Dread on Arrival (6 page)

“I didn’t mean you’re kidding me about that. I mean you have to be kidding me about wanting to
do
that. Steal Clare’s staff? Clare’s a good friend of ours! What the heck is all this?”

“Hey. We’re in business aren’t we? And it’s the business of a business to make a profit. I’m telling you, it’s time we took a few chances here.”

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That Hemlock Falls is infected. All these changes in the village. All this …” Quill waved her arms in the air.
“Development. Competition. Greed.”

“You’re calling me greedy?” Meg said, a dangerous glitter in her eye. “And a traitor?”

“I didn’t say a word about being a traitor.”

“Oh! Oh! But I’m a pig, is that right?”

She jumped to her feet. “Listen, Meg. Now’s not the time to go into this, but I’m here to tell you right now that we are not expanding, we are not stealing Clare’s staff, and we are not, not,
not
going to turn into crazy people.”

“Jeez,” Dina said as she came through the dining room doors into the kitchen. “I can hear you two all the way out in reception.”

Quill realized that everyone else in the kitchen was quiet. Meg was pink with rage. Elizabeth Chou looked scared. Bjarne didn’t have much of an expression at all, although he stirred the chocolate he was melting in a pan over the stove a little faster than was good for it.

“I think you need to leave this kitchen right now,” Meg said. “You are obviously coming down with something.”

“I’m feeling just fine.”

“I hope so,” Dina said. “Because if you’re in a snit now, you’re going to be in an even bigger snit in a few minutes. And all I have to say is, it wasn’t me, and if you’ve got a stack of Bibles around, I’ll swear on as many as you like.”

Quill took a couple of deep breaths. It helped. Sort of. She’d known it; she’d known it all along. Despite their friendship with Clarissa Sparrow, Meg was in full competitive mode. She shoved the thought aside, counted backward from ten, and turned her attention to Dina. “It wasn’t you that did what?”

“Didn’t book this guy’s reservations. I’ve been telling everyone who calls up for the past week that we’re full up starting in three days, and he claims that he reserved the Provencal suite last Monday for a whole week beginning today and he didn’t. Rose Ellen Whitman has, for the wedding, which I’ve known perfectly well for weeks, since I did make that reservation myself.”

Quill took a moment to sort through the participles. Dina could be aggravating in a number of different ways, but she was good at her job. “All right. He says he made a reservation. He didn’t. Let’s go talk to him.”

She followed Dina back through the dining room. As she approached the foyer, she caught sight of a portly guy in wrinkled shorts, a faded red T-shirt, and flip-flops stamping back and forth. His toenails were dirty. He had his hand cupped to his ear and was chuckling into his cell phone. Dina stopped short, caught her arm, and whispered, “That’s the guy. He looks familiar somehow. He says his name is …”

Quill’s visual memory was excellent. “Barcini. It’s the man who stars in
Pawn-o-Rama
,”

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 water¼ cup sour cream¼ cup mayonnaise2 tablespoons finely chopped sweet onion2 tablespoons finely chopped celery1 teaspoon Turkish capers1 teaspoon finely chopped radishMix all ingredients 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.”