"There's two things," she said breathlessly. "The first is, I just wanted to thank you again for the use of this lovely, lovely building. It's so antique! It's so historic! You know, Claire - I mean, her father - well, our money is plumbing fixture money and Alphonse is so..." She waved helplessly.
"Fatheaded?" Quill ventured under her breath.
Mrs. McIntosh twisted her rings in agitation. "Ritzy," she finally managed. "The Santinis are bigwigs. My husband Vittorio gets so mad when I say that. He says money made in plumbing fixtures is as good as anybody's, but you know, it's not!"
"Of course it is," Quill said indignantly. "My goodness."
A brass plaque set near the fireplace in the Inn's foyer read "Est. 1693," the implication being that the Inn building with its copper roof and weathered shakes had been there for three hundred years. And most people, Quill knew, thought that antiquity conferred prestige. Quill never passed the plaque without a mild sense of guilt over the aristocratic implications; three hundred years ago, the Inn overlooking the Falls of Hemlock Gorge had been a one-room log cabin owned and operated by a lady of dubious virtue called Turkey Lil. From the War of 1812 on, the Inn had been added to, until it reached a sprawling twenty thousand square feet mid-century. Subsequent owners had adapted the Inn to fit various purposes, and it had been a girls' school, a rest home, and even, briefly, the home of the deservedly unknown Civil War General C. C. Hemlock. The Inn was a lot of things, but it wasn't, in Mrs. McIntosh's parlance, ritzy, aristocratic or even prestigious. Merely old.
"And the second thing?" Quill prompted.
"It's Vittorio, my husband." Mrs. McIntosh apologized and Quill got the impression she was apologizing for the marital relationship as well as the existence of the man himself. "Actually it's Vittorio's mother, Tutti."
"Tutti?" asked Quill, leaning forward so she could hear better. Elaine McIntosh became almost inaudible when stressed, and since Elaine seemed to be stressed all the time, no one at the Inn had been entirely certain whether the McIntosh celebration was a wedding or an anniversary until Mrs. McIntosh confirmed the plans in writing last August. A secondary frustration was that no one knew why the Mclntoshes - who were clearly Italian - had a Scottish cognomen; Meg had given up altogether on being able to figure that one out. "Has she decided not to come after all?"
Elaine gestured. Her eyes filled with tears. Quill, who'd been seriously alarmed the first, second, and third time Elaine's eyes had filled with tears over a crisis reached automatically for the box of Kleenex on her desk and handed it over. John, rarely demonstrative, put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
Elaine, hand stuffed against her nose, shook her head and wailed, "No! No!"
"She is coming," guessed Quill.
Elaine nodded, gulped, and folded the Kleenex into a neat oblong. "She's coming. And she had a vision. Tutti's famous for her visions. She's always right."
"A vision? You mean, as in a psychic vision."
"Yes! About... you know."
Quill, who'd been experiencing some mild concern about her level of tolerance - an essential trait of any innkeeper - for some hours since she'd allowed Alphonse Santini to provoke her into battery, made a conscious effort to be calm. "Your mother-in-law had a vision about the wedding?"
Elaine picked up a fistful of Kleenex. "She said... she said... he was going to leave Claire. At the altar. That the wedding's not going to come off. That I've been pushing. That it's my fault. That he really doesn't want to marry Claire."
"Of course he does," soothed Quill. "I mean, all grooms are supposed to be a little anxious before the wedding."
"The thing is, I just know everyone thinks that Claire's marrying him because... you know... plumbing fixture money. Not the same!"
"Oh, Elaine, Al loves Claire. I'm sure he'll make a good and reliable..." She tried to think of a polite substitute for demagogue and gave up. There were limits to her policy of honesty. "You've spoken with him, John, about the bachelor party. He seemed... you know, didn't he?"
"AI Santini?" said John. "Oh, yeah, Quill. Very you know."
"But you don't understand!" wailed Elaine. "Tutti wants to call the whole wedding off!"
"With all due respect for your mother-in-law, how can she?" Quill asked gently.
"You don't know her," Elaine said tragically. "You just - what's that?"
A soft tap came on the office door.
"Our receptionist, I think." Quill called, "Come in, please," with a guilty sense of relief. Dina poked her head around the edge of the door, her eyes large. A low-pitched wailing from outside accompanied her. "Excuse me. Quill? You'd better come."
"What's that noise?"
Dina glanced nervously over her shoulder. "It's Mrs. McIntosh. The mother-in-law. Claire's grandmother. She says to call her Tutti. She's standing in the middle of the foyer. Prophesying."
-6-
"There will be three knocks!" cried Tutti McIntosh. "Three knocks on the door! And then... blood, blood, BLOOD!" The hairy little dog in her arms yapped twice. Tutti rather absentmindedly set the dog down on the Oriental rug. With a pugnacious scowl he squatted and piddled on the celadon and ivory rose medallion in the center.
"Oh, Tutti, dear!" Elaine McIntosh burst into tears. Quill, nonplussed, stood for a moment to assess the situation. Claire's grandmother was plump and wide, with the frilly softness of a crocheted doll over a telephone. She had dimples, soft white hair, and very pink cheeks. The dog was some sort of pug. Tutti was wearing a fur coat the same color and texture as her little dog - a burnished red that was close to Quill's own hair color. Her prophecy wail was low, windy, and dirgelike, which made it easy to hear Dina's perplexed explanation.
"She came in. Saw the plaque that says 'Established 1693.' Closed her eyes. Spun around for a second saying 'prophecy' a couple of times and then started hollering about three knocks on the door and blood, blood, blood, blood, blood..."
"Stop," said Quill.
Dina gazed consideringly at the little old lady for a moment, then said indignantly, "I didn't do a thing to her."
"Of course you didn't," Elaine McIntosh said in a helpless way. "She does this all the time!" She grabbed her mother-in-law's wrist and shook it gently. "Tutti. Tutti! TUTTI!"
"What!" Mrs. McIntosh demanded in a suddenly pragmatic tone of voice.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, dear. Thank you." Mrs. McIntosh regarded Quill, John, Dina, and Doreen - who had appeared at the dining room entrance rolling her mop-bucket - with cheerful equanimity. "How do you all do?"
"Lot better since that caterwauling stopped," said Doreen. "What'n the hell was that all about? You woulda thought..." Her suspicious gaze fell on the carpet. "Dog pee!" she murmured. "Dog pee. On my carpet."
"Tatiana didn't do it," Mrs. McIntosh said immediately. She bent to pick up the pug, who backed away, snarling ferociously. She sang, "Good doggie, good doggie, good - OW!" Then she dropped it.
"Outta the way," Doreen snarled. She jerked the bucket forward, the water sloshing. Tatiana stood defiantly over the small pool on the rug and yapped.
"G'wan," said Doreen, brandishing the mop. "You little bastard."
"Doreen," John said mildly.
Tatiana's yaps ascended the scale and increased in pitch. Dina clapped her hands over her ears. Doreen bent over, pushed her nose into Tatiana's and roared, "SHUT UP!"
Tatiana's little pink mouth closed. Her button eyes bulged. She panted, yipped once, rolled her eyes up into her head, and spasmed. She rolled on her back and lay upside down, all four legs in the air, motionless.
"My God," breathed Dina. "It's dead!"
"Huh," Doreen said, pleased.
Quill clapped her hands over her mouth.
"She's not dead," Tutti said briskly, "she's fainted. Actually, she just wants us to think she's fainted. She's faking. Does it all the time." She nudged Tatiana with her toe. "Up, darling. Up. Up. Up."
Tatiana, still upside down, opened her eyes and gave Doreen an evil look.
"Come to Mummy!"
Tatiana rolled to her feet, gave a standing jump, and landed in Tutti's arms.
"Wow!" said Dina. "That's a valuable dog, Mrs. McIntosh. I mean, jeez. Did you see that, Quill? John? How did you train her to do that, Mrs. McIntosh?"
Doreen, on her knees scrubbing at the damp spot on the rug, looked up at Tatiana with a steady considering stare. Tatiana stared steadily back.
"Um, Doreen," said Quill. "Maybe we could all just kind of forget this. Mrs. McIntosh, I'm Sarah Quill - "
"Sarah Quilliam," she said with a gracious air. Her voice was high and sweet. "The noted painter. I am very, very pleased to meet you. I've seen your work in the galleries in New York. Such an eye for color, my dear! Such sensitivity! You of all people should understand the aura here. You feel it, too, don't you?"
"Well, actually," said Quill, "I don't... feel what, Mrs. McIntosh?"
Her voice dropped an octave. "The Coming Disaster. I felt the vibrations as soon as I walked in that door. This marriage must not take place!"
"Tutti!" Elaine wailed.
"Where's Claire?" Tutti demanded briskly.
"Claire?" asked Quill. "Urn. Yes. Claire."
"The bride," John said helpfully.
"Oh! Of course! Come to think of it, I haven't seen her today. Have you, Dina?"
"Nope."
Mrs. McIntosh gestured, her bracelets clanking. "I must see her. As soon as she arrives. There is danger here, I tell you. Three knocks at the door, and then blood, blo - "
"Mrs. McIntosh!" Quill said firmly.
"Claire took the Caddy to pick up her father at the train station, Tutti," said Elaine. "They should have been here by now, but with the snow coming on so fast, they must have been delayed."
"I told Vic to take the train," said Mrs. McIntosh. "It's more comfortable. It's safe. And a lot cheaper." She adjusted the large diamond brooch on her scarf with a virtuous air. "I just hope he doesn't get into an accident coming from Ithaca. Norton almost ditched my limo twice on the way up from Boston."
"They'll be fine. Vic's a wonderful driver." Elaine looked a question at Quill. "Now, Tutti, why don't I take you up to your room?"
"What a good idea! We've put you in the Proven‡al suite, Mrs. McIntosh. I'm sure you'll be very comfortable up there. And would you like a tea? We've got fresh scones and Devonshire cream. And our hot chocolate is very good."
The little dog in her arms barked.
"And I'm sure we can find a biscuit for, um..."
"Tatiana," Mrs. McIntosh supplied.
"Of course, um... good doggie," Quill said inadequately.
"We don't hold with dog pee here," Doreen said in an ominous way. "I don't do dog pee. Windows. Terlits. Refrigerators. I do all that. I don't do dog pee."
"Of course you don't!" Mrs. McIntosh said sunnily. "Now, if this very good-looking young man could escort me upstairs, I think I could use a little rest. It's Mr. Raintree, isn't it?"
John inclined his head gravely.
"Are you married, Mr. Raintree?"
"No, Mrs. McIntosh. Not yet."
"Mrs. McIntosh took his arm and twinkled at him. "Call em Tutti! Everyone does. And I'd adore it if you could meet my granddaughter. She's single, too."
Quill watched them proceed up the winding stairs to the upper floors. Tatiana, flopped over Tutti's furry arm, regarded Doreen unblinkingly with her shoe button eyes.
"I didn't know you had two daughters, Mrs. McIntosh," said Dina.
Elaine took a deep breath. "I don't. She doesn't either. Have another granddaughter, I mean. Oh, Quill, what am I going to do? You see what I mean?"
"Well, I think your mother-in-law is cool," Dina said in a reverent tone. "I mean, is she really, like, psychic and all? Did you see how she knew John's name before anybody, like, introduced him?"
Quill tapped the nameplate under the "Reception" sign, which read, Your Hosts: Sarah Quilliam/Margaret Quilliam/John Raintree.
"Honest, Quill, she walked right in here and started prophesying right away. She didn't have a chance to read a thing! Besides, John could have been anybody. Like, another guest or something."
"I don't think so," Quill said repressively. "Elaine, why don't we go back to my office and rework the plans for the reception? We're essentially doubling the number 0 of guests, is that right? It's going to put a bit of strain s: on the kit - "
The knocker on the Inn's oak door sounded once, twice, and a third time, echoing impressively in the It foyer. Dina screamed. Doreen raised her mop like a club, grasping the handle firmly in both hands.
"My God," said Elaine. "Oh, my God." She backed against the newel post to the stairway, quivering.
The knocks on the door were succeeded by a series of thumps and bangs. Quill marched across the foyer and flung the door wide. A gust of cold air blew snow across the Oriental rug. An extremely cross male voice ordered Quill to get the goddamned luggage.
"Vic!" cried Elaine. "You made it! I was so worried!"
"Roads were a goddamned pain," he snarled. "Claire? Will you get your ass in here, for Chrissakes?"
"Quill, this is my husband, Vittorio," Elaine fluttered.
Vic grunted. This was the first she'd seen of Vittorio McIntosh. And there was blood all over his hands.
"I hadn't even heard of him before, other than the name on his gold card," Quill said to Meg and John in the kitchen a few hours later.
"Well, I have," said John. "The fortune is privately held, but a conservative estimate would be in the area of fifty million. And Nora Cahill's information was sound. There have been rumors about his links to organized crime for years."
"He was bleeding?" asked Meg.
"Of course he was bleeding!" Quill, exasperated, bit into a leftover pate puff. It was soggy. "That's why I had to give Dina an aspirin. He'd barked his knuckles on the door knocker trying to get in out of the snow. He said it was locked."
"The door's never locked until lights-out," said Meg. "If you ask me, Mrs. McIntosh - I mean, Tutti - locked it when she came in," Quill said gloomily. "That old lady's a corker. And she sure doesn't like our Alphonse. Did John tell you what she did to him at dinner?"
"No!"
"Hot coffee," said John.
"All over his trousers," said Quill.
Meg grinned. She was sharpening her kitchen knives. She tested the blade of her favorite paring knife with her thumb, then asked, "What's Vittorio like?"
"Well, I'll tell you," Quill said crossly. "He could be Alphonse Santini's older uglier brother."
"That bad, huh? Dang." She counted through the knives laid out on the counter. "I'm one short." "Check the dishwasher," John suggested.
"They know better than to put my good knives in the dishwasher."