A Taste for Murder (4 page)
Read A Taste for Murder Online
Authors: Claudia Bishop
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Detectives, #Women Sleuths, #Cooking, #New York (State), #Unknown, #Cookery, #Historical Reenactments, #Hotels
"Now you got the memo, you got no excuse, Quill," said Marge.
"MAVIS !" said Mrs. Hallenbeck loudly.
"All right, all right," Mavis replied, flustered. "Marge. I cain't take time to talk to you now, but I'll see you soon, you hear?"
"Right." Marge nodded ponderously. "We got old times to talk about."
"Northeast manager of what?" said Quill, hoping to divert Marge's attention from further bellicose thunderings about salmonella.
"You got some more damn fools wantin' to eat here," said Marge. "C'mon, Mave, I'll walk out with you."
Quill turned a distracted glance to the maitre d' station. Tom Peterson was waiting there patiently. John was nowhere in sight.
" 'Lo, Tom," said Marge as she walked by. "Stay away from the Italian puddin'." Marge disappeared in the direction of the front door. Mavis supported the miffed Mrs. Hallenbeck up the stairs. Quill wondered if she'd actually serve time if she gave Marge a fat lip.
"I should have made reservations," said Tom Peterson. "Is the kitchen still open?"
"Oh, sure, Tom." Quill picked up a menu. "How many in your party?"
"Just one other. He's looking at the mural in the men's room. He'll be out in a moment."
Quill took another menu. "Would you like to sit near the window?" Tom followed her to the table next to Edward Lancashire. The Petersons had lived in Hemlock Falls for close to three hundred years, their fortunes fluctuating with the business competency of each generation. A shrewd nineteenth-century Peterson had boosted the family fortune for some considerable period of time through investments in railroads. Tom, whose pale eyes and attenuated frame were a diluted version of his richer ancestor, had stuck with the transportation business after his brief excursion into the hotel with Marge; Gil's Buick partnership was part of Tom's larger trucking firm.
Quill seated Tom, then banged into the kitchen with Baumer's order in one hand. "Hey!" she said to her sister. "I quit."
Meg stood at the Aga. She'd inherited their father's rich dark hair and gray eyes, along with his volatile Welsh temper. Quill was an expert at reading her sister's moods; Meg's hair stood on end, which meant that the cooking was going well.
"The sauces are really behaving," said Meg, ignoring the familiar imperative. "I think it's the weather. I wasn't sure about the dessert for the Chamber lunch, though. Damn mint leaves kept wilting. Got the sugar syrup too hot, I guess."
"The food was great. The meeting was kind of a pain in the rear."
Meg raised an eyebrow in question. "Myles nominated guess who to be squashed artistically under a barn door. Under the current circumstances, that's a consummation to be wished for devoutly. Probably because of the consummation devoutly wished for by the jerk at table seven."
"Uh-oh," said Meg. She grinned, shook her head, and skill- fully ladled three perfect brandied orange slices over a crisply browned game hen. "Don't tell me you got hooked into playing Clarissa this year."
"Julie Offenbach is sick," said Quill gloomily. She sighed and consulted her order pad. "We've got one more order. One medium-rare New York marinated in fungicide. No veg. Double cholesterol on the potato. Table seven."
"Mr. Baumer?"
"Yes indeedy. He almost forced me to break my number one rule."
"I thought the number one rule was don't hit the help."
"That's number two. Number one is don't piss off the patrons." Quill flopped into the rocking chair by the fireplace. "It's been a long day. I've still got to pay bills and go over the accounting with John before I go to bed. And my feet hurt." She glanced at her sister, wondering how and when to bring up the raw egg ban.
Meg, indifferent to the business side of the Inn, sniffed appreciatively at the copper pot filled with orange sauce on the stove. Her brown hair was shoved back from her forehead by a bright yellow sweatband. She liked to be comfortable when she cooked, and wore her usual chef's gear - a tattered Duke University sweatshirt, leggings, and a well-worn pair of sneakers. She looked at her sister's elegant feet. "It's those shoes, kiddo. Handmade Italian leather is the worst possible thing for your disposition. Want to borrow a pair of sneakers?"
"I want to borrow a life." Quill pushed the rocker in motion and closed her eyes. "Preferably on a beach somewhere. In the Caribbean. With a gorgeous twenty-year-old lifeguard and an endless supply of rum punch."
"Umm. I've heard that song before. And what about Myles? Face it. You love it here." Meg piped potato rosettes around the base of the bird, added two rings of spiced apple to the brandied orange slices, and presented the platter. "Ta dah! For table twelve. Bless his little heart. Ordered all my specialties, including game hen stuffed with The Sausage that made us famous."
Quill got up and took the platter. "Meg. About table twelve..."
Meg placed a silver dome over the bird. "You said he was cute."
"Very cute. The sort that could take us both away from all this."
"Rich? Single? Got a yacht?"
"No, the sort that could take us away from all this because I think he might be from the D.O.H."
Meg scowled. "What are you saying?"
"I'm not sure. But he was scribbling notes. And he ordered the Caesar salad and the Steak Tartare" - Quill took a deep breath - "and I wouldn't put it past Marge Schmidt and her creepy pal to have called them after that memo about the salmonella came out. She showed up here with the memo not ten minutes ago. Although I don't see how he could have gotten here so fast. Meg, you'll have to stop with the raw eggs. Just temporarily."
Meg slammed down her wooden spoon, marched to the swinging doors to the dining room, pushed them open, and peered through. She looked back at her sister. "That's an Armani, or I'm a short-order cook. People from the D.O.H. wear polyester."
"Yes, but is he taking notes?"
Meg peered out the door again. "How should I know? He's holding the Merlot by the stem. He's swirling the wine. He's inhaling it." She shrieked suddenly. "Quill! He's taking notes!"
"I told you he was taking notes." She looked over Meg's head into the dining room. "Oh, damn. There's Tom Peterson ready to order. Where's John!"
Meg let the doors close and said tensely, "L 'Aperitif! You know, 'The Magazine to Read Before You Dine.' "
"I know L 'Aperitif; Meg." Quill patted her sister's shoulder soothingly. "Forget it. I'll just go out and get Peterson set up."
Meg tore her sweatband from her hair and wound it around both hands. "I'm going to scream."
"Meg..."
"It's been eighteen months since we were last reviewed, Quill. Oh, God. And that managing editor hates me. She hates me. You know what they said in that article?"
"They love you, Meg. You're the only three-star..."
"My tournedos were dry! That's what they said. That I overcook my beef!" She grabbed the game hen out of Quill's hands, stamped to the stove, and ladled more brandied orange juice over the hen, drenching the potatoes. "There! That'll teach the sons of bitches to call my cooking dry!"
"Meg!" Quill grabbed the platter back. "You have absolutely no proof that this guy's a food critic."
"Well, you thought he was from the Department of Health! In an Armani suit!" She shoved Quill toward the dining room. "You go out there. You find out what kind of review he's going to give me. If he dares even hint that that bird is dry, I'll personally shove the rest of his bloody meal down his bloody throat!"
Table twelve faced the window overlooking the gorge. Edward Lancashire's eyes crinkled at the comers when he smiled. They crinkled as Quill set the game hen in front of him. "Looks great."
"Thank you."
He looked around the dining room. Quill noticed his wedding ring, and discarded the possibility of a nice flirtation with Meg. "Not bad for a Thursday night," he said. "You must do pretty well."
"We do. Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Lancashire?"
He forked a piece of the game hen. His eyes widened. "This is terrific. That's tarragon. Maybe a touch of Italian parsley? And mint. Excellent." He swallowed, and waved his fork at the chair opposite. "Dining room closes at ten-thirty, doesn't it? It's past that now. Have a seat."
"The owners don't care for the help fraternizing with guests." He looked up, his eyes shrewd. She smiled. "What? Do I have a sign that says 'Owner-Manager'?"
"No. But there's a bronze plaque in the front that reads 'Your hosts, Sarah and Margaret Quilliam.' And your name tag says 'Quill'."
"I might be their impoverished cousin from Des Moines, living on the bounty of relatives, pinch-hitting as manager and eking out a bare existence as a waitress."
"The uniform doesn't fit," he continued unperturbed, "and a woman wearing a three-hundred-dollar pair of shoes wouldn't voluntarily wear a dress that was too big across the hips - and too tight across - " He stopped, as Quill frowned indignantly. "Sorry. You had enough of that this afternoon." He nodded towards Baumer, happily swigging down a final Manhattan. "Besides, I saw your show in New York a few years ago. Your picture was on the poster."
"Oh. That."
"Yes. You aren't painting anymore?"
"Some," she said, deliberately vague. "I don't have much time during the season. Are you staying with us long?"
"Depends on the food." He smiled, and Quill's heart gave an excited thump. He was asking enough questions to qualify as a food critic. Although he was awfully thin. Quill worried about the skinny part. But Meg was skinny, and she was the greatest chef in the state.
"Then you're not here for History Days?" He raised an interrogative eyebrow. "Hemlock Falls' biggest tourist attraction. Featuring Central New York's only three-star gourmet restaurant. Among other attractions."
He laughed a little. "Other attractions?"
"Craft booths and everybody in town dressed up like the Empress Josephine and Napoleonic soldiers. It's the wrong century of course, but the Ladies Auxiliary decided a long time ago that Empire costumes are prettier than Colonial." She cleared her throat a little self-consciously. "I may be prejudiced, but I think the reputation of the Inn has a lot to do with History Days' success. We're booked a year in advance for the whole week. We were even written up in the Times last year in the Sunday travel section. Maybe you saw it?" She leaned forward anxiously. "How's the sausage; stuffing in the game hen?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?" she said worriedly. "It's my sister's recipe, you know. Margaret Quilliam. L 'Aperitif wrote an article about her when we opened up two years ago. Maybe you saw that, too. 'Engorged at the Gorge'? Meg received Central New York's only three-star rating. Some people think it's time she was given a four. She's terrific, don't you think?"
"I'm not much of a gourmet," he said apologetically, "tastes great to me."
Quill calmed down. She'd pushed him too far. "Anything you need, just ask us."
"Coffee would be nice."
"Coffee. I'll have it here in a minute. Freshly brewed, of course."
Quill signaled to Kathleen Kiddermeister, who was clearing the Hallenbeck table, to take the Peterson order, and swept back into the kitchen. Meg sat nervously in the rocker, her feet up, smoking a forbidden cigarette. She jumped up and demanded, "Well?"
"It's L 'Aperitif."
Meg turned pale.
"He registered as Edward Lancashire. I've never seen an Edward Lancashire byline in L'Aperitif Probably a pseudonym."
"Now? Now!? The week of History Days. Oh, God."
"Meg! I'm not positively sure it's L 'Aperitif..."
"Oh, God."
"... but we are overdue for a review."
"Oh, God."
"And he's asking very gourmet-type questions. He wants coffee. I'll make sure the whipped cream is fresh... and the cinnamon sticks... fill the bowl of cinnamon sticks."
"Why not the week after next? Oh, God."
"I'll tell Kathleen to make sure the orange juice is fresh- squeezed tomorrow morning. What's the room service breakfast?"
"Blueberry muffins. It's July, remember? Oh, God."
"Take a deep breath."
Meg took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.
Quill patted her back. "We've survived Health Department notices, cranky widows, horny businessmen, drunks, even that kitchen fire last year - and the quality of your cooking's never dropped! Right?"
"Right."
"So!" Quill smiled affectionately at her. "What could happen that the two of us can't handle? You, the cooking genius. Me, the business genius."
John Raintree came through the door. He looked at Quill, his face grim. "That woman that checked in with the widow? The one with the stiff hair?"
"Yes, John. Mavis Collinwood. I moved both of them to three-fourteen."
"I've called the police. She's gone over the edge of the balcony in three-fourteen. To the gorge."
-3-
"I just don't have the littlest idea what happened!" Mavis slumped plaintively on the yellow-and-blue couch in front of the fireplace in Suite 314.
Mavis had been found dangling over the lip of the gorge, like a baby in a stork's beak. Her patent leather belt had caught on one of the joists which fixed the balcony to the side of the building. Mrs. Hallenbeck, with great presence of mind, had taken a sheet from one of the beds, wrapped it around Mavis' stomach, then tied the other end to the handle of the French door. Mavis' wildly swinging hands had scratched her cheek.
The volunteer firemen found Mavis' predicament hilarious. Herbie Minstead and his crew winched Mavis off the balcony with the fire truck ladder, and shaking their heads, left for the Croh Bar and a restorative glass of beer at Quill's expense. Myles and two of his uniformed officers were exploring the balcony. Mrs. Hallenbeck sat upright and disapproving by the open French doors. Meg jigged from one foot to the other in a corner with John Raintree. Doc Bishop, the young internist who treated most of Hemlock Falls, bent over Mavis. Clearly suppressing his amusement, he straightened up and wiped a bit of blood off his surgical gloves with one of the expensive peach towels from the bathroom.
"Is she going to be all right?" asked Quill. "Scrapes and bruises; that's about it. No evidence of oxygen deprivation. She wasn't high enough." He grinned. Quill looked at him in exasperation; his expression sobered. "Sorry, Quill. It could have been a real tragedy. If her belt hadn't caught onto the joist like it did, she could have gone into the river, but it is ten feet deep there. She would have floated like a cork down to the sluiceway and been able to climb out."
Quill dropped to her knees beside Mavis. Her knees were scraped and bloody, the tom pantyhose gritty with concrete dust from the balcony. Her cheeks were scratched, her makeup smeared, and her expression furious.
"MAVIS !" said Mrs. Hallenbeck loudly.
"All right, all right," Mavis replied, flustered. "Marge. I cain't take time to talk to you now, but I'll see you soon, you hear?"
"Right." Marge nodded ponderously. "We got old times to talk about."
"Northeast manager of what?" said Quill, hoping to divert Marge's attention from further bellicose thunderings about salmonella.
"You got some more damn fools wantin' to eat here," said Marge. "C'mon, Mave, I'll walk out with you."
Quill turned a distracted glance to the maitre d' station. Tom Peterson was waiting there patiently. John was nowhere in sight.
" 'Lo, Tom," said Marge as she walked by. "Stay away from the Italian puddin'." Marge disappeared in the direction of the front door. Mavis supported the miffed Mrs. Hallenbeck up the stairs. Quill wondered if she'd actually serve time if she gave Marge a fat lip.
"I should have made reservations," said Tom Peterson. "Is the kitchen still open?"
"Oh, sure, Tom." Quill picked up a menu. "How many in your party?"
"Just one other. He's looking at the mural in the men's room. He'll be out in a moment."
Quill took another menu. "Would you like to sit near the window?" Tom followed her to the table next to Edward Lancashire. The Petersons had lived in Hemlock Falls for close to three hundred years, their fortunes fluctuating with the business competency of each generation. A shrewd nineteenth-century Peterson had boosted the family fortune for some considerable period of time through investments in railroads. Tom, whose pale eyes and attenuated frame were a diluted version of his richer ancestor, had stuck with the transportation business after his brief excursion into the hotel with Marge; Gil's Buick partnership was part of Tom's larger trucking firm.
Quill seated Tom, then banged into the kitchen with Baumer's order in one hand. "Hey!" she said to her sister. "I quit."
Meg stood at the Aga. She'd inherited their father's rich dark hair and gray eyes, along with his volatile Welsh temper. Quill was an expert at reading her sister's moods; Meg's hair stood on end, which meant that the cooking was going well.
"The sauces are really behaving," said Meg, ignoring the familiar imperative. "I think it's the weather. I wasn't sure about the dessert for the Chamber lunch, though. Damn mint leaves kept wilting. Got the sugar syrup too hot, I guess."
"The food was great. The meeting was kind of a pain in the rear."
Meg raised an eyebrow in question. "Myles nominated guess who to be squashed artistically under a barn door. Under the current circumstances, that's a consummation to be wished for devoutly. Probably because of the consummation devoutly wished for by the jerk at table seven."
"Uh-oh," said Meg. She grinned, shook her head, and skill- fully ladled three perfect brandied orange slices over a crisply browned game hen. "Don't tell me you got hooked into playing Clarissa this year."
"Julie Offenbach is sick," said Quill gloomily. She sighed and consulted her order pad. "We've got one more order. One medium-rare New York marinated in fungicide. No veg. Double cholesterol on the potato. Table seven."
"Mr. Baumer?"
"Yes indeedy. He almost forced me to break my number one rule."
"I thought the number one rule was don't hit the help."
"That's number two. Number one is don't piss off the patrons." Quill flopped into the rocking chair by the fireplace. "It's been a long day. I've still got to pay bills and go over the accounting with John before I go to bed. And my feet hurt." She glanced at her sister, wondering how and when to bring up the raw egg ban.
Meg, indifferent to the business side of the Inn, sniffed appreciatively at the copper pot filled with orange sauce on the stove. Her brown hair was shoved back from her forehead by a bright yellow sweatband. She liked to be comfortable when she cooked, and wore her usual chef's gear - a tattered Duke University sweatshirt, leggings, and a well-worn pair of sneakers. She looked at her sister's elegant feet. "It's those shoes, kiddo. Handmade Italian leather is the worst possible thing for your disposition. Want to borrow a pair of sneakers?"
"I want to borrow a life." Quill pushed the rocker in motion and closed her eyes. "Preferably on a beach somewhere. In the Caribbean. With a gorgeous twenty-year-old lifeguard and an endless supply of rum punch."
"Umm. I've heard that song before. And what about Myles? Face it. You love it here." Meg piped potato rosettes around the base of the bird, added two rings of spiced apple to the brandied orange slices, and presented the platter. "Ta dah! For table twelve. Bless his little heart. Ordered all my specialties, including game hen stuffed with The Sausage that made us famous."
Quill got up and took the platter. "Meg. About table twelve..."
Meg placed a silver dome over the bird. "You said he was cute."
"Very cute. The sort that could take us both away from all this."
"Rich? Single? Got a yacht?"
"No, the sort that could take us away from all this because I think he might be from the D.O.H."
Meg scowled. "What are you saying?"
"I'm not sure. But he was scribbling notes. And he ordered the Caesar salad and the Steak Tartare" - Quill took a deep breath - "and I wouldn't put it past Marge Schmidt and her creepy pal to have called them after that memo about the salmonella came out. She showed up here with the memo not ten minutes ago. Although I don't see how he could have gotten here so fast. Meg, you'll have to stop with the raw eggs. Just temporarily."
Meg slammed down her wooden spoon, marched to the swinging doors to the dining room, pushed them open, and peered through. She looked back at her sister. "That's an Armani, or I'm a short-order cook. People from the D.O.H. wear polyester."
"Yes, but is he taking notes?"
Meg peered out the door again. "How should I know? He's holding the Merlot by the stem. He's swirling the wine. He's inhaling it." She shrieked suddenly. "Quill! He's taking notes!"
"I told you he was taking notes." She looked over Meg's head into the dining room. "Oh, damn. There's Tom Peterson ready to order. Where's John!"
Meg let the doors close and said tensely, "L 'Aperitif! You know, 'The Magazine to Read Before You Dine.' "
"I know L 'Aperitif; Meg." Quill patted her sister's shoulder soothingly. "Forget it. I'll just go out and get Peterson set up."
Meg tore her sweatband from her hair and wound it around both hands. "I'm going to scream."
"Meg..."
"It's been eighteen months since we were last reviewed, Quill. Oh, God. And that managing editor hates me. She hates me. You know what they said in that article?"
"They love you, Meg. You're the only three-star..."
"My tournedos were dry! That's what they said. That I overcook my beef!" She grabbed the game hen out of Quill's hands, stamped to the stove, and ladled more brandied orange juice over the hen, drenching the potatoes. "There! That'll teach the sons of bitches to call my cooking dry!"
"Meg!" Quill grabbed the platter back. "You have absolutely no proof that this guy's a food critic."
"Well, you thought he was from the Department of Health! In an Armani suit!" She shoved Quill toward the dining room. "You go out there. You find out what kind of review he's going to give me. If he dares even hint that that bird is dry, I'll personally shove the rest of his bloody meal down his bloody throat!"
Table twelve faced the window overlooking the gorge. Edward Lancashire's eyes crinkled at the comers when he smiled. They crinkled as Quill set the game hen in front of him. "Looks great."
"Thank you."
He looked around the dining room. Quill noticed his wedding ring, and discarded the possibility of a nice flirtation with Meg. "Not bad for a Thursday night," he said. "You must do pretty well."
"We do. Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Lancashire?"
He forked a piece of the game hen. His eyes widened. "This is terrific. That's tarragon. Maybe a touch of Italian parsley? And mint. Excellent." He swallowed, and waved his fork at the chair opposite. "Dining room closes at ten-thirty, doesn't it? It's past that now. Have a seat."
"The owners don't care for the help fraternizing with guests." He looked up, his eyes shrewd. She smiled. "What? Do I have a sign that says 'Owner-Manager'?"
"No. But there's a bronze plaque in the front that reads 'Your hosts, Sarah and Margaret Quilliam.' And your name tag says 'Quill'."
"I might be their impoverished cousin from Des Moines, living on the bounty of relatives, pinch-hitting as manager and eking out a bare existence as a waitress."
"The uniform doesn't fit," he continued unperturbed, "and a woman wearing a three-hundred-dollar pair of shoes wouldn't voluntarily wear a dress that was too big across the hips - and too tight across - " He stopped, as Quill frowned indignantly. "Sorry. You had enough of that this afternoon." He nodded towards Baumer, happily swigging down a final Manhattan. "Besides, I saw your show in New York a few years ago. Your picture was on the poster."
"Oh. That."
"Yes. You aren't painting anymore?"
"Some," she said, deliberately vague. "I don't have much time during the season. Are you staying with us long?"
"Depends on the food." He smiled, and Quill's heart gave an excited thump. He was asking enough questions to qualify as a food critic. Although he was awfully thin. Quill worried about the skinny part. But Meg was skinny, and she was the greatest chef in the state.
"Then you're not here for History Days?" He raised an interrogative eyebrow. "Hemlock Falls' biggest tourist attraction. Featuring Central New York's only three-star gourmet restaurant. Among other attractions."
He laughed a little. "Other attractions?"
"Craft booths and everybody in town dressed up like the Empress Josephine and Napoleonic soldiers. It's the wrong century of course, but the Ladies Auxiliary decided a long time ago that Empire costumes are prettier than Colonial." She cleared her throat a little self-consciously. "I may be prejudiced, but I think the reputation of the Inn has a lot to do with History Days' success. We're booked a year in advance for the whole week. We were even written up in the Times last year in the Sunday travel section. Maybe you saw it?" She leaned forward anxiously. "How's the sausage; stuffing in the game hen?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?" she said worriedly. "It's my sister's recipe, you know. Margaret Quilliam. L 'Aperitif wrote an article about her when we opened up two years ago. Maybe you saw that, too. 'Engorged at the Gorge'? Meg received Central New York's only three-star rating. Some people think it's time she was given a four. She's terrific, don't you think?"
"I'm not much of a gourmet," he said apologetically, "tastes great to me."
Quill calmed down. She'd pushed him too far. "Anything you need, just ask us."
"Coffee would be nice."
"Coffee. I'll have it here in a minute. Freshly brewed, of course."
Quill signaled to Kathleen Kiddermeister, who was clearing the Hallenbeck table, to take the Peterson order, and swept back into the kitchen. Meg sat nervously in the rocker, her feet up, smoking a forbidden cigarette. She jumped up and demanded, "Well?"
"It's L 'Aperitif."
Meg turned pale.
"He registered as Edward Lancashire. I've never seen an Edward Lancashire byline in L'Aperitif Probably a pseudonym."
"Now? Now!? The week of History Days. Oh, God."
"Meg! I'm not positively sure it's L 'Aperitif..."
"Oh, God."
"... but we are overdue for a review."
"Oh, God."
"And he's asking very gourmet-type questions. He wants coffee. I'll make sure the whipped cream is fresh... and the cinnamon sticks... fill the bowl of cinnamon sticks."
"Why not the week after next? Oh, God."
"I'll tell Kathleen to make sure the orange juice is fresh- squeezed tomorrow morning. What's the room service breakfast?"
"Blueberry muffins. It's July, remember? Oh, God."
"Take a deep breath."
Meg took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.
Quill patted her back. "We've survived Health Department notices, cranky widows, horny businessmen, drunks, even that kitchen fire last year - and the quality of your cooking's never dropped! Right?"
"Right."
"So!" Quill smiled affectionately at her. "What could happen that the two of us can't handle? You, the cooking genius. Me, the business genius."
John Raintree came through the door. He looked at Quill, his face grim. "That woman that checked in with the widow? The one with the stiff hair?"
"Yes, John. Mavis Collinwood. I moved both of them to three-fourteen."
"I've called the police. She's gone over the edge of the balcony in three-fourteen. To the gorge."
-3-
"I just don't have the littlest idea what happened!" Mavis slumped plaintively on the yellow-and-blue couch in front of the fireplace in Suite 314.
Mavis had been found dangling over the lip of the gorge, like a baby in a stork's beak. Her patent leather belt had caught on one of the joists which fixed the balcony to the side of the building. Mrs. Hallenbeck, with great presence of mind, had taken a sheet from one of the beds, wrapped it around Mavis' stomach, then tied the other end to the handle of the French door. Mavis' wildly swinging hands had scratched her cheek.
The volunteer firemen found Mavis' predicament hilarious. Herbie Minstead and his crew winched Mavis off the balcony with the fire truck ladder, and shaking their heads, left for the Croh Bar and a restorative glass of beer at Quill's expense. Myles and two of his uniformed officers were exploring the balcony. Mrs. Hallenbeck sat upright and disapproving by the open French doors. Meg jigged from one foot to the other in a corner with John Raintree. Doc Bishop, the young internist who treated most of Hemlock Falls, bent over Mavis. Clearly suppressing his amusement, he straightened up and wiped a bit of blood off his surgical gloves with one of the expensive peach towels from the bathroom.
"Is she going to be all right?" asked Quill. "Scrapes and bruises; that's about it. No evidence of oxygen deprivation. She wasn't high enough." He grinned. Quill looked at him in exasperation; his expression sobered. "Sorry, Quill. It could have been a real tragedy. If her belt hadn't caught onto the joist like it did, she could have gone into the river, but it is ten feet deep there. She would have floated like a cork down to the sluiceway and been able to climb out."
Quill dropped to her knees beside Mavis. Her knees were scraped and bloody, the tom pantyhose gritty with concrete dust from the balcony. Her cheeks were scratched, her makeup smeared, and her expression furious.
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