that Harvey here designed."
"Well," Harvey said modestly, "I didn't exactly draw it. But yes, I admit the concept is mine, and more important, that it works."
"You sure as heck didn't," Meg snapped. "Do you know how much a gallery would pay for either one of these two working drawings? As is? You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
Harvey, who actually did have a modicum of taste in color and line, had the grace to look embarrassed. "Suppose Quill puts the colonel in place of Mr. Rossiter and we go with it that way."
"All right I'll try to have a mechanical for you by Thursday, Harvey. You can get it scanned in and printed by Friday afternoon, can't you?" Quill closed the sketch pad and tucked it into her capacious handbag. "If you guys will excuse me, I've got to meet a train."
She left them arguing amiably over additions to Meg's menu, which, if past such discussions were anything to go by, would escalate to an acrimonious squabble ending when Meg flatly refused to cook at all if she heard one more minute of uninformed hoo-ha.
The train station was five minutes away, half a block to the rear of the Municipal Building off Main Street. Quill had at least twenty minutes to spare. She'd parked right in front of Harvey's offices (flanked by Esther West's Best Dress Shoppe on the south and Nadine Peterson's Kottage of Kountry Gifts on the north). She decided to drive the long way around, up the hill to the Inn and down again the back way. The sun was almost gone, the sky a high ceilinged room stippled with patches of rosy light. Quill rolled the window down as she drove. Scents of evening flooded the car: the sharp/soft prickle-smell of damp grass, a handful of apple blossom perfume scattered on the current of the breeze, the odor of earth turned aside by the thrust of growing things. The Inn sprawled comfortably above her, like a gowned woman reclining on one elbow. The car climbed upward, and she heard the rush of the falls, muscular with the late spring rains. A pale moon drifted above the gorge, a fruit ready to burst into full silver as soon as the sun went down.
Quill braked in front of the metal gates that contained the cattle, got out of the car, and leaned against the bars. One by one, the heifers rustled up to the fence, almost silent, their mild eyes a little wary. The largest cow, speckled black and white, and almost invisible in the ap proaching twilight, moved to stand protectively in front of the calves.
"Kinda pretty in the dark." Marge rose from the garden bench in front of the koi pond turned water trough.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there."
"Brady come by a while ago to take that horse of his over to Laura Crest's. I watched him for a while and then was just sittin' here with Royal's cows. Hang on. I'll come on out." The cows moved aside for the short, stocky figure with an uneasy shaking of their horns. "They ain't used to me." Marge grunted as she climbed over the fence and thudded down next to Quill. "Not yet, anyways."
"Aren't you a little nervous around them?"
"Nah." The turret eyes swung toward Quill and back to the cows again. "Well, some, maybe. Royal says he's seen some bad holes poked in folks when they don't take care. They're animals after all." Marge scratched the back of her neck in an absentminded way. Quill inhaled Chanel Number Five.
"I've always liked that perfume, Marge. Chanel Number Five."
"Borrowed some off Nadine Peterson. You don't think it smells bad, then?"
"I think it smells great."
"What kind of perfume you use?"
This from tubby, stubborn, in-your-face Marge Schmidt? Quill kept the smile out of her voice. "It de pends. Lavender cologne once in a while. Tea Rose, until Freddie Bellini said it smelled like funerals."
"Thing is, the sher'f seems to like it."
"You mean Myles?" Quill was silent. He was tied up with this industrial espionage thing for another two weeks, he'd said. She wouldn't be able to call him for at least several days, either, since he'd decided to go
"Well," Harvey said modestly, "I didn't exactly draw it. But yes, I admit the concept is mine, and more important, that it works."
"You sure as heck didn't," Meg snapped. "Do you know how much a gallery would pay for either one of these two working drawings? As is? You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
Harvey, who actually did have a modicum of taste in color and line, had the grace to look embarrassed. "Suppose Quill puts the colonel in place of Mr. Rossiter and we go with it that way."
"All right I'll try to have a mechanical for you by Thursday, Harvey. You can get it scanned in and printed by Friday afternoon, can't you?" Quill closed the sketch pad and tucked it into her capacious handbag. "If you guys will excuse me, I've got to meet a train."
She left them arguing amiably over additions to Meg's menu, which, if past such discussions were anything to go by, would escalate to an acrimonious squabble ending when Meg flatly refused to cook at all if she heard one more minute of uninformed hoo-ha.
The train station was five minutes away, half a block to the rear of the Municipal Building off Main Street. Quill had at least twenty minutes to spare. She'd parked right in front of Harvey's offices (flanked by Esther West's Best Dress Shoppe on the south and Nadine Peterson's Kottage of Kountry Gifts on the north). She decided to drive the long way around, up the hill to the Inn and down again the back way. The sun was almost gone, the sky a high ceilinged room stippled with patches of rosy light. Quill rolled the window down as she drove. Scents of evening flooded the car: the sharp/soft prickle-smell of damp grass, a handful of apple blossom perfume scattered on the current of the breeze, the odor of earth turned aside by the thrust of growing things. The Inn sprawled comfortably above her, like a gowned woman reclining on one elbow. The car climbed upward, and she heard the rush of the falls, muscular with the late spring rains. A pale moon drifted above the gorge, a fruit ready to burst into full silver as soon as the sun went down.
Quill braked in front of the metal gates that contained the cattle, got out of the car, and leaned against the bars. One by one, the heifers rustled up to the fence, almost silent, their mild eyes a little wary. The largest cow, speckled black and white, and almost invisible in the ap proaching twilight, moved to stand protectively in front of the calves.
"Kinda pretty in the dark." Marge rose from the garden bench in front of the koi pond turned water trough.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there."
"Brady come by a while ago to take that horse of his over to Laura Crest's. I watched him for a while and then was just sittin' here with Royal's cows. Hang on. I'll come on out." The cows moved aside for the short, stocky figure with an uneasy shaking of their horns. "They ain't used to me." Marge grunted as she climbed over the fence and thudded down next to Quill. "Not yet, anyways."
"Aren't you a little nervous around them?"
"Nah." The turret eyes swung toward Quill and back to the cows again. "Well, some, maybe. Royal says he's seen some bad holes poked in folks when they don't take care. They're animals after all." Marge scratched the back of her neck in an absentminded way. Quill inhaled Chanel Number Five.
"I've always liked that perfume, Marge. Chanel Number Five."
"Borrowed some off Nadine Peterson. You don't think it smells bad, then?"
"I think it smells great."
"What kind of perfume you use?"
This from tubby, stubborn, in-your-face Marge Schmidt? Quill kept the smile out of her voice. "It de pends. Lavender cologne once in a while. Tea Rose, until Freddie Bellini said it smelled like funerals."
"Thing is, the sher'f seems to like it."
"You mean Myles?" Quill was silent. He was tied up with this industrial espionage thing for another two weeks, he'd said. She wouldn't be able to call him for at least several days, either, since he'd decided to go
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