"Oh," Meg said.
"Durn right, 'oh.' Most of the success of that place is Betty's cookin'. Betty don't cook, Marge don't have half the business she has now. And she knows it, too."
"And?" Quill said. "Has Marge called, agreeing to sell the Inn?"
"Nope. But she and Harland Peterson are goin' to the International Night together. And that's the second good sign. Harland thinks Marge is goin' to be on TV, he's gonna pop the question a whole lot faster than he might of."
"You think so?" Meg was skeptical.
"I durn well know so. Where d'ya think I was this lunchtime, Miss Meg?"
"I don't know, where?"
"Down to the Croh Bar with that there CarolAnn Spinoza."
"Ugh. Why?!" Quill, revolted, reached over for a handful of capers and onions. She ignored Bjarne's glare.
"Because," Doreen explained, with the patience one uses toward a toddler who has to be told one more time why you can't play nude in the rain, "CarolAnn wants to be in the middle of everything. Glory hound. Mean as a pig, but a glory hound. If she thinks that Marge is gonna be on TV, she's gonna be nice to Marge. If Marge is gonna marry Harland, she's gotta be nice to Harland, too, and," Doreen took a deep breath, "CarolAnn's gotta get her nose out of Harland's business and let him have that permit for a feedlot, or he's gonna be too hacked off to marry Marge. So that," Doreen dumped the peeled potatoes into the colander with a thump, "is how come I gave Marge and Adela your phone number in New York."
"It makes a weird kind of sense," Meg admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that Marge is going to take my place on Lally Preston's Rusticated Lady show."
"Maybe once, she'll be on it. But you ast me, once is goin' to be enough for Marge. Now you two think about it. You got Lally. You got Marge. How are they gonna get along?"
Quill thought of Lally's laser-resurfaced complexion, her expensive New York City haircut, and her twice-a-week manicured nails. Of her habit of air-kissing everyone she met. Of Marge and her manure-covered overalls. She grinned. "Okay," she said. "I'll put a quarter on good old Marge socking Lally right in the kisser."
"I'll put fifty cents on good old Marge bootin' her in the butt. Now." Doreen turned off the tap water and turned to face her two employers, arms folded, jaw at a decisive angle. "What are you two gonna do about buying back the Inn?"
Chapter Nine
"I thought we agreed we'd buy back the Inn," Quill said.
"You talked about it," Meg said. "We listened. But we haven't even begun to figure out how it can be done."
"We are going back up the hill?" Bjarne said.
"I hope so." Quill ran her fingers through her hair. "I've done some planning. That is, I've asked John to figure out a way we can finance it."
"And?" Meg's eyebrows rose. "I thought Marge said she wouldn't sell."
"She'll sell," John said. He came through the back door. His hair was wet with rain. Quill threw him a towel, and he rubbed his head vigorously. "The problem is the price."
"I thought the price of the mortgage," Quill said. "Three hundred thousand dollars."
"That business plan I gave you was predicated on two things. The three hundred thousand cash—which is fair, Quill, since that is the amount of debt that you left, plus a two hundred thousand one-time payment for the name of the business itself and to reimburse Marge for the work she's put in. The other was the success of the longhorn beef retail business. That end of it appears to be fine. You could work out a deal with Harland to buy the beef from the herd he's bought from Rossiter. I've already phoned Laura Crest and asked her to do some back fat sampling on the herd, so you can use specific statistics from Cornell to advertise it."
"We're not goin' to eat that Impressive, are we?" Doreen asked.
"He's a herd sire. So no, he'll have a long and productive life, Doreen," Quill said. John's eyebrows rose, and she smiled at him. "I've been doing a little research myself," she said modestly.
"The beef hasn't been aggressively marketed in the U.S. You should be able to charge a premium for it, and that's where, frankly, quite a bit of the projected profit will come from. But." He paused and tapped his thumbs together. For John, this was a sign of significant agitation. "The price has been upped."
"Upped?" Quill asked hollowly. "Upped by whom? And by how much?"
"By the gentleman that came to the menu testing two nights ago. Phil Barkin."
"He didn't say a word all night," Meg said indignantly. "He was here to buy the Inn? What is he, another rich Texan?"
"No, he's from the Marriott."
"The Marriott!" Quill's heart lurched. "But they have money. A lot of money."
"So they do. He's taken a look at the healthy beef angle, at the way Marge handles the cash flow and pricing—which is brilliant, I'm chagrined to say—and he's talking a million, a million and a half."
"A million dollars?" Meg said faintly.
"He's crazy," Doreen said belligerently. "He's outta his mind."
"Crazy like a fox," John said ruefully. "I'm sorry, Quill."
"I'm not giving up," Quill said. "I don't want any of us to give up."
Doreen went "t'uh!" and then said, "A million bucks!"
"I should," Meg said thoughtfully, "have put ipecac in his fruit salad."
"We didn't serve fruit salad," Quill reminded her. "So, what now, John?"
"You mean you're interested in carrying that kind of debt load?"
"I'm not crazy about it. Do you think we can do it?"
"It depends. If we can match the Marriott's offer— and based on the beef plan, I believe it's finance-worthy, yeah. It's doable. But there's a hitch, and it's a major one. The Marriott's pockets are a lot deeper than ours. It's a well-run business, but if they really want this deal, we've got to be prepared to say no. All we're going to be doing if we get into a bidding war is make Marge Schmidt rich. Which," he added, "she already is."
"Maybe she doesn't need to be richer?" Meg said hopefully.
Doreen went "t'uh!" again.
"So what do you say?" John folded his hands.
"What D'Artagnan said to the Three Musketeers." Meg clasped her hands and shook them over her head. "One for all and all for one."
"It's not a game, Meg," John spoke softly, but his eyes were on Quill.
"We know it's not," Quill said. "Let's talk to Marge, to the bank, to Harland and the colonel. It doesn't cost anything to move ahead at this point, does it, John?"
"Just my consulting fee."
"Hi! Anyone at home?" Andy Bishop tapped lightly
on the screen door to the back porch and stepped inside.
Meg jumped up and flung her arms around him. He gave
her a kiss. "See your train got in on time. I'm sorry I
wasn't there to meet you and Lally. Is she here?"
Meg scowled. "She's up at Marge's place."
"So that's still simmering, huh?" He gave her a quick hug and released her. "Well, don't worry about it, Meg. I'll back you against the Tiny Tank for audience appeal anytime." He dragged a stool up to the prep table, which was, Quill thought, getting crowded. "Anything to eat?"
"Two seconds." Meg went to the cooler and began to pull a variety of items from the shelves.
"I came by because I've got the results of the autopsies on Detwiler and Rossiter," Andy said. "You still interested?"
"Yes. But let's get you settled first." Quill got up, put a napkin, cutlery, and wineglass in front of him. John disappeared to the closet that held their wine cellar, and reappeared with a bottle of California Chardonnay. Meg placed a plate of cold salmon, homemade mayonnaise, and pickled asparagus down for him, settled into the stool next to his and said, "Shoot."
"Rossiter first. He wasn't in terrific shape for a man his age. Muscle tone was a little flabby, liver somewhat enlarged, so he had a bit of an alcohol habit. But his ticker was fine. At least, fine for a man in generally poor shape at sixty-two. There was more than an average degree of arteriosclerosis. Which is to say, an a
ggressive event could have triggered a fatal heart attack. And I think it did."
"You don't mean my food was an aggressive event," Meg said.
"Of course not. But he'd been drinking fairly steadily all day, it was hot for July, and he'd had a heavy lunch. My guess is he was feeling off-kilter most of the afternoon. Perhaps he complained to someone. In any case . . ." He paused to take a healthy bite of salmon, and then a swallow of wine.
"In any case, what?" Meg demanded.
"He was dosed with DMSO."
"With what?"
"Dimexyethodie. It's a stimulant and a vasoconstrictor. It triggered a cardiac spasm that in turn triggered a full-scale heart attack."
"Where did the DMSO come from?" Quill asked.
Andy shrugged. "It's illegal for human use, precisely because of what happened. It's a veterinary drug, though, used to relieve muscle aches in horses, I'm told."
"He did mention that Impressive had strained a shoulder muscle," Quill said thoughtfully.
"Well, when you apply it to animals, you're supposed to wear rubber gloves, since any contact with the skin means instant absorption. I didn't find any on his hands, so if he did use it to massage the bull, he was careful."
Meg fiddled proudly with the collar of Andy's shirt. "Where did you find it?"
"Down the right side of his forearm. Which means he may have brushed up against the bull accidentally, I just don't know. Problem is, the timing's a little screwy."
"A little screwy?" Quill asked. "Why?"
"Because most of the value of DMSO is in how fast it is absorbed. It's almost instant. I looked it up in the Desk Reference which said that it takes less than three seconds to flare through the system. Now, there had to have been at least an hour's time lapse between wherever he was and the time he died, because he was here at the restaurant for a while. It's possible that he was feeling ill, ignored the symptoms, and just keeled over. Was he that kind of guy? Not one to complain?"
"He was trying to impress Marge Schmidt, that I know," Quill said. "So if he'd been feeling awful, he might not have said a word."
"Do you remember what he had to eat or drink that night?"
"Vodka," Quill said positively. "The Russians made everyone drink a toast. He tossed it back, then died."
"Could have been the proximate cause." Andy still looked doubtful. "Anyway, that's what we found. It's up to the coroner to establish whether or not it's been a suspicious death, so I expect Trooper Harris will be around to interview you, Quill, and you, Meg."
"Andy?" Quill asked slowly. "Who has access to DMSO? On a regular basis?"
"It has to be prescribed by a vet. Most vets have it, as a matter of fact. And Laura Crest confirmed that she gave a supply to Rossiter for use with his bull. So the whereabouts of the drug have been established."
"And what about Detwiler?" John asked. "Did you make any progress with that?"
Andy sighed. He pushed away the plate of half-eaten salmon. "Yeah. You sure you want to hear about it?"
"Yes," Quill said.
"It's not pretty. Detwiler wasn't stabbed in the park. He'd been in the trunk of a car—forensics is establishing the make right now, and then dumped under the oaks about seventy-two hours before he died."
"Oh, no!" Quill felt as if she'd been hit in the stomach. "You mean he was alive all that time in the park? For three days?"
Andy nodded grimly. "I'm sorry. It's pretty horrible. He died of a combination of dehydration and exsanguination. Blood loss."
Nobody said anything. Quill closed her eyes for a moment.
"Proximate cause of death was a knife wound to the sternum. It was a long, thin, very sharp blade, like a boning knife, as I mentioned at the scene. Whoever delivered the blow had above-average strength. My guess is that it would be a very fit male, but that's a guess."
"My goodness," Meg said. "There's a horrible story."
"It is." Andy got up. "Thanks for the meal. I've got to get back to the hospital." He bent to Meg's ear. "Will I see you tonight?"
Meg nodded. "I refuse to sleep alone after a story like that."
Quill ran her hands through her hair and looked at her watch. "Rats. I've got to make a phone call. Oh! Doreen! Did Nate call and confirm my dinner with the colonel?"
Doreen nodded. "Said he'd be bringin' a guest. Didn't say who."
"Then I've got about an hour to call Myles and change."
She went upstairs and dialed the number Myles had left her in case it was urgent. She hesitated a bit beforehand. She didn't know whether he would think this was important or not. When she had first fallen in love with him, she'd found his detachment, his remoteness from her own life as a painter, as an innkeeper, to be a restful thing in the chaos of her life. But things were righting themselves. It was as if she had been looking at life through an out of focus camera lens. Somehow, she was tuning it, and the way was sharper, clearer, than it had been before.
He answered the phone himself.
"Hey," she said.
"Quill." He sounded tired. She knew better than to ask him why.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine."
"You'd say 'fine' if you were staked on top of an ant hill in the broiling sun."
"Mhm. Some interesting background showed up on Rossiter."
"No kidding?" Quill hadn't known the man very long, but she felt sad. She didn't buy the old bromide. "At least it was quick." Dead was dead.
"First of all, he wasn't a Texan."
Quill sat up. "No! With that drawl?"
"And his first name wasn't Royal, it was just plain Ronald. He had it legally changed when he moved to Texas in the early eighties."
"Where did he come from?"
"Long Island."
"Long Island?!"
"Graduate of Columbia, Ph.D. in genetics. Made quite a bit of money when he patented one of the mediums used to filter genetic material in research, sold out to Pfizer, and became a cattleman."
"For heaven's sake," Quill said faintly. "He seemed so . . . so Texan. Is there anything about bis wife?"
"Diane Rossiter, also a graduate of Columbia. Royal was married in 1965, divorced in 1988. Two children, Joshua and Jennifer. Married again in 1992, to a Shirley Backus, occupation: housewife. Divorce pending."
"Shirley and Royal were getting a divorce?" Quill's mind was racing now. "Myles, how much was Mr. Rossiter worth?"
"In the area of one hundred million."
"Good grief!"
"One hell of a motive," Myles agreed. "Has there been any substantive evidence that his death was—shall we say, encouraged?"
"Andy promised specific autopsy results as soon as they came in. And, Myles. Brady, that's Rossiter's cattle manager, implied that Shirley was, um, a little free with her favors." She heard the tap tap tap of his fingers on the computer.
"Nothing here about the bill of particulars. But I can put someone on it."
"If you're not too busy."
"No. I'm not too busy. Christ, surveillance is boring. Nothing much came up on Candy Detwiler. He was a rodeo clown for a number of years, retired with some fairly impressive injuries, and went to work as a cattle handler for Randall Calhoun."
"I don't suppose you have any information on the colonel."
"Well, he's a real colonel. National Guard, but that counts. He's from Oklahoma, a widower, very active churchman. He's been a cattleman all his life."
"He's the real thing, at least," Quill murmured. "Thank you, Myles. I know you don't really approve of my . . . my . . ."
"Meddling?" His voice was teasing, but it stung.
"I was about to say detective work."
"Just keep out of Harris's way."
"Oh." Quill thought a moment and dredged up some jargon. "Is he dirty?"
"Good God, Quill. No, if anything, he's a little too enthusiastic about his job. There're a couple of things I've heard I don't like at all. So don't ask him for anything, avoid him if you can, and manage not to be alone with him."
<
br /> "He can't be that bad, surely."
"Might be. I don't suppose you'll wait until I get home to get involved in all this."
"When are you coming home?"
"Hard to say. A couple of weeks."
She took a deep breath. "Myles? I gave John a call. You know, John Raintree."
"Of course I do. How's the job in Long Island working out?"
"All right, I guess. But I've hired him. As a consultant. I've started talking with Marge about buying the Inn back, and I wanted John to tell me and the bank if there was any way it could be done. I won't go into all the details right now, because you sound so tired, but . . . Myles? Are you there?"
"Still here." He was quiet a long moment. She thought she could hear him breathing. "It's what you want to do."
"I, yes. It is. I've worked out a whole new way to handle things, Myles. So I won't get so involved with irrelevant things."
"I see. Well. Good luck."
"That's it? Good luck?"
"What would you like me to say? That I think you're doing the right thing? I can't answer that for you, Quill. All I can tell you is that it isn't the right thing for the two of us."
"And why is that?" she asked, her voice cool.
"Because no matter how you handle it, it's a full-time job."
"And my relationship with you should be my full-time job, is that it?"
"You know that's not it." He controlled his impatience with an effort that came clearly over the phone. "Both of us will be involved in work that fully occupies our time. In very separate areas."
"Well, why don't you become an innkeeper?"
No response.
"Okay, then why don't I learn to do what you do?"
"It's too dangerous, dammit."
"I don't care."
"I do. Because I love you. And I'll tell you this, Quill, bottom line, if I'm worried about you, it's going to be a lot more dangerous for me."
And that was the bottom line. The whole of it. Quill said good-bye, I love you, because she did, then she hung up the phone.
She sat on the bed for a moment, thinking of the feel of Myles's chest against her breasts, the strength of his cheekbones, the power in his hands. She'd never painted him. She wondered why she'd never painted him.
A Steak in Murder Page 15
