anyone passing up Meg’s food? Especially when he doesn’t have to pay for it? And he asked for the cheapest room we had, which I almost never use for guests, unless it’s an emergency, and he seemed perfectly happy with it.”
“He’s not real big on the comforts of life,” Marge said briefly, “or so I hear. Did he have any first impressions? I’ll say this for him: he doesn’t waste any time.”
Quill unfolded the napkin covering the bread basket. “Well, it was a bit like going to the dentist, to tell you the truth. More wincing than actual pain, at least on my part.” There was freshly baked cranberry-orange bread, right next to the cinnamon bread. It looked terrific. Quill didn’t think her ulcer would object to Betty Hall’s cranberry-orange bread. It had a statewide reputation.
They were sitting in Marge’s diner—the Hemlock Falls All-American Diner! Fine Food! And Fast!—that the businesswoman owned with Betty. Quill put a piece of cranberry-orange bread on her plate. Then she added a slice of the cinnamon bread. She was sure she’d read somewhere that cinnamon was an aid to digestion.
“He didn’t seem too impressed by the Kingsfield deal, though. I thought that was a little odd.” Quill pulled a frowning face in imitation of McWhirter. “Anyhow, after he got settled in his room, he spent the entire afternoon and half the night prowling around my inn.”
“Prowling, huh?” Marge burped discreetly and took a long drink out of her coffee cup. People meeting Marge for the first time refused to believe she was the richest person in Tompkins County. She was dressed, as usual, in chinos, a bowling jacket, and a checked shirt. As a concession to the weather, she’d added a bright red sweater with black reindeer galloping across the front. She had short, ginger-colored hair and the expression of a tank commander. Quill was extremely fond of her. “He’s pretty thorough. We put the word out that we were looking for someone to come in and take a look at your operation a few weeks ago. He jumped at the chance.”
“Which reminds me.” Quill put the cinnamon bread down. “Why didn’t you tell me the board voted to do this to me?”
“For one thing,” Marge said tartly, “bank business is confidential, or darn well ought to be. For another, I thought your day-to-day operations might benefit from an objective eye and I didn’t think you’d agree to the expense unless I put a little pressure on. And McWhirter knows what he’s doing. That chain of steak houses—Muriel’s, you know it? He practically turned that chain around single-handed.”
“I know of it,” Quill said scrupulously. “I’ve never actually eaten there. But that’s not much of a recommendation as far as I’m concerned. There’s no way that a chain pulls in the same kind of customers that we do, Marge. I mean, two-pound steaks? Whole fried onions? And all of it frozen and trucked in once a week, if I’m to believe the trade magazines. That isn’t us at all.”
“Has he said anything about the operation yet?”
“Nope. He’s just been stalking around. And making notes in a little handheld tape recorder.” Quill put her thumb in the middle of the cinnamon bread and squashed it flat. “In this horrible droning cackle,” she added crossly. “Like a raven of doom.”
“Raven of doom, huh?” Marge reached across the salt and pepper shakers and moved Quill’s bread plate out of reach. “You gonna eat that or play with it?”
Quill made an apologetic face. “Sorry.” She dabbed butter on the bread and ate it. “We got off to a bad start. I apologized and I made him as welcome as I could. But he’s so cranky, Marge. And sour as a Key lime.”
“You’d be smart to make the best impression on him you can. Show him you got a real grip on the business.”
“Well. Of course.” Quill had never been sure she had a real grip on the business. If she’d had a real grip on the business, crabby old McWhirter
“He’s not real big on the comforts of life,” Marge said briefly, “or so I hear. Did he have any first impressions? I’ll say this for him: he doesn’t waste any time.”
Quill unfolded the napkin covering the bread basket. “Well, it was a bit like going to the dentist, to tell you the truth. More wincing than actual pain, at least on my part.” There was freshly baked cranberry-orange bread, right next to the cinnamon bread. It looked terrific. Quill didn’t think her ulcer would object to Betty Hall’s cranberry-orange bread. It had a statewide reputation.
They were sitting in Marge’s diner—the Hemlock Falls All-American Diner! Fine Food! And Fast!—that the businesswoman owned with Betty. Quill put a piece of cranberry-orange bread on her plate. Then she added a slice of the cinnamon bread. She was sure she’d read somewhere that cinnamon was an aid to digestion.
“He didn’t seem too impressed by the Kingsfield deal, though. I thought that was a little odd.” Quill pulled a frowning face in imitation of McWhirter. “Anyhow, after he got settled in his room, he spent the entire afternoon and half the night prowling around my inn.”
“Prowling, huh?” Marge burped discreetly and took a long drink out of her coffee cup. People meeting Marge for the first time refused to believe she was the richest person in Tompkins County. She was dressed, as usual, in chinos, a bowling jacket, and a checked shirt. As a concession to the weather, she’d added a bright red sweater with black reindeer galloping across the front. She had short, ginger-colored hair and the expression of a tank commander. Quill was extremely fond of her. “He’s pretty thorough. We put the word out that we were looking for someone to come in and take a look at your operation a few weeks ago. He jumped at the chance.”
“Which reminds me.” Quill put the cinnamon bread down. “Why didn’t you tell me the board voted to do this to me?”
“For one thing,” Marge said tartly, “bank business is confidential, or darn well ought to be. For another, I thought your day-to-day operations might benefit from an objective eye and I didn’t think you’d agree to the expense unless I put a little pressure on. And McWhirter knows what he’s doing. That chain of steak houses—Muriel’s, you know it? He practically turned that chain around single-handed.”
“I know of it,” Quill said scrupulously. “I’ve never actually eaten there. But that’s not much of a recommendation as far as I’m concerned. There’s no way that a chain pulls in the same kind of customers that we do, Marge. I mean, two-pound steaks? Whole fried onions? And all of it frozen and trucked in once a week, if I’m to believe the trade magazines. That isn’t us at all.”
“Has he said anything about the operation yet?”
“Nope. He’s just been stalking around. And making notes in a little handheld tape recorder.” Quill put her thumb in the middle of the cinnamon bread and squashed it flat. “In this horrible droning cackle,” she added crossly. “Like a raven of doom.”
“Raven of doom, huh?” Marge reached across the salt and pepper shakers and moved Quill’s bread plate out of reach. “You gonna eat that or play with it?”
Quill made an apologetic face. “Sorry.” She dabbed butter on the bread and ate it. “We got off to a bad start. I apologized and I made him as welcome as I could. But he’s so cranky, Marge. And sour as a Key lime.”
“You’d be smart to make the best impression on him you can. Show him you got a real grip on the business.”
“Well. Of course.” Quill had never been sure she had a real grip on the business. If she’d had a real grip on the business, crabby old McWhirter
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