Marinade for Murder
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"That room's the one with the nice view of the Falls," Quill said cheerfully. "I think you'll be very happy in there, Mr. Bland. The view is remarkable."
"The suite sounds fine. I have a lot of work with me. I'll need the space."
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"The suite's right over ttfe kitchen," Quill said.
"Two-ten's over the kitchen," Dina said firmly, "and Mr. Schwartz is in there, and besides, no one has ever complained about it!"
Quill's voice rose over Dina's. 'Two-seventeen gets sort of garlicky in the afternoon, Mr. Bland. And the sous-chef whistles a theme from Finlandia over and over again when he's working."
"I don't want the suite!" Dina wailed. "I'll have to check for slugs in the sheets!"
Mr. Eland's California cool slipped a little. "Well ... ah. Two-seventeen, you said?"
"Dina, would you show Mr. Bland to his room?"
There was a shuffle-slam at the front door. Quill turned in surprise. It was well after eleven-thirty. Hor-vath Kierkegaard closed the door behind him and raised his hand in cheerful salute. "My dear Miss Quil-liam! And the so lovely Miss Meg. And... you." He looked a little nervously at Dina.
"Hey, Mr. Kierkegaard," she said.
"Hey," he said. "That is correct? Just 'Hey'?"
"That is correct."
"How are you, Miss Muir?"
"Fine. I'll be a lot finer if you keep your hands off my butt."
"Of course, of course!" Horvath advanced cautiously. He smelled strongly of beer and french fries. "I have been to Syracuse," he said. His round face beamed. "There is a festival there!"
"The state fair," Quill said. "I'd forgotten about it."
"The food!" Horvath said dreamily. "The potatoes, the cotton candy. The funny cakes! It is bliss."
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"Funnel cakes," Meg said. "Glad you enjoyed yourself."
"And only you, Horvath, could come to one of the best chefs in America and sneak off for junk food," Everett Bland said. He smiled. Really smiled, not the tight-lipped smirk he'd given Quill and Meg a few moments before. "How are you, Kierkegaard? Keeping your hand in up here?"
"It is not! It is not my old friend Everett Bland!" Horvath bounced forward past Quill and grasped both of Bland's hands. He wriggled like a delighted puppy.
Meg, who was standing to Bland's right, looked curiously from one to the other. "You know each other?"
"But of course!" Horvath said warily. "I have spent many happy hours in Los Angeles."
"At the Taco Bell, mostly," Bland said. "So you're here as well, Horvath. Checking out the countryside, I suppose?"
They exchanged a knowing glance. Quill raised her eyebrows at Meg, who shrugged "beats me."
Horvath bounced gently on his toes. "Oh yes. Oh yes. Do not tell me. Let me guess. You are interested in buying this marvelous old Inn as well."
"As well as what?" Dina demanded. "Are you buying something else?"
Horvath looked at Quill. To a casual viewer, he seemed happy. Quill noticed the smile didn't reach his eyes, and that his left hand played nervously with the change in his trouser pocket. "You know, our friend Mr. Bland is a real estate—what is the English word? Maven. Without peer."
"The word's Yiddish," Dina said in rather a didactic
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way. "And I thought you were Mr. Strickland's attorney, Mr. Bland."
Bland tucked the order to close into his jacket pocket. "I like to diversify. Only way to true wealth, eh, Horvath?"
"The only way, indeed." Horvath shook his head to signal admiration. "And you, my old friend, have good lessons to teach. How I will learn from my experience in America!"
Quill had seen part of a bullfight one summer in Spain (she left the arena when it got bloody); the stance of the two men reminded her of the way bull and matador had regarded one another. Horvath was the bull, wary and ready to charge; Bland, the matador.
"So you know each other," she said brightly.
"We've established that," Meg said. "The question is, why do you know each other? And was it through Mr. Strickland?"
"Very sorry to hear of his passing," Horvath said. "The news was on the car radio. And the doggie is where? Locked up, I presume?"
"For the moment," Quill said. "But he didn't attack anyone. Well, not after the first time."
"Did you know Mr. Strickland?" Meg persisted.
"In an informal way, yes, I did," Horvath replied. "I was sorry not to have met him before his demise. Now. I am afraid I must bid you all good night. I have an early date. I will see you in the morning, Quill? At the gym?"
"At the gym?" Quill said, astonished. "You're joining the class?"
"Oh yes. I am not getting enough exercise at all.
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One drives everywhere here. And the first session is free, isn't it?" He took a "Get Buff!" flyer. "See? There is a paragraph that states there is an eight-o'clock-in-the-morning aerobics class, absolutely free for first-timers. I am a first-timer. It is called"—he frowned at the copy—"Kick-Start. That is an American expression, is it not?" He offered the flyer to Bland, who shook his head. "Not for me. I run in the mornings."
"I thought it was called Practical Aerobics," Meg said. "That's what Marge told me, anyhow."
"Marge?" Everett Bland said, "Marge Schmidt? Is she in the exercise class?"
"It's Shakin' with Sherri," Dina said. "She told me Inn employees get a ten-percent discount. On the other hand, Adela Henry said it's named Sensuous Seniors. Maybe there's more than one."
"Maybe she changes the name to suit the sucker," Meg suggested cynically.
"Another coup for the world greatest detective!" Dina said. "That's it!"
Quill felt hopelessly out of it. "She told me it was called 'Get With It.' "
Meg patted her arm. "Can't wait to see your pecs."
"Detective?" Eland's eyebrows rose.
"Actually, both of them are," Dina said proudly. "Although I think Meg's got the edge."
"No, she doesn't," Quill said. "I've discovered the important clue in every single case we've had."
"Says you!" Meg said.
"Says you!" Quill riposted.
They laughed immoderately.
Bland cleared his throat meaningfully and nudged
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his suitcase again. Dina muttered, "Jeez!" but picked it up and preceded the lawyer up the stairs.
Horvath stared after him, then said good night and trudged up after them.
Quill went thoughtfully to bed.
CHAPTER 7
-Ten minutes into Sherri Kerri's eight-o'clock-in-the-morning class, Get Fit (or maybe it was Sensuous Seniors; she didn't know and didn't care) Quill wanted her money back. She hated it. It was worse than a root canal and gum surgery at the same time. She'd rather have root canal and gum surgery at the same time than flail in unison with her fellows.
The gym floor was jammed with huffing, puffing, sweating women and one cheerful Finn. They were doing step aerobics. Step aerobics involved climbing off and on a little bench while every other body part did something else to truly awful music.
Horvath ran nimbly up and down, lunged to the left like a fencer, lunged to the right like a tennis player, and didn't trip over his feet once. All the while he chatted up Marge Schmidt. Marge trotted up, trotted
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down, lunged left and right like a boxer, and seemed to be having a fine old time, too.
Esther West was enthusiastic and coordinated, Miriam Doncaster earnest and coordinated, and Adela Henry was good, as graceful as an Olympian.
"Step up}" Sherri shouted. "Step down!"
Quill stepped up and fell off.
"And upl"
She tried again.
"And downl Quill?"
"I am down," Quill said crossly. She picked herself up and brushed her knees.
"Keep it up, ladies! Re-peat! Re-peat! Step up and . . . Quill?"
/> "I'm going to try the treadmill!"
"What?" Sherri wasn't even breaking a sweat. Quill pointed at the treadmill. Sherri nodded vigorously. Quill wound her way through the smell of damp talcum powder, bleach (from the clean gym clothes), and sweaty socks. The treadmill loomed, a lifesaver.
Quill switched it on, and the LED screen promptly displayed a series of insolent questions.
WEIGHT?
She punched in her real actual weight, less five pounds.
FITNESS LEVEL?
She pressed "1," then enter.
SPEED OR TIME?
Quill thought about this.
"Shut up," Quill whispered, then punched "time." Then, "15 minutes." She thought about her fitness level
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and pressed the reverse arrow key back to fitness level. After a hasty glance around the room to see if anyone was watching, she keyed "0."
speed? the LED asked.
"What the heck," Quill muttered, and punched the ten-miles-per-hour button, which was a snail's pace in the car.
start?
"Sure," Quill said, and punched the key.
All hell broke loose.
"You can't," Sherri explained a hectic five minutes later, "start out at level ten at ten miles an hour, Quill! No wonder you fell off the treadmill."
"I didn't fall off the treadmill."
"You fell off the treadmill and into poor Adela Henry!"
"The treadmill threw me across the room. And I'm sorry, Adela."
Adela nodded majestically. She feinted left and stepped to the music with ineffable grace. Quill wanted to scream.
Sherri taped another Band-Aid across Quill's shin, then checked the ice pack on her wrist with brisk competence. "Have a Power Drink and relax a little. On the house. The class has another ten minutes, then we'll all have a nice juice break."
Quill hitched herself up on a bar stool and sipped green gunk from a glass. The awful music ended with a blare. Everybody walked around the gym floor stretching and flexing with expressions of thoughtful absorption on their sweaty faces. Quill wondered what they were listening to. The screams of their over-
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worked cardiovascular systems? The leaky-bellows whooshing of their lungs?
"You okay?" Marge plunked herself down on a stool.
"I feel like an idiot."
"I feel good," Marge said simply. "Thing is, Quill, you gotta start out slow. Can't set the treadmill at ten—"
"I know," Quill said.
"What're you drinking?"
"Some kind of power stuff. And I'm not drinking it exactly."
"That's Sherry's Power Drink. Gives you a good kick. Try it. All natural. Good for you."
Quill took a sip and made a face, which she regretted immediately, since she really did want Sherri Kerri's gym-and-health-food business to be successful. Just as long as she got her money back, and didn't have to go to war with gym equipment three times a week. 'Tastes interesting," she managed. "Sort of like a broccoli-and-lima-bean milkshake." She handed it to Marge. "Would you like some?" She watched in morbid fascination as Marge downed the whole thing.
"Expensive stuff," Marge said. "So. How are you and Horvath getting along?"
"I don't know. He hasn't signed yet, Marge. I mean, we've gone through discovery, and we seem to agree about every point in the contract. Except for the food. He insists on, you know, popular foods."
"Junk food," Marge said bluntly. "Good profit margin in it, Quill, or there used to be."
"Oh, hang the profit margin."
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"What's Meg say about it?"
"You know what Meg says about it. But why would Horvath offer to invest in the Inn, then stick at the very characteristic that makes it great?"
"Why indeed?" Marge said. "You might think about it."
"I have thought about it. And it doesn't make sense. I'll tell you what else doesn't make sense. You know Strickland's attorney's here." Marge nodded. Marge always knew what was going on in Hemlock Falls. "He and Horvath know each other. They both knew Strickland. And it's not just a 'met him in the airport' kind of an acquaintance. There's something funny going on."
"Oh, yeah?" Marge looked totally blank, which meant that her brain was racing like a computer. "What do you think?"
"I don't know what to think. But I'll tell you this— it's got to be connected to Neil Strickland's murder."
"Oh, yeah? So it's a murder?"
"Well, from the looks of it, yes," Quill said in a slightly professional tone. "An ax or a machete, is my guess." She ignored Marge's skeptical glance. "You just wait until the autopsy. Anyway, you know Max—"
"That damn dog."
"He didn't have anything to do with Strickland's death. But do you know what he had in his jaws?"
"Blood? Bone? Contents of my garbage cans?"
"Very funny. He had a piece of denim shirt. And the only person at the Inn in denim yesterday was Mort Carmody."
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"The scriptwriter." Marge rubbed her chin in a meditative way. "Think we could get them all together? The scriptwriters, the Finn, and that lawyer? Get 'em talking about money. You'd be amazed at what'd come out when you get a bunch of men to talk about money. Especially if you give Mort a bottle of gin."
"You know about that?"
"All three of them closed the Croh Bar last night. You bet your Band-Aids I know about that."
Quill's eyes wandered to Horvath. He was standing at the ballet barre, stretching. "The scriptwriters are at the Tompkins County courthouse this morning," she said, "giving statements to the police. They made a late reservation for lunch. If you can come by the Inn at two, I think I'll be able to get them all in the same room and they won't have a clue that we're after information."
Marge burped slightly. "That'll be a trick."
Quill tried not to feel smug. "You," 11 see." She downed the last of the green gunk.
"You and Horvath here to see our new version of Sneeze?" Benny Gilpin pushed the remains of his potatoes duchesse around his plate. There were bits of cheese in his gray beard. Mort Carmody looked into his glass as if the secrets to the universe were there.
Eddie Schwartz showed all his teeth in a smile, "I think it's a good idea."
All three of them had returned from their interrogation with Captain Harris in subdued frames of mind. Meg's Asiago salad and tuna carpaccio had gone a long way toward cheering them up.
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"Hey!" Eddie said confidently. "After all, if Neil hadn't gone on and on about meeting Horvath here in L.A., we wouldn't have gotten the idea in the first place."
"What idea?" Marge had her arms folded under her considerable bosom. She shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. She and Quill had waited in Quill's office until Kathleen Kiddermeister, the Inn's head waitress, had buzzed Quill to let them know the scriptwriters were about to leave the dining room. Quill swept Horvath from the flagstone terrace, where he was napping, and brought him into the dining room.
"Sneezer's a Finn now," Eddie said. He eyed Mort's cigarette. "Gimme one of those, Mort."
Marge took the cigarette Mort proffered, broke it in half, then removed the pack from Mort's shirt pocket. "You can't smoke in here. Now, what's this about a sneezing Finn?"
"It's a cartoon show," Quill said, "for kids. And I believe it's the very first time Finland has been so honored on American television, Horvath."
"This is very exciting," Horvath said politely. "I would very much like to see this."
"So we've set up the VCR in the conference room, and we're ready to roll. We have the demo tape you sent ahead, too."
Eddie nodded vigorously, "We should have thought of this, guys. You see—Horvath, is it? You might have a terrific opportunity here to invest in American TV with The Sneezer Show! This new pilot is a great tribute to Finland. Now that poor Neil—"
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Eddie waited a respectful moment. "Now that poor Neil has gone to his reward—"
"And we hope he gets exactly the reward he deserves," Benny muttered.
"We just may have a spot for a new investor." Eddie got up from the dining-room table and hunched over the shorter man. "I can't promise anything yet—"
"You can't promise anything at all," Everett Bland said. "Neil was the series producer, and until JoyMax makes a decision about who takes his spot, you three have no legal right to make those kinds of promises." He had obviously just come in from a jog; he wore black bicycle shorts, a loose T-shirt, and running shoes. A room towel was wound around his neck. He wiped his face with one edge and said to Quill, "I got your message. You want my legal opinion on this new series?"
"Excuse me?" Benny's tone was rudely intrusive. "Let's get to the decision-making process here. I'm senior scriptwriter. And JoyMax as good as promised me the producer's spot when and if old Neil shoved off. You can't get much more shoved off than dead, pally. And have we been introduced?"
"You don't know Mr. Bland?" Quill said.
"Why the hell should we know this guy?" Benny shook his head while ingesting the potatoes. He mumbled through the food. "Who is he again?"
"Neil Strickland's attorney," Quill said. "Everett Bland." She frowned. "You must have met him before."
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"We've seen Mr. Bland on Geraldo," Ed said eagerly. "Attorney to the stars."
"And to JoyMax," Bland said equably. "I'd better see this show."
Quill smiled. "Coffee and dessert are in the conference room, gentlemen."
Mort hesitated. "I have to go up to my room for a sec."
"And there are other refreshments for those of you who don't care for coffee," Quill said.
"You got gin?"
"We have gin."
Mort led the way to the conference room and the men settled themselves around the table. All of them except Benny ignored the fruit sorbet set out on the sideboard. Everyone had coffee. Quill went to the head of the table and pulled down the white screen. "I guess I should turn this meeting over to the scriptwriting team. Would one of you care to chair the meeting?"
Eddie and Benny rose simultaneously. "Siddown, Ben. I got it." Eddie slouched to the TV. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the pilot for the all-new Sneezer Show!" He grinned happily. "This'll be good. You outsiders can give us feedback on this. Audience feedback always helps the studio." He killed the lights and turned on the VCR.