Murder Well-Done by Claudia Bishop Page A

here, is he?'

"Yes, he's staying here."

"I thought we were booked up for the Santini wedding."

"I moved one of the bridesmaids to the Marriott instead." He leaned forward and flipped through the registry. "A Meredith Phelan. I called to ask about the change. She was charming about it."

Quill put her head in her hands. "why here!?"

"Elmer Henry wrote to him. He's a guest of S. O. A. P."

"Are they paying for him?"

John nodded again. "We received a deposit check from Harland Peterson in yesterday's mail. He's the treasurer. I thought it'd be better to have Blight here - it's good for business."

Quill exhaled. A long, long sigh. She'd always thought John's pragmatic approach to celebrity guests rude. It wasn't right to exile poor Ms. Phelan to the Marriott in favor of a more prominent guest. If she protested, John would merely point out that the Inn was making money.

But the implied insult to a prospective guest paled beside the public relations problem she was going to have. When word got out that they were the hosts for Evan Blight, proponent of manly men, Adela Henry would blow a gasket. The H. O. W. membership was furious with S. O. A. P. and all it stood for. Quill's imagination rioted. The foyer would be yet another scene of confrontation between agitated people of varying age, sex, and gender. Elmer, Harland, Dookie, and the other earnest disciples of primitive man (or whatever the heck Blight called it) would show up half-naked and painted blue right in the middle of the Santini wedding. Alphonse, his prospective in-laws, and Claire, the bride-to-be, would be furious. They'd all be furious.

She'd spend Christmas like a gerbil on an exercise wheel.

Her face got warm. She realized she was furious. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to throw something. "You know this is going to create more hassle for us. Why didn`t you just tell the stupid jerk to STAY HOME!"

John looked sympathetic, but firm.

Quill took several deep breaths, tried to calm down, then said gloomily after a long pause, "Everybody's paying for my bad mood."

"Not everybody." He laughed a little. "Me, maybe. And Meg. And Myles, of course."

She stretched her legs out, folded her hands over her middle, and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. The office had a tin ceiling which she'd never really liked. The stamped ivy design marched from molding to molding in regular patterns. She'd always found this regularity, this dependability that one square looked exactly like the next, a little depressing. "You know what?"

"What?"

"It's people I want to be dependable. Not art."

John blinked.

Quill sat up. "I've been thinking about this a lot, John. I mean, I'm thirty-four years old and I just realized I don't like people to be... to be... well, people. Normal, rowdy, un-self-controlled. That artist's retreat I went to? Just before Thanksgiving? For a bit after I came home, I was painting really well. Then I stopped. When Myles asked me to change my whole way of life and marry him. He wants children. John, companionship every day, someone to be there when he comes home at night. I can't do it. It freezes me. I want all the randomness, all the ambiguity, all the uncertainty, all the uncertainty of life in my paintings. And yet, not in people. And I don't know if I'm right or I'm wrong. Meg just told me I've got my emotions all wrapped up in Ace bandages. People like Meg may be right. If I don't allow that... that... direct sort of messiness of emotion into my life, it can't get back to my work."

Quill fiddled with a sofa cushion. It was a wild iris in needlepoint, the gift of one of their regular guests. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm so tired, John."

"You can, you know. Talk about it. I'm always here."

Quill took a breath. "You are. And I'm taking advantage of it. I swear as soon as - I mean after I get back from Syracuse you are going to see a new reformed Quill. I'll got through the mail. Remember