Dread on Arrival

by Claudia Bishop

Quill freed herself. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Baumer, but Dina’s right, of course. We’re booked for the week.”

  “Come on, kiddo, I need some help here. I’ve got a sales convention at the Marriott, and the bastards overbooked. I hear this is the only decent place to get a room. I know you guys; you’re always holding something in reserve. Whyn’t you check the reservations book yourself? I’m here for the week. I don’t mind paying top dollar.” He grinned and edged closer to her.

  Quill took two steps back, hit the counter, and repeated, “I’m sorry, Mr. Baumer. We simply don’t have a room available.” The phone shrilled twice, and Dina picked it up as Quill continued, “We’ll be happy to call a few nearby places for you—”

  “Quill?” said Dina.

  “—but I’m afraid you’re going to have a rough time if you want to stay close to your sales meeting. This is the height of the tourist season …”

  “Quill!” Dina tugged at her sleeve. “We just got a cancellation. Couple that was booked for the week for their honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. Sands. Only it’s Mrs. Sands that just called, and she said they had a fight at the wedding and the whole thing’s off! Isn’t that sad?”

  “There,” said Baumer. “Not that I believe that phony phone call for one little minute. What? Ya got a button down there?”

  Quill counted to ten. “Would you check him in please, Dina? Enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Baumer.”

  He cocked his head, swept a look from her ankles to her chin, gave her a thumbs-up sign of approval, then leered at Dina. “Okay, dolly. You take American Express Traveler’s Cheques?”

  Quill looked longingly at the Japanese urn nearest Baumer’s thick neck.

  “Too heavy,” said the man who’d been waiting behind Baumer. “Now, that replica of the Han funeral horse on the coffee table? Just the right size for a good whack.”

  Quill choked back a laugh. “Are you here to check in? Let me help you over here.” He was, thought Quill, one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen, with thick black hair attractively sprinkled with gray. He wore a beautifully tailored sports coat.

  “Quill,” Esther called, “we’re going back to vote now.”

  “I don’t mind waiting for young Dina, there,” he said. “I’m Edward Lancashire, by the way.”

  “We’re looking forward to having you at the Inn, Mr. Lancashire.”

  “You go ahead to your vote. I’ll be just fine.”

  Quill went back to the conference room and sat down, a little breathless.

  “Who was that?” hissed Esther. “The second one, I mean. The first one sounded horrible.”

  “The first one was horrible. Speaking of horrible, where’s Marge?”

  “In the kitchen.” Quill froze. Esther looked at her watch. “This darn meeting’s got to get over soon; I’ve got way too much to do on the costumes.”

  “The kitchen? Marge is in Meg’s kitchen?”

  “She was headed that way.”

  “Oh, God,” said Quill. “I’ll be right back.”

  Quill pushed open the kitchen door to silence, which meant one of two things: either Meg had discovered Marge among her recipe books and had killed her, or nobody was there.

  The flagstone floor was clean and polished. The cobblestone fireplace in the corner, where Meg had a Maine grill to do her lobsters, crackled quietly behind the Thermo Glass doors that kept the heat from the rest of the kitchen. Meg’s precious copper bowls and pans hung undisturbed in shiny rows from the pot hanger. No sign of either Marge or, for that matter, her sister. Quill pulled at her lower lip, went to Meg’s recipe cabinet, pulled out the lowest drawer, and flipped through the Z’s. Zuppa d’Inglese, zucchini, zarda, zabaglione. She edged the zabaglione card carefully out of the file. Was that a greasy thumbprint? It was. But was it Marge’s or Meg’s? And if it were Marge’s, did that mean she was going to place a phone call to the Board of Health? She read the recipe gloomily. There it was in Meg’s elegant script: four raw eggs per serving. She closed the file drawer and marched determinedly back to the conference room.

  It was empty, except for Myles.

  “Where’d they all go?” Quill demanded. “Did they vote on whether or not to move the meetings to Marge’s diner?”

  “Since neither you nor Marge were here, Howie voted to table. Esther asked for an adjournment because she’s still sewing costumes. I waited for you to see what you wanted to do tonight. Would you like to go to supper? Can you get away about eight thirty?”

  “Myles, can you take a fingerprint from a recipe card?”

  “Yes, Quill,” Myles said patiently. “Do you want to go to supper? I thought I’d make a stir-fry at my place.”

  “Where was Marge, when I wasn’t here?”

  “I don’t know. She came back in here grinning and said she had to make a phone call. Why?”

  Quill gazed at him thoughtfully. Myles had strong views on law and order. He had an annoying tendency to spout phrases like “due process” and “probable cause.” Those gray eyes would get even icier if she asked him to arrest Marge for snooping. That strong jaw would set like an antilock brake at the merest suggestion of a phone tap on the Hemlock Home Diner. There was no way he’d test a recipe card for fingerprints without uncomfortable questions regarding the existence of an eggless zabaglione.

  She decided to answer his first question, and solve the Marge problem herself. “Why don’t you come by the kitchen for dinner about eleven, after we close? You made dinner last night. It’s my turn.”

  “Fine.” He kissed her on the temple. Quill wasn’t fooled for a minute. This was a man who’d lock her in stir the instant she whacked Marge up the side of the head with Meg’s skillet.

  Halfway out the door, Myles turned to look at her. “You sure nothing’s wrong? You’re not coming down with anything, are you?” His eyes narrowed. “Wait. I know that look. You’re fulminating.”

  “No,” said Quill absently. “One of the waitresses is, though.” She gasped and glanced at her watch. “The second shift! It’s after three o’clock! Damn!” She sprinted past him and ran down the hall.