“Even Marge isn’t going to believe in eggless zabaglione.”
He thought for a moment. “Dookie Shuttleworth might.”
“Did you see Marge in the kitchen?”
“No. That what’s-her-name - Mavis Collinwood - went through on her way out back.” He rubbed harder at the tea urn, his lips tight. “Said she wanted to explore.”
“Don’t you think we ought to do something?”
“Like what?”
Quill wrapped a strand of hair around her finger and pulled on it.
“I don’t know,” she confessed. She let the curl spring back.
“Why did you book Mrs. Hallenbeck on the second floor when she’d asked for the best suite in the house three months in advance?”
John rubbed at a spot on the handle and didn’t reply.
“And she’s not mean,” Quill continued. “Rather sweet, as a matter of fact. In terrific shape for her age. She’s a little bossy, but God, at that age, that’s allowed.”
John shook his head. “Move them both to the first floor.”
“Why?”
“Bad feeling.”
“Oh.” John’s bad feelings were not to be taken lightly. “About what exactly? Isn’t her credit good? She’s paying for both of them. Should I check with American Express? I hate doing that.”
John shrugged. “It’s not money.”
“What then, John?”
“Remember the guy from IBM?”
Quill took a deep breath. “Of course I remember the guy from IBM. Who around here doesn’t?”
“Had a bad feeling about that, too.”
“He was drunk. And high on coke. He fell over that balcony into the gorge by accident. I can’t see Mrs. Hallenbeck stoned on a gallon of Rusty Nails smuggled into her room in a Thermos bottle, which is what that guy did.”
“You’re the boss.” Quill knew that attitude: polite, courteous retreat. He looked at the open archway. “More guests. I’ll seat them.”
Quill’s intention to grab a quick look at the script for Clarissa’s speech, probe John for the real reason behind his discomfort with the widow and her companion, and finally, talk to Meg about the raw egg ban and the threat posed by Marge, got lost in the rush of the next six hours. The tea trade was followed by the Early Birds, patrons who took advantage of reduced-cost meals before seven o’clock, then the regular evening trade, and finally, at ten o’clock, a few late diners, Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mavis among them.
They ordered a dinner as enormous as their tea had been. Mavis requested a single glass of the house white, which she sipped all through the meal, and Mrs. Hallenbeck no liquor at all. On one of her trips to the kitchen, Quill hissed to John in passing, “They’re both sober as judges.”
Just after ten-thirty, Quill stopped to take a rapid survey of the tables. Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mavis were at table two by the big windows that overlooked the gardens. The man in his fifties at table seven was Keith Baumer, who’d said he was part of the overflow crowd from the sales convention at the Marriott on Route 15. Baumer slumped over the menu, smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes onto the rug. Table twelve held another sole diner - the dark, good-looking Edward Lancashire. After careful deliberation, he’d ordered some of the specialties that had made Meg’s reputation: Caesar salad, Steak Tartare, Game Hen a la Quilliam. He finished his Caesar salad with a thoughtful expression, writing briefly in a notebook by his plate.. Quill hesitated, alarmed. He looked awfully well-dressed to be a Department of Health inspector, who tended to be weedy, with thin lips and polyester sports coats. The suit on the guy seated at twelve was an Armani. Could Department of Health inspectors afford Armani?
Quill went to Baumer to take his order, one eye mistrustfully on table twelve.
“Quill,” Baumer purred, reaching up to lift her name tag away from her breast pocket. He let it fall back with a smirk. “Let me guess. The hair. Hair that red and curly has gotta be the reason. Looks soft, though, not prickly like porcupine quills.”
Quill moved the ashtray nearer his cigarette with a pointed thump. She was tired. Her feet hurt. If Edward Lancashire was from the Department of Health, the Inn could be in trouble. She had Marge to fence with and Clarissa’s stupid speech to memorize. It’d be another three hours before she could even think of going to bed. If this turkey pushed it, he was going to find out just how prickly she could be. She’d admired Mrs. Hallenbeck’s beady stare. She tried it. Baumer jumped a little in his chair. She said politely, “Are you ready to order, sir? I can recommend the Red Fish in Lime, or the Ginger Soy Tenderloin. Either is delicious.”
Baumer dropped the menu onto the table, knocking his knife and fork onto the floor. Quill bent over to pick them up. He slipped his hand past her knee up her thigh. She disengaged with the ease of long practice, took the place setting from table six, and laid fresh silverware next to his plate.
Baumer closed the leather-covered menu with an exaggerated pursing of his lips. “Hemlock Inn,” he mused. He looked arch. Quill braced herself, then lip-synched silently with him, “Sure I can trust the chef?”
“We’re named for the Hemlock Groves, Mr. Baumer, not the poisonous herb. You must have noticed the trees when driving in. A lot of our guests like to walk the path to the foot of the gorge at this time of year. The hemlocks are in full bloom.”
She deflected the invitation to join him in a walk after dinner, with gritted teeth, and took his order for the New York strip, medium, no veg, extra sour cream and butter on the baked potato. She cheered up. That meal and the two Manhattans preceding it forecast a short life of waitress-harassing. She crossed the mauve carpeting toward the kitchen, and stopped at the Hallenbeck table. Mavis had teased her hair into a big bubble. The scent of hairspray fought with the perfume of the scarlet lilies in the middle of the table. “How is everything, Mavis, Mrs. Hallenbeck? Are you comfortable? Was your dinner all right?”
“It’s just lovely here,” said Mavis, “and the room is wonderful. The food! Why, it’s just the best I’ve ever had.”
“I am having hot water and lemon after my meal,” pronounced Mrs. Hallenbeck. “It’s a habit I acquired while traveling abroad with my husband.” She lifted her chin. “We prefer England. Although this place is quite English, for an American restaurant.” She paused and fixed Quill with a modified version of The Glare. “I assume there is no charge for the hot water?”
“No,” said Quill. Then as she reflected on the probability of Mrs. Hallenbeck’s next question, “Just for the meal itself.”
“Mavis,” said Mrs. Hallenbeck disapprovingly, “had the tournedos. Quite the most expensive thing on the menu.”
Mavis blushed, and Quill said curiously, “Have you and Mavis been together very long, Mrs. Hallenbeck?”
“Mavis is my companion. We are both impoverished widows.” She waved a gnarled hand at Quill. The third finger of her left hand held a diamond the size of an ice rink. “We are companions in loss, on an adventure. I assume that we are eligible for a senior citizen’s discount?”
Quill ignored the latter half of this statement and said warmly, “I hope you both find adventure. You’re going to stay for the whole week of Hemlock’s History Days? Admission is free.”
“We will consider it,” said Mrs. Hallenbeck regally. She sat up straighter, if that were possible, and said, “Move, please. You are blocking my view of the entrance.” Quill stepped sideways. “Mavis! I recognize that person. What is her name?”
Quill turned around and groaned. Marge Schmidt stumped in. She’d exchanged her blue bowling jacket for a pink one, which did nothing to soften her resemblance to an animated tank. Marge’s turret eyes swung in their direction.
“Marge!” squealed Mavis. “Coo-ee!” She waved energetically.
“Mavis!” Marge bellowed. She marched up to the table. “So you made it okay!” Mavis got up. The two women embraced. Mavis squealed again. Marge thumped her back with bluff good humor.
“This is a friend of yours, Mavis?
” said Mrs. Hallenbeck sternly. “She is dressed abominably. She is too fat.”
Quill warmed to Mrs. Hallenbeck.
“You remember Marge Schmidt, Amelia. She ran the Northeast region for a couple of years before she quit to come home here. She runs a restaurant now.”
“Northeast region of what?” said Quill.
“Brought that D.O.H. order for you, Quill,” Marge said loudly. “‘Bout the salmonella? You din’t eat the Italian puddin’, did you, Mave?”
“No, not yet,” said Mavis, sounding alarmed.
“Nasty,” said Marge with satisfaction. “Very nasty.”
“Marge,” said Quill, “dammit …”
“This food is bad?” said Mrs. Hallenbeck. “I don’t believe we should pay for a meal if the food is bad.”
“Here!” Marge rummaged in the pocket of her bowling jacket and thrust a creased paper at Quill.
Quill took it and said, “Marge, we are well aware…”
Marge grabbed it back. “I’ll read it to you.” Her lips moved and she muttered, “Shipment of beef tainted with E. coli, that ain’t it. Here! Wait!” She took a deep breath, preparatory to another bellow.
Quill grabbed the memo, scanned it, and translated the governmentese which boiled down to John’s statement of that afternoon: no more raw egg. “Now look, Marge…”
“I am ready to go up, Mavis.” Mrs. Hallenbeck rapped the tabletop imperatively. “This person is loud. I am tired.”
“Now you got the memo, you got no excuse, Quill,” said Marge.
“MAVIS !” said Mrs. Hallenbeck loudly.
“All right, all right,” Mavis replied, flustered. “Marge. I cain’t take time to talk to you now, but I’ll see you soon, you hear?”
“Right.” Marge nodded ponderously. “We got old times to talk about.”
“Northeast manager of what?” said Quill, hoping to divert Marge’s attention from further bellicose thunderings about salmonella.
“You got some more damn fools wantin’ to eat here,” said Marge. “C’mon, Mave, I’ll walk out with you.”
Quill turned a distracted glance to the maitre d’ station. Tom Peterson was waiting there patiently. John was nowhere in sight.
” ‘Lo, Tom,” said Marge as she walked by. “Stay away from the Italian puddin’.” Marge disappeared in the direction of the front door. Mavis supported the miffed Mrs. Hallenbeck up the stairs. Quill wondered if she’d actually serve time if she gave Marge a fat lip.
“I should have made reservations,” said Tom Peterson. “Is the kitchen still open?”
“Oh, sure, Tom.” Quill picked up a menu. “How many in your party?”
“Just one other. He’s looking at the mural in the men’s room. He’ll be out in a moment.”
Quill took another menu. “Would you like to sit near the window?” Tom followed her to the table next to Edward Lancashire. The Petersons had lived in Hemlock Falls for close to three hundred years, their fortunes fluctuating with the business competency of each generation. A shrewd nineteenth-century Peterson had boosted the family fortune for some considerable period of time through investments in railroads. Tom, whose pale eyes and attenuated frame were a diluted version of his richer ancestor, had stuck with the transportation business after his brief excursion into the hotel with Marge; Gil’s Buick partnership was part of Tom’s larger trucking firm.
Quill seated Tom, then banged into the kitchen with Baumer’s order in one hand. “Hey!” she said to her sister. “I quit.”
Meg stood at the Aga. She’d inherited their father’s rich dark hair and gray eyes, along with his volatile Welsh temper. Quill was an expert at reading her sister’s moods; Meg’s hair stood on end, which meant that the cooking was going well.
“The sauces are really behaving,” said Meg, ignoring the familiar imperative. “I think it’s the weather. I wasn’t sure about the dessert for the Chamber lunch, though. Damn mint leaves kept wilting. Got the sugar syrup too hot, I guess.”
“The food was great. The meeting was kind of a pain in the rear.”
Meg raised an eyebrow in question. “Myles nominated guess who to be squashed artistically under a barn door. Under the current circumstances, that’s a consummation to be wished for devoutly. Probably because of the consummation devoutly wished for by the jerk at table seven.”
“Uh-oh,” said Meg. She grinned, shook her head, and skill-fully ladled three perfect brandied orange slices over a crisply browned game hen. “Don’t tell me you got hooked into playing Clarissa this year.”
“Julie Offenbach is sick,” said Quill gloomily. She sighed and consulted her order pad. “We’ve got one more order. One medium-rare New York marinated in fungicide. No veg. Double cholesterol on the potato. Table seven.”
“Mr. Baumer?”
“Yes indeedy. He almost forced me to break my number one rule.”
“I thought the number one rule was don’t hit the help.”
“That’s number two. Number one is don’t piss off the patrons.” Quill flopped into the rocking chair by the fireplace. “It’s been a long day. I’ve still got to pay bills and go over the accounting with John before I go to bed. And my feet hurt.” She glanced at her sister, wondering how and when to bring up the raw egg ban.
Meg, indifferent to the business side of the Inn, sniffed appreciatively at the copper pot filled with orange sauce on the stove. Her brown hair was shoved back from her forehead by a bright yellow sweatband. She liked to be comfortable when she cooked, and wore her usual chef’s gear - a tattered Duke University sweatshirt, leggings, and a well-worn pair of sneakers. She looked at her sister’s elegant feet. “It’s those shoes, kiddo. Handmade Italian leather is the worst possible thing for your disposition. Want to borrow a pair of sneakers?”
“I want to borrow a life.” Quill pushed the rocker in motion and closed her eyes. “Preferably on a beach somewhere. In the Caribbean. With a gorgeous twenty-year-old lifeguard and an endless supply of rum punch.”
“Umm. I’ve heard that song before. And what about Myles? Face it. You love it here.” Meg piped potato rosettes around the base of the bird, added two rings of spiced apple to the brandied orange slices, and presented the platter. “Ta dah! For table twelve. Bless his little heart. Ordered all my specialties, including game hen stuffed with The Sausage that made us famous.”
Quill got up and took the platter. “Meg. About table twelve…”
Meg placed a silver dome over the bird. “You said he was cute.”
“Very cute. The sort that could take us both away from all this.”
“Rich? Single? Got a yacht?”
“No, the sort that could take us away from all this because I think he might be from the D.O.H.”
Meg scowled. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure. But he was scribbling notes. And he ordered the Caesar salad and the Steak Tartare” - Quill took a deep breath - “and I wouldn’t put it past Marge Schmidt and her creepy pal to have called them after that memo about the salmonella came out. She showed up here with the memo not ten minutes ago. Although I don’t see how he could have gotten here so fast. Meg, you’ll have to stop with the raw eggs. Just temporarily.”
Meg slammed down her wooden spoon, marched to the swinging doors to the dining room, pushed them open, and peered through. She looked back at her sister. “That’s an Armani, or I’m a short-order cook. People from the D.O.H. wear polyester.”
“Yes, but is he taking notes?”
Meg peered out the door again. “How should I know? He’s holding the Merlot by the stem. He’s swirling the wine. He’s inhaling it.” She shrieked suddenly. “Quill! He’s taking notes!”
“I told you he was taking notes.” She looked over Meg’s head into the dining room. “Oh, damn. There’s Tom Peterson ready to order. Where’s John!”
Meg let the doors close and said tensely, “L ‘Aperitif! You know, ‘The Magazine to Read Before You Dine.’ “
“I know L ‘Aperi
tif; Meg.” Quill patted her sister’s shoulder soothingly. “Forget it. I’ll just go out and get Peterson set up.”
Meg tore her sweatband from her hair and wound it around both hands. “I’m going to scream.”
“Meg …”
“It’s been eighteen months since we were last reviewed, Quill. Oh, God. And that managing editor hates me. She hates me. You know what they said in that article?”
“They love you, Meg. You’re the only three-star…”
“My tournedos were dry! That’s what they said. That I overcook my beef!” She grabbed the game hen out of Quill’s hands, stamped to the stove, and ladled more brandied orange juice over the hen, drenching the potatoes. “There! That’ll teach the sons of bitches to call my cooking dry!”
“Meg!” Quill grabbed the platter back. “You have absolutely no proof that this guy’s a food critic.”
“Well, you thought he was from the Department of Health! In an Armani suit!” She shoved Quill toward the dining room. “You go out there. You find out what kind of review he’s going to give me. If he dares even hint that that bird is dry, I’ll personally shove the rest of his bloody meal down his bloody throat!”
Table twelve faced the window overlooking the gorge. Edward Lancashire’s eyes crinkled at the comers when he smiled. They crinkled as Quill set the game hen in front of him. “Looks great.”
“Thank you.”
He looked around the dining room. Quill noticed his wedding ring, and discarded the possibility of a nice flirtation with Meg. “Not bad for a Thursday night,” he said. “You must do pretty well.”
“We do. Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Lancashire?”
He forked a piece of the game hen. His eyes widened. “This is terrific. That’s tarragon. Maybe a touch of Italian parsley? And mint. Excellent.” He swallowed, and waved his fork at the chair opposite. “Dining room closes at ten-thirty, doesn’t it? It’s past that now. Have a seat.”
“The owners don’t care for the help fraternizing with guests.” He looked up, his eyes shrewd. She smiled. “What? Do I have a sign that says ‘Owner-Manager’?”
“No. But there’s a bronze plaque in the front that reads ‘Your hosts, Sarah and Margaret Quilliam.’ And your name tag says ‘Quill’.”
A Taste for Murder Page 3
