A Steak in Murder (Hemlock Falls Mystery Series)

by Claudia Bishop

  "Kinda pretty in the dark." Marge rose from the garden bench in front of the koi pond turned water trough.

  "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

  "Brady come by a while ago to take that horse of his over to Laura Crest's. I watched him for a while and then was just sittin' here with Royal's cows. Hang on. I'll come on out." The cows moved aside for the short, stocky figure with an uneasy shaking of their horns. "They ain't used to me." Marge grunted as she climbed over the fence and thudded down next to Quill. "Not yet, anyways."

  "Aren't you a little nervous around them?"

  "Nah." The turret eyes swung toward Quill and back to the cows again. "Well, some, maybe. Royal says he's seen some bad holes poked in folks when they don't take care. They're animals after all." Marge scratched the back of her neck in an absentminded way. Quill inhaled Chanel Number Five.

  "I've always liked that perfume, Marge. Chanel Number Five."

  "Borrowed some off Nadine Peterson. You don't think it smells bad, then?"

  "I think it smells great."

  "What kind of perfume you use?"

  This from tubby, stubborn, in-your-face Marge Schmidt? Quill kept the smile out of her voice. "It depends. Lavender cologne once in a while. Tea Rose, until Freddie Bellini said it smelled like funerals."

  "Thing is, the sher'f seems to like it."

  "You mean Myles?" Quill was silent. He was tied up with this industrial espionage thing for another two weeks, he'd said. She wouldn't be able to call him for at least several days, either, since he'd decided to go undercover at the GM plant in Rochester.

  "You think men like perfume, as a general rule?"

  "Well, it depends. A lot of men want women to be different. So different that they can claim not to understand them at all. So they like high heels, frilly dresses, lots of makeup—things that are alien to them. Someone like—oh, Royal Rossiter—would like a woman to be herself. And that's the best kind of guy to have around, I think. Although I'm no expert, Marge."

  "Best we got around here."

  "Thanks. I guess."

  Marge laughed. Then she said carelessly, "You remember old George Peterson."

  "The car dealer? Gosh, he's been dead for five years, at least. He wasn't so old, Marge. Golly, Nadine's in her late forties and they'd only been mar—" She stopped. She'd forgotten. There was history there. "Yes. I liked George. I know that . . . you did, too."

  "George liked this Chanel Number Five. Royal seems to like it, too. Said so today, anyways."

  Quill took a deep breath. There were all kinds of reasons now to tell Marge of Royal's offhand interest in helping her buy the Inn. If she waited any longer, she'd be the worst kind of jerk. "Did Royal happen to mention that we'd talked about my buying the Inn back?"

  Marge didn't say anything for a moment. Quill could see her chubby profile against the backdrop of cows and chewed up rosebushes. Her expression was hard to read. "Well," she said. "Well, well, well. He did, now, did he? Did he say why?"

  "Why?" This caught Quill off guard. "Because it'd be a worthwhile investment, I suppose."

  Marge laughed. It wasn't an unkind laugh, more of a heartily amused are-you-serious laugh. Quill was insulted. "I've learned quite a lot more about business since I've taken over the Palate, Marge."

  "Any durn fool can run a business," Marge said. "No, I take that back. Any durn fool could serve successful dinners with Meg's cooking and you floatin' around looking like those long-haired wimmin in art history books. But real business, that's somethin' else. So, Royal's putting out a few feelers, is he? I'll have to think about that." She looked at her watch. "Train's about due."

  This annoyed Quill profoundly. "How do you know I want to know when the train's due?"

  " 'Cause you called that Muriel Sedgewick at the station to find out when it was comin' in tonight and she told me. Wanted to know if the sher'f was coming home for a while."

  "He's out of touch for the next few weeks." Quill was afraid that her own careless tone would betray her the way Marge's had a few minutes before. But Marge had to know John was coming into town. First of all, he'd stop by to see her, since Marge and John respected each other a great deal, and secondly, Marge always found out what was going on sooner rather than later. She was worse than Doreen, since Doreen knew how to keep herself to herself. "No. Myles isn't due back yet. You remember John Raintree."

  "Course I remember John. He's comin' back?"

  "Just for a few days. He said to send you his regards."

  "Well. Well, well, well." Marge's beady little eyes narrowed. "Royal give him a call? Or did you? Never mind. You prob'y don't want to answer that. Huh. You get on your way, Quill." She turned to leave, then threw over her shoulder, "You tell John I said hi. And you two drop around anytime you like. Anytime." She stumped away. Quill got in the car and drove to the station.

  In the days when wealthy New Yorkers summered in Upstate New York, train stations had been wonderful affairs, the promise of exotic otherwheres implicit in the wrought iron pillars holding up the roof, the granite tiles of the floors. Quill imagined the echo of porters, the ghostly circles of leghorn hats under the streetlights, the sweep of long skirts along the brick pathway. She'd never understood why the sound of a train whistle was such a lonesome call for so many; perhaps it was the minor key, or, more likely, the drawn-out trailing wail. She loved the sound of trains approaching, trains leaving, the clack-clack-clack of wheels on track. It was a staid excitement she felt, a nostalgic whisper of a slower past. For the long-dead people who had crowded this station in its heyday, it had been a place much like present airports; a crossing, a nexus, a place to go from, not a place to stay or a place to hold in memory, to think about while drifting off to sleep at night.

  She walked up and down the concrete platform, hearing the train in the distance. The parking lot was deserted, except for a few cars waiting for late commuters from Syracuse, or the few students who'd hopped on the train at Ithaca after a day at the University.

  John was first off, swinging lightly down the steps, backpack dangling from one hand. She waved and stood waiting for him, smiling to see the familiar coppery face, the black hair, the easy athleticism. She kissed him like she kissed Meg after a long absence, with a brief, hard hug and a brush of her lips against his cheek. "You smell different, John."

  "You and your smells, Quill. It's the big city, I should think. And I use a different Laundromat. How are Meg and Doreen?"

  "Fine. Meg said she meets you once in a while for lunch in the city."

  "She's looking great. I caught one episode of The Rusticated Lady. She did her creme brulée."

  "Lally Preston's here now. They're going to tape this Russian-cattlemen dinner for the next show."

  "Has anyone ever told Lally Preston what rusticated means?"

  "I've never had the nerve to ask."

  They turned and walked together toward the parking lot. John shifted his backpack from one hand to the other. "And Myles? How is he?"

  "He won't admit it, but he enjoys this new job he's on."

  "Set the date yet?"

  Quill made a noncommittal noise. She waited until they were both in the Olds and she was driving to the Palate before she asked lightly, "And you? Have you set the date with anyone yet?"

  "I've been seeing a very nice woman. A nurse at Caryn's hospital."

  This was unusual. John hardly ever referred to his sister in the past. "How's Caryn doing?"

  "The same. It won't change, of course. We've known since the beginning that the coma's too deep for recovery. But Taffy—the nurse—brought a portable CD player into the ward, and she plays the kinds of music Caryn used to like, before the accident. I think her face looks more peaceful now, hearing it." Quill pulled into the short driveway that led to the garage next to the restaurant. "So this is it. Looks pretty good from the outside."

  "Wait until you've seen the dining room. We should be just finishing up with the evening trade."

  He liked it all,
the dining room with the Giverny colors, the small room paneled in basswood that they'd turned into a little bar, the guest room with the quilts Doreen had stitched hanging on the walls. "The bedrooms are big enough?" he asked as he glanced into her room and then Meg's. "I did worry about that. The suites you two had at the Inn were pretty nice."

  "Only real problem is the bathroom. There's just the one, and the two downstairs for customers of course."

  He followed her downstairs and back into the dining room as she continued, "But then Meg isn't here that much anymore. She tends to be with Andy Bishop, or in New York. So far it's worked out really well."

  He gave her a sharp glance. "She'll be here tonight."

  "She's here now," Meg said, bouncing in the front door. She threw her arms around John and shouted, to the amusement of the few diners left at the tables, "It's so good to see you! Sit down. Right there. Best table in the house. I've got a nice wine chilling and a really superior pâté I want you to try. And don't," she scolded him, "tell me you're not hungry. You're looking way too thin for my taste." She dropped her menu and purse on the floor with a thump and bounded off to the kitchen.

  Quill sat across from him at the little table. She adjusted the Dutch iris in the vase and moved the salt bowl. Then she moved it back again.

  "Doreen's home already?"

  Quill nodded. "It's been a struggle, but I've managed to get her to cut her hours. She won't admit it, but her arthritis is bothering her a lot these days."

  "And Meg says Bjarne's doing well in the kitchen."

  "To the point where I'm getting worried someone's going to hire him away. He's come along really fast."

  "Meg yells a lot, but she's a good teacher."

  "I do not yell a lot." Meg set a platter of grapes, pâté, and biscuits in front of them, then a wine bucket with a chilly bottle of Vouvray nested in ice. She sat down, poured wine for the three of them, took a long sip and sat back with a sigh of enjoyment.

  John sipped his wine with a considering air. "That's the sparkling Vouvray we picked up from the Summerhill sale. It's good."

  "It's good. I'm good," Meg said with a grin. "Quill, you missed out on the best part of that dorky meeting. Do you know Harvey wanted me to serve hamburgers!" She sipped more wine. "Texas longhorn hamburgers!" The second shriek made the elderly couple at table four wave frantically at Peter the waiter for the bill.

  "And you said . . ." Quill prompted.

  "I said . . ." She drew a big breath, then expelled it with a sigh at Quill's exasperated expression. "I said, hooey, I said. Over my dead body, I said."

  "And there aren't any, are there?" John asked.

  "What? Dead bodies?" Meg laughed merrily. The couple at table four scuttled out the front door, leaving a wad of cash on the tip plate. "Not so far. Although I wouldn't bet on Lally whacking that oily sneak of a colonel over the head with a branding iron. I almost," Meg rubbed her nose meditatively, "I almost did it myself. If he asks me for my marinade recipe one more time, I'm going to make up a big batch and drown him in it. Malmsey marinade, I'll call it. Be a big seller on death row."

  "Meg!" Quill said. "For heaven's sake."

  "Sorry. But, John, even you'd get manic around here. Do you know there are cows in our rose garden?"

  That "our" again. Quill smiled hugely at both of them.

  "Why don't you bring me up to date?" John said. "Quill asked me here to give some business advice . . ."

  "And I'm paying him," Quill told her sister.

  "You are?" Meg thought about this for a moment.

  John frowned. "I will not accept—"

  "Yes, you will. It's like psychotherapy, Meg."

  "You've never been in psychotherapy in your life."

  "Well, it's like what they say about psychotherapy. You only listen to the advice you pay for."

  "That's not what Freud said," Meg said loftily. "Not exactly."

  "How do you know what Freud said? You've never been in psychotherapy either."

  "Well, I'm dating . . ."

  ". . . a medical man. Spare me. Please."

  "Spare me," John suggested, "and we'll talk about my fee later. Why doesn't one of you summarize what's going on here?"

  The summary took all of the pâte, and most of a second bottle of the sparkling Vouvray. By the time John sat back with a "hang on and let me think this through" expression on his face, Quill was feeling flushed and tiddly. For a former innkeeper, she had a lousy head for spirits.

  "Okay, let's get this straight." John held up one long finger and began to tick off the points. "Quill wants the Inn back. Meg and Doreen want the Inn back. Marge is making money." He stopped and shook his head admiringly. "Wish I'd thought of that. Booking fees. What a hell of a good idea. Money right from the customer into the bank account, with no expenses in between. Damn, she's good. At any rate, Marge has found a way to make the Inn profitable and she'll sell, all right, but to the highest bidder. And she wants a half a million, minimum."

  "For our Inn!" Meg shrieked indignantly.

  "It's not your Inn. Your Inn was putting you deeper into the hole every month," John said bluntly, "Marge's Inn is in the black. Big difference. And she's right to want to be paid the difference."

  "So where can we find half a million dollars?" Quill asked. She slumped back in her chair and looked despairingly at the second bottle of Vouvray. There was a teeny bit left. She let it sit there. Then she brightened. "Did I tell you Royal Rossiter wants-to give us half a million dollars? Did I tell you he is one of the richest Texans in Texas?"

  Meg snorted. "He doesn't want to give us half a million dollars, Quill. He wants to invest half a million dollars in something that will pay him a lot of money back, right, John?"

  "That would seem logical. Both Mr. Rossiter and Marge are going to expect a significant R.O.I."

  Quill had picked up enough business jargon along the way to know that this meant Return on Investment. It's significance as a term spoke for itself. This was a concept of somewhat dubious ethical value as far as she was concerned. After all, a reasonable return on investment was the eight percent interest you got on a CD. When John talked significant R.O.I, he was talking forty percent or more, which seemed rapacious, if not downright piratical. "I've asked you here," she sobbed, "for nothing."

  John grinned, and removed the Vouvray from her grasp. "Let's have some coffee, Meg."

  "Who wants to sober up?" Meg demanded. "I sure don't. We are stuck with . . ." She waved her arm at the dining room, glowing yellow and blue in the dim night lights. Each of the tables was set with a vase of miniature iris. The old oak beams were hung with copper pans and dried hydrangea. It was beautiful. "All this," she said in disgust.

  "You forget that 'all this' has quite a bit of value on its own. And there's something else, here."

  "Cows," Quill said mournfully.

  "That's precisely it. Cows."

  "Cows?" Meg said. "You're kidding, right?"

  "Not at all. How much of this nutrition information is verifiable, Quill?"

  "All of it, I guess. You mean about the healthiness of the beef?"

  "Absolutely. You know that America's consumption of beef has been declining year by year? And there's been a precipitous drop in consumption in Europe with the scare about Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease."

  "Um, sure," Quill said. This was one of those things she ought to know and didn't. She made a mental vow to read more of the New York Times than the Tuesday and Sunday Arts sections.

  "Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is transmitted to humans by cattle that have been fed the brains and organs of diseased cattle. It's a virus that destroys the interstices of the brain. When cows get it, they act really goofy, which is why it's sometimes called mad cow disease." Meg shook her head despairingly. "I wish you'd read more of the newspaper than the Arts section. Anyway it's a big deal with the Board of Health. And John's point is that longhorn cattle are free-range. If they are fed any grain or supplements it's corn or oats in the last few month
s of the finishing process. The longhorns aren't carriers of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease."

  "Of course." Quill nodded knowledgeably.

  Meg said, "Teh! Not 'of course.' It means that people can eat it safely. And because it's healthy they can eat it guilt-free."

  "So you think we can make money raising cattle? We're going to be in the beef business? I don't want to be in the beef business. I look at those nice cows and I want them all to die peacefully in their sleep. I want Tompkins County's first cow cemetery."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Quill," Meg said in a very annoyed way. "If you're going to go vegetarian on me, take off your shoes."

  "What? Why?!" Quill regarded her Italian leather sandals with dismay. "Oh. I see."

  "And give me your purse, and while you're at it, your belt and that nifty pair of leather jeans you picked up at Saks last month. In short, don't be a hypocrite."

  "I'm disgruntled."

  "You should be." She turned to John. "There's just one problem."

  "It isn't Prime."

  "That's right."

  "You mean the F.D.A. won't rate the filets Prime?" Quill asked. "But Prime's all we use in the restaurant business."

  "It's because there's not enough fat. But only the Feds equate fat with taste. The customer isn't all that aware of why Prime Angus cut tastes that good. If they were, they'd probably keel over from a cholesterol-related heart attack right at the table. But I think my marinade has solved the taste issue. I hope. I'll know tomorrow when I try the bracciole I've invited that bloody colonel and Royal Rossiter to try. Sort of a preliminary menu tasting before I go gung ho for International Night. That hunky cowboy Brady, too, come to think of it. And the vet. She's supposed to bring me the back fat statistics from Cornell. So we'll know then whether we can make a longhorn beef retail operation a successful part of the Inn business. That's what you're after, John, isn't it?"

  "That's what I'm after."

  "So. The proof's not so much in the pudding as it is in the bracciole." Meg yawned suddenly. When Meg became tired, it hit her as did all her other emotions: fast and hard. "I've got to go to bed. It's after one." She looked at her watch. "Yep. And Andy's on in the E.R. tonight so I was planning to go to bed early and get tons of sleep. Phuut!" She jumped up, kissed Quill, then John, and clattered up the stairs to her room.