Toast Mortem (11 page)

“He told me to write it down exactly as he said,” Dina said. “And I stuck
faithfully
to rule number three, which is never insult a member of the public.”

Quill crumpled the paper in her fist. “That little
twerp
!”

“Harassment,” Dina said. “Clarissa said the man’s a master at it. And you know what else he said, just before he hung up on me? ‘Tell her that’s just the beginning.’”

“He did, did he?”

The Inn phone sounded its gentle chimes. Dina picked it up and said, “Good morning. This is the Inn at Hemlock Falls. How may I . . . oh, hi, Mrs. Doncaster. Quill? The Welcome Dinner?”

Quill shook her head vehemently, like Jack: No! No!

Dina rolled her eyes and shrugged. “She’s not available at the moment, but I’ll get her the message as soon as I can. Yes. No. No, ma’am, I have no idea what her cell phone number is. I’ll tell her, you bet. Good-bye.” She replaced the phone in the cradle.

Quill leaned over the desk. “If you give out my cell phone number to anyone from the Chamber, I will be really, really mad.”

“Right.”

“And you have no idea where I am today. Got it?”

“Got it. What are you going to do?”

Quill sighed. “After I murder Bernard LeVasque or before? Before I murder Mr. LeVasque, I want you to put every single Chamber member’s name in a hat—and anyone else who calls about tickets, for that matter—and then I want you to pull thirty names out at random and make a list. That’s who’ll be on the list for the Welcome Dinner. And when people call about it, you tell them we made the list up by random selection and that the list will be up in the post office this afternoon.”

“Wow,” Dina said. “I thought maybe you’d be, like, lost without those management courses at Cornell, but this is really good. Very executive.”

“Thank you,” Quill said. “It comes from being a mother, I think. And now I am going to run and hide in the Tavern Lounge.”

Quill walked down the short hallway to the Tavern Lounge.

The Inn had started as a trapper’s rest stop back in the late seventeenth century. The trapper’s shack, owned by a lady of dubious reputation, was no more than twenty feet by twenty feet, and Quill had some compunction about the stone on the foundation engraved: EST 1668. But the original stone footers were, in fact, directly under the reception desk. In the two hundred and fifty years since the demise of the fur trade, the building had sprawled, becoming in turn, a farmhouse, a gentleman’s residence, an academy for wayward girls, and just after the Civil War, an actual way-side Inn with fourteen rooms and an outhouse.

The Tavern Lounge had been added on sometime in the late 1920s, when village burghers had set it up as a speak-easy. The floors were flagstone, and the long, splendidly polished mahogany bar was the pride of Quill’s modest brochure. French doors led out to the stone terrace, and the view of the falls was framed by Mike’s meticulous landscaping.

The room was comfortably furnished with round tables and deeply cushioned chairs. The cobblestone fireplace at the north end was filled with late August roses and sprays of lavender well past its prime. The lounge didn’t officially open until noon, when it was legal to serve liquor, but the members of WARP found it a convenient place to gather, when they weren’t off touring the countryside in their rented stretch limos.

The members of WARP had pushed two of the round tables together and sat in satisfied proximity to one another, wearing identical T-shirts. William Knight Collier glanced at his watch and said cheerfully, “Right on time.”

William Knight Collier was always cheerful. Quill thought he must have been one of the few mortgage bankers to survive the notorious crash of 2008. Or maybe he hadn’t, and the resulting financial catastrophe had driven him mad.

“Like ’em?” Big Buck Vanderhausen swept his meaty hand over his torso. “Got ’em delivered this morning.”

The T-shirts weren’t exactly matching, Quill realized. They were all made of the same material, a navy blue knit that looked quite expensive. But the slogans across the chests were all different. Big Buck’s read:
A Penny Saved Is a Penny Earned
. Valerie Barbarossa’s said:
Don’t Spend It All at Once
. Anson Fredericks’s skinny chest trumpeted,
Look After Your Pennies and the Pounds Will Take Care of Themselves
. The only shirt at odds with all this clichéd advice was Collier’s, which was emblazoned,
Penny-Wise, Pound-Foolish
.

“Mr. Collier is our contrarian,” Valerie said. “And Mrs. Fredericks just stepped outside to make a phone call, so you can’t see her T-shirt, but it says,
Save for a Rainy Day
.” Her eyes twinkled. “You just look as if you might be interested. Please, sit down. We’re really anxious to hear what you can tell us about running a bed-and-breakfast.” She glanced over at Anson. “I don’t think we need to wait for Muriel, do you, Anson? Mrs. McHale has been good enough to start on time, and I think we should be just as courteous.”

“No problem,” Anson said. “Go ahead, Quill.”

Quill glanced at the clock over the bar. It was just on ten. “I’ll be happy to tell you what I know.” She drew a chair out and sat down facing them. “I know that you all value your privacy, and I don’t want to intrude. But what’s your interest in a bed-and-breakfast? As a place to visit, as a group? Or,” she hazarded, “as part of your investment club?”

“Investment club,” Valerie mused. She tapped her lips reflectively. She was the type of grandmotherly lady Quill didn’t see much of anymore. Most of the older women who came to the Inn paid a lot of attention to their hair, and their jawlines, and dressed in trendy jeans and chunky jewelry. They usually started the day with a jog. (Meg called them Mrs. Fletchers.) Mrs. Barbarossa was happily round, with snow-white hair and small, wire-rimmed glasses over her bright blue eyes. She was very fond of rhinestone brooches, which she pinned on the lapels of her print dresses. This morning’s was especially awash with color, glittering blue stones surrounded by large fake pearls. She’d placed it just above the
Don’t
on her T-shirt. “I suppose we are, in a way.”

“The reason I’m asking is that I’d like to tell you what you want to know about running a small inn, rather than what you don’t. Because,” Quill said, happily settling into the topic, “that’s really what a bed-and-breakfast is all about. Running a small, exquisite inn.”

“Any money in it?” Big Buck asked. He was the only one of the group that looked really at home in a T-shirt. It stretched tightly over his considerable belly, and he wore a leather vest.

“Not a fortune, by any means. But it can be a lot of fun for active retirees, for example. It helps a lot if you have another source of income.”

For some reason, a wave of merriment swept the table.

“I’d like to know how much it would cost to hire somebody like Bernard LeVasque to run the kitchen,” Collier said. He brushed at invisible lint on his sleeve with a finicky flick of his fingers.

“Really?” Quill raised her eyebrows. “Good heavens. Well, I can’t think of a B and B operation that would cover the costs of a chef of his reputation.”

“We asked him to create a brunch for us this morning,” Mrs. Barbarossa confided. “And it was absolutely splendid.”

“You did?” Quill said. “That’s amaz—well, I mean . . .” She floundered for a second. “If you look at the costs involved with that, I’m sure you can see that having him around full time would involve . . . considerable expense.”

“Hmmm,” Collier said. “I see your point.”

Quill bit her lip. She would not, she absolutely would not stoop to asking how much the obnoxious little toad had charged these poor people. “Umm . . .” she began diffidently. “If you don’t mind my asking . . .”

“Anson!”
Muriel flung open the French doors from the terrace with a crash and covered the distance to the table in three huge leaps. She caught sight of Quill, shrieked in a polite way, and covered her mouth with her palm.
“Swine flu!”
she shouted through her palm. “This place is infested with swine flu!”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mrs. Barbarossa snapped. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Muriel’s washed-out blue eyes fixed on Quill with surprise. “You don’t look sick.”

“I’m not sick,” Quill said tartly. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Muriel pinched her nose shut, but she sat down (at some distance from Quill). “We went to Bonne Goutè this morning for a perfectly lovely breakfast and M. LeVasque was kind enough to let me know that there was . . . some kind of illness here.”

“He did, did he?” Quill said grimly.

“He was a perfect gentleman about it, I must say. But it worked on me, you know? And when the driver was bringing us back here, I was thinking about it and thinking about it, so I called M. LeVasque back.”

“And he told you we had swine flu?” Quill realized she was on her feet with her fists clenched. Muriel scooted her chair back a few feet.

“Not exactly. I called the cooking academy on my cell and left a message. I begged him,
begged
him to tell me what he knew, and I just now got the call back.”

“What did he say?” Quill’s voice was deceptively mild. Her eyes rolled dramatically in her husband’s direction. “We have to all check out of here right now!”

“Which is what M. LeVasque wants,” Quill said calmly. “Everyone in this inn is perfectly well, perfectly healthy, and absolutely fine. M. LeVasque is annoyed with me because one of his best chefs has decided to work in our kitchens instead of for that . . . that . . .” Quill bit her lip, aware that she was about to growl. “Anyway. This is a dirty business tactic, and I’m not going to stand for it.” She nodded to them. “Do you mind if we have our talk at another time? Perhaps this afternoon? We can give you a wonderful cream tea here in the lounge about four o’clock.”

“Why, thank you!” Mrs. Barbarossa said. “May I ask where you’re going now?”

“I’m going to find LeVasque and knock his block off.”

—From
Brilliance in the Kitchen
, B. LeVasque

 

 

Quill was so mad she swept through the dining room without checking to see how the diners were getting on. She straight-armed the swinging doors and stamped into the kitchen, only vaguely aware that Dina was trotting along behind her, trying to get her attention.

“Not now, Dina.” She nodded briefly to Clare, who was staring past her with a bemused expression, and raised her hand in greeting at Elizabeth Chou, whose mouth was open in alarm.

Elizabeth was an exceptionally taciturn person. Quill came to a halt and demanded, “What!?”

Clare pointed. Quill turned around. Dina was hanging on to a guy in a brown uniform who was courteously trying to shake her off. He had a pleasant face, thinning brown hair, and was probably in his early forties. Quill had never seen him before in her life. She didn’t recognize the uniform, either.

Dina let go of his arm, and he raised his hand in a sort of salute. “Officer Dooley Banks, ma’am. Department of Environmental Conservation. Are you Sarah Q. McHale?”

Officer Banks delivered this inquiry in the same tone of voice that state troopers ask for a driver’s license. For one cowardly moment, Quill thought about denying that she was, in fact, Sarah Q. McHale, but she said, “Yes, sir.”

“I’m investigating a report of an illegal beach.”

“An illegal beach,” Quill said, as if repeating the phrase would make it more comprehensible. “Yes. I see.”

“I’ve been down to inspect the area in question, ma’am, and I have to ask you for the permits.”

Quill nodded. “The permits.” Then, “Wait! Are you talking about our beach?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The one Mike and I put in by the river?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A permit?” Quill said, with a sinking feeling. “We need a permit?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hitched his belt up. “There is a substantial fine attached to interference with a navigable waterway.” He paused. “Ten thousand dollars a day, I’m afraid.”

“Ten thous . . .” Quill swallowed hard.

“We take our environmental concerns seriously in New York state, ma’am.”

“Well, of course you do,” Quill said.

“The only way you can navigate the Hemlock River is in an inner tube,” Clare said tartly. “This is ridiculous, officer.”

“I went down it in a kayak, once,” Elizabeth offered.

“And it’ll handle a canoe,” Dina said.

“There you are,” Officer Banks said. “Navigable.” Quill put her hands on her hips. “Everybody please be quiet. Right now.”

An obedient silence filled the room.

“I’ll be happy to obtain a permit,” Quill said. “I’m truly sorry that I didn’t get a permit in the first place. If you can tell me where to go to get one, I’ll do it right now.”

“That’d be our Syracuse office. In the meantime, if I could take a look at the engineering report, Mrs. McHale?”

“The engineering report?”

“Yes. Regulations require . . .”

Quill held her hand up and laughed hollowly. “We filed that with our . . . um . . . engineer.”

“Maybe he could fax it over,” Dina said helpfully.

Quill glared at her.

Dina smiled and beamed flirtatiously at the conservation officer. “You are aware, of course, of the Hemlock Falls riverfront project.”

“Can’t say as I am, ma’am.”

Dina frowned. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Annoyed on your behalf, of course. They never seem to keep the guys in the front line appraised of
anything.
”

“You can say that again,” Officer Banks said.

“Of course, a guy like you must have heard rumors, at least.”

“Some,” Officer Banks admitted. He ran his finger around his shirt collar in an uneasy way.

“But you’re not allowed to talk about it, either. Well! All I can say is my graduate class in river morphology took an interest in the beach project and did a pilot study like you wouldn’t believe. My professor sent the whole thing on to the Secretary in D.C. to use as a template for further studies in similar situations.”