"Well, I suppose I could." He tossed in a hint of reluctance, just for good measure.
"What about skis?" Cynthia asked with a knowing smile.
"I'll rent them."
"Do you know how to ski?"
"Better than the old geezer, I imagine," Dean answered, trying to remember the last time he himself had tried the sport. It was five years ago with a lithe red head named Ellen for a Vermont weekend. Little time was spent on the snow.
As soon as the couple joined Fred behind the closed door of their office-sitting room, Dean explained the identity of their new guest. Surprisingly, Fred O'Connor, arch fan of any hint of mystery, remained uninterested in the Donald Ryland-Edith Shipton-Jerome Shipton triangle. He didn't even mention skiing. He remained too steamed up over the Claire Quincy transactions.
"Well," Cynthia said. "Whatever is going on, it's none of our business."
Dean smiled. "If we keep saying that enough times, perhaps we'll believe it. I have to tell you, Mr. Ryland is a damned sight more pleasant than bossy Miss Quincy, the sister from hell." Fred just grunted in agreement.
The winter season precluded the front porch rocking chair conferences of last summer and since the past autumn the group's confabs had been replaced with side-of-the-bed meetings in the Deans' quarters. While the need for such meetings wasn't as dire or sinister as the first few days after Bird Song's opening, the three still gathered here, away from the guests, especially when they wished to discuss one or more of their paying customers beyond their prying ears.
"Aren't you going to give the nice lady the notebook too, Fred?" Dean asked in his sweetest tongue-in-cheek voice. If the old man was going to sulk, Dean thought, might as well get it out in the open and allow him to vent a little steam.
"They're gonna serve fresh ice cream in hell before that lady gets a sniff at this here notebook, even if it proves to be worthless scratchings. Nor is she getting any research help from me! I ain't even gonna point her in the right direction to the library, much less do her work for her." Fred snarled his response with an uncustomary growl. Most women were putty in the old man's hands, but Claire Quincy had pushed all the wrong buttons and short-circuited his good nature.
"Think of the plus side, Fred," Cynthia answered. "You recouped all the money you spent buying these things in the first place. Plus, you got a comb and brush and a notebook full of who knows what. And," she added, "three gold coins. Not a bad haul for what David called a pile of junk!"