Marinade for Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  "Or someone hit him with it."

  "Or someone hit him with it," Myles agreed. "We found a piece with what looks like blood and hair. The

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  edge is quite sharp. He may have rolled quite a way down. There was a lot of damage to the face and hands."

  Quill tipped the eggs into the pan and began to grate the cheese. "So what do you think, Myles? If ever a guy was ripe for murder, Strickland was. I mean, I only met him for those few seconds, but, ugh!"

  "We'll see. The scriptwriters are booked for the next two weeks, aren't they? I've asked them to stay at least that amount of time."

  "All I have to say is, Max didn't do it. And I'm glad that you're on the case, Myles. You always get it right."

  "That's why I've dropped by." Again that odd ten-tativeness.

  Quill split the omelette in half, put it on two plates, and served both of them. "You're going away," she said. She sat next to him. She didn't feel anything at all, she thought. Not a thing. She had a strong impulse to scream. What did she want? Whom did she want? Why should she feel anything? She didn't love Myles anymore—did she? She looked at him as if he were sitting for a portrait, trying to see past the strong face and the broad shoulders to the man beneath. What if he had a Bronx accent? What if fie were six inches shorter and didn't have a broad, heavily muscled, hairy chest?

  "Well, yes, Quill. I told you about the forensics convention in Seattle weeks ago."

  "Oh." A little deflated, she put a forkful of hot omelette in her mouth and spit it out hastily. "Yes, you did. You're the guest speaker."

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  They can't replace me on such short notice."

  "So who's going to take over the investigation?" Her eyes widened. "Not that jerk from the state troopers' barracks. Not Harris!"

  "Harris is a perfectly capable officer." Myles ate his eggs. Quill, annoyed, thought that he was amused.

  "He doesn't like me," she said. "Or Meg."

  "He doesn't care for amateurs mixing up in official investigations," Myles said dryly. "If you and Meg didn't consider yourselves this generation's answer to Nero Wolfe, you'd get along fine with Harris."

  "Mother Teresa couldn't get along with Harris," Quill said. "And she's dead. What about Max? What about the Inn? Dina just told me—"

  "Everett Bland's coming in from L.A. tq file a civil action," Myles said. "I know. But not too much can happen in a week, Quill."

  Quill flung her hands wildly over her head. "Oh, I don't know. We bombed Iraq into surrender in a week. Plays on Broadway have bombed in three days. Aaagh, Myles! What if they find Max guilty and they shoot him?"

  "If Max scared Strickland over the edge of the Gorge, which is possible, Quill, at most you'll have to keep the dog tied up. Which might not be such a bad thing. Well." He slid off the stool. "That's it I came by to say good-bye. I'll leave the hotel number with Davey, if you need to get in touch."

  "You didn't drink your wine," she said.

  "Maybe next time." He bent over her, his face expressionless. He drew one finger across her lips.

  Then he was gone.

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  Quill washed the plates and the wineglasses and walked restlessly around her apartment. During Marge's brief tenure, she'd rented Quill's rooms as a suite; even though her own furniture was moved back in, the place still had the scent of rented rooms.

  "My life has the scent of rented rooms," Quill said aloud. She circled the room once more. Sherri's bag of herbal remedies sat accusingly on her sideboard. She looked at her watch: nine forty-five. A little late to go down to Sherri's, but she could use the walk.

  The moon was at the half, and the air was a delight. The night swam with the scents of summer; cut grass, the fragrance of Oriental lilies, a whiff of lavender. The light was on in John's carriage house. Her steps faltered a little as she walked past.

  Did she need any men in her life?

  Quill walked briskly down the curving driveway to Main Street. Friday night, and she could hear the music from the Croh Bar half a mile away. The place would be jammed with people, dating people, couples ...

  Men were such a pain, she thought crossly. She was going to take vows and become a nun. That'd show everyone.

  The lights were on in Sherri's gym. A red minivan was parked in the street in front of the door, in back of Sherri's little Volkswagen. The door itself was partly open. Quill tapped cheerfully and stepped in, "Sherri? It's Sarah Quilliam." She could just see Sherri in the back of the gym. Her arms were wrapped around a tall guy in a passionate embrace. Her T-shirt was on the floor. Quill's face flamed in embarrassment. She shut the door hastily and retreated into the street. She walked back home furious with herself, with My-

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  les, with John, with the whole human race. She went back upstairs to her rooms, flung the bag into a corner, and kicked at the floor pillows.

  The knock at her door made her jump. Annoyed at the relief that washed through her—couldn't she stand to be alone for a minute?—she shouted a grouchy "come in."

  "I saw Myles leave a while ago," Meg said as she walked in the door. "Did you two get things straightened out?"

  "No." Quill eyed her sister.

  Meg made a face, wrinkling her nose and sticking out her tongue. She was wearing a paint-spattered pair of old shorts, a baggy T-shirt, and no shoes. She looked about six years old.

  "Did you go to Syracuse like that?"

  "I decided not to go to Syracuse." She walked past Quill into the living room and settled on the couch.

  Quill followed her a little reluctantly, then sat down in the leather Eames chair facing her. She didn't feel like more confrontation. Even though she had failed miserably to confront Myles. Except that it felt as if she'd been through a confrontation. She dug her hands in her hair and pulled hard.

  Meg tugged at her lower lip. "Do you know what you want?"

  "Both of them. Neither of them. I don't know."

  "If you don't know, Quill, maybe you shouldn't even try to make a decision. Maybe you just haven't met the right person yet."

  "Meg—how many guys have you slept with?"

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  Meg opened her mouth, then closed it. "Hmm," she said in a guarded way.

  "Hmm is not an answer."

  "Shut up. I'm counting." Her eyes took on a faraway look. Her lips moved slightly. She grinned suddenly. "Huh! What about you? How many guys have you slept with?"

  "Three," Quill replied promptly. "Phillip from high school, Dan, and Myles."

  "One ex-husband and two lovers?" Meg's eyebrows rose in a superior way. "That's all?"

  "What do you mean that's all? As far as I know, you haven't dated anyone but Andrew since we moved here nine years ago. And before that, there was Simon, and before that... what? Who?"

  Meg waved her hand airily. "A few. A few. Sex is like food, Quill. You have to have some basis for comparison. Not hundreds and hundreds, of course," -she added hastily. "But a few more than three. And one of those with Phillip, the captain of the basketball team in high school? Oho! Well, there you are. Sleep with John and find out."

  "I beg your pardon?" Quill said stiffly.

  "You don't really know a guy until you've been to bed with him," Meg said. "And if you don't know, find out."

  "But—"

  "Well, yeah. If you sleep with John, that means your relationship ^vith Myles is over. Kaput. Finito. So yes, you do have to make that decision right now. Although," Meg added thoughtfully. "Myles is a pretty good guy. He might forgive you. But, Quillie, I don't

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  think you could forgive yourself." She bounced up. "Now that I've accomplished that most satisfying of activities—"

  "Which most satisfying of activities? Driving me crazy?"

  "Astonishing my older sister... Hey, I'm out of here. It's late. Look, you know that the Chamber meeting is tomorrow morning?"

  ",Ye
s, urn," Quill concentrated. Her management responsibilities seemed very far away. "Right. Brunch for thirty."

  "You don't have to worry about it. Bjarne is handling it. Adela Henry just called. She made reservations for five more. That means Bjame's got to order more fruit and bake two more pounds of brioche in the morning. I left him a note in the kitchen, but I want you to make sure that he sees it. Okay?"

  "You're not going to be here at all tomorrow?"

  "I'm at La Strazza tomorrow."

  "But it's Saturday!"

  Meg's lower lip jutted out. "They just called, okay? Anatole Supinsky walked out of the kitchen this afternoon. For good, they think."

  "Anatole walks out of the kitchen six times a week!"

  "This time he got on a plane to Budapest. And they're pretty sure that the Times food critic is going to be there tomorrow night, and I'm sorry, Quill, but I can't afford to pass this chance up. The Times hasn't reviewed me for years. And we want the Jnn to keep its stars, don't we?"

  "You aren't going to be here, so what does it matter?"

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  "Of course I'm going to be here. I'm not going to just leave you flat, Quill."

  "What about the junk food Horvath wants?"

  "No."

  "What if he puts in a pool and we have a pool bar?"

  "Maybe. But I'm not just going to walk out on you. We have a deal."

  "It sure as hell sounded like you were going today!"

  "I was mad at you today. And I was feeling guilty, okay? You know me, I lose my temper and I say things I don't mean, and for God's sake, Quill, you aren't going to try and make me stay here just to cook a brunch for the flippin' Chamber of Commerce? They put ketchup on my pate" Meg's nostrils flared, her face turned pink, and her eyes bugged out.

  Quill reached over and grabbed her arm. "Stop!" she said firmly. "Of course I don't mind if you cook at La Strazza tomorrow."

  "I'll commute home!" Meg roared. "Except I'll be commuting from New York to here, rather than the other way around. That's all that's going to change!"

  "Fine," Quill said tartly. "Fine. Except that you might not have anything to commute to, Meg."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Strickland's lawyer is flying in to sue us."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Dina."

  "Oh." Meg's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

  "For not controlling Max, I guess. You know people can sue anyone over anything these days."

  "Hmm. What does Howie say?"

  "Haven't talked to him yet. And besides, he may

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  have to recuse himself because he's the town justice and he'll hear Max's case when it comes up. If Howie has to decide whether Max is a dangerous dog, I don't think he can represent us in a lawsuit where we have to prove Max isn't a dangerous dog."

  "Max? Dangerous? That dog's an idiot, but he's not lethal."

  "Well, our wonderful judicial system is going to try and prove he is," Quill said. "Strickland's lawyer's going to try to prove it, too, I think. I mean, it can only help their case against us if Max is put down for killing Neil Strickland."

  "Wow." Meg scratched a mosquito bite on her ankle with a thoughtful expression. "And I don't suppose that the Finnish government is going to be too happy about a lawsuit."

  "No," Quill said glumly.

  "Maybe we can keep it from Horvath."

  "And maybe pigs can fly."

  "But we've already been through discovery, Quill. I mean, Horvath knows everything about our financials already—"

  "Meg!"

  "You're right, you're right. Poor Quillie. I can't believe we're in a huge mess already. And the Inn isn't open yet!"

  "We'll get through this," Quill said firmly. "We've been through worse."

  "Does this mean you and I are going to try and find out who killed Strickland?"

  Quill closed her eyes. "All of a sudden we're back in business? Sisters forever? I've been mooching

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  around all day long feeling like a heel and a jerk because I drove my own sister out of my life! I mean, I'm having the worst day of my life, the worst—"

  "It's not the worst," Meg said knowledgeably. "Wasn't the day of your divorce worse?"

  "Was my dog dead when I got divorced! Was I about to lose the roof over my head because of a sleazy lawyer!"

  "Your dog's not dead." Meg looked a little doubtful. "Not yet, anyway."

  "I'm going to hit you with a large stick. I'm going to brain you with a..." Quill opened her eyes and looked wildly around. Three fat pillows were stacked on the floor near the French doors. She grabbed the top one (scarlet Thai silk) and pitched it. Meg ducked with a shriek, clutched the pillow by one corner, and whacked Quill over the head. Quill retaliated with the second pillow (sage-green velveteen).

  Both of them stopped thumping each other when Dina tapped at the door, walked in, and shouted, "Guys? Guysr She glared at them, her arms folded over her stomach. >

  "What?" Meg demanded. She tucked in her T-shirt with a grin. Quill stacked the pillows on the floor. "Is there another murder?" Meg asked sunnily.

  "There's about to be," Dina said grimly. "This guy from L.A. has some kind of order to close the Inn down." She scowled ferociously, an incongruous expression for someone as cheerfully pretty as Dina. "And if you don't shoot him, I'm going to."

  CHAPTER 6

  Everett Bland sat at ease on the sagging leather couch in front of the cobblestone fireplace. He had sunglasses on. He was tanned, fit, and wore expensively cut, well-worn jeans and a slouchy sort of blue sport coat over a white shirt open at the neck. Quill thought he was in his early forties, despite the carefully barbered gray hair. He got to his feet as Meg, Quill, and Dina clattered down the stairs. When he faced them, Quill realized he was in his late fifties, perhaps even older. There was no disguising how skin thinned as you aged—no matter how much collagen was pumped under your eyes and into your upper lip.

  Bland didn't smile. "Which one of you is Sarah Quilliam?"

  "I am." Quill extended her hand.

  Bland took it, squeezed hard, and released it as if

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  dropping a dead fish. "You have a wonderful old building here."

  "Thank you," Quill said. "We love it very much. Dina tells me you're trying to close us down."

  He gave her a close-lipped smile. "I have an order, yes. From a judge in Los Angeles, which I'm sure you know isn't valid here in New York."

  Quill controlled her impatience. "Then what's this all about?"

  Bland wandered to the cobblestone mantel and ran his thumb over the creamy stones. "When was this place built?"

  "The original building was put up in the late 1600s. It was a way station for trappers headed on up to Canada. There's an old stone smokehouse out back that dates from that time. The Inn as you see it now was constructed over a period of two hundred years. The fireplace dates from the Revolutionary War. The copper roof was put on when the Inn was a residence during the Civil War."

  "Who lived here?"

  "General C. C. Hemlock," Meg said impatiently. "Why do you care?"

  "Just getting an idea of its value on the open market." He took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket. "And to answer your question, the order to cease business is a precaution. I'll take it in to a local judge if I need to." He took a document folded lengthwise from his coat pocket. "You understand."

  "I do not," Meg said tartly.

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  He shrugged. "Do you have representation, Miss... 7"

  "Quilliam," Meg said. Her cheeks were flushed. "And if by 'representation' you mean do we have a lawyer, everybody has a lawyer, Mr. Bland. And the reason everybody has a lawyer is because everyone else has a lawyer."

  Everett Bland was clearly used to hearing verbal potshots about lawyers. He continued, in an unperturbed way, "Then if the lovely redhead here is Sarah Quilliam, you
must be Meg. I've heard about your skills in the kitchen. I'm looking forward to eating here."

  "You can look forward to McDonald's," Meg snapped. "And to a room at the Holiday Inn."

  "Ah-ah-ah?" He shook his head and waved the document gently in front of her face. "As I said. A precaution. I'll be staying here. It will be easier to keep tabs on what's going on."

  "And to find out how much you can gouge out of us, I suppose."

  "I have to represent the interest of my client's estate, of course. And the best way to do that is to be where the action is, naturally." He drifted toward the reception desk. "Now, this is a fine old piece. Did this belong to—whom did you say lived here? General Hemlock?"

  "We didn't say," Quill intervened. Meg was fully capable of grabbing the tongs from the fireplace and whacking Bland over his head. "And you're not precisely welcome here, Mr. Bland, but we do have a room for you. All we ask is a little discretion. Publicity

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  about the terrible accident to Mr. Strickland can't be good for any of us."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not. You can trust in my discretion. With all due modesty, I haven't achieved my current position as lawyer to the stars without a sufficiency of discretion."

  Quill looked at Meg. Meg mouthed "Horvath" and scowled horribly. Quill grimaced. She wondered if she could keep Eland's plans from Horvath. Or even if she should try. Eland's suitcase rested next to the leather couch. He nudged it meaningfully with the toe of his alligator loafer. "Do we have a room for Mr. Bland, Dina?" Quill asked.

  "Doreen set up Suite Three," Dina said.

  Quill thought about this. Doreen didn't subscribe to the Quilliam notions of hospitality, in particular the third rule of innkeeping (don't whack unwelcome guests with the wet mop). She was more than capable of putting something slimy in Mr. Eland's sheets, or booby-trapping the toilet. Did Quill want a litigious lawyer in Suite Three?

  "And you're sleeping where?"

  "Two-seventeen," Dina said suspiciously. She'd been with them long enough to know Doreen's propensities. Actually, anyone who worked for the Inn for more than two days discovered Doreen's propensities for avenging slights and annoyances.