Read Online A Carol for a Corpse by Claudia Bishop - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claudia Bishop
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cause,” Harvey said.
“The library, perhaps?” Quill turned to Miriam with a twinkle. “I know the state’s been hacking away at your budget, Miriam.”
“Bless you, my child,” Miriam said. “You heard that, Harvey. The money’s mine.”
“So,” Quill said, “let’s see what you’re proposing here, Harvey.” She turned back to discover that Harvey had charged to the head of the table, where Mayor Henry stood rapping his gavel on the tabletop with an air of having to practice.
“You’ve lost him, momentarily, at least.” Miriam put her hand on Quill’s arm and said with unaccustomed warmth, “By the way, I was so glad to hear that you and Meg are out of the woods. And with the Kingsfield Publishing consortium, no less. Quite a coup.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I don’t have to tell you how worried I was. The light at the end of the tunnel is not an oncoming train, thank goodness. I’m very grateful to them.”
“And Meg?” Miriam asked with a shrewd glance. “How’s she going to feel about the temporary invasion of her kitchen?”
“It’ll be fine,” Quill said with more confidence than she felt. “I hope. Lydia Kingsfield is checking in this afternoon, with, I think, some of the crew for the cable show. So I’ll know soon enough.”
“And her infamous other half, Zeke, ‘the Hammer’?”
Before Quill could answer, Elmer Henry rapped his gavel and called the meeting to order. Quill scanned the table and saw that most of the Chamber members had turned out for the meeting: Harland Peterson, the big, weather-beaten president of the local Agway, sat next to Marge. Howie Murchison, the town’s attorney (and Miriam’s occasional date), was present, as well as Dookie Shuttleworth, minister of the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God, Esther West (West’s Best Dress Shoppe), and Charley Comstock. Charley sat next to Carol Ann Spinoza, the village tax assessor and Quill’s least favorite person in the entire world.
There were some new faces, too: Jinny Peterson from the recently formed GoodJobs! agency and Tom McHugh, who’d taken over Peterson’s Auto after poor George’s bankruptcy sale. Quill looked at them all with varying degrees of affection. “I feel quite sentimental about everybody today,” she said to Miriam. “It’d have been horrible to leave all this and have to move back to New York.” She looked around the table once more. “Oh, phooey,” she said under her breath.
Miriam craned her neck in the direction of Quill’s gaze. “What? What’s wrong?”
Albert McWhirter, immaculate in a gray pin-striped suit and crisp white shirt, had been hidden behind Harland Peterson’s broad back. He’d taken a chair from around the table and set it against the wall. He sat with his feet together, his back straight, and a supercilious look on his face.
“Who is that?” Miriam asked.
“The bank thinks we need someone to take a fresh look at the way we’re running the Inn,” Quill said warily. “That’s the someone.”
“Quill!” said Mayor Henry with all the decisiveness his portly five feet five inches could muster. “Didn’t you hear me call the meeting to order?”
“I did. I did. Sorry, Elmer.”
“No offense taken, Quill,” Adela Henry said graciously. The mayor’s wife—who dominated her husband both physically and politically—nodded in an amiable fashion. Adela, fond of bright colors, had added an orange chiffon blouse to her favorite purple pantsuit this morning.
Elmer nodded agreement and tapped the gavel again. “Before we start, I’d like to introduce a guest to these proceedings. This here is Albert McWhirter, from Syracuse. He’s here for a few days on bid-ness, and as a member in good standing of the Syracuse Chamber of Commerce, we welcome him as a brother member.” Elmer clapped his hands to start the applause, which was polite and perfunctory. “Now, Quill. Perhaps you could have the minutes ready to read, after the reverend
“The library, perhaps?” Quill turned to Miriam with a twinkle. “I know the state’s been hacking away at your budget, Miriam.”
“Bless you, my child,” Miriam said. “You heard that, Harvey. The money’s mine.”
“So,” Quill said, “let’s see what you’re proposing here, Harvey.” She turned back to discover that Harvey had charged to the head of the table, where Mayor Henry stood rapping his gavel on the tabletop with an air of having to practice.
“You’ve lost him, momentarily, at least.” Miriam put her hand on Quill’s arm and said with unaccustomed warmth, “By the way, I was so glad to hear that you and Meg are out of the woods. And with the Kingsfield Publishing consortium, no less. Quite a coup.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I don’t have to tell you how worried I was. The light at the end of the tunnel is not an oncoming train, thank goodness. I’m very grateful to them.”
“And Meg?” Miriam asked with a shrewd glance. “How’s she going to feel about the temporary invasion of her kitchen?”
“It’ll be fine,” Quill said with more confidence than she felt. “I hope. Lydia Kingsfield is checking in this afternoon, with, I think, some of the crew for the cable show. So I’ll know soon enough.”
“And her infamous other half, Zeke, ‘the Hammer’?”
Before Quill could answer, Elmer Henry rapped his gavel and called the meeting to order. Quill scanned the table and saw that most of the Chamber members had turned out for the meeting: Harland Peterson, the big, weather-beaten president of the local Agway, sat next to Marge. Howie Murchison, the town’s attorney (and Miriam’s occasional date), was present, as well as Dookie Shuttleworth, minister of the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God, Esther West (West’s Best Dress Shoppe), and Charley Comstock. Charley sat next to Carol Ann Spinoza, the village tax assessor and Quill’s least favorite person in the entire world.
There were some new faces, too: Jinny Peterson from the recently formed GoodJobs! agency and Tom McHugh, who’d taken over Peterson’s Auto after poor George’s bankruptcy sale. Quill looked at them all with varying degrees of affection. “I feel quite sentimental about everybody today,” she said to Miriam. “It’d have been horrible to leave all this and have to move back to New York.” She looked around the table once more. “Oh, phooey,” she said under her breath.
Miriam craned her neck in the direction of Quill’s gaze. “What? What’s wrong?”
Albert McWhirter, immaculate in a gray pin-striped suit and crisp white shirt, had been hidden behind Harland Peterson’s broad back. He’d taken a chair from around the table and set it against the wall. He sat with his feet together, his back straight, and a supercilious look on his face.
“Who is that?” Miriam asked.
“The bank thinks we need someone to take a fresh look at the way we’re running the Inn,” Quill said warily. “That’s the someone.”
“Quill!” said Mayor Henry with all the decisiveness his portly five feet five inches could muster. “Didn’t you hear me call the meeting to order?”
“I did. I did. Sorry, Elmer.”
“No offense taken, Quill,” Adela Henry said graciously. The mayor’s wife—who dominated her husband both physically and politically—nodded in an amiable fashion. Adela, fond of bright colors, had added an orange chiffon blouse to her favorite purple pantsuit this morning.
Elmer nodded agreement and tapped the gavel again. “Before we start, I’d like to introduce a guest to these proceedings. This here is Albert McWhirter, from Syracuse. He’s here for a few days on bid-ness, and as a member in good standing of the Syracuse Chamber of Commerce, we welcome him as a brother member.” Elmer clapped his hands to start the applause, which was polite and perfunctory. “Now, Quill. Perhaps you could have the minutes ready to read, after the reverend
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