A Taste for Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  “Oh.” Quill pulled her lower lip. “Does this mean you won’t tell me the results of the autopsy on Mavis?”

  “Sure, I’ll tell you the results of the autopsy on Mavis. The media already has the results of the autopsy on Mavis because some damn fool at the morgue leaked the results. So you can hear it from me, or you can wait for the six o’clock news. Take your pick.”

  “I’d rather hear even the weather report from you than some boring old reporter,” said Quill earnestly, “or even the price of hogs, or arrivals and departures at La Guardia. The sound of your voice alone sends…”

  “You do want to drive me to an early grave,” said Myles. Quill wondered if the noise he was making really came from grinding his teeth, as she thought it might. “Mavis had ingested a large amount of alcohol an hour or two before her death. But the amount of alcohol wasn’t sufficient to cause a blackout; she also took ten milligrams of Valium about eight o’clock that morning. The Valium and the alcohol weren’t sufficient to cause unconsciousness, either.”

  Quill wondered for a wild moment if the Scotch Bonnet pepper had made her pass out. “She had either taken - or someone had given her - five grains of Seconal, probably in a drink twenty minutes or so before she went on as Clarissa Martin. There was so much junk in her system, it’s hard for me to believe that she didn’t drown in the ducking pool.

  “Seconal,” said Myles, “means we can prove premeditation.” He looked at her grimly. “You stay here. I’ll be back after I talk to Baumer.”

  Baumer had been drinking with Mavis just before she went on. Quill caught her breath. “Why don’t I come up with you?” said Quill. “We can give him the old one-two.”

  “No.”

  “Won’t you need a witness?” asked Quill. “You know, in case Baumer tells you one thing in private and then lies to you later?”

  “No.”

  “But, Myles, Baumer was with Mavis the whole morning before the play. He ate breakfast with her. He showed up at the play with her.”

  “And Baumer came down to the station at noon to put up bail for his wife,” said Myles. “He was at the station until well after two-thirty. He left to walk down to the Pavilion - a twenty-minute walk from the station, Quill - and I saw him leave.”

  “But he could have gotten a lift and gotten there early.”

  “Mavis hadn’t had any beer; four or five mint juleps, judging from the stomach contents, and only beer is served at History Days. You know the ordinance. She must have gotten them from a private source, or a bar. Baumer wasn’t carrying a Thermos when he left the station.”

  So Nate would know who she’d been drinking with.

  “So Nate will know who she’d been drinking with, since the Croh Bar sure as hell doesn’t make mint juleps. Quill, you are not to question Nate. Do you understand me? I love you. I will also put you in jail for obstruction of a criminal investigation.”

  ” ‘Oh God of love, and God of reason sa-a-a-y,’” sang Quill, ” ‘which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?’ “

  Myles grinned. A reluctant, very small grin, but a grin nonetheless. “Stick to the contralto roles. Your voice cracks on the B flat. Gilbert, not to say Sullivan, would spin in his grave.” Quill bobbed a mock curtsy. She watched Myles jog upstairs to beard Baumer in his den, then went into her office to place a call to Nate.

  “Nope, sorry, boss,” he said. “Bar was busy at one, but I remember the damn mint juleps. I didn’t make any on Sunday.”

  “Was Kathleen waiting tables? She sometimes makes up orders when we’re busy.”

  “Nope. Two of the kids from Cornell were on the early shift. And I don’t let them behind my bar.”

  Quill hung up the phone and pulled out a pad of paper.

  She wrote: “Bolt. Must find.”

  Then she wrote: “Seconal: Who has?”

  Followed by: “Follow the money!”

  Then: “More matchbooks?”

  And last: “Mint juleps: Who can make?” Then she drew a chart.

  DUCK POND OPPORTUNITY MOTIVE

  Marge Yes, if she and Mavis Set up before

  were together hand to get Mavis?

  Tom Peterson Yes Business/tainted meat?

  Baumer Yes Mavis blackmailing

  him?

  She scrawled John’s name in pencil, so she could erase it, and listed Yes, for opportunity and motive.

  She scribbled and drew little arrows under “Motive.” She was certain that the duck pond murder had been aimed at Mavis, not Gil. She considered the possibility that Mavis had murdered Gil, and that Marge had murdered Mavis in revenge. The chart exercise began to resemble her note-taking as Chamber secretary. She got irritated, balled it up and threw it in the wastebasket. Mavis couldn’t possibly have wanted to murder Gil, at least not until she’d gotten her hands on his car business.

  A new chart would serve a more useful function.

  THE PAVILION

  MOTIVE (ALL HAD OPPORTUNITY)

  Marge - Yes, if she stole $300,000; if Mavis was blackmailing her?

  Baumer - Yes, if Mavis was blackmailing him?

  Tom - Yes, if Mavis had leaned on him to give bigger cut of proceeds from car deal? Query: tainted meat?

  Then again in pencil, for John, “Yes.” She promptly erased it.

  Quill perused her chart with a sense of accomplishment. She had a very satisfying list of suspects. It was becoming more and more clear to Quill that Mavis had drawn the unfortunate - although still revolting - Keith Baumer to the Inn the same week as she and Mrs. Hallenbeck had planned to stay. She was probably going to hit him up for an increase in the blackmail money. Stranger things had happened before, Quill mused. Far, far stranger things. If she could get Marge and Baumer to answer the right questions, she could solve this case.

  The door to her office opened. Harvey Bozzel poked his head inside. “Hel-Io!” he said.

  “Harvey? What are you doing here?”

  The look (resignation mixed with hurt) on Harvey’s face told Quill that this was probably his usual reception, and she hastily apologized.

  “Yes. Our meeting was for ten o’clock, right?” Harvey edged into the office. He was carrying an oversized briefcase.

  “Oh,” said Quill, “The ad campaign for the Inn. I forgot… I mean, I’m delighted to see you.”

  “You’ll be delighted to see these,” said Harvey heartily. “Now, I never got a chance to properly pitch my first and, I believe, my best campaign for the Inn, Quill. If you could sit right here - ” He grasped her by the shoulders and piloted her to the couch. Quill sat down. Harvey swept the top of her desk clear and set up an A-frame display. Next to it he placed a battery-operated tape recorder. “I have to show you the print ad first.” Harvey flipped the A-frame open. A pen-and-ink sketch of the Inn, which, Quill admitted, wasn’t half bad, covered the upper two-thirds of the display.

  “What’s that big wooden thing in front of the Inn?” Quill asked.

  “I’ll get to that,” said Harvey. “What do you think of the copy?”

  Quill leaned forward and read:

  THE INN AT HEMLOCK FALLS!

  Four-Star Food (word of Edward Lancashire’s intent must have gotten around.)

  And splendid views (true, thought Quill)

  Luxury rooms (absolutely)

  Splendid yews (?)

  “There’s no yew here, Harvey,” said Quill.

  “I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with Hemlock,’” said Harvey, “and it’s a mnemonic aid. You know what a mnemonic aid is, Quill?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a rhyme that helps your customers remember your product. Very important, mnemonic aids. Essential principle of good advertising. Now,” said Harvey expansively, “here’s the best part.” He reached over and turned on the tape recorder. There were a few bars of jazzy music, then a bark, then a “shit” from someone who sounded like Harvey. “The dog,” said Harvey apologetically. “I recorded this at home.” He fast-forwarded the tap
e. “Here we go. I picked up one of those musical scores from a catalog. You know, where you can sing the lyrics along to the background music? Sounds pretty professional, if I do say so myself.”

  The tape played the intro to “Rock Around the Clock.” A voice (Harvey’s) sang the opening bars, with verve, if not with accurate pitch, and ending with smash! instead of the expected chord in A major.

  “What’s that smashing sound?” said Quill.

  “The rocks! You know! On the bam door that squashes Clarissa. Wait-wait-wait. You gotta hear the verse after the intro.”

  Harvey’s recorded voice finally reached twelve o’clock, assured his audience that there were “Rocks! Around! The! Park! Tonight!” and then attacked the verse:

  “When you walk on through that old Inn door

  You’ll find gourmet food and historic lore

  And yeah! There’s more.

  That old barn door

  That turned into a coffin floor…”

  Quill reached over and turned the tape recorder off.

  “See, what I figure is this-” said Harvey excitedly. “We get that barn door from the sheriff’s office. You know that Tom Peterson would have burned that sucker if Myles hadn’t gotten it away from him and held it for evidence? But the publicity, Quill! Think of it! It’s the most fabulous PR campaign I’ve ever…”

  “Stop,” said Quill. Harvey stopped.

  Quill took a deliberate breath. “Now. Explain to me slowly. Myles has the barn door?”

  “Evidence,” said Harvey, knowledgeably. “And Tom Peterson tried to burn it?”

  “He was upset, he said. Want’d to get rid of the dang thing.”

  “Hmm,” said Quill. “Now that is very interesting.”

  “Am I interrupting anything?” Myles eased in the door. “Hello, Harvey.”

  “Hi, Sheriff. Just presenting some new advertising ideas to Quill, here.”

  “And I’m thinking very hard about buying them, Harvey.” Quill avoided Myles’s penetrating eye. “Why don’t I call you later this week, and we can discuss it further?”

  Harvey shook hands with Quill and Myles, then gathered up his A-frame and his cassette recorder.

  Myles waited until he was gone, then said bluntly, “What did you do last night?”

  Taken aback, Quill found herself stuttering. “I went to bed.”

  “When did you last see John Raintree?”

  Quill’s face turned red. She could feel it.

  Myles shuffled through the papers Harvey had shoved into an untidy pile. He picked up her charts. “Little sketchy,” he said, “but not bad. The thing about a murder investigation, Quill, is just one thing. Facts. And more facts. You’re right about the bolt and the Seconal.” He read on. “I take it Nate didn’t make any mint juleps yesterday. Who told you to ‘follow the money’? John, I suppose. That’s good advice, sometimes, but nothing’s as direct and unambiguous as hard evidence.” His eyes softened. “Sit down a minute, honey.”

  Quill sat.

  “Doreen found two of the items on your list.”

  “The bolt? And the Seconal? So it was Baumer.”

  “She found them in John Raintree’s room.”

  Quill sat upright, as though she’d been shot and didn’t realize the extent of the damage. “That’s impossible. I searched…” She stopped.

  “I asked Davey to pick John up at a house on Maple about fifteen minutes ago.”

  Quill stared at Myles. He came and sat down beside her on the couch. “I’m going to place him under arrest on suspicion of murder, Quill. I wanted to be the one to tell you. I didn’t want you to hear it over the grapevine. God knows there’s enough gossip in this town.” He put his arm around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. “I called Howie Murchison. He’s going to represent John until we can get an expert in criminal law in from either Rochester or Syracuse. There’s a guy named Sam Monfredo who’s got an excellent reputation. We’ll try and get him.” His arm tightened. “Are you crying?”

  “No!” said Quill. Myles handed her his handkerchief. She blew her nose. “This isn’t right, Myles.”

  “I agree with you. It’s too easy. It doesn’t smell right. I swear to you, Quill, I’ll do everything I can to keep the investigation open. But there’s just too much evidence for me to ignore.”

  “I’d like to know when you had the time to get it,” said Quill bitterly. “You’ve spent half the time in Ithaca. Have you got a spy here, or something?”

  “I much prefer anger to tears,” said Myles. “I’m glad it doesn’t take you a long time to bounce back.”

  “You’re evading the question. How did you know John was at that house on Maple? Don’t try and tell me you put Davey on stakeout. He’s on traffic patrol every single day of the week, and he has to count on his fingers to figure out if people are over or under the speed limit.”

  “No, it wasn’t Davey.”

  “Who then?”

  “We’ve been working with a private investigator from Long Island. Doggone Good Dogs hired him to tail Mavis. Apparently they were pretty convinced that she’d had the money - they just haven’t been able to find it. And they’re pretty sure she’s involved with something else.”

  “The tainted meat,” said Quill.

  “You know about that?”

  “Edward’s been tracking her and Tom Peterson for several months. He alerted the office a few days before…”

  “Edward Lancashire!”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Edward Lancashire’s a private eye?” Quill slumped back and closed her eyes. “Oh, my God. We thought he was from L’Aperitif Myles, Meg’s been feeding that guy like a king!” “He’s a pretty good guy. It won’t hurt him.”

  “You knew all along,” Quill accused, “and you let us think he was the … the …”

  “It was harmless, Quill. And if either Eddie or I had told you the truth, you would have kept it to yourself, and six of your closest friends.”

  “That’s not fair,” Quill raged. “It’s a chauvinist remark of the most insulting kind.”

  “I didn’t tell Davey, either. He’s as upset with me as you are. And only three people knew that John was back, right? Doreen, you. The widow. It’s impossible for you to keep anything to yourself, Quill. Part of it’s that you’re too trusting, and the other part …”

  Quill’s voice was dangerous. “The other part?”

  “That you’re too trusting.” He smiled again and kissed her. “We’re going to do what we can for John. And I’ve got to go now.” He eased himself off the couch. “Quill, do me a favor, please. Stop these amateur efforts at solving the crime, will you? Leave it to the experts.”

  “These are the experts that have John Raintree in jail for murder,” said Quill, “based on what?-a bolt, some drugs, a prison term…” She trailed off.

  As he left, Myles said, “That’s the hell of it, Quill. There’s always the chance that he did do it.”

  “Stubborn!” Quill shouted after him as he left. “That’s the second thing, isn’t it? Stubborn!”

  -13-

  Quill’s first impulse was to march down to the jail carrying a sign: FREE JOHN RAINTREE. Maximum effect would have been created by a subheading: “Another Wounded Knee? Police harassment MUST be stopped to preserve our freedoms!” but she doubted Myles’s wholehearted support.

  She looked out the window of her office; the parking lot was less than half full, which meant Dookie and the deacons had left, along with her chance to nail Tom Peterson.

  Her second impulse was to see if Meg was over her prayer breakfast hissy fit. The sooner she knew about Edward Lancashire, the better.

  Meg was humming “I Come to The Garden Alone” while chopping herbs. White beans soaking in a crock on the butcher’s block, and several pounds of The Sausage gave Quill two clues to her sister’s mood: hymn and cassoulet meant a return to the traditional.

  “How’s by you, Hawkshaw?” Meg scattered the herbs into the sausage an
d vigorously worked the meat.

  “Fine,” said Quill cautiously. “How’s by you?”

  “I felt a definite impulse for Basque, tonight,” said Meg dreamily. “It’s soothing. Satisfying. Besides, I’m getting tired thinking up new haute cuisine for Edward. It’s time to give him the good straight stuff.”

  “The prayer breakfast buffet was terrific,” said Quill. “You heard about the Rolling Moses?”

  Meg grinned. “Anybody checked out yet?”

  Quill hadn’t thought of the effect of the Christian Terrorists on the rest of the guests. “I know Baumer hasn’t. Do you think we’ll lose people?”

  Meg shrugged. “Probably. They’ve canceled History Days, right?”

  “You seem pretty sanguine about this. I mean, between the practical joke about the cancellations and the murders, we’re going to be hurtin’ turkeys.”

  “Won’t last,” said Meg confidently. “I’m guaranteeing you a rave review in L’Aperitif: Edward thinks my cooking is fabulous.”

  This did not bode well for Myles’s revelation. Quill weighed the relative merits of Meg’s temper tantrum over Edward Lancashire’s imposture-although to be fair, he’d never claimed to be anything at all, much less a food critic - against Meg’s gradual realization that the L’Aperitif review wasn’t going to appear. And of course, Quill thought optimistically, the magazine would have to review them sometime; they always checked on the progress of their starred restaurants. It was not at all cowardly, she decided, to neglect to mention Edward Lancashire’s real occupation. Diplomacy was the province of successful innkeepers as well as long-lived kings.

  “Myles is back early, Meg. The autopsy showed enough Seconal in Mavis’ system to sink a tugboat. The stomach contents showed the Seconal was in the mint juleps she was drinking just before the play. He says this shows premeditation.”

  “Really?” said Meg. “That’s interesting.”

  “There’s something else.” Quill told her of John’s return and his suspicions about the embezzled three hundred thousand dollars.

  “Jeez.” Meg began stuffing the sausage meat into the casings. “Maybe you’re right, after all.”

  “You think John’s innocent, too?”