Guild ladies from whacking each other to pieces. “Which committee?”
“The steering committee, of course.” Carol Ann sat down next to Marge, picked up a fork, and poked at Marge’s hamburger. She pursed her mouth disapprovingly. “That’s a lot of animal fat you’re gorging yourself on, Marge Schmidt. You need to sign up for my nutrition classes. I’ll give you the friend’s rate, since I know you. Best thing you’ll ever do for your high cholesterol. But first, you have to come with me.” She clapped her hands, like a particularly officious gym teacher. “Chop-chop! Right now.”
“I don’t
have
high choles—” Marge smacked herself on the forehead. “What the heck am I doing, talking toyou about anything? And I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”
“You do, too, unless you want to be in big trouble with the sheriff. It’s the sheriff that wants you. Both you and her.” She jerked her thumb at Quill.
“For what?!”
“We’re going over the fete accounts at the bank, and Mark Anthony Jefferson wouldn’t do it without a legal presence so he called the sheriff, and the sheriff can’t make head nor tails of the accounts and wants you to interpret for him. I don’t know what he wants
her
for.” This time she actually looked at Quill, as if diagnosing an insect problem.
“This is all most irregular,” Miriam said in her bossiest librarian tone. “Did anyone call the judge? And Davy’s not a legal presence, he’s a police presence. Big difference, Carol Ann.”
Carol Ann’s eyes narrowed to icy blue slits. “If by judge you mean your boyfriend, Mr. Howard Murchison, Esquire, he’s not a judge, he’s a town justice. Big difference, Miriam Doncaster.”
Quill had a pretty good idea why Davy Kiddermeister wanted her at the bank, but she didn’t enlighten Carol Ann. She squashed a cowardly desire to run upstairs to her room and hide under her queen-sized bed with Jackson and a box of chocolate-covered cherries. She folded her napkin and got to her feet. “I think we’d all better go to the bank, don’t you? Except you, Dina. I’ll need you here at the front desk.”
“That,” Dina said, with a sideways glance at Carol Ann, “is way okay by me.”
4
The Hemlock Falls Savings and Loan stood at the corner of Main and Maple. Like many of the buildings on Main Street, it’d been built in the boom years after the Civil War. It was a solid cobblestone building, three stories high, designed in an architectural style somewhere between Greek Revival and Georgian. There were a few modern touches; the big doors opening into the main lobby were glass and an ATM kiosk sat under the portico. The parking lot was at the rear of the building, sharing space with a 7-Eleven that had been tucked well out of the view of tourists.
At Quill’s suggestion, the three other women drove to the bank separately, and by the time she had talked to Meg and checked with Doreen to make sure Jack’s activities were covered for the afternoon, everyone Mark Anthony Jefferson had called to the meeting was there. She walked into the small conference room—which smelled like fresh paint for some reason, and had for years—and sat down in the corner.
Mark Anthony sat at the head of the table, his laptop opened in front of him. Davy Kiddermeister stood behind him. Davy had been promoted to sheriff after Quill’s husbandMyles decided to work for the government. He was well past thirty, but his fair hair, red cheeks, and mild blue eyes made him look years younger. Davy Kiddermeister didn’t look anything like a sheriff, in Quill’s opinion. He looked like he’d just graduated from high school. He blushed easily and often.
Howie Murchison sat at the opposite end of the conference table, Miriam at his side. In his late fifties, with a comfortable paunch and a fringe of gray hair, Howie looked exactly like what he was, a village lawyer who took on town justice duties once a month.
Marge stood by the room’s
“The steering committee, of course.” Carol Ann sat down next to Marge, picked up a fork, and poked at Marge’s hamburger. She pursed her mouth disapprovingly. “That’s a lot of animal fat you’re gorging yourself on, Marge Schmidt. You need to sign up for my nutrition classes. I’ll give you the friend’s rate, since I know you. Best thing you’ll ever do for your high cholesterol. But first, you have to come with me.” She clapped her hands, like a particularly officious gym teacher. “Chop-chop! Right now.”
“I don’t
have
high choles—” Marge smacked herself on the forehead. “What the heck am I doing, talking toyou about anything? And I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”
“You do, too, unless you want to be in big trouble with the sheriff. It’s the sheriff that wants you. Both you and her.” She jerked her thumb at Quill.
“For what?!”
“We’re going over the fete accounts at the bank, and Mark Anthony Jefferson wouldn’t do it without a legal presence so he called the sheriff, and the sheriff can’t make head nor tails of the accounts and wants you to interpret for him. I don’t know what he wants
her
for.” This time she actually looked at Quill, as if diagnosing an insect problem.
“This is all most irregular,” Miriam said in her bossiest librarian tone. “Did anyone call the judge? And Davy’s not a legal presence, he’s a police presence. Big difference, Carol Ann.”
Carol Ann’s eyes narrowed to icy blue slits. “If by judge you mean your boyfriend, Mr. Howard Murchison, Esquire, he’s not a judge, he’s a town justice. Big difference, Miriam Doncaster.”
Quill had a pretty good idea why Davy Kiddermeister wanted her at the bank, but she didn’t enlighten Carol Ann. She squashed a cowardly desire to run upstairs to her room and hide under her queen-sized bed with Jackson and a box of chocolate-covered cherries. She folded her napkin and got to her feet. “I think we’d all better go to the bank, don’t you? Except you, Dina. I’ll need you here at the front desk.”
“That,” Dina said, with a sideways glance at Carol Ann, “is way okay by me.”
4
The Hemlock Falls Savings and Loan stood at the corner of Main and Maple. Like many of the buildings on Main Street, it’d been built in the boom years after the Civil War. It was a solid cobblestone building, three stories high, designed in an architectural style somewhere between Greek Revival and Georgian. There were a few modern touches; the big doors opening into the main lobby were glass and an ATM kiosk sat under the portico. The parking lot was at the rear of the building, sharing space with a 7-Eleven that had been tucked well out of the view of tourists.
At Quill’s suggestion, the three other women drove to the bank separately, and by the time she had talked to Meg and checked with Doreen to make sure Jack’s activities were covered for the afternoon, everyone Mark Anthony Jefferson had called to the meeting was there. She walked into the small conference room—which smelled like fresh paint for some reason, and had for years—and sat down in the corner.
Mark Anthony sat at the head of the table, his laptop opened in front of him. Davy Kiddermeister stood behind him. Davy had been promoted to sheriff after Quill’s husbandMyles decided to work for the government. He was well past thirty, but his fair hair, red cheeks, and mild blue eyes made him look years younger. Davy Kiddermeister didn’t look anything like a sheriff, in Quill’s opinion. He looked like he’d just graduated from high school. He blushed easily and often.
Howie Murchison sat at the opposite end of the conference table, Miriam at his side. In his late fifties, with a comfortable paunch and a fringe of gray hair, Howie looked exactly like what he was, a village lawyer who took on town justice duties once a month.
Marge stood by the room’s
Similar Books
