“Celeste Baumer. Mrs. Keith Baumer.” If that was a snigger from Doreen, Quill thought furiously, she was going to do some “exercising” of her Inn’s own devils: the housekeeping kind.
“She’s got ill,” said the Cornell student apologetically. “But I called Mr. Baumer’s room, and he doesn’t answer. Mr. Baumer’s booked a single for the week, not a double, and John always told us to check with the customer when something like this happens.”
“And he was right,” said Quill. “Was your husband expecting you, Mrs. Baumer?”
“Oh, no.” She exposed a bright row of teeth in what Quill took to be a smile. “I wanted it to be a .surprise.”
“Why don’t you sit and have a glass of wine in the bar, Mrs. Baumer? On the house, of course. We’ll see if we can find Mr. Baumer.”
“Are you going up to his room?”
“Um,” said Quill, “actually I think he’s out on… on … a sales call or something.”
“I’ve been on that damn train for hours. I want a bath and then I’ll take you up on that free drink. But first I want to check in.”
Maybe, Quill thought as she, Celeste Baumer, Doreen, and the Cornell student (who was carrying the suitcases) trooped up the stairs to the second floor, Keith Baumer left Mavis at the bar and was freshening up. Maybe he was making phone calls to his neglected customers. Maybe he’d fallen asleep dead-drunk. And alone.
Quill knocked on the door to 221.
“I don’t think he’s here,” she said after a few moments. “Open it up, darling,” Celeste Baumer demanded. “You wouldn’t believe how I have to pee.”
Quill unlocked the door. Mrs. Baumer pushed past her and switched on the lights. Two twenty-one was decorated in Waverly chintz with scarlet poppies against a cream background.
The poppies on the tailored bedspread moved up and down with the briskness of waves on a breezy sea.
“Oops,” said the Cornell student. “Dang!” said Quill.
“You bastard!” shrieked Celeste Baumer with enormous satisfaction.
“Heh-heh-heh,” chortled Doreen.
“God-damn!” shouted a nude and sweaty Keith Baumer. Mavis screamed in a very ladylike way.
-8-
July in Central New York is not the usual mating season for songbirds, but the repeated attacks of the cardinal flying into its own image on the sunrise side of Quill’s bedroom window woke her at six. She squinted against the sunshine pouring in and addressed the bird. “That’s not a hostile rival, that’s you,” she said.
TaChing! The bird flattened its beak against its reflection, intent on assassination.
“Has the word gotten to the bird world, too? You think your sweetie’s in here with some other guy?”
Taching!
“You’re related to Baumer, maybe, and have faith in the triumph of hope over experience.”
Ta-CHANG! The bird, with one last mighty effort, hit the window and dropped out of sight. Quill got out of bed and peered out the window to the lawn. The cardinal lay on its back, feet up. It chirped, righted itself and flew at the window, beady eyes glittering.
Taching!
Quill went back to bed and pulled her pillow over her head.
Myles, dressed in his grays, came out of the kitchenette carrying two cups of coffee. Quill groaned, sat up, and peered at him. “Are you going to let Mrs. Baumer out of the pokey?”
“Probably.” He handed Quill a cup, then sat at the foot of the bed.
“You think it’ll hit the papers?”
“Probably. The local’s stringer’s in town to cover the opening ceremonies of History Days.”
“Oh, God.”
“It’ll blow over, honey.” He rose, stretched, and drained his coffee. “Of course, you could always give up innkeeping as a profession and marry me.”
“No, Myles.”
“Or you could continue being an innkeeper and marry me.” “I tried marriage. It stinks. You didn’t find marriage all that terrific, either.”
“Youthful folly. On both our parts.” The cardinal hit the window again.
Quill got out of bed. Further sleep was impossible. “Would you like some breakfast? Meg’s got an assistant in the kitchen that makes a mean Eggs Benedict.”
“I’m going down to the jail to let Mrs. Baumer go. Unless you want to press charges for the damage to two twenty-one.”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t like that lamp anyway, and I can fix the dent in the wall. Just a matter of replacing the sheetrock and repainting. I feel so sorry for her, Myles. I can’t believe that jerk Baumer.”
He kissed her, a process that always softened Quill’s resolve to never marry again. “I don’t know when I’ll see you today, kiddo. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
“Easy for you to say - all you have to do is make sure that four thousand tourists in Dodge Caravans don’t all crash into each other on Main Street.”
“All you have to do is keep the doors barred against irate spouses, supervise the extra help, keep Doreen from rending Keith Baumer limb from limb in fine Old Testament outrage, hold your sister’s hand if her soufflé flops, and generally wear yourself ragged.”
“It’s not that tough, Myles. Not when you’ve got good staff. And I’ve got good staff.”
They both carefully avoided any mention of John Raintree. She closed the door after him and took a long leisurely shower, getting down to the dining room at seven o’clock. Meg was seated at their table for two by the kitchen door, and Quill went to join her. Meg had abandoned her leggings, ratty tennis shoes, and sweatbands for well-pressed jeans and a lacy top. She’d taken a curling iron to her dark hair, and wore a pair of gold hoop earrings.
“Well you look totally cool,” said Quill.
Meg batted her eyelashes. “Guess who’s going on a picnic with the best-looking gourmet critic in Hemlock Falls?”
“Really? Did you pack the basket?”
“Cold gravlax with my Scotch Bonnet salsa. Homemade flatbread, dilled potato salad. Nice chilly bottle of a sparkling Vouvray. Strawberries with that crème brûlée from last night. If we get a good seat for the opening ceremonies, I guarantee you that fourth star.”
“Everything okay in the kitchen?”
“Frank’s supervising. All we’re going to get today is a zillion orders for roast beef sandwiches to go,” She hesitated. “Any word from John?”
Quill shook her head.
“Jeez.” Meg sighed. “Poor old you. At least you’ve got that creep Baumer out of your hair.”
“Nope.”
“Nope? Are you serious? After all that ranting and raving last night? I would have thought the son of a gun would be embarrassed to show his sniveling face in town.”
“He’s booked for the week. He’s paid for the week. He’ll stay for the week. That’s what he said.”
“Incredible.”
“I assume it has to do with the sales convention at the Marriott.” Quill sighed. “I can’t think how that guy keeps a job.”
“And the marvelous round-heeled Mavis?”
“Mrs. Hallenbeck said, ‘booked for the week, paid for the week.’ “
“They’ll stay for the week?”
“Besides, I think both of them are looking forward to the play this afternoon. Ow!”
Meg kicked Quill’s ankle as Keith Baumer, Mavis, and Mrs. Hallenbeck arrived simultaneously at the entrance to the dining room. Conversation in the dining room came to a halt. Mrs. Hallenbeck, Quill thought, was superb. She ignored Baumer with aplomb bordering on the magnificent. Mavis meekly trailing in her wake, she swept past Baumer - whose face was tinged a dusky pink-to their regular table. Head down, Baumer slunk to table eight.
“Oh. There’s Edward,” said Meg eagerly. Lancashire, in cotton Dockers, boat shoes, and a dark green denim shirt, walked in, and with a casual wave at Meg and Quill, began to come toward them. He stopped at the Hallenbeck table and spoke briefly to the widows. Mavis, in an off-the-shoulder tank top that showed more d�
�colletage than her Empire-styled gown of the evening before, smiled invitingly up at him.
“Would you look at that!” hissed Meg. With a brief, apologetic glance at Meg, Edward pulled out a chair and sat next to Mavis. One of the Inn’s impeccably trained waiters was instantly at his elbow with a cup and freshly brewed coffee. “How does she do it?” said Meg, awestruck.
Mavis flirted, giggled, and ignoring Mrs. Hallenbeck’s imperious frown, beckoned to Baumer. Baumer shuffled over from his table and sat on Mavis’ left. Sprightly conversation wafted through the air. Meg pulled at her lower lip. Quill looked at this familial symptom of deep thought in alarm. “Meg, I know that look. What are you going to do?”
“Me?” said Meg innocently. “Not a thing, sister dear, not a thing. Excuse me a moment.” She sprang up and went into the kitchen. Quill swallowed her French toast, took a gulp of tea, and followed her hastily.
“A lot of tarragon, I think,” Meg was saying to her sous chefs, “and what else? Ideas, guys, I need ideas.”
“Baking soda instead of baking powder?” said the shorter one. His name was Frank Torrelli; his father ran a good restaurant in Toronto, and Frank was slated to take over the family kitchen when his apprenticeship with Meg was up. The taller one was a Swede from Finland, studying at the Cornell Hotel School on a green card. Bjorn’s blond hair and blue eyes had the pale, icy look of plain water in a glass.
“Salt,” said Bjorn. “A lot of it.”
“Too obvious;” said Meg. “I want subtle stuff. So he’s not really sure what it is.”
“I got it. I got it!” said Frank. He ran excitedly to the cupboard, pulled out a small bottle, and waved it in the air. “Eh? S’all right?”
“All right!” said Meg.
They burst into laughter.
“What’s all this, then?” said Quill, feeling a little like a policeman in a medium-grade British mystery.
“Never you mind,” said Meg. “Don’t you have a lot of stuff to do today? Beat it.”
“Peter’s going to manage the front desk today. Doreen’s taking care of the housekeeping staff. And I thought that Bjorn and Frank were in charge of the kitchen shifts.” Quill folded her arms and leaned against the butcher’s block. “One of the advantages of taking management courses at Cornell at nights is that you learn to empower your employees. So, I’ve got lots of time to spend with you guys, since you seem to be making all the decisions, anyway.”
“Hey. Wouldn’t your life be a lot easier if that miserable Mavis and sleazy Baumer beat feet?” demanded Meg.
“Well, yeah. Baumer at least.” Frank had the mysterious bottle in his large hand and she couldn’t see the label. Quill didn’t know if she wanted to see the label. “But if Mavis doesn’t stay the week, I have to play Clarissa. And you could rate my enthusiasm to be dunked and squashed right up there with getting nasty letters from the Board of Health. Not only that, but Mavis is going to be subpoenaed as a witness in Gil’s drowning accident. So she can’t leave.”
“Just Baumer, then,” said Meg. “We’re just going to encourage Baumer to leave a leetle bit earlier than he had planned to. He’s going to find the food not to his taste.” Gales of giggles came from the sous chefs. Meg flung out both her hands at Quill’s outraged expression. “Nothing illegal, immoral, or actionable. I swear.”
“Please, Meg,” said Quill. “Think of the bad publicity.”
“From a guy whose wife shows up while he’s in the sack with Mavis the Bimbo? From a guy whose wife whacks him up the side of the head with a lamp? He’s lucky we don’t turn him in to his company. One call to his boss at the Marriott, one call, that’s all it’d take! He’s lucky we don’t sue him for damages. He’s lucky he’s alive!” Meg raked her hair back with both hands. Her cheeks were flushed.
Her eyes glittered. Frank and Bjorn exchanged meaningful glances and melted into the background. “I will SHUT DOWN MY KITCHEN before I serve my good food to pigs like that!” Meg shouted. “I will THROW MY SPATULAS INTO THE FIRE!”
“Mornin’ ,” said Doreen, stumping into the kitchen. She was wearing her best polyester pantsuit and a small straw hat. She put her hands on her hips and stared at Meg. “Well, missy. Looks like the Devil’s got aholt of you.”
Meg drummed her fingers on the countertop.
“You look nice, Doreen,” Quill ventured into the charged silence.
“Been to see the Reverend,” she said. “Givin’ him tips on how to wake up the sinners. Gave him a couple of ideas for his sermon, he said.” She went to the locker room to change into her work clothes. Her voice floated back to them. “Told him about last night. Said he’d never heard of such a scandalous thing.” She reappeared, tying her capacious apron neatly around her waist. “Thinks that there Baumer’s goin’ straight to Hell. Along with Mavis. Called her a right fine name, too.” She rummaged in her purse, withdrew a piece of paper, and squinted at it. “Wrote it down. Suckabus.”
Meg started to laugh.
“Succubus,” said Quill. “Oh, dear.”
“Sounds nasty,” said Doreen hopefully. “Innit? What is it, exactly?”
“Succubi are female demons,” said Quill. “They visit afflicted men in the dead of night and… ah …”
“Sap their life force,” said Meg with a wicked grin.
“You mean there’s more than one?” said Doreen. “It’s not just this Mavis Collin wood?”
“Quite a few in Times Square, when I visited,” said Frank. He and Bjorn, noting the ebb of Meg’s temper, had rejoined the women.
“They aren’t real, Doreen,” said Quill. “A succubus is a , metaphor for the way the people of Old Testament times viewed a certain type of woman, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s a bunch of male chauvinist hooey. I don’t want any more discussion about sex vampires of Hemlock Falls, or for that matter, foul substances in Keith Baumer’s food. I want everyone to go back to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Meg saluted. “Whatever you say, ma’am!” Quill marched back to the dining room, ignoring the snickers from the kitchen with the dignity befitting a manager who had successfully quelled an employee revolt. A hoot of laughter with distinctly Swedish overtones modified her conclusion to a half-muttered, “Well, I told them, anyway.”
She sat down at the table to finish her breakfast. In a few minutes, Edward Lancashire joined her. “Ready for the big day?”
“It’s not really a big day for me,” Quill explained, “or Meg either. Everyone’s checked in; the dining room, Lounge, and bar are all booked, and the staff knows what to do.”
“It’s the front-end preparation that’s the toughest,” said Edward.
“You’d know about that,” Meg said cheerfully, as she rejoined her sister at the table. “You’re not planning on dinner here tonight, are you, Edward?”
“No. I’ve booked a table at Renees in Ithaca. Opening day of History Week is a little too raucous for me.”
“You’re going to the play this afternoon, though,” said Meg. “We’re having a picnic. Nobody should miss the play. And you shouldn’t miss my gravlax. The Scotch Bonnet salsa is fabulous.”
“Oh, I think everyone will be there,” said Edward Lancashire. “Mrs. Collinwood. Mr. Baumer. The delightful Ms. Schmidt. I’ve eaten at her restaurant, by the way. It’s quite good for American diner food. Perhaps even Mr. Raintree will join us?
I haven’t seen him around lately.” “He had some personal errands to run,” said Quill hastily. “But I’m sure he’ll be there, too. Nobody within fifty miles of Hemlock Falls misses The Trial of Goody Martin.”
Seeing the crowds that afternoon, Quill revised her estimate upward; tour buses brought day trippers from Rochester, Buffalo, and Syracuse. Myles and his men cordoned off Main Street, and allowed cars to park on the shoulder of Route 96 outside the central business district.
The Kiwanis beer tent did a thriving business, the Lions hot dog stand ran out of buns at two o’clock, and the Fireman’s Auxiliary kiosk posted a triumphant SOLD
OUT sign on the counter that had displayed wooden lawn ornaments of geese, pigs, cats, ducks, cows, and the rear ends of women in long print dresses. Gil’s Buick dealership always took a booth for History Days. Quill, intent on finding out more from Tom Peterson about John and Gil, caught a glimpse of the awning over the late-model car that the dealership always planted in front of the booth. She wound her way through the tourists to it. Tom Peterson greeted her with a wave and a smile. Nadine sat under the awning, hands folded in her lap. Freddie, unexpectedly garrulous, was there, too.
“Missed you in church this morning,” said Tom, who was a deacon at Dookie’s church.
“John’s out of town for a bit, and I got caught up,” Quill apologized. “You know how it is in the summer. John’s due back today, though. So I’ll be sure to try next week.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, if I were you,” said Freddie. “Something sure lit a fire under the Reverend this morning. Whoo-weee!”
Quill, intent on forming questions that would give her some clues as to Gil’s relationship with the girl in John’s picture, gave him an encouraging, if absent-minded, look.
“Hellfire and brimstone. Quite a little sermon.” Freddie leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Just between you and me? Collections were up pretty near seventy-five per cent. The Reverend was as pleased as Punch, said the Lord was showing him the way to a resurgence of faith. And where there’s a resurgence of faith, there’s a resurgence of cash. Now, Miss Quill, wish we could come up with something for you that would give us a resurgence of cash. You think about tradin’ in that old heap you’ve got for a good late-model car?”
“You’re taking over from Gil?”
Freddie shot an anxious look at his boss. “Just temporarily, like. Now, about that old heap…”
“Gil sold me that ‘old heap’ two years ago,” said Quill indignantly. “It wasn’t an ‘old heap’ then.”
“Got to have the look of success in your business,” said Freddie wisely. “Now, I could show you…”
Quill laid a hand on Freddie’s arm and promised to look at new cars. Then she walked up to Tom and said flatly, “Was Gil worried about the business?”
A Taste for Murder Page 12
