A Taste for Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  “I might be their impoverished cousin from Des Moines, living on the bounty of relatives, pinch-hitting as manager and eking out a bare existence as a waitress.”

  “The uniform doesn’t fit,” he continued unperturbed, “and a woman wearing a three-hundred-dollar pair of shoes wouldn’t voluntarily wear a dress that was too big across the hips - and too tight across - ” He stopped, as Quill frowned indignantly. “Sorry. You had enough of that this afternoon.” He nodded towards Baumer, happily swigging down a final Manhattan. “Besides, I saw your show in New York a few years ago. Your picture was on the poster.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Yes. You aren’t painting anymore?”

  “Some,” she said, deliberately vague. “I don’t have much time during the season. Are you staying with us long?”

  “Depends on the food.” He smiled, and Quill’s heart gave an excited thump. He was asking enough questions to qualify as a food critic. Although he was awfully thin. Quill worried about the skinny part. But Meg was skinny, and she was the greatest chef in the state.

  “Then you’re not here for History Days?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow. “Hemlock Falls’ biggest tourist attraction. Featuring Central New York’s only three-star gourmet restaurant. Among other attractions.”

  He laughed a little. “Other attractions?”

  “Craft booths and everybody in town dressed up like the Empress Josephine and Napoleonic soldiers. It’s the wrong century of course, but the Ladies Auxiliary decided a long time ago that Empire costumes are prettier than Colonial.” She cleared her throat a little self-consciously. “I may be prejudiced, but I think the reputation of the Inn has a lot to do with History Days’ success. We’re booked a year in advance for the whole week. We were even written up in the Times last year in the Sunday travel section. Maybe you saw it?” She leaned forward anxiously. “How’s the sausage; stuffing in the game hen?”

  “Fine.”

  “Just fine?” she said worriedly. “It’s my sister’s recipe, you know. Margaret Quilliam. L ‘Aperitif wrote an article about her when we opened up two years ago. Maybe you saw that, too. ‘Engorged at the Gorge’? Meg received Central New York’s only three-star rating. Some people think it’s time she was given a four. She’s terrific, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not much of a gourmet,” he said apologetically, “tastes great to me.”

  Quill calmed down. She’d pushed him too far. “Anything you need, just ask us.”

  “Coffee would be nice.”

  “Coffee. I’ll have it here in a minute. Freshly brewed, of course.”

  Quill signaled to Kathleen Kiddermeister, who was clearing the Hallenbeck table, to take the Peterson order, and swept back into the kitchen. Meg sat nervously in the rocker, her feet up, smoking a forbidden cigarette. She jumped up and demanded, “Well?”

  “It’s L ‘Aperitif.”

  Meg turned pale.

  “He registered as Edward Lancashire. I’ve never seen an Edward Lancashire byline in L’Aperitif Probably a pseudonym.”

  “Now? Now!? The week of History Days. Oh, God.”

  “Meg! I’m not positively sure it’s L ‘Aperitif…”

  “Oh, God.”

  ” … but we are overdue for a review.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “And he’s asking very gourmet-type questions. He wants coffee. I’ll make sure the whipped cream is fresh… and the cinnamon sticks… fill the bowl of cinnamon sticks.”

  “Why not the week after next? Oh, God.”

  “I’ll tell Kathleen to make sure the orange juice is fresh-squeezed tomorrow morning. What’s the room service breakfast?”

  “Blueberry muffins. It’s July, remember? Oh, God.”

  “Take a deep breath.”

  Meg took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

  Quill patted her back. “We’ve survived Health Department notices, cranky widows, horny businessmen, drunks, even that kitchen fire last year - and the quality of your cooking’s never dropped! Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So!” Quill smiled affectionately at her. “What could happen that the two of us can’t handle? You, the cooking genius. Me, the business genius.”

  John Raintree came through the door. He looked at Quill, his face grim. “That woman that checked in with the widow? The one with the stiff hair?”

  “Yes, John. Mavis Collinwood. I moved both of them to three-fourteen.”

  “I’ve called the police. She’s gone over the edge of the balcony in three-fourteen. To the gorge.”

  -3-

  “I just don’t have the littlest idea what happened!” Mavis slumped plaintively on the yellow-and-blue couch in front of the fireplace in Suite 314.

  Mavis had been found dangling over the lip of the gorge, like a baby in a stork’s beak. Her patent leather belt had caught on one of the joists which fixed the balcony to the side of the building. Mrs. Hallenbeck, with great presence of mind, had taken a sheet from one of the beds, wrapped it around Mavis’ stomach, then tied the other end to the handle of the French door. Mavis’ wildly swinging hands had scratched her cheek.

  The volunteer firemen found Mavis’ predicament hilarious. Herbie Minstead and his crew winched Mavis off the balcony with the fire truck ladder, and shaking their heads, left for the Croh Bar and a restorative glass of beer at Quill’s expense. Myles and two of his uniformed officers were exploring the balcony. Mrs. Hallenbeck sat upright and disapproving by the open French doors. Meg jigged from one foot to the other in a corner with John Raintree. Doc Bishop, the young internist who treated most of Hemlock Falls, bent over Mavis. Clearly suppressing his amusement, he straightened up and wiped a bit of blood off his surgical gloves with one of the expensive peach towels from the bathroom.

  “Is she going to be all right?” asked Quill. “Scrapes and bruises; that’s about it. No evidence of oxygen deprivation. She wasn’t high enough.” He grinned. Quill looked at him in exasperation; his expression sobered. “Sorry, Quill. It could have been a real tragedy. If her belt hadn’t caught onto the joist like it did, she could have gone into the river, but it is ten feet deep there. She would have floated like a cork down to the sluiceway and been able to climb out.”

  Quill dropped to her knees beside Mavis. Her knees were scraped and bloody, the tom pantyhose gritty with concrete dust from the balcony. Her cheeks were scratched, her makeup smeared, and her expression furious.

  “Can you talk about it?” asked Quill gently.

  “I done tol’ you,” Mavis snapped, her Southern accent deepening to incomprehensibility. “I went out for some fresh air. I leaned against that old railing. Next thang I knew, I pitched into the air.”

  “You eat too much,” said Mrs. Hallenbeck, and whether this was referring to Mavis’ expensive dinner or her general size, Quill wasn’t too sure. Mavis gave her employer a furious glare.

  “And then Mrs. Hallenbeck came out and tied you to the balcony with a sheet.”

  “I like to choked, she tied that sheet so tight.”

  “You may have saved her life, Mrs. Hallenbeck,” said Quill, stretching the truth in pursuit of making everyone feel better. “You were very brave. Very quick thinking.”

  Mrs. Hallenbeck lifted her chin and smiled complacently. “I have often been complimented on my presence of mind.”

  “I can swim,” Mavis muttered. “I told her just to lemme go!”

  There was more to Mavis, Quill decided, than had previously met the eye.

  Quill wondered if she should send John downstairs for a brandy for everyone. They all looked as though they needed it.

  Myles prowled in from the balcony and drew Andy Bishop to one side. He shook hands with Doc Bishop, then came over and sat next to Mavis. “You had just the glass of white wine for dinner, Mrs. Collinwood?”

  “I am not in the habit of overindulgence, Sheriff.”

  “Huh!” said Mrs. Hallenbeck. “She’s forty pounds overweight if she’s ten
, and that is a result of overindulgence. At, I may add, my expense.” She lifted her chin again and fixed Myles with The Glare. Quill, admiring, noticed he was totally unaffected. “I believe, Sheriff, that we need to discuss the negligence in this case. I may have to call my lawyer in the morning.”

  Quill glanced at John and raised both eyebrows. He nodded with quick understanding, then moved unobtrusively around the room. Just one small Thermos bottle filled with Rusty Nails, thought Quill, preferably a large one.

  “You were in the bathroom, Mrs. Hallenbeck?” asked Myles.

  Mrs. Hallenbeck nodded. “That is correct. I was brushing my teeth. I heard a rumbling sound, then a squall like a scalded cat. I rushed from the bathroom to the balcony. Poor Mavis was swaying over the gorge. I tugged at her to help her back onto what was left of the balcony. I myself was beginning to slip.” She closed her eyes momentarily, her face pale. “If I had slipped! Sometimes I think that God has taken a personal interest in me, Sheriff, and as you see, I did not. Well, I quickly saw that I was far too frail to pull that great creature up myself…”

  “Not quick enough,” Mavis muttered. “I was out there hours.”

  ” … so I stripped the sheet from that bed, tied it around her waist, and called the front desk.”

  “A tragedy averted,” said Andy Bishop, solemn now; he had finished repacking his little black bag, and may have been regretting his earlier lightheartedness. He scribbled for a moment on his prescription pad, tore off two sheets, and held out the prescription and a small box of pills to Mavis. “I’m giving you both some Valium. These are samples to take until you can get to the pharmacy tomorrow. You’re going to be stiff tomorrow, Mrs. Collinwood. And so will you, Mrs. Hallenbeck, after those exertions.”

  “I never take drugs,” said Mrs. Hallenbeck, “nor do my employees.”

  Mavis tucked the samples into her purse and said, “Thank you, Doctor. I believe I will take advantage of your kind offer.”

  Andy Bishop picked up his bag. “I’ll leave you ladies now. Stop by my office, Mrs. Collinwood, if you feel the need.” He gave Quill a brief hug, nodded to Myles, and walked to the door opening onto the hallway.

  “Doctor!” commanded Mrs. Hallenbeck. “You will send your bill to Ms. Quilliam. This entire affair is the responsibility of the Inn.”

  Quill glanced quickly at John. He nodded reluctantly. “Of course, Andy,” she said. “I’m so sorry this happened, Mavis.”

  Myles, who had been leaning against the mantel with a thoughtful expression, said, “Sarah, maybe you and John could move Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mrs. Collinwood to a different room.”

  “Why?” Quill asked. “Myles, the Inn is booked to the gills in two days for History Week. There isn’t any place we can put them but here, after Sunday.”

  “I’m going to seal off the room until the investigation is completed.”

  “Maybe they’ll be gone by then,” said John, surprisingly ungracious. “Come on, Sarah. Mrs. Hallenbeck, we’ll take you down to two-fourteen. I’ll see that your luggage is packed up and brought down.”

  “Where we began,” said Mrs. Hallenbeck. “I am assuming the rest of our stay will be free of charge. And we do intend, Mr. Raintree, to stay the entire week.”

  Quill, distracted, watched them go. “Myles - how long is this going to take? And what kind of investigation? I’ll have to have the insurance company in to look at it, of course, but it’s just the balcony, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  Quill looked at her watch; after midnight. She yawned suddenly. “Can’t we do this in the morning, Myles?”

  “Now.”

  Quill followed him out to the balcony. The July night was soft, the moon a silvery half crescent over the Falls. The northwest edge of the balcony gaped, bent and broken, just as it had when she’d looked at it before.

  “Look at this.” Using his handkerchief to protect the wrought-iron surface, Myles gently rocked one of the posts free from the edge of the concrete.

  Quill peered at it in the half-light from the suite behind them. “The mortar’s all crumbled away,” she said. “What do you think the insurance company’s going to want me to do? Should I call the architect?”

  “Look at it, Quill.”

  She reached out to touch the mortar. Myles caught her hand gently and moved it aside. “It’s eaten away,” she said.

  “My guess is acid. Do you have any here?”

  “Sulfuric,” said Quill, suddenly wide-awake. “Doreen insists that a solution of sulfuric acid and water is the only thing that gets the mold off the concrete. She uses it once every six months.”

  Myles crumbled a few bits of mortar in his handkerchief and sniffed it. “Undiluted, is my guess. It’s been poured around these five posts here. How much have you got on hand?”

  Quill’s thoughts scattered, then regrouped. She stood up slowly. “A fifty-gallon drum, at least. John orders it in bulk. It doesn’t decay or lose its potency or anything.” She stared at him. “But who? And why?”

  “Who has access to it?”

  “It’s in the storeroom. We lock it at night, but during the day - anyone, I guess.”

  “I’ll send someone down to check it. What did those two do today?”

  “They checked in about noon. Mavis went for a walk. Mrs. Hallenbeck stayed in her room until teatime. They both came down for tea at four o’clock. They ate a huge one. Then Mrs. Hallenbeck went up to her room for a nap, I think. That was about five o’clock. I guess Mavis went with her. They came back down to dinner about nine-thirty. They’d changed clothes after washing up, I guess.”

  “How many guests did you have for tea?”

  “Four tables. Two tables were people passing through on their way to Syracuse. The fourth table was a guest that checked in about two o’clock, Keith Baumer. He - “

  “Wait a minute.” Myles wrote in his notebook. “And after nine-thirty? Who was at the Inn?”

  “The regular kitchen staff. Meg, me, John, Kathleen Kiddermeister. We were short a waitress, which is why I was waiting tables. Other than the guests, just Tom Peterson and some customer of his, I think. They came in around ten-thirty. Oh! And Marge showed up.”

  “And the guests?”

  Quill ran over the roster of the guests. “Excluding Hallenbeck and Collinwood - we’ve just got six others. There’s a family in three twenty-six and three twenty-seven. An orthodontist, his wife, and two kids taking a tour of the Finger Lakes Region. They’re due to check out tomorrow, and they were hiking all day today. And - oh, Myles! The most awful thing! We think the food critic for L’Aperitif is here incognito. He’s calling himself Edward Lancashire. Meg’s fit to be tied. But that last one - ” Quill broke off.

  “What about the last one?”

  “The most disgusting human being. Keith Baumer. Eyes like sweaty little hands. Ugh.”

  “Do any of the guests smoke?”

  “Keith Baumer does. He’s a sloppy smoker. Why?”

  Myles reached into his shirt pocket and took out a plastic evidence bag. It contained a matchbook.

  “That’s one of ours,” said Quill. “Notice how it’s folded?”

  Quill examined it through the clear plastic. The cover had been folded over three times, exposing the matches. The book was full.

  “Have you seen a matchbook folded like this before?”

  Quill shook her head. “Is it a clue?”

  “Beats me.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense, Myles.”

  “Not at the moment it doesn’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why don’t you get some sleep? It’s been a long day. I want to go back to the station and think about this a little bit.”

  “You think this was just a stupid prank?”

  “Beats…”

  ” … me,” Quill finished for him.

  “I’ll do some background checks. On all of them. I want to get the state lab boys in here tomorrow to run some tests on the balcony
.” He put his arm around Quill, and she burrowed gratefully into his chest. He smelled faintly of aftershave and clean male sweat. “I don’t want to think about this any more tonight. I want to think about the way you smell. I like the way you smell.”

  “Quill.” Myles tipped her head back. The moonlight shone into her eyes, and his face was a dark shadow behind it. “There’s a third option.”

  “Yippee,” said Quill, thinking delightfully lewd thoughts.

  “Malice.”

  “Malice?”

  “Someone could be out to put you and Meg out of business.”

  -4-

  Quill snatched a few hours sleep, dreaming of Mavis bobbing along the duck pond like a fat cork, Mrs. Hallenbeck yelling, “No charge for the swim!” and Marge Schmidt nailing a “For Sale” sign to the Inn’s front door.

  She overslept the alarm and woke groggily to sunshine, birdsong, and a distinct feeling of unease.

  She threw open the bedroom windows and looked crossly at the scene below. French lavender grew directly under her windows. Mike, the groundskeeper, grew them as annuals; they were a lot of trouble, but worth it, he said, for the scent. Quill inhaled, held her breath, then let it out sharply. She ran vigorously in place for a few minutes. Neither lavender nor exercise cleared her brain enough to make sense of Myles’s offhand comment of the night before.

  Had Marge Schmidt and Betty Hall advanced from verbal slings and arrows to outright war? The more she thought about it, the madder she got at Myles, who had no business second-guessing without facts. Intuition, thought Quill virtuously, was a rotten character trait in a sheriff. How often had he lectured her about leaping to conclusions? Now here he was, driving her bats with supposition.

  Harvey Bozzel had left the new brochure copy for the Inn’s advertising campaign with her a week ago. Quill went into her small living room and pulled it out of the desk. She’d already blue-penciled Harvey’s tag line extolling the Inn’s customer service: “No Whine, Just Fine Wine When You Dine.” But his description of Meg’s cooking wasn’t too bad.

  Meg’s art was at its peak with the breads, terrines, pates, and charcuterie of Country French cooking; for the past year, she’d been making increasingly successful forays into French haute cuisine, perhaps as a reaction to L’Aperitif’s first review. “Quilliam’s coarsely ground sausages are exceptional,” L’Aperitif had commented in the review that awarded her the coveted three stars. “A celestial blend of local pork, freshly picked herbs, and the crumbs of her excellent peasant breads. Her efforts at the more sophisticated levels of classic French cooking are reliable.”