A Taste for Murder (9 page)

"The Devil's abroad tonight," said Doreen.
"Oh, it is not," said Meg. "Honestly, Doreen, just leave it to Myles. He'll do his usual bang-up investigation and clear it up in no time."
"Thorough, is he?" asked John.
"You haven't been with us long enough to see him in action," said Meg, "but he's just terrific. He was a senior-grade detective with the New York City police force before he moved here."
"He's too young to have retired," said John.
"He didn't retire, he quit," said Meg. "Just got fed to the back teeth. Said he was losing his sense of proportion. Thing is, he's got all kinds of great connections from his days on the force. What crime there is around here gets solved really fast."
"You didn't know about Myles, John?" asked Quill.
"Come to think of it, you two don't see much of each other," said Meg, "but you'll see him in action now. If Quill doesn't solve it first." She rolled her eyes at her sister.
John's face softened with what might have been a smile.
"I wish you luck, Quill. Here - " He dug his hand into his jeans pocket and dropped his Indian-head nickel into her palm. "Maybe this will help."
"From your grandfather, the Chief?" She wrapped her fingers around the coin. "Did you inherit any of his tracking skills? If we pooled our talents, we could solve this before Super Sheriff even files a report."
John was silent a moment. "I'll leave it to the experts. Good night, Quill, Meg." He touched Doreen briefly on the shoulder, an unusual gesture for him, and padded silently from the kitchen.
"Well, Hawkshaw, what now?" said Meg. "Shall we haul out the magnifying glass, the scene-of-the-crime kit, and the rubber hose?"
"The only thing I'm going to solve now is my fatigue. It's after one o'clock. I'm going to lock up and go to bed."
"I'll do it," said Doreen. "You look bushed. You too, Meg." She shook her head dourly, the omnipresent cigarette dripping ashes on Meg's wooden counter. "The Devil's presence is here tonight. Just like the Revrund Willy Max warned us in Boca Raton. I shall seek Satan our in the dark corners of this place."
"Be quiet about it," advised Meg, "or you'll wake up the guests."
"Maybe some of 'em should be woke up," said Doreen smacking her lips. "See the signs for their ownselves."
"The only sign I want to see is the face of my alarm clock at six A.M. tomorrow," said Meg.
Quill, agreeing, went upstairs to bed, and fell into an exhausted sleep. She was awakened by the shrilling of the house phone.
"Miss Quilliam? Sarah?"
Groggy with sleep, Quill blinked at the bedside clock. "It's eight o'clock!" she said into the phone. "Damn!" She shook the clock. The alarm, which had been set for six, burst into the morning silence like a chain saw. Quill smacked it against the night table and the ringing stopped.
"Miss Quilliam? It's me, Dina. You know, at the front desk. I'm sorry to get you up."
"It's way past time to get up," said Quill. Her thoughts soggy, she said belatedly, "Why are you whispering?"
"It's the guests."
"What?"
Dina raised her voice. There was a suspicion of a shriek in it. "The guests! They're milling around here like... like... hornets."
"They're angry? What hap - Never mind. I'll be right down."
She grabbed the first clothes at hand, a denim skirt and a navy blue T-shirt, hastily dressed, and headed for the lobby. The orthodontist, his wife, their little boy, Mavis Collinwood, and Keith Baumer were clotted in front of Dina. They did resemble hornets after prey. They broke into a buzzing whine of exclamations as Quill descended the staircase.
"Here she is!" Dina said. Relief washed over her like water over a thirsty prospector. "Miss Quilliam, there's this sort of problem..." She trailed off helplessly.
"Why don't you go into my office, Dina, and take care of the phones. Have you called John?"
"Yes, but he didn't answer." "Call the kitchen and ask Meg to get someone to find him. Now - " She turned to the orthodontist, who seemed to have the lowest level of agitation. "How can I help you?"
"It's downright disgustin'!" interrupted Mavis Collinwood.
"Calm down, Mave," said Keith Baumer.
"Dr. Bolt, maybe you could explain?" said Quill.
"It's these messages. Little scraps of paper pushed under our doors." He held out a piece of paper. Printed in large block letters at the top of the page was: CALL 1-800-222- PRAY! Beneath it, Quill read aloud, "The Lord sees all evil! The Lord hears all evil! Thou shalt not steal!"
The orthodontist's ten-year-old son burst into noisy wails.
"Adrian," said his mother. She shook his shoulder imperatively. "Stop that!"
Dr. Bolt avoided Quill's questioning look. "We were due to check out this morning, as you know. We packed our suitcases and went down for an early breakfast. When we came back, the room had been cleaned, and we find this message." His chest swelled with indignation. "Now, look here, Miss Quilliam. I do not condone Adrian's appropriation of towels and ashtrays as souvenirs. My wife and I have already discussed this with him. On the other hand, I must register a serious complaint about your housekeeping staff going through my little boy's belongings."
"Oh, dear," said Quill.
"And on my bathroom mirror?" said Mavis indignantly. "I jus' stepped out this mornin' for a walk with Mr. Baumer, and when I came back... well, I don' want to even repeat what was written on my bathroom mirror. In soap!"
"It didn't say anything about Detroit did it?" said Quill.
"Don't you get smart with me, Miss High-and-Mighty," said Mavis. "I scrubbed that mirror clean. The ol' bat sees it, I'm out of a job."
"Where is Mrs. Hallenbeck?" asked Quill.
"Out for a walk," said Mavis sullenly. "Says she's been complimented frequently on her complexion and a walk helps. Lord!"
Quill apologized to the orthodontist, the orthodontist's wife, and gave a souvenir ashtray to the little boy, who stopped wailing and demanded a towel, too. She couldn't bring herself to apologize to Baumer. She took ten percent off the orthodontist's bill. She soothed Mavis, who flounced upstairs to see to Mrs. Hallenbeck, who mayor may not have returned from her walk, and advised her to destroy any messages that may have been shoved under the old lady's door.
When the lobby was clear of guests, she took the master key, went up to Baumer's room and let herself in. A slip fluttered from beneath the door: AND HE CURSED THEM WITH MANY CURSES! THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT ARE UPON HIM! After a moment's thought, she checked the dresser drawers (clear of noxious items), the bathtub (ditto), and then stripped the bed. She removed two dead grasshoppers, a garden slug, and a lively cricket from between the sheets.
She marched to the kitchen. Meg was busy with a cheese souffl‚, an apprentice holding a large whisk, and a copper bowl. Doreen, she said in response to her sister's evenly worded questions, had left for a Bible class or something. "No! The egg whites have to peak before you fold in the yolks or the damn thing'll be flatter than my chest!" She turned her attention to Quill, who had reiterated her desire to see Doreen. "Can't this wait?"
Quill began an explanation.
"Hand it over to John," Meg interrupted. "He's pretty good with her."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know!" said Meg. "Quill, will you get out of the kitchen? Whatever she did can wait until after the breakfast crowd leaves."
Quill sat in the dining room. She ate an omelette aux fines herbes, grapefruit broiled in brown sugar, and a scone. She drank two cups of coffee. She decided that she wouldn't string Doreen up by her thumbs. She even began to find the messages funny. The second cup of coffee convinced her that all Doreen needed was a new enthusiasm. Maybe she could suggest crossstitch.
By nine, John still hadn't shown up, and she went to look for him. None of the staff had seen him. She knocked on the door of his rooms and received no answer. She went outside, thinking that perhaps he'd gone down to see Mike, the groundskeeper, but Mike was trimming the boxwood, and admitted he hadn't seen John at all that morning.
It was a glorious morning. The air was soft, the sun benign. The display of dahlias by the drive proved irresistible. Feeling a bit guilty, Quill took some secateurs from the gardening shed and spent a contented hour clipping dead heads, weeding, and aerating roots.
The mindless and beneficial calm that overtakes the dedicated gardener was interrupted by Dina. Quill sat back on her heels and smiled happily at her. "John show up?"
"No." Dina, who was affecting the seventies look this year, chewed at the ends of her long brown hair.
"Not more Old Testament doom, death, and disaster? Doreen isn't even here."
"No. Can you come to the office?"
Quill stored the secateurs, the trowel, and the gloves, and followed Dina back to the Inn.
"I heard about last night, and the night before that," she said, "and I thought, well, I'll just let her garden peacefully for a bit. But, Quill, this is a real mess. Maybe I should have come to get you before this."
"What's a real mess?"
"These cancellations!" The phone buzzed angrily. Dina groaned. Puzzled, Quill picked up the phone and answered, "Hemlock Inn, may I help you?"
An outraged woman demanded the manager.
"I'm one of the partners in the Inn," said Quill. "Can I help you?"
Why, demanded the voice, had her tour group received a last-minute cancellation notice this morning? Did she, Quill, have any idea how disruptive this was? Did she, Quill, have any idea of the contortions required to find a last-minute booking elsewhere? As far as Golden Years Tours was concerned, the Hemlock Falls Inn was off their promotional literature. Forever. And everybody else in the tour business was going to hear about it. Immediately.
Quill hung up the phone.
"Another one?" said Dina. "That'll be the fourth."
"Have you seen John this morning?"
"Nope."
"Do you have the bookings ledger?"
"Couldn't find it. It's not behind the front desk, where I usually keep it, and it's not in the desk here. I know I had it this morning. It was on the counter, because all those people were checking out."
"There's a copy on disk in the computer," said Quill carefully. "Dina, I know you worked last night, but before you go, could you help me pull up the records on the PC and call everyone that's booked for this week? Just let them know that a... prank of some kind has been pulled. Tell them to disregard any phone calls they may have had. Tell them you're calling to confirm the reservations. If we split the list up, we can maybe salvage the week."
By noon, Quill thanked the exhausted Dina, sent her home, and totaled up the losses for the next business quarter. The caller had been busy; a dozen calls to the major revenue-producing tours had been made between eight-thirty and ten. The message in each case had been brief: the Inn was calling for John Raintree, to cancel confirmed reservations. Very sorry, but there's been a major problem. The Inn was closed. To those few customers who'd been loyal enough to inquire when the Inn would reopen, the message was curt: the Inn would not reopen.
-6-
At first baffled, Quill searched the grounds, talked to the staff, and made phone calls to a few of John's accounting clients. By two o'clock, Quill's concern for John's whereabouts had escalated to irritation.
Quill went to the first-floor rooms John had occupied for the past year. She knocked, received no answer, then used her master key. She'd been in the rooms no more than two or three times, and each time wondered at the Spartan quality of John's personal life. Three suits hung in the closet; one winter, two summer. Two sports coats. A modest number of white shirts, a handful of ties, and other necessities barely filled the bureau drawer and the bathroom cabinet.
A photograph of a pretty Indian girl leaning on the hood of a car stood on the night stand; the print had faded a little. The car was a 1978 aids Delta 88. John's diploma awarding him an MBA from the Rochester Institute of Technology was propped on the small desk. There were books on the shelf under the TV. Aztec, by Gary Jennings; Beggars in Spain, by Nancy Kress; dozens of science fiction and historical novels. There were perhaps half a dozen self-help books: all of them dealt with alcoholism.
Quill addressed the photograph. "I do not believe that this man did this," she said. "There is no way that I will ever believe John did this." The dark eyes stared back at her.
"We've got three questions to answer," Quill told her. "First one is, Where the hell is John? The second is, How did he get there? The third is, Who tried to pull the unfunniest joke in hotel history and blame it on him? Marge Schmidt? She wasn't even near the place this morning. Keith Baumer, playing tricks on his morning walk? Maybe Mavis-out of revenge for her fall from the balcony? When I get those answers, there won't be any more questions... just a major whack up the side of the head for whoever gets in my way."
Quill slammed outside to the gardens in a highly satisfying rage. She collared a clearly startled Mike the groundskeeper, who said No, he hadn't seen John; his car was gone, but he hadn't seen John leave. Balked, Quill went to find her sister.
"You're kidding!" said Meg. She was in the storeroom, stacking fresh vegetables in the wire bins. "Would you look at those Vidalias I got this morning? God, they're gorgeous! I'm putting French onion soup on the specials tonight."
"You can't, Meg," said Quill, momentarily distracted. "You use raw egg in the stock."
"So? Makes it richer. Did the Buffalo Gourmet Club cancel? That's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one. Remember last year when they had that food fight in the bar?"
"That was the Kiwanis from Schenectady. Are you listening to me?"
Meg breathed on a tomato, polished it with the bottom of her T-shirt, and set it on the shelf. "Yes, sweetie. I'm listening to you. John's gone. About thirty per cent of the business is gone because somebody pulled a jerky joke. But the bank hasn't called the mortgage or anything, has it? The business will come back. And we can get another hotel manager - the Cornell School's filled with wannabees. I mean, look at the luck I've had with the sous chefs from there."
"And salmonella hasn't poisoned anybody - yet." Meg grinned and bit her lip. "Okay. I'll make onion souffl‚. Or maybe just chop it up fresh with these beefsteak tomatoes. They're the most beautiful tomato in the world, these beefsteaks."
Quill sat on a hundred-pound sack of rice and put her chin in her hands. "So what do you think I should do?"
"What can you do? Myles is right, don't fuss so much, Quill. John will come back with a perfectly logical explanation, and if he doesn't - done's done."