“It’s an older woman,” said John. He paused reflectively. “Kind of mean.”
“I’m good with mean.” She glanced at her watch; fifteen minutes before the start of the afternoon shift. She’d just make it if John’s complainer didn’t have a real problem “The wine shipment’s due at four. The bill of lading is…um … somewhere on my desk.”
“I’ll find it. My grandfather, the Chief…”
“Was a tracker,” Quill finished for him. “I’d like to meet your grandfather. I’d like to meet your grandmother, too, as a matter of fact - ” She stopped, aware that the flippant conversation was heading into dangerous waters. John’s quiet, lonely existence was his business. “Never mind. Where is she?”
“Lobby.” He grinned, teeth white in his dark face. “Good luck.”
Quill took the steps up to the lobby with a practiced smile firmly in place. She and Meg had bought the twenty-seven-room Inn two years before with the combined proceeds of her last art show and Meg’s early and wholly unexpected widowhood. Driving through Central New York on a short vacation, Meg and Quill had come upon the Inn unexpectedly. They came back. Shouldered between the granite ridges left by glaciers, on land too thin for farming, Inn and village were fragrant in spring, lush in summer, brilliant with color in the fall. Even the winters weren’t too bad, for those tolerant of heavy snowfall, and Hemlockians resigned themselves to a partial dependence on tourists in search of peak season vacations. The Inn had always attracted travelers; as a commercial property, it proved easy to sell and less easy to manage. It had passed from hand to hand over the years. New owners bought and sold with depressing regularity, most defeated by the difficulty of targeting exactly the right customer market. The relationships among longtime residents of Hemlock Falls were so labyrinthine, it was a year before Quill realized that Marge Schmidt and Tom Peterson, Gil Gilmeister’s partner, had owned the Inn some years before. Marge had made a stab at modernizing. She installed wall-to-wall Astro-turf indoors (“Wears good,” said Marge some months after Quill removed it. “Whattaya, stupid?”) and plywood trolls in the garden.
The reception-lobby was all that remained of the original eighteenth-century Inn, and the low ceilings and leaded windows had a lot to do with Quill’s final decision to buy it. Guests were in search of an authentic historical experience, as long as it was accompanied by heated towel racks, outstanding mattresses, and her sister’s terrific food. If they could restore the Inn with the right degree of twentieth-century luxury, people would come in busloads. Quill had stripped layers of paint and wallpaper from the plaster-and-lathe walls, replaced vinyl-backed draperies with simple valances of Scottish lace, and tore up the Astro-turf carpeting. The sisters had refinished the floors and wainscoting to a honeyed pine, and landscaped the grounds.
The leaded windows in the lobby framed a view of the long sweep of lawn and gardens to the lip of Hemlock Gorge. Creamy wool rugs, overwoven in florals of peach, celadon, taupe, and sky blue, lightened the effect of the low ceiling. Two massive Japanese urns flanked the reception desk where Dina Muir checked guests in. Mike, the groundskeeper, filled the urns every other morning with flowers from the Inn’s extensive perennial gardens. As usual this early in July, they held Queen Elizabeth roses, Oriental lilies of gold, peach, and white, and spars of purple heather.
The lobby was welcoming and peaceful. Quill smiled at Dina, the daytime receptionist, and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Dina made an expressive face, and jerked her head slightly in the direction of the fireplace.
An elderly woman with a fierce frown sat on the pale leather couch in front of the cobblestone hearth. A woman at least thirty years her junior stood behind the chair. The younger one had a submissive, tentative air for all the world like that anachronism, the companion. Quill’s painter’s eye registered almost automatically the lush figure behind the modestly buttoned shirtwaist. She could have used a little makeup, Quill thought, besides the slash of red lipstick she allowed herself. Something in the attitude of the two women made her revise that thought; the elder one clearly dominated her attendant and just as clearly disapproved of excess.
“I’m Sarah Quilliam,” she said, her hand extended in welcome.
“I’m Mavis Collinwood?” said the younger woman in a southern drawl that seemed to question it. Her brown hair was lacquered like a Chinese table and back-combed into a tightly restrained knot. “Mrs. Hallenbeck doesn’t shake hands,” Mavis, in a voice both assured and respectful. “Her arthritis is a little painful this time of year.”
Only the glaucous clouding of Mrs. Hallenbeck’s blue eyes and the gnarled hands told Quill that she must be over eighty. Her skin was smooth, shadowed by a fine net of wrinkles at eye and mouth. She sat rigidly upright, chin high to avoid the sagging of throat and jowl. Her figure was slim rather than gaunt, and Quill took in the expensive watch and the elegant Chanel suit. Mrs. Hallenbeck fixed Quill with a basilisk glare. “I wish to speak to the owner.”
“You are,” said Quill cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”
“Our reservations were not in order.” The old lady was clearly displeased.
“I’m very sorry,” said Quill, going to the ledger. “You weren’t recorded in the book? I’ll arrange a room for you immediately.”
“We were in the book. I had requested the third-floor suite. The one overlooking the gorge, with that marvelous balcony that makes you feel as though you were flying.” She paused, and the clouded blue eyes teared up a little. “My husband and I stayed here, years ago. I am retracing our days together.”
Quill’s look expressed sympathy. “That girl of yours. She put us into two rooms on the second floor. It overlooks the back lawn. It is not a suite. It is not what I require. I demanded to see the owner, and John Raintree said that these arrangements had been made and could not be changed.”
“Let me see what we can do.” Quill checked the booking: Hallenbeck, Amelia, and Collinwood, Mavis. The reservation had been made three months ago, by one of the gilt-edged travel agencies in South Carolina. Paid for in advance with an American Express Gold card. There it was: Requested Suite 312-314. And just as clearly marked in John’s handwriting were their current rooms: Confirmed 101 and 104. “Did Mr. Raintree say anything at all about why the rooms were booked this way? He’s a wonderful help to us, Mrs. Hallenbeck, and rarely makes mistakes. It’s not like him to make a change like this without a reason.”
“He did not say one word.” The tones were decisive. If she’d had a whip, she would have cracked it.
Quill suppressed a grin. “I’m certain that no one’s in three-fourteen. Shall we go up and see if it’s suitable for you?” Mrs. Hallenbeck nodded regally. The three of them went up the stairs. Any notion that John may have booked them into first-floor rooms due to Mrs. Hallenbeck’s arthritis was quickly dispelled; she took the steps with a lot less effort than Mavis Collinwood, who began to breathe heavily at the second-floor landing. Quill unlocked the door to the suite and stepped aside to let them enter.
Quill loved all twenty-seven rooms at the Inn, but 314 was one of her favorites. A white Adams-style fireplace dominated the wall opposite the balcony. The carpeting was crisp navy-blue. The couch and occasional chairs were covered in blue-and-yellow chintz, the colors of Provence. French doors opened out onto a white-painted iron balcony cantilevered over the lip of Hemlock Gorge, giving 314 a panoramic view of the Falls.
Quill stepped out and watched the cascade of water over granite. Bird calls came from the pines and joined the water’s rush. Sweet smells from the gardens and the hemlock groves mingled with the daffodil-scent of fresh water. Mrs. Hallenbeck followed Quill onto the balcony, her chin jutting imperiously. She inhaled. “Dogwood,” she stated precisely, “and one of the scented roses.”
“Scented Cloud,” said Quill. “It’s a lovely rose, too. We grow it out back.”
“This,” Mrs. Hallenbeck said, “is what I asked for. I will walk in the hemlock glade after dinner.”
&nbs
p; “I’m sorry about the confusion, Mrs. Hallenbeck.” Quill drew her inside the suite. “I’ll see that your luggage is brought up here. Would you like some tea? I can have it brought to you, or you can have it in the dining room.”
“An English tea? I believe your brochure described an English tea.”
“Yes. A traditional high tea, with scones, Devonshire cream, and watercress sandwiches.”
“Perhaps there will be no charge for that, since I have been seriously inconvenienced.”
Quill, slightly taken aback, swallowed a laugh. “I’ll be sure that there isn’t.”
“Then we shall be down after Mavis unpacks us.” She nodded dismissal. Quill meekly took the hint, and went back to the Chamber meeting. She took the stairs slowly, not, she told herself, because she wasn’t anxious to get back to the meeting, but because it was a beautiful July day, the Inn was booked solid for the week of History Days, and a relaxed country environment was one of the many reasons she’d left her career as an artist to move to Central New York.
“There you are,” said Esther West, as Quill stepped into the lobby. “We’re taking a bit of a break before we go back and vote.”
“Somebody else volunteered to take Julie Offenbach’s place?” Quill said with hope. “I’ve got a couple of ideas for you, Esther. What about Miriam Doncaster? You know, the librarian. She’s a heck of a swimmer. I couldn’t swim to the side of the pond as gracefully as she could after being dunked in the ducking stool.”
“No. Everyone agrees you’d be the best Clarissa. Marge wants us to vote on whether or not the monthly Chamber meetings should be held at the Hemlock Home Diner instead of here.”
“Oh,” said Quill. “But we all decided to take a bio break before we voted, and anyhow, Myles and Howie both thought that you’d probably want to be there for the discussion part.”
“You bet I would,” said Quill. “That monthly Chamber lunch is a good piece of business. John’ll have my guts for garters if I lose it. Maybe I’d better have him sit in.” An increasingly noisy argument from the lobby succeeded in drawing her attention. “Excuse me a second, Esther. Dina seems to need help.”
Dina, one of the Cornell Hotel School graduate students on whom the Inn depended for much of its staff, was scowling ferociously at a middle-aged man at the counter. An elegantly dressed man in his thirties stood behind him, watching with interest.
“Can I give you a hand here, Dina?”
“I’ve been trying to tell this guy that we’re booked for the week. He said the Marriott called and made reservations for him this morning.” She scowled even harder. “Then he said well maybe the Marriott forgot to call, but that places ‘like this’ always hold back a room in case of emergencies, and he wants it.”
“Keith Baumer,” said the middle-aged man. He extended his hand. Quill took it. He grinned and wiggled his fingers suggestively in her palm. “You the manager, or what?”
Quill freed herself. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Baumer, but Dina’s right, of course. We’re booked for the week.”
“Come on, kiddo, I need some help here. I’ve got a sales convention at the Marriott, and the bastards overbooked. I hear this is the only decent place to get a room. I know you guys; you’re always holding something in reserve. Whyn’t you check the reservations book yourself? I’m here for the week. I don’t mind paying top dollar.” He grinned and edged closer to her.
Quill took two steps back, hit the counter, and repeated, “I’m sorry, Mr. Baumer. We simply don’t have a room available.” The phone shrilled twice, and Dina picked it up as Quill. continued, “We’ll be happy to call a few nearby places for you - “
“Quill?” said Dina.
” - but I’m afraid you’re going to have a rough time if you want to stay close to your sales meeting. This is the height of the tourist season…”
“Quill!” Dina tugged at her sleeve. “We just got a cancellation. Couple that was booked for the week for their honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. Sands. Only it’s Mrs. Sands that just called, and she said they had a fight at the wedding and the whole thing’s off! Isn’t that sad?”
“There,” said Baumer. “Not that I believe that phony phone call for one little minute. What? Ya got a button down there?”
Quill counted to ten. “Would you check him in please, Dina? Enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Baumer.”
He cocked his head, swept a look from her ankles to her chin, gave her a thumbs-up sign of approval, then leered at Dina. “Okay, dolly. You take American Express Traveller’s Cheques?”
Quill looked longingly at the Japanese urn nearest Baumer’s thick neck.
“Too heavy,” said the man who’d been waiting behind Baumer. “Now, that replica of the Han funeral horse on the coffee table? Just the right size for a good whack.”
Quill choked back a laugh. “Are you here to check in? Let me help you over here.” He was, thought Quill, one of , the best-looking men she’d ever seen, with thick black hair attractively sprinkled with gray. He wore a beautifully tailored sports coat.
“Quill,” Esther called, “we’re going back to vote now.”
“I don’t mind waiting for young Dina, there,” he said. “I’m I Edward Lancashire, by the way.”
“We’re looking forward to having you at the Inn, Mr. Lancashire.”
“You go ahead to your vote. I’ll be just fine.” Quill went back to the conference room and sat down, a little breathless.
“Who was that?” hissed Esther. “The second one, I mean. The first one sounded horrible.”
“The first one was horrible. Speaking of horrible, where’s Marge?”
“In the kitchen.” Quill froze. Esther looked at her watch. “This darn meeting’s got to get over soon; I’ve got way too much to do on the costumes.”
“The kitchen? Marge is in Meg’s kitchen?”
“She was headed that way.”
“Oh, God,” said Quill. “I’ll be right back.”
Quill pushed open the kitchen door to silence, which meant one of two things: either Meg had discovered Marge among her recipe books and had killed her, or nobody was there.
The flagstone floor was clean and polished. The cobblestone fireplace in the comer, where Meg had a Maine grill to do her lobsters, crackled quietly behind the Thermo Glass doors that kept the heat from the rest of the kitchen. Meg’s precious copper bowls and pans hung undisturbed in shiny rows from the pot hanger. No sign of either Marge or for that matter, her sister. Quill pulled at her lower lip, went to Meg’s recipe cabinet, pulled out the lowest drawer, and flipped through the zs. Zuppa d’Inglese, zucchini, zarda, zabaglione. She edged the zabaglione card carefully out of the file. Was that a greasy thumbprint? It was. But was it Marge’s or Meg’s? And if it were Marge’s, did that mean she was going to place a phone call to the Board of Health? She read the recipe gloomily. There it was in Meg’s elegant script: four raw eggs per serving. She closed the file drawer and marched determinedly back to the conference room. It was empty, except for Myles.
“Where’d they all go?” Quill demanded. “Did they vote on whether or not to move the meetings to Marge’s diner?”
“Since neither you nor Marge were here, Howie voted to table. Esther asked for an adjournment because she’s still sewing costumes. I waited for you to see what you wanted to do tonight. Would you like to go to supper? Can you get away about eight-thirty?”
“Myles, can you take a fingerprint from a recipe card?”
“Yes, Quill,” Myles said patiently. “Do you want to go to supper? I thought I’d make a stir-fry at my place.”
“Where was Marge, when I wasn’t here?”
“I don’t know. She came back in here grinning and said she had to make a phone call. Why?”
Quill gazed at him thoughtfully. Myles had strong views on law and order. He had an annoying tendency to spout phrases like “due process” and “probable cause.” Those gray eyes would get even icier if she asked him to arrest Marge for snooping. That strong jaw wou
ld set like an antilock brake at the merest suggestion of a phone tap on the Hemlock Home Diner. There was no way he’d test a recipe card for fingerprints without uncomfortable questions regarding the existence of an eggless zabaglione.
She decided to answer his first question, and solve the Marge problem herself. “Why don’t you come by the kitchen for dinner about eleven, after we close? You made dinner last night. It’s my turn.”
“Fine.” He kissed her on the temple. Quill wasn’t fooled for a minute. This was a man who’d lock her in stir the instant she whacked Marge up the side of the head with Meg’s skillet.
Halfway out the door, Myles turned to look at her. “You sure nothing’s wrong? You’re not coming down with anything, are you?” His eyes narrowed. “Wait. I know that look. You’re fulminating.”
“No,” said Quill absently. “One of the waitresses is, though.”
She gasped and glanced at her watch. “The second shift! It’s after three o’clock! Damn!” She sprinted past him and ran down the hall.
-2-
Quill dashed through the lobby to the locker room at the back of the kitchen. The fresh odor of Meg’s private stock of coffee filled the air, but there was no sign of her sister, just two assistants scrubbing pots at the triple sink. Quill grabbed a clean uniform and looked at her watch: three-ten. No time to go to her own quarters and change into more comfortable shoes. She changed her silk blouse and challis skirt for a freshly laundered uniform and swung into the dining room. Three tables were already occupied for tea. John stood at the opposite end, carefully polishing the silver tea urn.
“John, where’s Meg?”
“Supervising the fish delivery in the back. Red fish in lime for the special tonight.”
“I think Marge Schmidt went through the recipe file and found we use raw eggs in the zabaglione.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Thing is, I told her Meg had an eggless version.”
A Taste for Murder Page 2
