Dread on Arrival (32 page)

“He did not say one word.” The tones were decisive. If she’d had a whip, she would have cracked it.

Quill suppressed a grin. “I’m certain that no one’s in three-fourteen. Shall we go up and see if it’s suitable for you?”

Mrs. Hallenbeck nodded regally. The three of them went up the stairs. Any notion that John may have booked them into first-floor rooms due to Mrs. Hallenbeck’s arthritis was quickly dispelled; she took the steps with a lot less effort than Mavis Collinwood, who began to breathe heavily at the second-floor landing. Quill unlocked the door to the suite and stepped aside to let them enter.

Quill loved all twenty-seven rooms at the Inn, but 314 was one of her favorites. A white Adams-style fireplace dominated the wall opposite the balcony. The carpeting was crisp navy blue. The couch and occasional chairs were covered in blue-and-yellow chintz, the colors of Provence. French doors opened out onto a white-painted iron balcony cantilevered over the lip of Hemlock Gorge, giving 314 a panoramic view of the Falls.

Quill stepped out and watched the cascade of water over granite. Bird calls came from the pines and joined the water’s rush. Sweet smells from the gardens and the hemlock groves mingled with the daffodil-scent of fresh water. Mrs. Hallenbeck followed Quill onto the balcony, her chin jutting imperiously. She inhaled. “Dogwood,” she stated precisely, “and one of the scented roses.”

“Scented Cloud,” said Quill. “It’s a lovely rose, too. We grow it out back.”

“This,” Mrs. Hallenbeck said, “is what I asked for. I will walk in the hemlock glade after dinner.”

“I’m sorry about the confusion, Mrs. Hallenbeck.” Quill drew her inside the suite. “I’ll see that your luggage is brought up here. Would you like some tea? I can have it brought to you, or you can have it in the dining room.”

“An English tea? I believe your brochure described an English tea.”

“Yes. A traditional high tea, with scones, Devonshire cream, and watercress sandwiches.”

“Perhaps there will be no charge for that, since I have been seriously inconvenienced.”

Quill, slightly taken aback, swallowed a laugh. “I’ll be sure that there isn’t.”

“Then we shall be down after Mavis unpacks us.” She nodded dismissal. Quill meekly took the hint, and went back to the Chamber meeting. She took the stairs slowly, not, she told herself, because she wasn’t anxious to get back to the meeting, but because it was a beautiful July day, the Inn was booked solid for the week of History Days, and a relaxed country environment was one of the many reasons she’d left her career as an artist to move to Central New York.

“There you are,” said Esther West, as Quill stepped into the lobby. “We’re taking a bit of a break before we go back and vote.”

“Somebody else volunteered to take Julie Offenbach’s place?” Quill said with hope. “I’ve got a couple of ideas for you, Esther. What about Miriam Doncaster? You know, the librarian. She’s a heck of a swimmer. I couldn’t swim to the side of the pond as gracefully as she could after being dunked in the ducking stool.”

“No. Everyone agrees you’d be the best Clarissa. Marge wants us to vote on whether or not the monthly Chamber meetings should be held at the Hemlock Home Diner instead of here.”

“Oh,” said Quill.

“But we all decided to take a bio break before we voted, and anyhow, Myles and Howie both thought that you’d probably want to be there for the discussion part.”

“You bet I would,” said Quill. “That monthly Chamber lunch is a good piece of business. John’ll have my guts for garters if I lose it. Maybe I’d better have him sit in.” An increasingly noisy argument from the lobby succeeded in drawing her attention. “Excuse me a second, Esther. Dina seems to need help.”

Dina, one of the Cornell Hotel School graduate students on whom the Inn depended for much of its staff, was scowling ferociously at a middle-aged man at the counter. An elegantly dressed man in his thirties stood behind him, watching with interest.

“Can I give you a hand here, Dina?”

“I’ve been trying to tell this guy that we’re booked for the week. He said the Marriott called and made reservations for him this morning.” She scowled even harder. “Then he said well maybe the Marriott forgot to call, but that places ‘like this’ always hold back a room in case of emergencies, and he wants it.”

“Keith Baumer,” said the middle-aged man. He extended his hand. Quill took it. He grinned and wiggled his fingers suggestively in her palm. “You the manager, or what?”

Quill freed herself. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Baumer, but Dina’s right, of course. We’re booked for the week.”

“Come on, kiddo, I need some help here. I’ve got a sales convention at the Marriott, and the bastards overbooked. I hear this is the only decent place to get a room. I know you guys; you’re always holding something in reserve. Whyn’t you check the reservations book yourself? I’m here for the week. I don’t mind paying top dollar.” He grinned and edged closer to her.

Quill took two steps back, hit the counter, and repeated, “I’m sorry, Mr. Baumer. We simply don’t have a room available.” The phone shrilled twice, and Dina picked it up as Quill continued, “We’ll be happy to call a few nearby places for you—”

“Quill?” said Dina.

“—but I’m afraid you’re going to have a rough time if you want to stay close to your sales meeting. This is the height of the tourist season …”

“Quill!” Dina tugged at her sleeve. “We just got a cancellation. Couple that was booked for the week for their honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. Sands. Only it’s Mrs. Sands that just called, and she said they had a fight at the wedding and the whole thing’s
off
! Isn’t that sad?”

“There,” said Baumer. “Not that I believe that phony phone call for one little minute. What? Ya got a button down there?”

Quill counted to ten. “Would you check him in please, Dina? Enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Baumer.”

He cocked his head, swept a look from her ankles to her chin, gave her a thumbs-up sign of approval, then leered at Dina. “Okay, dolly. You take American Express Traveler’s Cheques?”

Quill looked longingly at the Japanese urn nearest Baumer’s thick neck.

“Too heavy,” said the man who’d been waiting behind Baumer. “Now, that replica of the Han funeral horse on the coffee table? Just the right size for a good whack.”

Quill choked back a laugh. “Are you here to check in? Let me help you over here.” He was, thought Quill, one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen, with thick black hair attractively sprinkled with gray. He wore a beautifully tailored sports coat.

“Quill,” Esther called, “we’re going back to vote now.”

“I don’t mind waiting for young Dina, there,” he said. “I’m Edward Lancashire, by the way.”

“We’re looking forward to having you at the Inn, Mr. Lancashire.”

“You go ahead to your vote. I’ll be just fine.”

Quill went back to the conference room and sat down, a little breathless.

“Who was
that
?” hissed Esther. “The second one, I mean. The first one sounded horrible.”

“The first one
was
horrible. Speaking of horrible, where’s Marge?”

“In the kitchen.” Quill froze. Esther looked at her watch. “This darn meeting’s got to get over soon; I’ve got way too much to do on the costumes.”

“The kitchen? Marge is in Meg’s kitchen?”

“She was headed that way.”

“Oh, God,” said Quill. “I’ll be right back.”

Quill pushed open the kitchen door to silence, which meant one of two things: either Meg had discovered Marge among her recipe books and had killed her, or nobody was there.

The flagstone floor was clean and polished. The cobblestone fireplace in the corner, where Meg had a Maine grill to do her lobsters, crackled quietly behind the Thermo Glass doors that kept the heat from the rest of the kitchen. Meg’s precious copper bowls and pans hung undisturbed in shiny rows from the pot hanger. No sign of either Marge or, for that matter, her sister. Quill pulled at her lower lip, went to Meg’s recipe cabinet, pulled out the lowest drawer, and flipped through the
Z
’s.
Zuppa d’Inglese
, zucchini, zarda, zabaglione. She edged the zabaglione card carefully out of the file. Was that a greasy thumbprint? It was. But was it Marge’s or Meg’s? And if it were Marge’s, did that mean she was going to place a phone call to the Board of Health? She read the recipe gloomily. There it was in Meg’s elegant script: four raw eggs per serving. She closed the file drawer and marched determinedly back to the conference room.

It was empty, except for Myles.

“Where’d they all go?” Quill demanded. “Did they vote on whether or not to move the meetings to Marge’s diner?”

“Since neither you nor Marge were here, Howie voted to table. Esther asked for an adjournment because she’s still sewing costumes. I waited for you to see what you wanted to do tonight. Would you like to go to supper? Can you get away about eight thirty?”

“Myles, can you take a fingerprint from a recipe card?”

“Yes, Quill,” Myles said patiently. “Do you want to go to supper? I thought I’d make a stir-fry at my place.”

“Where was Marge, when I wasn’t here?”

“I don’t know. She came back in here grinning and said she had to make a phone call. Why?”

Quill gazed at him thoughtfully. Myles had strong views on law and order. He had an annoying tendency to spout phrases like “due process” and “probable cause.” Those gray eyes would get even icier if she asked him to arrest Marge for snooping. That strong jaw would set like an antilock brake at the merest suggestion of a phone tap on the Hemlock Home Diner. There was no way he’d test a recipe card for fingerprints without uncomfortable questions regarding the existence of an eggless zabaglione.

She decided to answer his first question, and solve the Marge problem herself. “Why don’t you come by the kitchen for dinner about eleven, after we close? You made dinner last night. It’s my turn.”

“Fine.” He kissed her on the temple. Quill wasn’t fooled for a minute. This was a man who’d lock her in stir the instant she whacked Marge up the side of the head with Meg’s skillet.

Halfway out the door, Myles turned to look at her. “You sure nothing’s wrong? You’re not coming down with anything, are you?” His eyes narrowed. “Wait. I know that look. You’re fulminating.”

“No,” said Quill absently. “One of the waitresses is, though.” She gasped and glanced at her watch. “The second shift! It’s after three o’clock! Damn!” She sprinted past him and ran down the hall.