Murder Well-Done by Claudia Bishop Read Free Book Online

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."

"It isn't overnight guests. It's the conference room. Mrs. McIntosh would like Santini's bachelor party to be held the night before the rehearsal dinner in the conference room. They - er - would prefer not to have to drive after the event."

Doreen sniffed.

"Well, that's okay, isn't