Toast Mortem (7 page)

“So can Mike,” Quill assured her. The sound of a car coming up the drive made her get to her feet. “And that sounds like Meg. We’re saved. She can handle the desserts.”

The glare of headlights swept the small parking lot that sat to the left of the gardens.

“She’s out already?” Clarissa said. “My gosh. You guys must have fabulous lawyers.”

“One way or the other, we’re pretty familiar with the criminal justice system,” Quill said. “It’s more like we’re used to the routine.”

Clarissa narrowed her eyes at the lights and grabbed her wrist. “Hang on. Do you guys own a Mercedes 450 SL?”

“A what?” Quill squinted into the darkness. The lights on the car dimmed, leaving the parking lot shrouded in moonlight.

“That car.” Clarissa’s grip tightened. “That long, low-slung shape. Your police force doesn’t happen to drive Mercedeses, does it?”

“Good grief. Of course not.”

“Then that,” Clarissa said grimly, “is not your sister.”

She sprang into the kitchen and slammed the door.

Soupes!
My province
en France
is the home for the best!
Les soupes de poissons
are made with shellfish and fish;
les soupes maigres
are composed with vegetables, you understand.
Les soupes grasse
are prepared with the meat and the bones of the meat. And
les soupes au baton
are based in flour and stirred with a stick. Bravo
les Nicoise
and their
soupes
!

—From
Brilliance in the Kitchen
, B. LeVasque

 

 

A car door slammed and footsteps crunched in the parking lot gravel. Max stood up, his head cocked, his ears tipped forward in mild interest.

Bernard LeVasque walked out of the dark and stepped up onto the porch.

“Where is your manager?” he demanded.

Quill opened her mouth and shut it. She’d never actually met LeVasque, but she had followed in his wake at the open house, as he’d swanned around his fabulous new building. His face was mostly jaw, with little piggy eyes and thinning brown hair. Quill was good at judging ages. LeVasque’s boastful bio (the first page in the elaborate and expensive brochure he distributed in every single retail establishment in Hemlock Falls) inferred he was in his mid-forties. She’d be willing to bet her best set of camel-hair brushes he was sixty, at least. He’d had some work done, as Quill’s mother used to delicately phrase it. And, despite the presence of his little potbelly, it was pretty clear he worked out at a gym to help hold on to the big age lie.

“I’m Sarah Quilliam-McHale,” she said pleasantly. “My sister and I are the owners here.”

“The female chef.” He sneered. “And you, the female boss.”

Quill had been blessed with an equable temperament, so she was a little startled to realize that she was truly pissed off. She unclenched her teeth. “I take it you didn’t just drop by to chat?”

“Is Clarissa Sparrow here!?” he demanded.

“Yes, she is. And I must thank you for . . .”

“You have seduced away one of my chefs. I am here to sue you,” he said with relish.

“Down, Max,” Quill ordered the dog, who hadn’t moved at all except to wag his tail. She grabbed Max by the collar. Max wagged his tail even faster and panted happily. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to hold him, M. LeVasque.”

LeVasque backed up a few steps. “This dog is vicious?”

“Very,” Quill said.

Max wriggled free of her hold on his collar, sat down, and scratched amiably at his neck.

“Max attacks on command,” Quill said. “This dog is a Schutzhund.”

LeVasque drew his scanty eyebrows together. “The Schutzhund is a breed of Alsatian bred for security work. Very fierce, no? You Americans call it a German shepherd,
peut-être.
That is not a Schutzhund. That is a mutt.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, M. LeVasque.”

LeVasque spat contemptuously over his left shoulder. “Yes. That is vair-y true, that appearances are deceiving. Mme. Margaret Quilliam looks like a perfectly acceptable
femme.
Instead, she is a thief as well as a
provocateur
. Now there will be a second lawsuit over the steal of my employee’s services.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Quill hoped like anything that Clarissa had made it out of the inn and was back on her way to the culinary academy. “As far as Ms. Sparrow’s services are concerned, the whole concept of indentured servitude went out in the eighteenth century. And slavery was declared illegal in 1862. It’s a free country and you can’t,” she concluded, somewhat inelegantly, “sue us for squat.”

“No?” He pushed his way past her and marched into the kitchen. Quill, at his heels, was dismayed to see Clarissa chopping raw sugar into a fine powder with a butcher knife.

“Hah! I knew it!” LeVasque put both hands on his hips, jutted out his considerable jaw, and shouted, “
Nom de nom! C’est insupportable!
What are you doing here!”

“I have Monday nights off,” Clarissa said coolly. “I can be anywhere I want.”

M. LeVasque’s eyes were little, beady, and mean. Like Napoleon, he was short. Also rude, aggressive, and militant.

“Sir,” Quill said. “I do not want you in my kitchen.”

“It’s a free country,” LeVasque said mockingly. “I can be any-wair I want.” He swept Meg’s kitchen with a contemptuous gaze. “And you call this a kitchen? I call this a . . . a . . . midden!”

“Hey!” Quill said. “That’s just plain insulting. I really think, M. LeVasque . . .”

“You really think? Hah! Women do not think.” He sucked his lower lip, then released it with a popping sound. “I tell you what. You!” He stuck his forefinger under Clarissa’s nose. “Are fired. And you!” He swiveled on his feet and waved his fist in the air at Quill. “My lawyers will contact your lawyers!”

Clarissa slapped the butcher knife back in the rack, swept the sugar up in the palm of her hand, and flung it at LeVasque. Then both chefs stood nose to nose and started yelling.

Quill went to the dining room doors and peeked out. Three of the tables were full, as expected, and two of the tables were having such a good time the place could have exploded and no one would have noticed. The anniversary couple, on the other hand, looked scared.

Quill let the doors close, turned around, and put her hands on her hips. She would have to get firm. Clarissa had succumbed to the temptation of the eight-inch sauté pan and advanced on LeVasque with murder in her eye. LeVasque was retreating backward around the prep table. Suddenly, Devon sprang forward, grabbed LeVasque by the collar, and propelled him toward the back door.

The screen door banged. There was a friendly farewell bark from Max the Schutzhund, and LeVasque was gone.

The screen door banged again, and Quill grabbed the eight-inch sauté pan out of Clarissa’s hand, in case LeVasque was back. It wasn’t LeVasque; it was Mike Santini, the guy who kept the gardens and grounds in such wonderful shape, and Quill had never been so glad to see anyone in all her life. He was small and wiry and tough as an old boot. He’d settle LeVasque’s hash in two seconds flat.

“Hey, Mike.”

“Hey.” He kept a wary eye on the sauté pan in her hand. “I thought Meg was in jail.”

“She’s out. She should be back any minute.” Quill looked dubiously at the pan and hung it back up. Then she sat down in the rocking chair and buried her head in her hands. “Yikes. I can’t believe I did that.”

“LeVasque has that effect on people,” Clarissa said. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You work for that monster. I’m sorry for you!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?” Clarissa looked at Mike with a smile. “You wouldn’t be the Mike that went after my cat, by any chance?”

“That sucker belong to you?” He shook his head admiringly. “Whoo. That’s some beauty.”

“You have him then?” Clarissa asked. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Mike rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t have him, exactly, no.”

“Oh, no!”

“I almost had him.” He looked at Quill. “I did what you suggested, Boss. I got some of those liver bits of off Doreen and took Max’s carrier down to the river. And he was like, half in the bag, so to speak, when you know who shows up.”

“You know who?” Quill said, bewildered.

“Carol Ann Spinoza.” He rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. “And that cat? That cat don’t like Carol Ann Spinoza one little bit. So the cat, like, growls at her and sort of shows his teeth like this.” Mike drew his lips back in a horrible grimace. “And Carol Ann Spinoza screams like a banshee. So the cat goes flying off somewheres. But not,” he added with satisfaction, “until he, like, bites her a good one on the ankle. So.” He shrugged. “I don’t have that cat.”

Quill clutched at her hair, which was coming down from her top knot again.

“Is this Carol Ann very hurt?” Clarissa asked.

“Nah. She had boots on.”

“Boots? Who wears boots in August?”

“Carol Ann,” Quill said glumly. “They’re part of the uniform. Carol Ann’s the animal control officer.”

“Thank goodness.”

Quill exchanged rueful glances with Mike and said, “Don’t thank goodness too soon.”

“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? I mean, animal control people are experts at catching pets safely.”

“She’s more likely to shoot it,” Mike said. “Or poison it. Or run it over with her animal control Jeep. That Carol Ann’s damn mean.”

“Shoot Bismarck!” Clarissa said. “She can’t do that.”

“Not at night, that’s for sure,” Mike said. “Sheriff’s department took away her infrared rifle.”

Quill relaxed a little. Clarissa looked even more alarmed.

The screen door banged a third time. Quill was beginning to feel she was in the middle of the second act of
Noises Off
.

Meg came into the kitchen looking so chipper Quill wanted to smack her just on principle. “Hey, guys!” she said. “Is this party just for me?” She spread her arms wide. “Free at last!” She caught sight of Clarissa and cocked her head, just like Max. “Gosh, don’t I know you?”

“I’m Clarissa Sparrow.”

“From Bonne Goutè. Sure! You’re pastry, right? From all I hear, I should take a couple of lessons from you.”

Quill stared at her sister in astonishment. Meg had many, many fine character traits, but she was competitive to the bone.

“The secret’s in the butter. Irish butter.” Clarissa extended her hand and Meg shook it. “I was pinch-hitting in the kitchen while you were . . .” She trailed off.

“In the pokey,” Meg said cheerfully. “Quill left a message that the cooking was taken care of. We’re lucky you were available.”

“Yes. Well, it was a privilege. It was just a fluke I was here. I was out looking for my cat.”

“Big orange cat?” Meg said. “There’s a big orange cat sitting out in the parking lot.”

“Oh, my!” Clarissa said. “Excuse me, will you?” She grabbed her backpack from under the prep sink and took out a collar and leash. On her way out the door, she said, “Those blueberries? They’re for table forty-two. I was going to add mascarpone, chopped raw sugar, and a little shortcake. Cake’s cooling on top of the Viking.”

Meg went to the stove, broke off a piece of the shortcake, and tasted it. Then she looked very thoughtful. “Terrific,” she said, absently. “Sensational, in fact. I’ve only tasted something like this once before.”

“Clarissa said it’s her standby,” Devon offered. “Berries, mascarpone, and a little garnish. All-purpose summer dessert.”

“Little lemon, maybe,” Meg said. She bent over and inspected the blueberries. “Devon, you can handle this. Add a slice of lemon and some of the fresh mint for garnish. Then plate it and send it out to the dining room.”

Devon went obediently to the stove and picked up the pan of shortcake.

Meg looked at the clock over the fireplace. “Shoot. Only eight thirty. I suppose I’d better get back to work.”

“Did you have a good time in jail?” Quill asked sarcastically.

“I had an excellent time.”

Quill sat up and took a deep breath. “You must be drunk. Or exhausted. I don’t care if it is early. We’re going to close the kitchen. Mike, please go and tell Kathleen not to seat any walk-ins. And thank you for trying to rescue the cat.”

“Anytime,” Mike said laconically. “And if there’s nothing else except to give that message to Kath, I’ll be off home.”

“Nothing else.” She waited until Mike had disappeared into the dining room and then grabbed her sister’s arm. “He came back.”

“Who came back?” Meg’s eyes widened. “LeVasque came back?”

“Big as life and twice as ugly,” Quill said. “He found out Clarissa was here, taking over for you in the kitchen.”

“And?”

“And he fired her.”

“Golly.” Meg ran her hands through her hair, which was short, dark, and tended to stick up like a little kid’s if she didn’t pay attention. “She’s well out of it, is my guess. The guy’s a total creep.”

Quill winced at yet another slam of the screen door. Operant conditioning, that’s what it was called. You were given a negative stimulus over and over until you were ready to scream when it jabbed you again.

“You okay?”

“I keep thinking it’s LeVasque.”

“It’s not. Just me.” Clarissa edged her way into the kitchen. Her arms were full of cat. “I brought Bismarck in to say thank you.”

There was a lot of Bismarck, and he obscured most of Clarissa’s upper torso. He blinked placidly and then, as Max trotted in behind Clarissa, extended a giant paw down to the dog and flexed his claws. Max gave the cat a quick glance and shot through the doors to the dining room.

“Sorry,” Clarissa said.

“He’s gone up to sleep with Jack,” Meg said. “But that’s some cat, all right.”

“Is Bismarck usually an outdoor cat?” Quill asked. “If so, you might think about keeping him inside for a while. If Carol Ann’s on his case, we might have a problem.”