Toast Mortem

by Claudia Bishop

  Raleigh Brewster was at a huge ash prep table, chopping green peppers with furious abandon. “There’s a stack in the commodities room.”

  “The commodities room,” Meg repeated. “This place doesn’t have a mere pantry. It’s got a commodities room. Could you get one for me, please, Raleigh? And give it to Pietro.” She tucked the clipboard under her arm and beamed at her sister. “Isn’t this place gorgeous?”

  Quill had to agree. The floor—although it was covered in most places by thick rubber matting—was made of beautifully marled cork, easy on the feet and wonderful to the eye. The cupboards were from Smallbone, in the Baroque style, with fluted pillars supporting the prep tables. The huge room had windows on three sides, so that the place was filled with light.

  “What am I to do with this paper bag?” Pietro scowled.

  “You are to put it over your head and taste three Finger Lakes Pinot Noirs and three French Pinot Noirs. If you tell the difference between them I will personally give you ten thousand dollars. Of course, if you can’t, you will have to give me ten thousand dollars.”

  “Still want the paper bag?” Raleigh asked.

  Pietro tossed his head. “How much is ten thousand dollars in euros?”

  A ripple of laughter went through the kitchen. Pietro grinned. “Okay. I give it to you. We will use the Keuka Spring red with the chevon, okay? It is tolerable.”

  “It’s more than tolerable. It’s fabulous.”

  Quill touched her sister on the arm. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Sure. LeVasque has this fabulous office. It’s right over here.”

  The office was at the front of the kitchen, right off the big glass doors that led in from the lobby. Meg stopped at each of the workstations on the way, testing a reduction, inspecting the texture of a country pâté, suggesting an adjustment to a sorbet mixture of late raspberries. Quill controlled her impatience with an effort. Just before they went into the late LeVasque’s office, she turned and surveyed the kitchen. “We’re using almost all apprentices,” she said to Quill in an undertone, “but it’s working out pretty well. I sure could use Clare, though. It takes years to learn good pastry, and even then, she’s got a gift. Poor Mrs. Owens doesn’t seem to be much of a loss, though. Raleigh volunteered to supervise the compotes and I think it’s going to work out just fine.”

  Quill put her hand on her arm. “We need to talk about the murders.”

  “Quill! I’ve got a huge dinner in less than thirty-six hours!”

  “And we need to get Clare out of jail!”

  “Oh. Right.” Meg shoved the office door open.

  The place was splendidly furnished. Coffee-colored area rugs covered the cherry floor. Tall filing cabinets of the same wood stood at each end of a sideboard with a sink and under-counter refrigerator. A long cherry conference table surrounded by executive chairs was under a bay window. The chairs were upholstered in fine beige leather.

  This side of the academy building faced Peterson Park and the window took full advantage of the view. The statue of General Hemlock was partly visible through a small grove of maple trees. Quill noted there was only one entrance to the office: the big glass door they had come through.

  Meg dropped her clipboard on LeVasque’s big cherry desk. “Okay. Shoot. What’s up?”

  Quill took a seat in the chair next to the desk. “Every single member of WARP signed in with us under the name of a dead lottery winner.”

  Meg’s mouth opened and closed. Then she said, “Why?”

  “I have no idea why.”

  “What does this have to do with LeVasque’s death?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Mrs. Owens’s death?”

  “I don’t know.” Quill picked up Meg’s clipboard, un-snapped the top, and began to neaten the pages up. “I’ll tell you what I think, though. Whoever killed Mrs. Owens wants us to think that. I mean, why else set up Bobby Ray Steinmetz for it?”

  “Bobby who?”

  “That’s Vanderhausen’s real name. But he doesn’t have any sort of obvious motive. He won some humongous amount in the Florida Lottery and he didn’t need to rob anyone, that’s for sure. And guess how I found out his real name?”

  “Davy told you?”

  Quill made a face. “Davy’s behaving like . . . well . . . like a sheriff. And you’re not going to believe this!” She re-clipped the tidy stack of pages to the clipboard and told her about Miriam.

  “Holy crow.” Meg sat down at LeVasque’s desk. “So now what?”

  “Now I take a look at Bonne Goutè’s personnel files.” She looked around the office. “Unless you’ve got them already ready? How’s your end of the investigation going?”

  “I’ve been menu planning! I can’t just pull a menu for thirty out of my ear. Not to mention trying to get some kind of performance out of a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears apprentices.” Meg’s face was pink and cross.

  Quill couldn’t check the color of her sister’s socks; it was summer and she wore clogs in the kitchen. You could calculate Meg’s temper most of the year by her sock selection. It just wasn’t possible in summer. “Don’t worry about it. Just tell me where to find the files, and I’ll get them myself.” She patted the monitor of the desktop computer in LeVasque’s desk. “Are they in here?”

  “Probably not. My guess is they’re in that big filing cabinet.” Meg got up, went to the elegant cabinet in the corner, and pulled out the middle drawer. She took a clutch of keys from her apron pocket, sorted through them, and fitted the smallest into the drawer lock. She rummaged a bit and said, “Here.” She handed Quill a thick stack of manila folders.

  “Can I go back to work now? I promise I’m keeping my ears open for any stray confessions that might come up over the goat carcass.”

  Quill hefted the stack of files in one hand. “I can’t walk out of here with these.”

  “You can put them in this.” Meg knelt on the floor and stuck her head under the desk. “You are not going to believe it. We should think about something like this for the Inn.” Then she snorted. “Not!” She emerged with a handsome canvas tote. One side was lettered with the culinary academy logo. The other had a full color reproduction of LeVasque’s face. “If Harvey Bozzel’s seen this, the town’s in trouble,” Meg predicted darkly. “There’ll be totes shrieking mayor on one side with Elmer’s smiling face on the other. Everybody will want one. We’ll walk down Main Street and it will look like everybody’s carrying their heads.” She hummed a line from a rowdy ballad about Anne Boleyn: “With their heads tucked underneath their arms.”

  “This place is making you giddy.” Quill shoved the files into the tote. “It’s a start. I’ll go through these tonight. And somehow, I’ve got to get into Mrs. Owens’s personal computer. Miriam says she spent a lot of time on the Internet at the library before she bought her own PC. There might be something there. It’d be really great if I could get in to talk to Bobby Ray Steinmetz, too, but in the mood Davy’s in, there’s not much hope. On the other hand, if the interview notes go into the police case file, there’s always good old Miriam.”

  “What are you two doing in here!” Madame had entered so quietly, neither Meg nor Quill had heard her approach. The widow was in black. Black skirt, black blouse, and black lace-up shoes. A black headband held back her iron gray hair. Quill jumped. Meg, possessed of more sangfroid than was good for her character, waved the clipboard at her. “I was looking for a copy of Chef LeVasque’s book, Brilliance in the Kitchen. Thought I’d check out some of his recipes.”

  “There are copies available in the gift shop.” Madame glowered and nodded sharply at the tote Quill carried. “What is that?”

  “Recipes,” Meg said. “Recipes, recipes.”

  “Madame?” Raleigh Brewster stuck her head in the door. “Two guys in suits are here to see you.”

  “Three-piece suits?” Meg bustled forward and took Madame’s arm. Behind her back, she gestured energetic
ally at Quill, who tucked the tote out of sight under her feet. “Must be lawyers. Did you call for your lawyers?”

  “His lawyers.” Madame looked more sour than ever.

  Meg raised her eyebrows. “You have separate lawyers?”

  Madame worked her thin lips. “LeVasque was a secretive son of a bitch.”

  Raleigh rapped the paneled wall with her knuckles. “Where do you want me to put the men in suits, Madame?” She added testily, “I’m in the middle of a pistou.”

  “What about the reception office?” Meg suggested. “Or the tasting room? I can send in some brioche and maybe some fruit? I bet they’d like that.”

  “Send them in here.” Madame walked to the conference table in her flat-footed way and sat at the head of the table. Raleigh backed away from the office door and made a “come in” gesture.

  Two men walked in, both in three-piece pin-striped suits. The older one was balding, with wire-rimmed glasses and a slight paunch. The younger one was thin, with the wiry build of a runner. He’d shaved his head. Quill always wondered about men who shaved their heads. She had to fight the impulse to polish their skulls with the first available tissue.

  “Eddie Barstow,” the older one said, “of Barstow and Phipps. And this is David Phipps.” He smiled at Meg. “And you,” he said genially, “must be Margaret Quilliam. Congratulations on inheriting the academy. From what Dave and I have seen so far, it’s a wonderful place.”

  17

  ~Betty Hall’s Reuben Sandwich~

  ½ pound finest corned beef

  ¼ cup Silver Floss sauerkraut

  1-ounce slice very nutty Swiss cheese

  2 slices finest pumpernickel bread, cut thick

  4 ounces sweet creamery butter

  Brush all sides of bread with melted fresh creamery butter. Whisk the corned beef through the melted butter and sauté quickly. Place both pieces of pumpernickel on a plate. Add one tablespoon Betty’s Thousand Island dressing* to each slice. Heap with corned beef. Add sauerkraut and Swiss cheese. Broil sandwich quickly. Serve with dill pickle and deep-fried potato chips.

  *Not available to the public. Ever.

  Two hours later, Meg was still pale with shock and excitement. Quill wasn’t feeling too settled herself. The two of them sat at the Croh Bar, in the booth farthest from the front. The Croh Bar was nice, neutral territory, and the chances of running into anyone from either the Inn or the academy were slim. Marge had bought it from Norm Pasquale when he’d retired to Florida ten years ago. It was a popular place, and other than replacing the beat-up, old indoor-outdoor carpeting with new, in exactly the same pattern, she had wisely left the interior alone. The battered wood bar was up front. Booths with red vinyl seats lined both walls. A clutter of small round tables ran down the middle. It was dark, since the row of windows facing Main Street always had the dusty green shades drawn. It had a pleasantly musty smell of stale beer, moldy carpet, and the antiseptic Betty Hall used to keep the kitchen clean. It was just before noon, and the place was starting to fill up. Meg always said Betty Hall was the best short-order cook in the east, and the citizens of Hemlock Falls agreed with her.

  Quill picked up her glass of iced tea and set it down again. “Well,” she said.

  “I can’t believe it.” Meg ran her hands through her hair. Quill figured this was the one-hundredth time Meg had said she couldn’t believe it, and the two-hundredth time she’d run her hands through her hair.

  “I must look awful.” Meg never carried a purse. Quill rummaged in her own and pulled out a small mirror and a comb. Meg stared into the mirror and handed it back. “I do look awful. Quill, what are we going to do?”

  “What we just did.” Quill was in the seat that faced the front of the bar and the entrance to the street. She saw Marge come in and waved at her.

  “There you are.” Marge stumped up and settled herself next to Meg. “You come in for lunch?” She wriggled her eyebrows at them. Marge always dressed in chinos, no matter what the weather, but she varied her tops. Today she wore a cotton blouse patterned with tiny little cows.

  “You heard,” Meg said hollowly.

  “You need a sandwich,” Marge said. Then, without moving, she yelled, “Bets!”

  Betty Hall stuck her head out of the kitchen.

  “Three Reubens.”

  “Got it!”

  “I don’t think I can eat anything,” Meg said. “Not just yet.”

  “I heard they had to sedate that there Madame,” Marge said. “That true?”

  “Not exactly,” Quill hesitated.

  “She sure was mad,” Meg said with awe. “She stood up and yelled. Just yelled. Like: ‘Aaahhhh!’”

  “Yeah? She pass out then, or what?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Quill said. “And then she picked up that big purse she carries and belted Barstow over the head with it. Or maybe it was Phipps. The bald one.”

  “Phipps,” Meg said. “I remember because I wanted to polish his head when he walked in.”

  “You, too?” Quill said. “Hm.”

  Marge drummed her fingers on the Formica tabletop.

  Quill sighed and continued, “And Phipps started to bleed—you know, Marge, one of the purposes of hair is to protect you from getting belted over the head. It’s just dumb to shave it all off. You never know when you’re going to get belted with something.”

  “So somebody called the EMTs,” Marge interrupted. “Was it because of this Phipps bleeding all over?”

  “Raleigh Brewster did that. Made the emergency call. Head wounds do bleed a lot, and Mr. Phipps was running around the kitchen with Mrs. LeVasque running after him.”

  “Yelling, ‘Bastard! Bastard!’” Meg put in. “We weren’t sure whether she meant Phipps or her dead husband.”

  “And it got into the pistou,” Quill said. “Some blood.”

  “So the pistou is ruined,” Meg said with a gusty sigh.

  Betty Hall arrived with the sandwiches and put the plates down. She was thin, with black hair, and in all the years Quill had known her, she’d spoken almost nothing.

  Meg poked at the Reuben, which smelled wonderful and oozed Swiss cheese in all the right places. “This looks perfect, Betty. And you’re using homemade sauerkraut. Impressive.”

  Betty smiled and went away.

  “Eat it,” Marge ordered. “And then maybe you’ll start to make some sense. You’re both hysterical.”

  Quill took an indignant bite of her sandwich. “We aren’t hysterical. It’s been a rough morning.”

  Marge took a generous bite of her own. “So then what?”

  Meg grinned. It was a tentative, weak grin, but Quill was relieved to see that her sister was recovering a little. Meg waved half of the Reuben in the air and said, “Madame kept on bashing at Phipps until Jim Chen and Pietro threatened to sit on her. They got her off Phipps and sat her down. And then Davy came, with the EMTs, and they took Phipps off. And Barstow disappeared into the office with Davy and Madame.

  “But you know, I don’t think it was unexpected. Not that LeVasque had tried to leave the academy to me, but that he didn’t leave it to her.”

  “Tried to?” Marge said alertly.

  “We couldn’t accept it, of course,” Quill said quietly.

  “You said no?!” Marge roared.

  “Of course we said no.” Meg sat up a little straighter. “It’s outrageous, Marge. That place should go to his wife. They’ve been married for forty-two years! This was just another one of LeVasque’s spiteful jokes.”

  Marge’s shrewd gray eyes darted from one sister to the other.

  “We were tempted, of course,” Quill said. “To be honest.”

  “She means me,” Meg said in a small voice. “Marge—have you seen those kitchens? For just a moment, there . . .”

  Marge groaned. “You walked away from a multimillion-dollar property for some half-assed principle? You didn’t let her sign anything, did you, Quill?”

  “There was too much of a ruckus t
o do anything but scoot out of there. I pulled Barstow aside and told him we’d have Howie give him a call, because we absolutely could not accept this, under any circumstances.”

  “And what’d he say? Maybe you and Meg can’t give it back.”

  “He said, ‘Fine.’ And was I sure I wanted to do this. And I said I was never surer of anything in my life.”

  Marge thumped the table in disgust. “You know what I ought to do? I ought to charge you double for lunch. How do you like that for a principle?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’d like. I’d like to figure out who killed LeVasque so we can get Clare out of jail and back into the kitchen. Meg’s still got a dinner for thirty tomorrow night.”

  “So you two are still in the detecting business, huh? Figured as much.”

  “Clare’s in jail,” Meg said. “And she didn’t do it. Quill and I are going to get her out.”

  “By finding out who killed the grouchy gourmet?” Marge snorted. But it was an affectionate snort.

  “And Mrs. Owens,” Quill said. “The two murders are connected, Marge, they have to be.”

  “Try this one on,” Marge suggested. “LeVasque knows his wife’s likely to bump him off so he leaves the place to you.”

  “That crossed my mind,” Quill admitted. “But then, he would have told her, wouldn’t he? That he was leaving it to Meg?”

  “Maybe he did.”

  Quill shook her head. “It wouldn’t have been such a shock, if he had.”

  “She might have read you two right. Knew that chances were pretty good you’d . . .” Marge stopped, apparently unable to actually say aloud that Meg had given up a multimillion-dollar gift. “Anyways, I know this for a fact. She could have taken you to court to get the thing back. That way, everybody’s miserable except the lawyers. That kind of trick was right up LeVasque’s alley.”

  “Whatever his reason, it makes one thing pretty clear to me.” Quill counted out the bills for their lunch, then collected her purse and the tote with the Bonne Goutè personnel files and got out of the booth.