Marinade for Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  Doreen drove her elbow into Quill's ribs.

  "Ow!"

  Doreen glared at her and mouthed, "Hush up!"

  Quill was so startled she swallowed the remainder of the carrot cake. It was awful. Whoever made it had substituted baking soda for baking powder.

  Oblivious, Meg started to rock back and forth. "Now, John, you were going to check into Strickland's background, and Eland's as well. Did you have any luck?"

  John nodded. "It's pretty interesting."

  "Did of any this get served to the guests?" Quill mouthed to Doreen.

  "Huh?"

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  Quill lowered her voice to a whisper. "I said did the carrot cake get served to—"

  "Heck, no. You think I'm crazy?"

  "What are you two whispering about?" Meg brought the rocking chair forward with a crash and leaped to her feet. "You know what? I'm hot. I'm going to get out of these clothes. I don't know why I didn't change before. Don't plan a thing until I get back!"

  Quill watched her sister bounce through the swinging doors to the dining room. She waited until she was certain that Meg was out of earshot. She looked at John in dismay. "All right. What's going on?"

  "Cold feet." Doreen folded her arms and sniffed. "Same thing happened to me with my third. A week before the wedding I took every gol-darned thing in the house and scrubbed it within an inch of its life."

  "That doesn't sound so awful," Quill said doubtfully. "It sounds as if you wanted to have things nice for your... your third, Doreen?"

  "Pretty near destroyed my whole collection of Lawrence Welk."

  "You scrubbed your CDs?"

  "Records," she corrected. "Like I said, cold feet."

  Quill got up. "It's serious if it's affecting her cooking. Maybe I should go talk to her. You know, Andy thought something might be wrong. Oh. Maybe we should take a look at those news articles you brought from Syracuse, John. We could easily overlook a blackmail opportunity."

  "It'll keep."

  Quill went through the empty dining room, then up the stairs to Meg's rooms.

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  Meg hadn't really moved back in after they'd sold the Palate back to Marge; most of her off time had been spent in Andy's cottage near the clinic. Quill tapped at the door and opened it.

  Of all the things she didn't want in her rooms, Meg had said when they'd first bought the Inn, a kitchen was at the top of the list. She had a small refrigerator, a one-burner stove, and an eighteen-inch sink tucked in the comer of the living area. The rest of the large room—which overlooked the Falls—was lined with bookcases filled with cookbooks, filing cabinets of recipes, and posters of famous restaurants. A large work-table with a computer occupied the middle of the room; a long davenport was shoved against one long end, set to face the view.

  Meg's bedroom door was half-open. Meg herself was nowhere in sight.

  "Meg?"

  No answer.

  "Meggie?"

  Meg rose from her prone position on the davenport and peered over the back at Quill.

  "Hey," Quill said.

  "Hey yourself."

  "Can I make you some coffee?"

  "You make awful coffee."

  'This is true. Can I offer sisterly comfort?"

  Meg crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and fell backward. Quill walked around to the front of the couch, swept the copies of Gourmet and L'Aperitif off the coffee table, and sat on it. Meg stared up at the ceiling.

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  "Doreen says you have cold feet about the wedding."

  Meg sighed.

  "She says the exact same thing happened to her with her third."

  "Her third?"

  "Yep."

  "Stoke is her fourth husband, right?"

  "Right."

  "I wonder what happened to all the others?"

  "I've never asked her." Quill thought a minute. "I'd like to know. Why don't you ask her?"

  "Because I'm fond of the teeth I've got."

  "She wouldn't hit you with a broom."

  "She's hit me with a broom before."

  "She's hit each of us with a broom before. I think you're in an exempt stage, though. You're a bride. Or about to be."

  Meg didn't answer.

  "I can't tell you to get married or not get married, Meg, because I have a stake in the outcome. But I can listen fairly objectively. I think."

  "I love Andrew."

  "He's a lovable guy."

  "Why do people get married, Quill? The first time around I was in love, I was young, and we wanted children. Then, when Simon was killed, all that went up in flames." Her voice quavered a little. "Literally. You pulled me out of that horrible abyss I fell into after Simon's death, by dragging me here. We took all our savings and decided we were going to make it. And we did. Or sort of. I mean, we haven't had to declare bankruptcy or anything. Not yet, anyhow," she added

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  with what Quill felt was a callous disregard for her feelings. She was, after all the finance person. Sort of.

  "And you received the four-star rating from L'Aperitif." She leaned over and punched Meg lightly in the arm. "And?"

  "And I like it. I like getting up in the morning and going down to the kitchen I designed and bossing all the Finnish sous-chefs around and making great, fantastic, terrific, wonderful food. I like going out to my garden and picking herbs to use at lunch. I love the sound of the Falls, and the way snow looks in the early morning at Christmastime."

  "What about the bright lights and the big city?" Quill said, surprised. "I thought you loved being on Lally Preston's TV show, and taking over the kitchen at La Strazza from Anatole Spineless—"

  "Supinsky."

  "Whatever. Anyhow..."

  Meg sat up and drummed her heels on the plank flooring. "I hate New York! I hate the air! I hate the crowds! I hate the weaselly little backstabbing pastry chef at La Strazza who'd as soon put baking soda into the baking powder as look at you!"

  "About the baking-soda thing, Meg ..."

  "Every kitchen in New York has cockroaches!" Meg yelled. "Because cockroaches outlast human beings and you can't get rid of theml You just coexist! With cockroaches!" She flopped back on the couch, scowling like a gargoyle. "Andy loves New York, and the career opportunity at Columbia is fabulous. Fabulous. There is no way he can do the kind of research here in Hemlock Falls that he can do there, Quill. And I

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  can get all the publicity and attention my career needs right here in Hemlock Falls. In a setting Anatole would kill for."

  "Well..." Quill said doubtfully.

  "Oh, yes he would!" Meg's face was pink. She gave the floor a final thump and demanded, "Do you know what I found at La Strazza this afternoon?"

  "Cockroaches?"

  "A letter and a resume from Anatole Supinksy. Addressed to you! He wants my job here, the little Hungarian rat!"

  "I thought he was in Budapest."

  "He got off the plane before it took off," Meg said briefly. "What am I going to do, Quill? Andy's so excited about this move. He keeps finding wonderful apartments, and I keep finding cockroaches."

  "Yikes," Quill said. "Well, would Andy live here and commute home on weekends?"

  "If I asked him to, sure. But I don't think I can. You know what the research life is like, Quill. He has to be there, on call, all the time. It'd drive him nuts, traveling back and forth."

  "At least you want to get married," Quill said wryly.

  "Of course I want to get married. Don't you want to get married?"

  "No," Quill said frankly. "I don't."

  Meg ignored this. "I've tried to get excited about New York, Quill, but I can't. I just can't. And when I got to La Strazza today and found that letter... aaaghh! It hit me. It hit me! I'm planning to walk into the hell of the La Strazza kitchen while Anatole is stealing my job herel"

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  Quill grabbed her ankle. "Stop thumping, Meg." She held on to Meg's shoe while she thought. "There must be a solution."

  "You're grinning."

  "I am?" Quill said, surprised. "I'm happy you don't want to leave."

  "Then you can let go of my shoe."

  Quill let go. "You have to talk with Andy about this."

  "I can't. He'll go noble on me and give up the Columbia clinic. He can't give up the Columbia clinic. I just have to move to New York and lump it."

  "We'll think of something," Quill said. "I promise you we'll think of something."

  "Like what? I've thought and thought and I can't think of a thing except that one of us has to commute. And it's too hard on Andy. I can take it. I don't have to be on call. I'm not the one who'll be getting phone calls at three in the morning about dying little kids. The only work-related calls I'd get at three in the morning are because the snails are crawling all over the Sub-Zero because someone didn't screw the lid to the jar on tight."

  "I did, too, screw the lid on," Quill said crossly. "That happened years ago, Meg, and you're never going to forget it, are you?"

  Meg lay back on the couch and folded her hands on her stomach. "Probably not," she agreed comfortably. "Go away. I have to think some more."

  Quill went into the kitchen in a much better frame of mind, to find Doreen gone, Max asleep on his back by the fireplace, and John paging through a thick file

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  folder. He looked up and smiled. "She's okay."

  "You can tell just from looking at me? Yes, she's okay. A little frazzled, but not depressed. She doesn't want to move to New York."

  "Will Andy commute?"

  "She says she won't ask him to. She'll work it out, John. I'm just glad that..." She blinked back tears.

  "You really thought she was going to march off into the sunset without a word? You know your sister better than that."

  "I should have, I suppose." She settled into the rocking chair, absurdly happy. "So, what news on the Ri-alto?"

  "Would you like the long version or the short?"

  "Maybe just the relevant parts?"

  Max groaned and twitched in his sleep. Suddenly he woke, craned his neck over his withers and scrambled to his feet. He stood at attention, floppy ears pricked forward. Then he threw his head back and howled. The back of Quill's neck prickled with fear. "What's wrong, boy? That's a stupid question, isn't it? Be quiet, Max."

  John stared up at the ceiling. "What room is Ed Schwartz staying in?"

  Quill stood frozen. 'Two-ten," she whispered. "Two-ten. Right over our heads."

  CHAPTER 13

  "Nothing!" Quill said with relief. "What the heck is the matter with you, Max?" She'd used the skeleton key to open the door. The room was empty. John looked in the closet and in the small bath. Max circled the floor, sniffing eagerly. She'd always liked the colors in two-ten; the bedspread and the drapes were a tea-stained chintz patterned with soft pink hydrangea. Ed's suitcase was open and the clothes carelessly stuffed into it. A pile of manuscripts was stacked carelessly on the small Louis XIV-style desk. Max howled, and dashed out the door.

  John raced after him; Quill hobbled along behind. There were fire escapes at either end of the long hall. Max dashed toward the one at the south end. He sat in front of the fire door and howled dismally.

  "It's a woodchuck," Quill said, her heart pounding.

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  "Or a raccoon. One climbed the stairs last year, remember?"

  John pushed at the bar. "There's something behind it. Stay here, Quill, I'll go outside and come up."

  "It's not Ed," Quill said to Max as she waited. The dog sniffed eagerly at the door, then began to bark. "It isn't Ed."

  It was Ed.

  Andy closed the door to the hospital room carefully behind him. "Massive whack to the head. Subdural he-matoma to those of you not familiar widi medical terminology."

  Quill stood close to John. Both of them were leaning against the clinic walls. Quill was too tired to move. Benny Gilpin chewed his lips nervously. Meg stared at Andy, then asked, "Did he say who hit him?"

  "He's in a coma. It's a grade three. If I'm any judge of such things, he'll probably come out of it tomorrow. We're monitoring the hemorrhage with CAT scans. I don't think we'll have to open his skull to relieve the pressure. If we do, I'll need to notify next of kin."

  "He's got a son and daughter in Tacoma," Benny said. He picked restlessly at a scab on his forearm. "I can track die boy down, probably. His name's Ronald, I think. Where is that jerk Harris?"

  "He's been notified," Andy said. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going down to the lab. His blood samples should be ready to read. Coming with me, Meg?"

  She shook her head. "I'll stay here, Andy."

  "And I'm staying with you guys," Benny said. He looked desperately at John. "Mind if I bunk in with

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  you tonight, Raintree? That Harris ought to offer protection, but those clowns don't seem to know their ass from a hole in the ground. I mean, people are dying here!"

  "Little nervous?" John asked.

  "Who the hell wouldn't be!" Benny exploded.

  "It should be all over tomorrow." John folded his arms, his face expressionless.

  "What d'ya mean?"

  "If Ed regains consciousness, he'll be able to identify who hit him. And all this will be over."

  "It could be over sooner if you told us why Mort was going to blackmail Neil Strickland."

  "I don't know!" Benny's eyes welled with tears. "Whatever was going on, I wasn't in on it. Ed wanted to cut me in, and I said no way, pally. I've kept my nose clean for too many years to get screwed up now."

  Quill was getting tired of the language, and even more tired of Benny himself. "I don't believe you," she said coolly. "I don't think any of us believe you."

  "Why won't you believe me?"

  Despite herself, Quill felt a pang of sympathy. The guy was terrified, there was no faking that. But was he terrified because he was innocent, and threatened with harm over something he knew nothing about? "Ten Little Indians," she said.

  "Ten little what?!"

  "It's that Agatha Christie story," Meg said. "And Then There Were None. You're the last one left. If you didn't kill Strickland and Carmody, who did? Not Ed Schwartz, unless he laid his own skull open."

  "There's that bastard Bland," Benny said. His eyes

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  darted from one to the other. "He's the focal point of all this."

  "Small problem with that, bozo," Meg said. "He was in Los Angeles when Neil Strickland was killed, remember? And he flew out to Chicago from Ithaca late this afternoon."

  "Maybe he didn't make the plane!"

  "Twice?" John asked dryly.

  "Okay. Fine. You three want to suspect me, you go right ahead. All I have to say is this: I'm not staying at your goddamn Murder Inn another night!"

  "Murder Inn," Quill said ruefully an hour later. She, Meg, and John sat on her balcony. Meg was drinking a glass of wine. Quill sipped at a glass of sun tea. The sunset had been dark; thunderheads gathered to the east. An occasional strike of lightning lit the sky. "We don't seem to be able to keep the guests healthy, that's for sure."

  "I just hope Horvath doesn't back out." Meg swirled the Cabernet in her glass, then swallowed appreciatively. "You couldn't blame him. Up till now, he's had a pretty good impression of America."

  "You didn't see the cartoon show Benny wrote. Well, Benny, Ed, and Mort, I suppose."

  "It didn't seem to bother him too much," Meg said.

  "You're kidding, right? He may have been on his company manners in front of all those other would-be screenwriters, but he certainly was upset when he showed it to me! Why do you think I was drinking vodka with him?"

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  Meg shrugged. "I don't know. Good guest relations? Anyway, he
didn't see it at the workshop for the first time, Quill. Dina, Doreen, and I showed it to him."

  "You showed it to him? When?" John asked.

  "Friday, I think it was. Dina was all upset about it, and she didn't want him to be embarrassed if someone asked him about it, so we took him into your office and used that VCR. He thought it was funny." She shook her head. "Finns. I'll never understand their sense of humor."

  'This absolutely doesn't compute." Quill reached down and scratched futilely at her cast. Even with the new-style bandages, it itched like a giant mosquito bite. "He said he was blindsided when the guys showed the cartoon at the workshop. He wanted me to throw them out!"

  "And you didn't," Meg said. She swigged her wine. "Just think, if you'd thrown Ed out, the poor guy's head would have been bashed in at the Holiday Inn."

  Quill took the glass from Meg's hand and set it on the small cocktail table. "Enough. You ought to go to bed."

  Meg yawned hugely. "You're right. I'm off. This is me, getting up."

  "You're not driving over to Andy's, are you?"

  "Would I be swilling this indifferent cab if I were? Not. He's on third shift at the clinic, so he's sleeping there tonight. And I? I'm for me own little bed." She dropped a light kiss on John's head, then gave Quill a hug. "I'll see you all in the morning."

  "Take an aspirin before you go to sleep!" Quill called after her. She waited until her front door

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  slammed. Her eyes met John's. "Horvath?" she said, disbelieving. "Horvath is behind the murders?"

  "It seems unlikely," John admitted. "What possible motive could he have?"

  "I don't know. But you know what they say."

  "What who says?"

  Quill waved her hand vaguely in the air. "Policemen. Half the time motive isn't a factor in finding and convicting a criminal. Means and opportunity are more relevant."

  "We're a bit stuck as far as the means, Quill. From the look of it, poor Schwartz was hit by a sledgehammer. But he'll be able to tell us more when he comes to."

  "I hope Harris follows up on that guard he promised for the hospital room."

  "If he doesn't—and it's unlikely that Harris would do anything to jeopardize his upward career path at this stage—I guess that Andy will keep an eye out."

  "He's an awfully good person, John."