"Do any of the guests smoke?"
"Keith Baumer does. He's a sloppy smoker. Why?"
Myles reached into his shirt pocket and took out a plastic evidence bag. It contained a matchbook.
"That's one of ours," said Quill. "Notice how it's folded?"
Quill examined it through the clear plastic. The cover had been folded over three times, exposing the matches. The book was full.
"Have you seen a matchbook folded like this before?"
Quill shook her head. "Is it a clue?"
"Beats me."
"This doesn't make any sense, Myles."
"Not at the moment it doesn't." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Why don't you get some sleep? It's been a long day. I want to go back to the station and think about this a little bit."
"You think this was just a stupid prank?"
"Beats..."
"... me," Quill finished for him.
"I'll do some background checks. On all of them. I want to get the state lab boys in here tomorrow to run some tests on the balcony." He put his arm around Quill, and she burrowed gratefully into his chest. He smelled faintly of aftershave and clean male sweat. "I don't want to think about this any more tonight. I want to think about the way you smell. I like the way you smell."
"Quill." Myles tipped her head back. The moonlight shone into her eyes, and his face was a dark shadow behind it. "There's a third option."
"Yippee," said Quill, thinking delightfully lewd thoughts.
"Malice."
"Malice?"
"Someone could be out to put you and Meg out of business."
-4-
Quill snatched a few hours sleep, dreaming of Mavis bobbing along the duck pond like a fat cork, Mrs. Hallenbeck yelling, "No charge for the swim!" and Marge Schmidt nailing a "For Sale" sign to the Inn's front door.
She overslept the alarm and woke groggily to sunshine, birdsong, and a distinct feeling of unease.
She threw open the bedroom windows and looked crossly at the scene below. French lavender grew directly under her windows. Mike, the groundskeeper, grew them as annuals; they were a lot of trouble, but worth it, he said, for the scent. Quill inhaled, held her breath, then let it out sharply. She ran vigorously in place for a few minutes. Neither lavender nor exercise cleared her brain enough to make sense of Myles's offhand comment of the night before.
Had Marge Schmidt and Betty Hall advanced from verbal slings and arrows to outright war? The more she thought about it, the madder she got at Myles, who had no business second-guessing without facts. Intuition, thought Quill virtuously, was a rotten character trait in a sheriff. How often had he lectured her about leaping to conclusions? Now here he was, driving her bats with supposition.
Harvey Bozzel had left the new brochure copy for the Inn's advertising campaign with her a week ago. Quill went into her small living room and pulled it out of the desk. She'd already blue-penciled Harvey's tag line extolling the Inn's customer service: "No Whine, Just Fine Wine When You Dine." But his description of Meg's cooking wasn't too bad.
Meg's art was at its peak with the breads, terrines, pates, and charcuterie of Country French cooking; for the past year, she'd been making increasingly successful forays into French haute cuisine, perhaps as a reaction to L'Aperitif's first review. "Quilliam's coarsely ground sausages are exceptional," L'Aperitif had commented in the review that awarded her the coveted three stars. "A celestial blend of local pork, freshly picked herbs, and the crumbs of her excellent peasant breads. Her efforts at the more sophisticated levels of classic French cooking are reliable."
The local pork came from Hogg's Heaven, a pig farm three miles upwind of Hemlock Falls. The herbs came from the gardens maintained by Mike the groundskeeper. The breads were made by a series of apprentice sous chefs under Meg's supervision. Meg herself was rebuilding the ramparts of "reliable" into "exceptional."
The ad copy described all this in prose only slightly less purple than the lavender below her window. Quill scowled furiously at the copy, then stuffed it back into the desk. Who would want to put such a great cook out of business? She glanced at the clock. It was obviously running fast; it couldn't be past eight already. She dressed hastily and went downstairs.
Her mood was not improved after an encounter with Keith Baumer at table eight, who stopped her rush to the kitchen with a smarmy suggestion involving the length of her skirt (short) and a repulsive summation of his ideal wake-up call.
Quill held onto her temper. The Cornell Hotel School offered a night course in Customer Relations, and Quill had dutifully attended CR 101 and CR 102. "I'm sure you'll agree your suggestions are inappropriate, Mr. Baumer," she said. "May I take your food order, please?" She kept a prudent distance from his sweaty hands, then stalked self-consciously into the kitchen.
Meg, humming an off-key version of "The Gambler," was folding shiitake mushrooms into an omelette with one hand and stirring a bearnaise sauce with the other. She looked up as her sister came into the room. "Lancashire's ordered the works. French omelette in a bird's nest of cr-r-r-isply fried potatoes, and of course, The Sausage."
"I didn't see him in the dining room." "How could you miss him? Those good looks fly across the room." She switched to an equally off-key rendition of "Some Enchanted Evening."
"That's because I was contemplating unique Tortures of the World. You can order a videotape from Time-Life Books, I think."
"Not Baumer again."
"Baumer. Had a suggestion having to do with short-skirted uniforms and appropriate poses for waitresses over the right table height."
"Ugh!" shrieked Meg. "That foul, grungy pig!" She took the saucepan off the Aga and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment. "What'd he order?"
Quill looked at the slip. "Stuffed tomatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon."
John came softly into the kitchen carrying a room service order. "Two orders of Eggs Benedict, grilled grapefruit with brown sugar, blueberries with whipped cream, German pancakes, and two orders of Smithfield ham."
"That doesn't sound like the orthodontist," said Quill with trepidation.
"Mrs. Hallenbeck." John's tone was curt. "Is all this on the house?"
"For now."
"That's a forty-dollar breakfast," said John.
"I know." She explained briefly what Myles had discovered the previous evening. "We'll wait until the lab results are in, but we don't know anything yet. If it's vandalism, we're responsible."
"I think you should talk to them about keeping costs within reason."
Quill grimaced.
"I'll talk to them, then," said John insistently. "We can't afford this kind of cash drain, Quill."
"John, if we are liable for this accident, it's just going to annoy them to insist that they watch it."
"I warned you about those two when they checked in."
"Yes, you did," Quill admitted.
"Did you check the supply of sulfuric acid?"
"No, I don't have any idea of what was there before. Doreen might, but she's not back from vacation until this afternoon."
"I saw her out here yesterday. Mavis Collinwood, I mean. She passed right by the storeroom."
"John, you think they staged the accident? Come on! We can afford this, can't we? You said last week this is the first year we're going to show a profit."
"Maybe," he said gloomily. "If you don't keep buying food and drink for the whole town. I can't wait to get the bill from the Croh Bar. Half those guys on the volunteer firemen should be in A.A."
"They may have saved Mavis' life," said Quill. "Meg! What are you doing to that tomato?"
"The one for salesman-creep Baumer?" Meg gleefully shook baking soda into the chopped parsley, sausage, and onion dressing that composed the usual stuffing.
"No." Quill took the orange box from Meg's hand and replaced it in the cupboard.
"Yes!" said Meg. Her face reddened, always a sign of rising temper. Then her hair seemed to flatten, which indicated it had risen. Quill could never figure
how she accomplished the trick with her hair. Meg retrieved the baking soda and sprinkled a bit more on the tomato.
"Why don't we suggest that they curb the spending, at least until we establish the cause of the accident?" said John.
"Okay, okay, okay." Quill lifted her hands in a gesture of defeat. "I'll do it."
"When?"
"In a bit. I've got to memorize that stupid speech for The Trial of Goody Martin. The dress rehearsal's this afternoon at the duck pond."
"No time like the present," said John. "They're waiting for you in two-fourteen. I said you'd be along to speak to them. Kathleen will bring their breakfast up."
Quill sighed. "Okay. Okay. I'm going. See this? It's Quill, going to do her duty."
Meg was singing "... when I am dead and gone, dear, sing no sad songs for me" to her omelette as Quill left the kitchen.
It was shaping up to be a hell of a week.
Two-fourteen and two-sixteen were two separate bedrooms connected by an interior door. Quill didn't particularly like the decor, having given way to a brief infatuation with grape-and-ivy chintz for the bedspreads and drapes.
Mrs. Hallenbeck opened the door to her knock, dressed in a red double-knit suit that screamed "designer." Quill's painter's eye recoiled from the clash with the purple and green.
"I very much dislike this room," said Mrs. Hallenbeck, by way of greeting.
"So do I," said Quill frankly. "You must have a nice sense of color, Mrs. Hallenbeck. Would you like to move to the rooms below? They're a little more soothing to the eye."
"Perhaps that would settle Mavis down," Mrs. Hallenbeck admitted.
"Coo-ee!" Mavis waved at her from the bed. Quill, momentarily speechless, didn't respond at first.
"Dr. Bishop's Valium samples seemed to have loosened Mavis' more obvious inhibitions," said Mrs. Hallenbeck dryly. Mavis' generous breasts spilled over the top of a lacy nightgown. Her makeup had been applied with a lavish hand. Her hair, released from its tight bun, spilled over her shoulders. Chewing gum with enthusiasm, she waved again, and said, "This is just so lovely!"
"Please sit down, Ms. Quilliam." Mrs. Hallenbeck sat stiffly, though with elegance, at the tea table fronting the windows. "I take it you have come to discuss a settlement with us. I am prepared to listen to any reasonable offer."
Quill sat in the chair opposite and took a deep breath. "Where's that breakfast?" caroled Mavis. "I swear, I could eat a hog whole."
Quill took a second deep breath. A double knock on the door acted as a brief reprieve. She opened it, took the tray from Kathleen Kiddermeister, and set it on the tea table. Mrs. Hallenbeck examined the tray with disdain. Mavis hauled her- self out of bed with a whoop, parked the wad of chewing gum on the bedpost, and settled herself at the table. She and Mrs. Hallenbeck had a brief, sharp discussion over who had ordered the grapefruit. Mrs. Hallenbeck won and took the blueberries mounded with whipped cream.
"Would you care for coffee?" asked Mrs. Hallenbeck, after a moment's more-or-less silent chewing. "It's quite decent. I discovered yesterday that one has to insist on the chef's private stock, or else you are served a brew that is quite ordinary."
Quill pinched her own knee hard. She was awake. She was part-owner of this Inn. She was in charge. She had to talk to the widows with the direct yet tactful charm that had never failed her, and convince the widows that costs should be kept down for all their sakes.
"It looks as though sulfuric acid was poured on the mortar around the balcony," she blurted. "The sheriff has sent samples off for tests to confirm it."
The widows stopped eating. Mavis looked at Mrs. Hallenbeck, her mouth open. Mrs. Hallenbeck looked out the window. Her mouth was firmly closed.
"Tests?" said Mrs. Hallenbeck. "Who in the world would want to make that balcony unsafe?"
"I don't know," said Quill carefully. "But until we do, I thought you might want to... to... be as careful about your expenses as you have been in the past."
"Vandals!" said Mavis. "My God. Are we safe in our beds here, Amelia?"
"You seemed to think so when you talked me into coming here, Mavis," said Mrs. Hallenbeck tartly.
"I thought you and your husband had been here before," said Quill.
"Yes, of course. Mavis reminded me of it when we were planning our trip this summer. She did not, however, tell me that we would be fair game for malicious tricks."
"I don't know how this happened," said Quill. "But until we know who will have to pay for the repairs to the balcony, we won't know who will be responsible for your hotel bill. We are delighted to have you as guests, of course, but you must understand that we're running a business."
Mavis broke into shrill laughter that stopped as suddenly as it started. Mrs. Hallenbeck shot her a venomous glance, then nodded benignly at Quill. "We will be happy to accommodate you, Sarah." She picked up Mavis' plate of Eggs Benedict and the Smithfield ham. "You may return these to the kitchen and remove them from our room service charge. Mavis does not require that much for breakfast."
"I certainly do!" said Mavis. She snatched the plates back. "I'm sure Miss Quill and the sheriff don't want us to starve while we are waitin' to hear what's what." She picked up a slice of ham in her fingers and rapidly chewed it.
Quill murmured her goodbyes and left them to it.
Going downstairs to her office, Quill had a moment's feeling of control. She fervently hoped it was not illusory. It lasted through the staff meeting (all the waitresses showed up for work) and the business meeting with John (the Inn was booked solid for History Days). She even found time for a quick glance at Clarissa Martin's two big speeches, one before being ducked in the duck pond, the other as she was sentenced to being pressed to death. The feelings of competency even lasted through the lunch trade and Meg's excited report that Edward Lancashire had come to the kitchen to compliment her on the omelette. This was offset somewhat by Quill's receipt of a customer-satisfaction card, unsigned, that complained bitterly about the baking soda in the scrambled eggs. Quill, looking ahead to the month's receipts, decided to let it go.
She lost the glow at the Chamber meeting that afternoon. Since the Chamber budget allowed only for a once-a-month lunch in the conference room, supernumerary sessions were held in the Inn's Lounge. Quill donated coffee and soft drinks at these sessions, and she came into the lounge early to make sure of the preparations.
Esther bustled in behind her, clipboard in hand. "Julie Offenbach is sicker than a dog," reported Esther in glum satisfaction, "so you'll just have to rehearse with us, Quill."
"Has Andy Bishop seen her?" asked Quill, with slowly extinguishing hope. "They've got all kinds of miracle drugs these days."
"It's just flu!" said Esther. "She'll be maybe better by Wednesday. First performance is day after tomorrow, so there you are. You'll do fine, Quill."
"Oh, dear," said Quill. "Esther, I'm just not good at this kind of thing."
"But you're so pretty!" Esther said unenviously. "It's for the good of the Town, you know. You have been practicing, dear, haven't you?"
"You bet," said Quill firmly, "I'll just take a minute to... to look at it one more time." She escaped into the hallway. only to be swept back into the Lounge by an ebullient Mayor Henry and Gil Gilmeister. Marge Schmidt and Mavis Collinwood were right on their heels, and Marge yelled, "You got that part memorized, Mave?"
Quill turned around. Mavis, in a modest print dress much like the one from the day before, shrieked, "It's just adorable. I'm going to love it!"
Quill studied her for a moment. The effect of the Valium had carried over into the afternoon. The big patent-leather belt was cinched two notches tighter. The top of the print dress was unbuttoned. Her hair was loose, and the makeup laid on with a trowel.
"Goings-on !" sniffed a dire voice at Quill's elbow. "Dressed like the scarlet woman of big cities. Detroit, for instance."
"Oh, hi, Doreen!" Quill gave the housekeeper a hug. "So glad you're back from vacation. Did you have a good time?"
Nobody knew how old Doreen was. Meg guessed late fifties, Myles late forties, with a hard life behind her. She'd shown up truculent and bellicose at the Inn's back door one January afternoon, and Quill had hired her on a temporary basis. That was two years ago. Except for a tendency to fierce, short-lived enthusiasms, Doreen was the most loyal, hardest-working employee they had. There was no one at the Inn Quill liked or trusted more. Except, Quill thought, for John Raintree and Meg.
"In Boca Raton? At your nephew's?"
A Taste For Murder hf-1 Page 5
