with relief that Linda Connelly, Dina, Marge, and Linda’s two assistants had come into the lounge. Nate waved them to a table for six by the French doors. She slipped past Porter, with a murmured “You’ll excuse me, please,” and went to join them.
“What’s put your knickers in a twist?” Marge demanded.
“Nothing.” Quill scowled at Porter, who’d gone back to his father and was leaning over him. Jeeter glared back up at him, poked him a good one in the shins with his cane, and hobbled out of the lounge. Porter stared after him, and then slammed out of the French doors into the night.
“What was that little drama all about?” Linda asked.
“That’s Jeeter Swenson,” Dina said. “The sweet old guy, that is. The creep is his son, who’s a lawyer from Syracuse, and who wants to get his hot little hands on Jeeter’s lakeside mansion. It’s a gorgeous place, right smack on Seneca Lake and he’s trying to get Jeeter into some nursing home and Jeeter doesn’t want to go. So Jeeter came here, to get away from them and guess what, they tracked him down and showed up here about an hour ago. It’s awful.”
“Now’s not the time, Dina,” Quill said firmly. “We’ll discuss this later.”
“But it’s not right!”
“All he has to do is refuse to go,” Linda said, with a clear lack of interest.
“If they get him declared demented, he can refuse all he wants and they’ll haul him off like a forgotten teddy bear,” Dina said emotionally. “It’s all because of what he saw in the lake.”
Quill was pretty sure she was going to regret the answer, but she asked, “What did he see in the lake?”
“The Loch Ness Monster,” Dina said. “Or more accurately, the Seneca Lake Monster. Of course it’s unlikely that there are monsters in Seneca or any other lake, and if anyone knows that, it’s me, and I told Jeeter that, but he’s got a what d’ycall it. An idée fixe. A harmless one. He is not demented.” She pushed her spectacles up her nose and added thoughtfully. “Of course, there’s more things under heaven and in earth, Horatio and all that, and I’ve always had my suspicions that there really is a relic of aquatic dinosaurs in Loch Ness, so why not Seneca, too?”
Linda blinked at her. “What?”
“Dina’s a graduate student in limnology,” Marge said. “That’s freshwater pond ecology. I suppose she’s more likely to know about aquatic dinosaurs than anyone else around here.”
Linda shrugged. “Freshwater pond ecology. Aquatic dinosaurs. Interesting, I guess. I can’t see it affecting the fete, however. Let’s move on. I’m sure we’re all tired after what’s been a very long day.”
“Sure,” Dina muttered, “of course. Sorry.”
“Good. So let’s get the ball rolling here, shall we?” She swung her briefcase up on the tabletop and opened it up. “I’ve learned something that distresses me a little, and before we get any further down the road with this project, I’d like to talk it over. It may be that Presentations can’t tackle this for you after all.” She looked at Quill, Marge, and Dina in turn. “Do any of you know a Carol Ann Spinoza?”
~
“Linda Connelly’s going to be very effective, if she doesn’t up and quit because she thinks we’re all crazy or crooked or both,” Quill said to Myles’s computer image some hours later. “Between Dina’s lake monster and the Citizens for Justice she must think she’s fallen in with crazies. What’s more important is that Elmer didn’t tell her why Adela had to withdraw from the fete when he recruited Presentations. Linda didn’t have a clue about the missing money until Carol Ann tracked her down. She’s concerned about her company’s reputation. She doesn’t want to be in the middle of what might turn out to be a case of fraud or theft or whatever.”
“Embezzlement,” Myles said.
“Right. Embezzlement. Anyhow, Marge and I convinced her that it’s all under control, but she’s skeptical. She’s going to go to another one of those dratted meetings at Brady’s to get some idea of what we’re up against. I can’t blame her, really. No one wants to be associated with a public relations disaster. She wants to talk to Adela, too, of course, even though Elmer’s turned over all her fete files, which is going to upset Adela to no end. Anyhow. I’ll tackle all that tomorrow…” Quill yawned. “What else? Oh! And what shall I do about that horrible Porter Swenson? I mean, I ask you! Isn’t there some law against attempting bribery of an innkeeper? Aren’t there laws against tormenting the elderly? Although, I suppose to be fair, Jeeter was doing most of the tormenting.”
“I don’t think I’d be looking on the Internet for a Taser cane to give him, no.”
“It’d be great if there were such a cane. I’d Taser that Porter within an inch of his life. I’ll talk to Howie tomorrow, too. I can’t imagine that he and Porter are buddies, but you never know.” Quill yawned again. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I think the day is catching up with me. Maybe I’m just getting old, Myles. I used to be able to handle this stuff with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Thirty-nine. A dangerous age. I’m sure that’s the reason.”
Quill bent closer to the screen. “You’re not laughing at me, are you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“It was,” she admitted, “an unusually odd series of events all in one day.”
“Not for Hemlock Falls,” Myles murmured.
“What?”
“Get to sleep, dear heart. It will all look better in the morning.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “But I can always hope.”
She told him she loved him. She didn’t tell him she missed him. They had an agreement about that. Then she signed off and went to check on Jack.
Quill cracked the door to Jack’s bedroom and looked in on her sleeping son. The light fell across his bed. Max the dog lay curled at the foot of the bed, and Jack lay curled on top of Max. Gently, she lifted Jack’s solid little body and tucked him properly into bed. Max yawned, scrabbled to his feet, and slouched into the living room to her front door. He cocked one lopsided ear at her.
“You want to go out?”
The tip of Max’s tail waved. Quill wasn’t sure how old he was; well over ten at least. Their vet, Dr. McKenzie, thought there might be some retriever in his ancestry, and maybe some standard poodle. Whatever his background, Max’s coat was a shambly mix of ochres, gray, off-white, and black.
He whuffed a little, which meant he was serious about going out. Doreen’s room was right next to hers, and Doreen would be up like a shot if Jack called out, so Quill collected Max’s leash and resigned herself to twenty minutes outside before she could get to sleep.
Her rooms were at the west end of the building and it was a short trip down the fire escape to the gardens in back. Max poked around the rosebushes, then, being a modest dog, disappeared around the front corner of the Inn. Quill leaned back against the fire escape and looked up at the sky. The moon was huge and soft, a gigantic plum of a moon nested in wispy silver clouds. The air was soft, peaceful, and quiet until Max barked and howled like a banshee when he discovered Jeeter Swenson’s body on the lip of Hemlock Gorge.