A Steak in Murder (Hemlock Falls Mystery Series)

by Claudia Bishop

  "I'm here." Elmer Henry clumped resignedly down the aisle and sat down at the far end of the front row, a seat that would allow him the fastest exit from the building. "Don't have much time, though, CarolAnn. Got a lot of village business to attend to this evening."

  "If by that you mean the party at the Croh Bar for the Ladies' Auxiliary, that can wait," CarolAnn said. "Besides, I think Marge is entertaining another man tonight, Harland. Too bad about your nice new shirt and tie." She twinkled. Harland blushed a painful red. Quill bit her lip to keep from being rude. You never got anywhere being rude to CarolAnn. "Gentlemen, and Quill, of course, I want to reassure you that I am not here in my capacity as a public servant."

  "You mean this isn't a tax issue," Harland said.

  "Not directly, no. But indirectly it could be. It could well be. As I told you all when I was elevated to this office, the financial well-being of the village is my responsibility. The assessment arena covers far more than establishing the value of our homes and businesses . . ."

  This would be easier to listen to if CarolAnn's voice weren't so sweet. Icky syrupy-sweet with little upward inflections at the end of her sentences. She blabbered on for a bit about her fiscal integrity. Quill scribbled on the margins of the Xerox copy Howie'd left in front of her: CarolAnn in the jaws of a Godzilla-like reptile; CarolAnn squashed under the wheels of a huge semi-tractor trailer; CarolAnn upended in a tar barrel.

  "Let's get to the point, CarolAnn," Howie said calmly.

  "The point is this. The property owner at One Hemlock Drive . . ."

  "Marge Schmidt, yes," Howie said.

  "Is currently in custody of a herd of Texas longhorn cattle, which is, in and of itself, a clear violation of ordinance 7.1 the keeping of—"

  "I'm familiar with it," Howie said shortly. "But it's my opinion as town attorney, CarolAnn, that the herd constitutes an exhibit. Under ordinance 7.21, it's legal."

  "Of course it is," CarolAnn said. "I'm perfectly aware of that ordinance." Quill would have bet her best camel hair artist's brush that CarolAnn didn't know beans about the ordinance 7.21 covering fairs, festivals, and exhibits. She was stupid as well as mean as a snake. "But that's not the problem, Mr. Murchison." Trust CarolAnn to have a back pocket strategy when the first one wouldn't work.

  "What is the problem?"

  "The welfare of those poor, penned-up beasts," the little round woman blurted. "The ultimate fate of God's blessed creatures." The tall thin man with the wispy beard set his jaw.

  Harland bristled. "Who are these folks, CarolAnn?"

  CarolAnn inspected her spotlessly clean fingernails. She smirked. "This is Sky and her colleague Normal Norman Smith."

  Quill thought she heard Howie mutter "Oh, shit," but she couldn't be sure. Harland Peterson said, "Oh, for God's sake."

  "I'm sorry," she said politely to Normal Norman and Sky. "Should I know you?"

  Quill had the general impression CarolAnn had no eyelids, like a snake. So she was surprised when she blinked. "Sky and Norman are the moving spirit behind Q.U.A.C.K. That's Quell Unfair Animal Cruelty and Killing. A very influential animal rights movement based in Syracuse. They support the right of all beings to a free existence, unen . . . unen . . ."

  "Unencumbered by the imprisoning hand of man." Normal Norman Smith had a very resonant voice. "Do you realize how many of our animal brethren live under the threat of execution day by day, week by week? Do you have any feeling for the fear, the terror, the despair of a chicken facing the ax? A cow facing the slaughter of its fellows?"

  Quill sketched a duck in a caftan carrying a saucepan labeled "QUACK POT."

  "How large is the Q.U.A.C.K. membership?" Howie asked.

  "Hundreds," CarolAnn said complacently. "They have a couple of buses."

  "And your point?"

  "The property values of our town could be severely affected by the adverse publicity resulting from a demonstration." CarolAnn's eyes took on a dreamy expression, making her look less like the cyborg in Terminator 2, but not much. "I'm afraid it'd be my civic duty as a private citizen—not in my official capacity, of course— to comment to any TV or newspaper people that would come to cover the protest. Do you know," her eyes got a little larger, "the protest Q.U.A.C.K. staged at the turkey processing plant off the Thruway made the front page of U.S.A. TodayT

  "That was because they let all the turkeys out of their pens," Freddie said. "And the turkeys ran onto the Thruway and that bus full of kids from the soccer game came to a sideways stop and the Thruway was closed for nine hours while they recaptured all the turkeys. And the eighth graders," he added after a moment's thought. "Remember, most of them hopped over the median and went over the culvert to the pinball arcade right there at exit 38. There was a bigger protest over that than the turkeys."

  "What's the point, CarolAnn?" Howie said. "Those cows in Quill's rose garden—"

  "Sarah Quilliam is NOT the mortgage holder at One Hemlock Drive," CarolAnn said menacingly.

  "The cows are legal. If there's nothing else, this plenary session of the Zoning Board is over."

  CarolAnn's eyes flashed. "You mean all that mess is legal?"

  "All what mess?"

  "The—" Her voice dropped. "You know. The poo."

  "The poo?" Harland boomed. "You mean the cow manure? Nuthin' wrong with a little old cow manure."

  "It's disgusting." There was true loathing in her voice. "The smell is revolting. I can smell it all the time." She shuddered.

  Quill recalled suddenly that CarolAnn's neat little three-bedroom house was about a mile downwind from the Inn.

  CarolAnn tipped her chin back, so that her icy blue eyes glittered like chips of mica in stone. "The E.P.A. certainly thinks there's a lot wrong with cow manure."

  This struck a sensitive spot with Harland, who'd been involved in a series of skirmishes over the slurry for his dairy herd with the E.P.A. for more than three years. He bristled like a porcupine. To Quill's dismay, he lost his temper and shouted, "There's nuthin' I can do if you got some weird psycho thing about cow dung!"

  "Weird psycho thing?" CarolAnn hissed. She drew herself up. She'd ironed her sweatshirt and there were perfect creases pressed down the front of her jogging pants. She was the cleanest person Quill had ever seen. "We'll see about that, mister. We'll just see about that." She placed a firm hand on Normal Norman's shoulder. "Mr. Smith, did you hear that? Those poor animals are going to remain penned up there until they're sent off to the slaughterhouse." Norman turned pale. Tears filled Sky's eyes.

  "You're going to do nothing to avert the fate of those poor animals?" Sky appealed to Howie "You will not move?"

  "I'm afraid, madam," Howie said stiffly, "that the fate of the cows is not within the purview of the village government. If you have a protest, I suggest you take it with Ms. Schmidt. Or the owners of the cattle." He stood up. "This meeting's adjourned."

  "Oh, yeah?" CarolAnn said softly. "We'll goddamn see about that."

  Chapter Three

  "And that," Quill said to Meg the next morning, when Meg had time to talk, "was that. What do you suppose CarolAnn's going to do now? I'm telling you, Meg, the woman went psychotic over the cow manure. It's utterly ridiculous."

  "Jeez. What about Marge?"

  "I've been waiting since yesterday to tell you about Marge." She listed the depredations to the gardens, the kitchen, and the Tavern Bar. Not to mention what the village grapevine had told her about Meg's kitchen.

  "Marge renamed the Inn?" Meg's eyebrows rose. "And she pulled out the Aga and installed a microwave?" Meg had the Welsh coloring of their father, gray eyes and dark hair. In summer, her fair skin turned dark gold. As a result, her summer temper tantrums were more visually interesting than at other times of the year. Quill, hopeful of a spectacular display, pressed the advantage. "The Dew Drop Inn. And I told you about the cattle in the rose garden."

  "What happened to the koi?"

  Quill shrugged. "For all I know, Betty Hall turned them into frozen fis
h sticks and served them to conventioneers."

  Meg shook her head decisively. "No. Betty's a better cook than that. I'm curious about the microwave, though. I can't believe Betty's going to precook entrees. She had the best diner food in the United States as far as I know. Going frozen's not like her at all." Meg remained maddeningly calm. "So the old place has changed a lot, huh?"

  Quill looked around the Palate's kitchen. It was at least a third the size of Meg's old kitchen at the Inn, if not even smaller. They'd opted for utilitarian stainless steel, and to Quill's eyes, it seemed like every undistinguished professional kitchen she'd ever been in, and Meg had dragged her into quite a few. Stainless steel worktables stood parallel to one another between the double-size refrigerator and the eight-burner gas stove. The wash sinks and dishwasher were banked against the north wall. Pots and pans hung from chains suspended from the ceiling. Meg's knives were stored in a pullout tray under a workmanlike butcher block. Rubber mats cushioned the old oak flooring. Meg's kitchen could never smell like hamburgers and French fries—as a matter of fact, the air was filled with mint and the scent of fresh strawberries—but to Quill, it looked no different than a Burger King or a McDonald's. "I can't believe you don't miss those birch cabinets."

  Meg shook her head.

  "Or the open shelving and the cobblestone fireplace?"

  "Nope."

  Quill took a deep breath. "Well. I do, dammit. And I asked Marge to sell the Inn back to us."

  Meg's mouth opened. Then shut. She waited a long moment and said, "You did not!"

  Quill walked from the steel storage shelves to the sinks and back again, her sandals noiseless on the rubber matting. "I can't stand it. I miss it all. Everything. The gardens. My room. The dining room. The Tavern Lounge. Did I tell you that Marge has Nate working behind the bar? And that she's got him in a sea captain's hat?"

  "A what?"

  "She's renamed the bar the Schooner, or something. There's fishing nets all over."

  "But there isn't a shipyard within three hundred miles of here, much less a fishing boat."

  "I told her that. Meg, the minute I signed that sale contract, I knew we'd made a mistake, and then when I left the place just before we turned the keys over to Marge I knew it for certain. I never told you, did I? I sat right down and called John that day."

  "John our former business manager? John Raintree?"

  "Yes. I told him I was sorry he was gone. That I missed him more than I thought I would. I asked him to ditch that job in Long Island and come back. I told him we could be friends for life, that we could work out all that"—Quill waved her hands in the air—"all that other stuff."

  "By all that other stuff, I assume you meant the fact that he said he was in love with you?"

  "I apologized for being insensitive—"

  "Good. Very good. 'All that other stuff,' very sensitive."

  Quill ignored the sarcasm. ". . . and irresponsible and muddleheaded and for taking him for granted. Meg, I groveled!"

  "Hm. What did he say?"

  "He said that he . . . never mind. Just that I'd made the right decision, that I should marry Myles and get on with my painting, that I should leave enough time for myself and not get trapped by that sinkhole."

  "He meant the Inn."

  "Our Inn."

  "But, Quill . . ." Meg trailed off, scratched her head with both hands, and sighed. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then said, "We were going broke."

  "We don't have to go broke, Meg. Marge's figured out this way to not go broke. She told me a little bit about it, but I'll bet you we can figure out the rest of it somehow."

  "You were going crazy with that place. You never had time to paint. You never had time for Myles. Every guest that walked through that door you took on as your personal responsibility. The Inn was taking the place of your life, Quill. You were using it to hide." Her eyes searched Quill's for a long moment. She flushed at the outrage there, and murmured, "And thus my refrain, 'thrust home.' Sorry."

  Quill was so angry her jaw hurt. She smiled coolly. "I do feel a little like that poor guardsman Cyrano skewered in Act One. Spare me the cheap psychoanalytic crap, Meg."

  "I said I was sorry."

  "Fine. Just fine. I take it this means you aren't interested in moving back to the Inn."

  "I can cook anywhere, Quill. I'm happy cooking anywhere, as long as I'm not cooking for people who eat lard sandwiches and deep fried pickles. As a matter of fact, I'm going to be late for the train to the city where I am going to cook in a perfectly cramped and horrible kitchen in one of the nicer parts of town for people who think corn dogs are an esoteric breed of hound."

  Quill held up one hand. Some part of her was surprised to see it trembling. "So, go. Leave a couple days early, what do I care? Did I ever tell you you were a terrible snob, Meg?"

  "Me?! Go chase yourself."

  "So, fine," Quill repeated. "This is just fine."

  "Of course it's not 'fine.' Don't say 'fine' to me in that nasty clipped sort of way. If you want to buy back the damn place and have me cook there, I'll cook there. But you'd be making a big mistake."

  "It wasn't that damn place when I took you there after Daniel was killed in that car crash. It saved your sanity, you said, if not your life."

  Meg turned so pale that the light dusting of freckles on her nose stood out "So it's my fault," she said between her teeth. "'Well, fine!" She turned on her heel, wheeled out of the back door, and slammed it so hard the eight-inch sauté pan fell to the floor with a clang. A second later, she came back in and hauled her duffel bag out of the closet where she'd stored it preparatory to this trip. When she left this time, she closed the door with studied care.

  Moving carefully, Quill walked over, picked up the sauté pan, and replaced it on its hook over the counter.

  "What in the heck was that rumpus all about?" Doreen came in from the front dining room, a load of tablecloths folded over her arm.

  "Nothing." Quill grabbed a broom from the corner rack and began to sweep the spotless floor.

  "Pretty loud kind of nothin'. I could hear you two all the way down in the basement. And that's a sixteen-inch-thick stone wall."

  Quill didn't answer. Doreen set the tablecloths on the prep table and counted the stack. "This here primrose color stinks," she offered after a moment. "Shows all the stains and you can't bleach it worth beans. Told ya when you picked it out. Shoulda gone with the white. Meg thought the primrose stunk, too."

  "White's boring. People respond better to color."

  "People respond real good to a nice clean lookin' tablecloth."

  "So?"

  "So maybe you want to think about listening to certain people. When they know what's what. Like, I know laundry, if you see what I mean. So you shoulda listened to me about the white. And Meg knows you."

  "Stop right there," Quill said. She set the broom into the rack. "Do you have the list of reservations for this evening?"

  "It's on the maître d' stand out front."

  "You call all those numbers and tell the customers we're closed for today."

  "You're kidding."

  "Oh, no. I'm not kidding." Quill smiled sweetly. "Are you listening to me, Doreen? Have I ever told you you should listen more? Well, you should. It'll do you good. Lock the door, put the CLOSED sign up, and then GO HOME!"

  The sauté pan fell back on the floor. Quill, shaking with rage, walked slowly out the back door, sat down on the back steps, and put her head in her hands. She felt the door open behind her, and then Doreen's rough palm on her head. She leaned against Doreen's hip and caught the scent of starch, freshly ironed cotton and pine disinfectant. "I'm sorry."

  "Never mind." Doreen stroked her hair for a moment.

  "Whyn't you go tidy up a bit before the chamber meetin'."

  Quill sat up straight and looked at her watch. "Oh, Lord, is it that late already? It is. Damn it. Oh, damn it. Marge will be there, too, Doreen. Suppose she tells everyone at the meeting I asked to
buy the Inn back."

  "Suppose she does?"

  "I'll just tell her to go soak her head, that's what I'll tell her."

  "Don't you go gettin' into a scrape with Marge Schmidt, Quill. People think a lot of her in this town. 'Course, that's partly because she's one of the richest people in Tompkins County, and partly because she holds a pile of loans for half the village, but why they respect her don't matter half so much as the fact that they do. So don't go borrowin' trouble."

  Quill was in the mood not only to borrow trouble, but to take out a high interest mortgage. She washed her face, threw on a few strokes of blusher and some lip gloss, and decided to take the Oldsmobile to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. If she floored it and made the light on Main Street, she might even be a bit early. Not as early as Miriam Doncaster, the town librarian, who arrived twenty minutes before every appointment she made, but early enough to forestall a snide remark or two from Betty Hall, Marge's head cook and junior partner, about how some people were always a day late and a dollar short.

  Except in the final months of last year's economic recession, the Chamber of Commerce meetings had always been held at the Inn. Marge's acquisition hadn't affected a thing. Quill liked living in a small town—Hemlock Falls was less claustrophobic and inbred than the New York City art world, where she'd moved before she'd come to the village to stay—but there were times when the reluctance of its citizens to change direction (or, in fact, change anything at all) was very frustrating. No, frustrating was the wrong word. Bummed. That was the right word. She'd been bummed when the Chamber members had failed to rise in common loyalty and refused to darken the Inn's doors with That Person as the owner. When she'd broken the news of the sale in May there'd been a few clucks of sympathy, one or two brusque pats on the arm, and a couple of sorrowful head shakes. She had been prepared (even mentally rehearsed) a noble speech of demurral when the Chamber members demanded to have the monthly meetings at the Palate. It was almost as if the village had expected her to lose the Inn. And although people could fear Marge or resent her success, no one actually disliked her. She was a blunt, decent, shrewd, hardworking businesswoman. And a heck of a cook in her own right Just the sort of Hemlockian who would be commemorated with a bust in Peterson Park after her demise.