“You okay?” Meg asked anxiously.
“I’m fine,” Quill lied.
Clare stopped on her way across the polished floor and murmured in Davy’s ear. He blushed bright pink and nodded. Clare touched him briefly on the arm and headed out of the room to the kitchens.
Quill sighed. She hoped Davy wasn’t going to complicate things and get a crush on Clare. “But, oh, Meg, I want to go home. Did Justin say when he could get here?”
“Any minute now.”
Mrs. Owens stopped picking at her cuticles. “This Justin is your lawyer friend? I hope he doesn’t get us all arrested. In all those cop shows on television nothing annoys the police more than a lawyer showing up. Maybe,” she said with evident satisfaction, “he’ll arrest both of you and the rest of us can all go home and get some sleep.”
“Shut up, Mrs. Owens,” Madame said. “Why don’t you think of something more productive to do?” She grinned mirthlessly. “Ask Chef Quilliam about her genius with aspics.”
Mrs. Owens swelled up like a turkey cock.
“Here he is,” Meg said. She waved her hand over her head. “Justin! Over here!”
“Oh my goodness.” Quill sat up, her tiredness forgotten. Justin Alvarez looked like Benjamin Bratt. He was tall, taller even than Myles, who was six foot two in his bare feet. His coal black hair was thick and tousled. His skin was an even, gorgeous copper. He moved like an athlete, a runner, Quill thought, since he was lean.
And he had charm or tact, or something. Harker stopped him on his way across the room with that vicious swagger that was the second worst thing about him. Or maybe the swagger was the third, Quill thought. Coming right after his damp, lecherous hands and his conceit. The two men engaged in a lengthy conversation and, miracle of miracles, Harker nodded and let Alvarez on through.
He dropped a kiss on her sister’s head and extended his hand. “You’re Quill.”
“I’m Quill,” she agreed.
“Justin Martinez.” He smiled and looked at the assembled group. “And you were all present here tonight?”
“I’ll introduce you.” Meg stood up. Her face glowed. Quill felt very sorry for Jerry Grimsby, who was not going to like Justin Martinez one little bit.
Meg sighed happily, her hand in Justin’s. “This is Madame LeVasque. The, ah . . .” She fumbled to a stop.
“Widow,” Madame said bluntly. “And you don’t know these people, Margaret. These are my employees now and I’ll handle this. I’m Dorothy LeVasque, Mr. Martinez. My husband’s the one who’s headed out to the morgue in the dead wagon. The tall Italian drink of water there is Pietro Giancava. My sommelier and in charge of sauces. The inscrutable Oriental next to him is Jimmy Chen. Seafood and fish. The sourpuss glowering at Meg is Mrs. Owens. Fruits and jellies, although it’s technically fruit and veg.” Madame’s hatchet nose twitched. “And the chief suspect seems to be Raleigh Brewster, my soup and stew expert. She’s the one getting worked over by that skinny son of a bitch.” Madame’s nose twitched again. “Think you can do something about it? That woman’s no more a murderer than I am.”
Justin looked over his shoulder. “Lieutenant Harker says statistics show that the person with the body when it is discovered it usually the perpetrator.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Quill said. “LeVasque had been dead for hours before Raleigh found him.”
Justin raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “You’ve talked to the forensics people?”
“Harker hasn’t let us move out of this corner since the police showed up,” Meg said indignantly. “Not even to go to the bathroom, not until a woman patrolperson showed up, at least. So no, we haven’t talked to anybody.”
“Then how do you know how long LeVasque’s been dead?” Justin asked. He smiled, but there was a faint furrow of worry between his dark eyes. “Private knowledge?”
Quill was already regretting her impulsive comment. “No. But he was stiff. And rigor mortis doesn’t set in for eight to twelve hours after death.”
She hoped Justin would leave it at that. She should have known that the snippy Mrs. Owens wouldn’t.
“What do you mean, stiff?” Mrs. Owens demanded. “You’re not supposed to touch the body. Everyone knows that.”
“I wanted to see if he was really dead,” Quill improvised. “I touched his wrist.”
She’d known he was really dead. Nobody whose blood spilled out over the flagstone floor the way M. LeVasque’s had been was anything but dead. But that the piece of paper he held in his hand was a clue was as clarion clear as poor Raleigh’s shrieks.
She made a conscious effort to keep her hands from her skirt pocket, where the precious clue resided.
“A recipe?” Meg said. She sat at the end of Quill’s bed, her knees drawn up to her chin. It was three o’clock in the morning. Meg looked like she’d just gotten up from a long, satisfying nap. The police had finally let them go just half an hour before.
“Looks like it.” Quill yawned. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
“Funnily enough, no.”
“I’m exhausted,” Quill said rather pointedly. “Aren’t you tired?”
“You’ve had a long day,” Meg agreed. She drew circles on top of the duvet with a forefinger.
“I’m exhausted and I want to go to sleep.”
Meg looked up, startled. “Oh! Sure!” Then, “What did you think?”
“I think the recipe’s a clue. I put it back, you understand, just before Harker showed up. But I made a copy in my sketchbook. But I also think I’m exhausted. As in it’s time to put a sock in it and go to bed. I’ll think about the recipe in the morning.”
“Not about that. About Justin. Wasn’t it terrific, the way he got us out of there?”
“It was amazing,” Quill said. (Her sarcastic tone had no apparent effect on her sister.) “Except that we’re going to spend tomorrow morning giving more statements to the police, which is not my favorite thing by a long shot. And—have I mentioned this before? I’m tired.”
“We’d still be there if Justin hadn’t talked Harker into letting us all go home.”
“There wasn’t a reason in the world to keep us there.”
“But Justin . . .”
Quill pinched herself so she wouldn’t shout. Jack was peacefully asleep in her former walk-in closet, Max at his feet. Both dog and toddler slept deeply, but she’d never get to bed if Jack woke up at this hour. “Not now, Meg. Honestly.”
Meg kicked her gently.
“Okay, okay. He’s gorgeous. I have to admit, before I actually saw him, that I was wondering about you deciding to . . . um . . . go hiking . . . on the first date.”
“It wasn’t the first date,” Meg said indignantly. “I don’t hike on the first date.”
“I, myself,” Quill said reasonably, “would not consider a client-attorney meeting at the local hoosegow a first date. But there you are. I’m funny that way.” She yawned so hard she could feel her jaw crack. “Seriously, Sister. Don’t you want to know him a little better before you get so . . .” She waved her hands in the air. “. . . Committed?”
“We talk about everything,” Meg said, as if this were an actual response to Quill’s question. “I mean, I feel as if I’ve known him all my life. You must have felt that way about Myles.”
“I didn’t even like Myles the first time I met him. Remember? That awful murder at the witch trials? He kept telling us to butt out and stop interfering with the investigation.”
“But you knew, didn’t you? You knew that Myles was it the minute you saw him.”
“If you want the absolute truth, I knew that I wanted to sleep with Myles the minute I saw him, but lust is a far different thing from love, Meggie.”
Meg sighed happily and settled herself more comfortably into the duvet. “I don’t know if I agree with that or not. I think that love and lust are absolutely one and the same.”
“You know what? Clare’s asleep on the sofa bed in your living room, right? Go wake her up and drive her
crazy. Better still, tell it to Bismarck.” Quill turned off her bedside light, shoved herself under the covers, and put the pillow over her head. She fell asleep to the sound of her sister flouncing out the door.
11
~Farcis a la LeVasque~
For four personnes
3 tablespoons olive oil
4 small eggplants
4 green bell peppers
4 small onions
4 small zucchini
4 medium tomatoes
Peel, clean, and halve all the vegetables. Oil them lightly and set aside. Reserve the insides of the vegetables for the stuffing.
STUFFING:
Insides of those vegetables
1 finely chopped onion
2 cups ground lamb
½ cup chopped salt pork
2 cups cooked rice
2 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
2 eggs, beaten
2 teaspoons thyme
Sauté all of the above for fifteen minutes in a few table- spoons olive oil. Remove from heat and mix in the egg.
Stuff the shells of the vegetables with this mixture and sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Add a handful of bread crumbs to the tomatoes and onions. Dribble olive oil over all and bake at 375 degrees for thirty minutes. This is what I call a crowd of stuffed vegetables.
—From Brilliance in the Kitchen, B. LeVasque
The murder galvanized the guests at the Inn. Quill knew it would. Before she was wiser in the ways of guests, she’d worried a lot about any sort of notoriety. She wasn’t worried now. It was as if the pervasiveness of up-to-the-very-second news about disasters all over the world had hardened people. In her gloomier moments (which were blessedly few, now that Jack had come into her life) Quill wondered if human beings thought life itself was a sound bite on the six o’clock news.
“And to think we had breakfast over there just yesterday,” Mrs. Barbarossa marveled. “He was walking around just as alive as the next one.”
Quill didn’t bother to sort this sentence out. The next one, what? “It’s quite a tragedy,” she said temperately. “Now, to get back to the picnic arrangements.”
“Oh, whatever you think, dear. You’re the experts in all matters alfresco.” Mrs. Barbarossa adjusted the rhinestone brooch at her neck. She wasn’t wearing the WARP T-shirt today. She was dressed in a pale pink trouser suit. Quill had caught sight of the Escada label when Mrs. Barbarossa dropped it over the back of the couch before she’d sat down in Quill’s office. It clashed with the crimson peonies on the couch fabric, but then most things did.
“Of course, they’re bound to suspect you,” Mrs. Barbarossa said with a sapient air.
Quill looked at her, startled. “Me?”
She shook her finger playfully. “Or your sister. I heard about all those awful tricks M. LeVasque played on the Inn.”
“The time of death lets us both out,” Quill said pleasantly. “I was dealing with those unexpected crowds for lunch and Meg was out hiking with her lawyer.”
“And that was?”
“That was what?”
“The time of death.”
“Oh.” Quill counted backward. Poor Raleigh had found the body at ten thirty or so. Eight hours back from that was just about two thirty. Twelve hours earlier would put the time of death at ten thirty in the morning. “It’s hard to be exact about these things. But between eleven and three yesterday, I should think.” Muriel Fredericks had gotten a call from LeVasque at ten thirty yesterday morning, so that she could spread the bogus news about the swine flu. So he couldn’t have been dead before that. Madame herself had overheard the call.
“And you were one of the people that found him.” Mrs. Barbarossa shook her head sympathetically. “It must have been awful for you.”
“Yes, it was.”
“In the wine cellar? I heard his body was found in the wine cellar.”
“It’s not a cellar, as such,” Quill explained. “It’s a temperature-controlled room just off the classroom kitchens. Well, you know that. You all were there yesterday morning.”
“Strange,” Mrs. Barbarossa mused, “that nobody found him until that evening, if, as you say, the murder occurred much earlier in the day.”
“It is,” Quill admitted. “As a matter of fact . . .”
“As a matter of fact?” Mrs. Barbarossa urged. Her smile was sudden and happy. “You must know that you and your sister’s reputations have preceded you.”
“I hope that’s why you decided to stay with us,” Quill said in her most gracious innkeeper manner. “My sister’s talents as a chef . . .” She met Mrs. Barbarossa’s hopeful blue eyes with a sudden stab of dismay. “That’s not the reputation you’re talking about, is it? Yes, we have had one or two unfortunate occurrences in the past. But that’s where they’ll remain, I’m afraid. In the past. I’m a mother now, you see. And I promised my husband I wouldn’t do any more detecting. My son’s only two years old, and what toddler do you know that has an amateur detective as a mother?”
“Mommy!” Jack burst into the room, his gold red curls flying. “There is a large lion outside!” He jumped up and down in excitement. “You have to see!”
“Quietly, Jack darling,” Quill said. “You remember about indoor voices.”
“I ’member, but I do not agree,” Jack said loftily. He stood and regarded Mrs. Barbarossa with some disfavor. Ladies who looked like this pinched his cheeks. “Who is this?”
“Manners, please, Jack.”
“Who is this, please?”
“I am Mrs. Barbarossa. How do you do?”
Since she showed no signs of pinching his cheeks, or any other part of his anatomy, Jack nodded agreeably. “I am Jack, and there is a lion outside.”
The old lady held her hand out. “How exciting! Shall we go see it?”
“Gram says it’s a very large cat. Its name is Biz and I am not to touch it.” He looked doubtful. “Perhaps it is not a lion. But it’s carrying p’ay, so perhaps I am right.”
“Prey, indeed,” Mrs. Barbarossa said with swift intelligence. “A lion is a very large cat. And of course if it is carrying prey, well, that settles it, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I knew it!” Jack exulted. He slipped his hand inside hers. “So you will tell Gram she’s wrong.”
“If Gram is Mrs. Muxworthy, I wouldn’t begin to presume.”
“Don’t go near the kitty without an adult,” Quill warned as the two of them went out hand in hand. Then, as Clare appeared in the doorway with her food planner in hand, “Mrs. Barbarossa? Can you hang on a minute? What about the WARP picnic?”
“We’re going to Taughannock Falls at noon,” Mrs. Barbarossa called out. “Surprise us! Just make sure there’s plenty of wine.” She stepped aside to let Clare into the office and the two of them disappeared around the corner.
Clare looked as tired as Quill felt. “Isn’t that the guest who ordered the alfresco for six people? Should I call her back?”
“You heard her. She wants to be surprised.”
“She wants a surprise, she ought to try walking into the wine cellar at Bonne Goutè,” Clare muttered.
“It was awful,” Quill agreed. “You know what’s worse?” Clare sank into the sofa with a sigh. “Nobody’s sorry he’s dead?”
“Yes. Except somebody must be sorry. Madame . . .”
“She doesn’t show much, one way or the other,” Clare said. “And yes, she’s an in-your-face sort of person, but she’s decent, at bottom. Unlike her lousy husband.”
“Do you think she could have killed him?”
“Madame?” Clare straightened up. “Hm. I shouldn’t think so. But you never know, do you? I mean, nobody makes you madder than a relative. And I don’t care who you are, anybody can be angry enough to kill.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Quill said.
Clare regarded her cynically. “No? Someone threatens Ja . . .”
Quill held her hand up. “Please don’t.”
“S
orry. Something like this always stirs things up.”
“It sure does.” Quill sat back in her chair and fiddled with the cloisonné jar that had sat there ever since she had turned this room into an office years ago. “Did you happen to notice the way she talked about LeVasque last night? I think I remember this correctly, but memory is so fallible.”
Clare looked at her alertly. The change in her the past few days was noticeable. There were shadows under her eyes—none of them had gotten much sleep the last night—but the sadness in her face was gone. Clare had one of those faces that waxed and waned between conventionally pretty and complex, depending on her emotional state. The ruthless part of her art regretted the ebbing of grief in Clare’s face. Quill’s fingers itched for her charcoal pencil before it disappeared altogether.
Clare put her hands up to her cheeks. “Have I got flour on my face? I try to check every time I leave the kitchen, but sometimes I forget.”
“Was I staring? I’m sorry. I was wondering about doing a sketch. And that’s always such an intrusive thing to say to people. Except I don’t do it very often. Intrude, I mean.”
“You’d want to draw me?!” Clare blushed.
“Just a thought.”
Clare’s blush deepened. “It wouldn’t be an intrusion.” She laughed self-consciously. “I’m certainly glad you intruded on Bismarck. That’s a wonderful sketch of him. I’m going to get it framed. I checked you out online, you know. You don’t do animals.”
“Hardly ever,” Quill said. “Just like the admiral in H.M.S. Pinafore. Art’s no good unless there’s tension, and most animals completely go with the flow. Even Bismarck.”
An indignant meow from the foyer put the lie to this. “Jack!” Quill said and jumped to her feet. She smacked herself in the forehead. “I can’t believe I let this go right by me. Some mother I am!”
She raced into the foyer, Clare at her heels. Doreen stood near the desk, her hands on Jack’s shoulders. Dina peered over the desk, her eyes wide with interest. Mrs. Barbarossa stood in front of Bismarck, who crouched benignly on the beautiful Oriental rug. One of Mrs. Barbarossa’s rhinestone pins lay between his paws.
Toast Mortem Page 11
