A Steak in Murder (18 page)

"Just a moment." Myles put his hand over the receiver, and she listened to the cupped quiet. He came back on suddenly. "I'm needed. I'll call you." And was gone.

Wide awake, a little cranky, Quill put the phone back on the nightstand and got out of bed. She needed something to eat. Meg had bounced off again, and wouldn't
be back from New York until tomorrow afternoon, which
meant there wouldn't be anything good in the refrigerator. Bjarne was very economical (another reason for the financial success of the Palate; Meg was prone to throw
out any produce that was over a day old, and make more
than was needed for the week's bookings) and there was
usually nothing left in the coolers from the evening trade.
She went downstairs to the kitchen in her bare feet, Max clicking along behind.

No desserts. A bowl of dough, chilling for tomorrow's muffins. Strawberries and cantaloupe, clearly portioned
for tomorrow's breakfast customers. Unopened cartons of Devonshire cream. Quill thought about it. If she took one
strawberry from each parcel, slit open the cream container and repasted it, Bjarne might not notice he was shorting his customers. She pulled out a colander and
gathered half a dozen strawberries to rinse under the fau
cet. She jumped a foot when John came into the room.

"Now,
that
looks great."

Quill smiled at him. He was wearing pajama bottoms, a dark blue robe, and his hair was tousled from sleep. She went back to the fridge and gathered a second set of strawberries, some from each serving.

"What are you doing?" He was curious, not challenging. John, she realized suddenly, was never anything but kind.

"You never intrude, you know that?"

One black eyebrow rose.

"Meg would want to know what I was doing so she could argue about it. Bjarne would want to know what I was doing so he could give me a lecture about the food budget. Doreen would want to know what I—"

"I get the picture." He sat down at the prep table and yawned. "With all due respect to Bjarne's management style, I think you should take as many strawberries as you want."

"I don't know, John. He's been very firm about raiding the refrigerator."

He held up one coppery finger. "One—he can buy more from Peterson's farm market before we open. And two—" he leaned forward and whispered,
"it's your restaurant."

"Oh. It is, isn't it." Recklessly, she grabbed two bowls of the fruit and an entire container of Devonshire cream. "This is definitely one of the great all-time midnight snacks."

They ate at the prep table, perched on the stools, a comfortable silence between them. Quill scooped up a last bit of cream, then said, "So who do you think killed Candy Detwiler?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"It had to have been an outsider. I mean, no one who lives here even knew him."

"Didn't they?"

"Colonel Calhoun said Detwiler hadn't been north of Texas since he was in the Army forty years ago. There's just no connection that I can see."

"There's the cattle."

"True. But all the cattlemen are from Texas, as well. And one of them is dead, too. John, do you think that Royal Rossiter's death is connected to this?"

"There have been stranger coincidences, Quill."

"Does that mean yes or no?"

"It means that I haven't a clue. We really don't have enough facts." He got up and took his bowl to the sink. "What we might do is some discreet information gathering tomorrow, if the cows are the connection, then per
haps we should find out all we can about the cows. Didn't
you say that Laura Crest had quite a bit of information on them?"

"She left a lot of stuff for Meg. She can probably get a lot more, if we asked. But what would we need to know?"

"The estimable Harris is investigating the usual avenues concerning Detwiler's death. But he'll be stymied until the forensic autopsy's finished. He needs to establish the tie between the two deaths, retrace Detwiler's
movements before he got to Hemlock Falls, discover who
talked to him and what about before he died. It's even possible that he wasn't killed here, Quill, but that the body was dumped here, which is going to make solving this particular case all the more difficult.

"We won't know if Rossiter's death is at all suspicious until that autopsy is done, either. I have a suggestion, if you want to hear it."

"You mean, you want to help me investigate this case?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Well." Why not, because Myles always gets porky when amateurs butt into official police work. Why not, because Meg is too busy to be Watson, and thinks I'm the Watson, anyway. More seriously why not, because even a peripheral involvement in Rossiter's death might rebound to the discredit of Meg's cooking and the finan
cial worth of the Palate. On the other hand, this last "why
not" was a compelling reason "why to." She knew her
sister, and there was no way that she or her cooking could
have been responsible for Rossiter's death. And if the death were suspicious, then the sooner the perpetrator was found, the better.

"That's a lot of ifs, though," she said aloud. "What do you think we should do first?"

John grinned. "I know you, Quill. You're just being polite. Let's try this. What are you going to do first?"

"Follow the cows," Quill said promptly. "You're right about that, just as you were right about 'follow the money' in the Peterson case. And that's the big connection here, isn't it? The cows. First, we have the two rivals, Colonel Calhoun and Royal Rossiter. Both of them have been wrangling over who owns the right to what bull, have you noticed? Second, we have Harland Peterson, the slaughterhouse zoning problem, and the horrible CarolAnn Spinoza. Third, we have the people from Q.U.A.C.K., which also involves the awful CarolAnn. And finally, there's the Russians. Who are suspiciously eager to corner the cattle for themselves, in my view."

"They haven't behaved suspiciously, have they?" John asked.

"Ha," Quill said. "They're capitalist Russians. What could be more suspicious than that?" She wriggled her eyebrows. "I la-hove thees kontree."

"Very funny. So, what's your game plan?"

"Interrogation," Quill said promptly. "We ask questions of anyone who'll answer them. First, I want to talk
to poor Mrs. Rossiter tomorrow morning. Then I want to
speak to Colonel Calhoun."

"And you'd like me to talk to Laura Crest."

"To find out more about the cows. Yes!" Quill was delighted. With this kind of partner, her investigation could go very well. "Now, we need some background searches on both the—um—deceased. So when Myles called, I asked him."

The name fell like shrapnel between them. John's face closed up. Quill looked at her thumbs. There was a bit of artist's charcoal under her nail. Max nudged her knees and barked for the rest of the Devonshire cream.

"When is he planning on coming back?"

"As soon as this case is wrapped up. He's not sure. A week. Maybe." John took her hand in his. The en
gagement ring Myles had given her was elegantly simple,
two sapphires on either side of a small diamond. John drew his finger down her palm. Quill clasped her hand convulsively.

"Why did you call me?"

She forced herself to look at him. "Partly because I was in a temper. Marge changed the Inn. It's her right to change the Inn. I hadn't realized until I saw it, talked to her, examined what it was that I really want out of life, how much all the work that went into the design and running the place had meant to me. I just lost it." He touched her red hair. She took a deep breath. "Partly because I can't believe how much I've missed you these last two months."

"What does that mean for me?" He looked away. "I can't stand it if you're frivolous, Quill."

"I've never felt less frivolous in my life." She needed to move. She got up and walked restlessly around the kitchen. Max followed her for a circuit or two, then went
back to sleep on the floor. "You were always there, John. You were always so much a part of the Inn and the fabric
of life. Then you were gone." She snapped her fingers. "Poof. Like that. At first, I didn't think I minded. At first, I told myself that in any event, this job, this opportunity, was the best thing that could have happened to you. Your career at the Inn wasn't much. Even I knew mat, as much as I love the place. And Meg told me I was responsible for keeping you here, even though I didn't know it. Or rather," she added, her voice low, "I knew it and didn't admit it. So. I began to realize that you weren't there to talk to. And that it was a great grief to me. I remember exactly when it hit me. This perfectly awful family of three came in for lunch. A preppy kid who must have been on his way to Cornell and his care
fully well-dressed parents. They complained about every
thing. The table, the temperature of the ice water. Anyway, they sent back Bjarne's sour cream grapes, you know that dish he does with caramelized brown sugar. First time Bjarne's ever had that happen, even though it happens in the life of every chef—even Meg. The grapes were sour, they said. Not at the peak of perfection. Besides, they were Thompson grapes and oh, I don't know. Anyway they didn't want to pay for the meal. That type, you know? Maxed out on the credit cards and don't realize until halfway through the wine how expensive the bill is going to be. But what capped it was, well, Doreen was heading up the wait staff that day."

"Uh-oh."

Quill began to giggle in spite of herself. "Bjarne came
out and started to yell in Swedish. Or maybe it was Finn
ish.
I
don't know. The woman, skinny, face-lift, that sort of streaky frosted blond hair, said that they should have known the minute an old lady waited on them that this wasn't a top of the line place. So they threw her two pennies for a tip and left in a huff. Or started to leave in a huff."

"And?"

"Oh, dear. Oh,
dear.
I wish you could have seen Doreen."

"The mop and bucket?"

"She hadn't emptied from washing the floor that morning. I had to pay for dry-cleaning that kid's double-breasted navy blue blazer, but my gosh it was worth it." She stopped laughing. "And I thought, John will get such a kick out of this. I turned to tell you. And you weren't there." John didn't say anything for so long that she began to blush. "What? That is, what's your job like? Is it satisfying?"

"A lot of meetings. I dress in a three-piece suit. I'm working with a team on an international acquisition now."

"And this nurse?"

"Very nice woman."

"So you've made a life for yourself."

"I have, Quill. I'm not a fool. I'm not self-destructive, not in the way I was when I was younger and drinking. Of course I've made a life for myself."

And what is this, then? The knock at my door last
night. The tension I felt in you when we walked together
this morning. She didn't say this aloud. She couldn't. She didn't know what it was, either.

"If there's a chance for me, Quill, you must tell me now."

"There is," she said, and went back up to bed.

"My Royal. My Roy!" the widow cried. She was sur
rounded by a respectful circle of Hemlockians in the Tav
ern Lounge. Or what used to be the Tavern Lounge. It was just after ten o'clock, a respectful time of day, Quill thought, to call on the grieving Mrs. Rossiter. She'd brought freesia and white roses. Esther West, who had
diversified into flowers, suggested the tasteful addition of a tiny cowboy Stetson in the bouquet. Quill had declined.

"Hit me again, Nate." Mrs. Rossiter pushed a beer and shot glass across the bar. "And pour for my friends." The mayor demurred. Mrs. Mayor had a frozen look on her face. A sheaf of daisies lay in her lap. Harland Peterson and Marge looked at each other, shrugged, and held out their coffee cups in front of Nate.

The widow, a healthy brunette in her mid-forties, ex
hibited that curious phenomenon known to Quill and her
sister as "big hair." She wore it long, past her shoulders,
and it was pouffed and sprayed at right angles to her face.
She resembled a chrysanthemum. She wore a white denim top decorated with sequined spurs, saddles, and pistols. Her feet were small, in bright red strappy shoes that wrapped around the ankle. Her white jeans were so tight that Quill could see where she might want to lose a few pounds.

"Yo, Quill," Harland said.

"Harland, Marge."

"Please join us, Quill," Adela Henry said.
"Please:'

"As a matter of fact, Mother," Elmer said, "I think you said you had to make that call on your sister."

"You are correct, Mayor, I did." Adela rose to the full majesty of her five-foot-three. "Good day to you, Mrs. Um."

"Good day to you," Mrs. Rossiter sobbed. "But it's not a good day for my sweetie."

"No, indeed." Adela adjusted her hat. "Come, Mayor. Marge, are you and Harland joining us?"

"Hell, no," said Harland, who was gazing at the widow in frank fascination. "I want to see if she falls off that bar stool after that third shot and a beer."

"Me, too," Marge said.