Toast Mortem (23 page)

“This place is making you giddy.” Quill shoved the files into the tote. “It’s a start. I’ll go through these tonight. And somehow, I’ve got to get into Mrs. Owens’s personal computer. Miriam says she spent a lot of time on the Internet at the library before she bought her own PC. There might be something there. It’d be really great if I could get in to talk to Bobby Ray Steinmetz, too, but in the mood Davy’s in, there’s not much hope. On the other hand, if the interview notes go into the police case file, there’s always good old Miriam.”

“What are you two doing in here!” Madame had entered so quietly, neither Meg nor Quill had heard her approach. The widow was in black. Black skirt, black blouse, and black lace-up shoes. A black headband held back her iron gray hair. Quill jumped. Meg, possessed of more sangfroid than was good for her character, waved the clipboard at her. “I was looking for a copy of Chef LeVasque’s book,
Brilliance in the Kitchen
. Thought I’d check out some of his recipes.”

“There are copies available in the gift shop.” Madame glowered and nodded sharply at the tote Quill carried. “What is that?”

“Recipes,” Meg said. “Recipes, recipes.”

“Madame?” Raleigh Brewster stuck her head in the door. “Two guys in suits are here to see you.”

“Three-piece suits?” Meg bustled forward and took Madame’s arm. Behind her back, she gestured energetically at Quill, who tucked the tote out of sight under her feet. “Must be lawyers. Did you call for your lawyers?”

“His lawyers.” Madame looked more sour than ever.

Meg raised her eyebrows. “You have separate lawyers?”

Madame worked her thin lips. “LeVasque was a secretive son of a bitch.”

Raleigh rapped the paneled wall with her knuckles. “Where do you want me to put the men in suits, Madame?” She added testily, “I’m in the middle of a pistou.”

“What about the reception office?” Meg suggested. “Or the tasting room? I can send in some brioche and maybe some fruit? I bet they’d like that.”

“Send them in here.” Madame walked to the conference table in her flat-footed way and sat at the head of the table. Raleigh backed away from the office door and made a “come in” gesture.

Two men walked in, both in three-piece pin-striped suits. The older one was balding, with wire-rimmed glasses and a slight paunch. The younger one was thin, with the wiry build of a runner. He’d shaved his head. Quill always wondered about men who shaved their heads. She had to fight the impulse to polish their skulls with the first available tissue.

“Eddie Barstow,” the older one said, “of Barstow and Phipps. And this is David Phipps.” He smiled at Meg. “And you,” he said genially, “must be Margaret Quilliam. Congratulations on inheriting the academy. From what Dave and I have seen so far, it’s a wonderful place.”

Two hours later, Meg was still pale with shock and excitement. Quill wasn’t feeling too settled herself. The two of them sat at the Croh Bar, in the booth farthest from the front. The Croh Bar was nice, neutral territory, and the chances of running into anyone from either the Inn or the academy were slim. Marge had bought it from Norm Pasquale when he’d retired to Florida ten years ago. It was a popular place, and other than replacing the beat-up, old indoor-outdoor carpeting with new, in exactly the same pattern, she had wisely left the interior alone. The battered wood bar was up front. Booths with red vinyl seats lined both walls. A clutter of small round tables ran down the middle. It was dark, since the row of windows facing Main Street always had the dusty green shades drawn. It had a pleasantly musty smell of stale beer, moldy carpet, and the antiseptic Betty Hall used to keep the kitchen clean. It was just before noon, and the place was starting to fill up. Meg always said Betty Hall was the best short-order cook in the east, and the citizens of Hemlock Falls agreed with her.

Quill picked up her glass of iced tea and set it down again. “Well,” she said.

“I can’t believe it.” Meg ran her hands through her hair. Quill figured this was the one-hundredth time Meg had said she couldn’t believe it, and the two-hundredth time she’d run her hands through her hair.

“I must look awful.” Meg never carried a purse. Quill rummaged in her own and pulled out a small mirror and a comb. Meg stared into the mirror and handed it back. “I do look awful. Quill, what are we going to do?”

“What we just did.” Quill was in the seat that faced the front of the bar and the entrance to the street. She saw Marge come in and waved at her.

“There you are.” Marge stumped up and settled herself next to Meg. “You come in for lunch?” She wriggled her eyebrows at them. Marge always dressed in chinos, no matter what the weather, but she varied her tops. Today she wore a cotton blouse patterned with tiny little cows.

“You heard,” Meg said hollowly.

“You need a sandwich,” Marge said. Then, without moving, she yelled, “Bets!”

Betty Hall stuck her head out of the kitchen.

“Three Reubens.”

“Got it!”

“I don’t think I can eat anything,” Meg said. “Not just yet.”

“I heard they had to sedate that there Madame,” Marge said. “That true?”

“Not exactly,” Quill hesitated.

“She sure was mad,” Meg said with awe. “She stood up and yelled. Just yelled. Like: ‘Aaahhhh!’”

“Yeah? She pass out then, or what?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Quill said. “And then she picked up that big purse she carries and belted Barstow over the head with it. Or maybe it was Phipps. The bald one.”

“Phipps,” Meg said. “I remember because I wanted to polish his head when he walked in.”

“You, too?” Quill said. “Hm.”

Marge drummed her fingers on the Formica tabletop.

Quill sighed and continued, “And Phipps started to bleed—you know, Marge, one of the purposes of hair is to protect you from getting belted over the head. It’s just dumb to shave it all off. You never know when you’re going to get belted with something.”

“So somebody called the EMTs,” Marge interrupted. “Was it because of this Phipps bleeding all over?”

“Raleigh Brewster did that. Made the emergency call. Head wounds do bleed a lot, and Mr. Phipps was running around the kitchen with Mrs. LeVasque running after him.”

“Yelling, ‘Bastard! Bastard!’” Meg put in. “We weren’t sure whether she meant Phipps or her dead husband.”

“And it got into the pistou,” Quill said. “Some blood.”

“So the pistou is ruined,” Meg said with a gusty sigh.

Betty Hall arrived with the sandwiches and put the plates down. She was thin, with black hair, and in all the years Quill had known her, she’d spoken almost nothing.

Meg poked at the Reuben, which smelled wonderful and oozed Swiss cheese in all the right places. “This looks perfect, Betty. And you’re using homemade sauerkraut. Impressive.”

Betty smiled and went away.

“Eat it,” Marge ordered. “And then maybe you’ll start to make some sense. You’re both hysterical.”

Quill took an indignant bite of her sandwich. “We aren’t hysterical. It’s been a rough morning.”

Marge took a generous bite of her own. “So then what?”

Meg grinned. It was a tentative, weak grin, but Quill was relieved to see that her sister was recovering a little. Meg waved half of the Reuben in the air and said, “Madame kept on bashing at Phipps until Jim Chen and Pietro threatened to sit on her. They got her off Phipps and sat her down. And then Davy came, with the EMTs, and they took Phipps off. And Barstow disappeared into the office with Davy and Madame.

“But you know, I don’t think it was unexpected. Not that LeVasque had tried to leave the academy to me, but that he didn’t leave it to her.”

“Tried to?” Marge said alertly.

“We couldn’t accept it, of course,” Quill said quietly.

“You said
no
?!” Marge roared.

“Of course we said no.” Meg sat up a little straighter. “It’s outrageous, Marge. That place should go to his wife. They’ve been married for forty-two years! This was just another one of LeVasque’s spiteful jokes.”

Marge’s shrewd gray eyes darted from one sister to the other.

“We were tempted, of course,” Quill said. “To be honest.”

“She means me,” Meg said in a small voice. “Marge—have you seen those kitchens? For just a moment, there . . .”

Marge groaned. “You walked away from a multimillion-dollar property for some half-assed principle? You didn’t let her sign anything, did you, Quill?”

“There was too much of a ruckus to do anything but scoot out of there. I pulled Barstow aside and told him we’d have Howie give him a call, because we absolutely could not accept this, under any circumstances.”

“And what’d he say? Maybe you and Meg can’t give it back.”

“He said, ‘Fine.’ And was I sure I wanted to do this. And I said I was never surer of anything in my life.”

Marge thumped the table in disgust. “You know what I ought to do? I ought to charge you double for lunch. How do you like that for a principle?”

“I’ll tell you what I’d like. I’d like to figure out who killed LeVasque so we can get Clare out of jail and back into the kitchen. Meg’s still got a dinner for thirty tomorrow night.”

“So you two are still in the detecting business, huh? Figured as much.”

“Clare’s in jail,” Meg said. “And she didn’t do it. Quill and I are going to get her out.”

“By finding out who killed the grouchy gourmet?” Marge snorted. But it was an affectionate snort.

“And Mrs. Owens,” Quill said. “The two murders are connected, Marge, they have to be.”

“Try this one on,” Marge suggested. “LeVasque knows his wife’s likely to bump him off so he leaves the place to you.”

“That crossed my mind,” Quill admitted. “But then, he would have told her, wouldn’t he? That he was leaving it to Meg?”

“Maybe he did.”

Quill shook her head. “It wouldn’t have been such a shock, if he had.”

“She might have read you two right. Knew that chances were pretty good you’d . . .” Marge stopped, apparently unable to actually say aloud that Meg had given up a multimillion-dollar gift. “Anyways, I know this for a fact. She could have taken you to court to get the thing back. That way, everybody’s miserable except the lawyers. That kind of trick was right up LeVasque’s alley.”

“Whatever his reason, it makes one thing pretty clear to me.” Quill counted out the bills for their lunch, then collected her purse and the tote with the Bonne Goutè personnel files and got out of the booth.

Marge looked up at her.

“Madame just became the number one suspect in her husband’s murder. Meg? Do you want a ride anywhere? I’m going to see if I can track Howie down.”

“I’d better get back up to the school. You’re right. I’ve still got the dinner tomorrow night. Unless you think the Chamber would be willing to cancel, Marge? At the moment, I can guarantee a refund.”

“You’re kidding me, right? You couldn’t keep ’em away with a stick.” She gave Meg’s arm a friendly thump. “I’ll run her back up there, Quill. And then if you don’t mind, I’m going to do a little poking around myself. Into the financial affairs of that late loony tune, Bernard LeVasque. I’d like to see just how much money you two gave away to that old biddy of a widow.”

 

 

Howie Murchison’s law offices were just off Main, on a quiet street with brick houses and a bicycle shop. Howie’s great-grandfather Howard Charles Murchison, had started the family tradition of going into law, and he practiced from the same house Howie lived in now. It was a big place, a center-entrance Georgian with three floors and a large backyard. Howie’s offices took up most of the first floor. The dining room and the kitchen were on the right. The offices were on the left. Quill doubted that the reception area, the small law library, and Howie’s office itself had ever been a parlor or living room. Those were on the second floor, where Howie’s bedroom was located.

The front door was always open. Quill walked into the black-and-white-tiled foyer, tapped at the paneled door labeled OFFICE and stuck her head inside. Nobody was at the secretary’s desk, but she could see Howie’s own office door was open, and she could see him at his computer.

“Hello?” Quill called out.

The door to the library opened and Justin Martinez looked out at her. “Hey, Quill!”

“Hey, Justin.”

Hearing her voice, Howie got up and came out to join them. He indicated a worn leather couch with a sweep of his hand. “Glad to see you. Have a seat. I understand there was quite a commotion at the academy this morning.”

Quill couldn’t help but glance at the secretary’s empty chair. Trish Peterson had been Howie’s secretary for years, and she was connected to more people in Hemlock Falls than old Harland himself, which was saying something.

Howie chuckled. “No, it wasn’t Trish. I got a call from Ed Barstow.”

“Is Mr. Phipps okay?”

Howie shrugged. “As far as I know. It wasn’t much of a clunk on the head, according to Barstow. No concussion, but he needed a stitch or two.”