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
A Taste for Murder (3 page)
Quill counted to ten. "Would you check him in please, Dina? Enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Baumer."
He cocked his head, swept a look from her ankles to her chin, gave her a thumbs-up sign of approval, then leered at Dina. "Okay, dolly. You take American Express Traveller's Cheques?"
Quill looked longingly at the Japanese urn nearest Baumer's thick neck.
"Too heavy," said the man who'd been waiting behind Baumer. "Now, that replica of the Han funeral horse on the coffee table? Just the right size for a good whack."
Quill choked back a laugh. "Are you here to check in? Let me help you over here." He was, thought Quill, one of , the best-looking men she'd ever seen, with thick black hair attractively sprinkled with gray. He wore a beautifully tailored sports coat.
"Quill," Esther called, "we're going back to vote now."
"I don't mind waiting for young Dina, there," he said. "I'm I Edward Lancashire, by the way."
"We're looking forward to having you at the Inn, Mr. Lancashire."
"You go ahead to your vote. I'll be just fine." Quill went back to the conference room and sat down, a little breathless.
"Who was that?" hissed Esther. "The second one, I mean. The first one sounded horrible."
"The first one was horrible. Speaking of horrible, where's Marge?"
"In the kitchen." Quill froze. Esther looked at her watch. "This darn meeting's got to get over soon; I've got way too much to do on the costumes."
"The kitchen? Marge is in Meg's kitchen?"
"She was headed that way."
"Oh, God," said Quill. "I'll be right back."
Quill pushed open the kitchen door to silence, which meant one of two things: either Meg had discovered Marge among her recipe books and had killed her, or nobody was there.
The flagstone floor was clean and polished. The cobblestone fireplace in the comer, where Meg had a Maine grill to do her lobsters, crackled quietly behind the Thermo Glass doors that kept the heat from the rest of the kitchen. Meg's precious copper bowls and pans hung undisturbed in shiny rows from the pot hanger. No sign of either Marge or for that matter, her sister. Quill pulled at her lower lip, went to Meg's recipe cabinet, pulled out the lowest drawer, and flipped through the zs. Zuppa d'Inglese, zucchini, zarda, zabaglione. She edged the zabaglione card carefully out of the file. Was that a greasy thumbprint? It was. But was it Marge's or Meg's? And if it were Marge's, did that mean she was going to place a phone call to the Board of Health? She read the recipe gloomily. There it was in Meg's elegant script: four raw eggs per serving. She closed the file drawer and marched determinedly back to the conference room. It was empty, except for Myles.
"Where'd they all go?" Quill demanded. "Did they vote on whether or not to move the meetings to Marge's diner?"
"Since neither you nor Marge were here, Howie voted to table. Esther asked for an adjournment because she's still sewing costumes. I waited for you to see what you wanted to do tonight. Would you like to go to supper? Can you get away about eight-thirty?"
"Myles, can you take a fingerprint from a recipe card?"
"Yes, Quill," Myles said patiently. "Do you want to go to supper? I thought I'd make a stir-fry at my place."
"Where was Marge, when I wasn't here?"
"I don't know. She came back in here grinning and said she had to make a phone call. Why?"
Quill gazed at him thoughtfully. Myles had strong views on law and order. He had an annoying tendency to spout phrases like "due process" and "probable cause." Those gray eyes would get even icier if she asked him to arrest Marge for snooping. That strong jaw would set like an antilock brake at the merest suggestion of a phone tap on the Hemlock Home Diner. There was no way he'd test a recipe card for fingerprints without uncomfortable questions regarding the existence of an eggless zabaglione.
She decided to answer his first question, and solve the Marge problem herself. "Why don't you come by the kitchen for dinner about eleven, after we close? You made dinner last night. It's my turn."
"Fine." He kissed her on the temple. Quill wasn't fooled for a minute. This was a man who'd lock her in stir the instant she whacked Marge up the side of the head with Meg's skillet.
Halfway out the door, Myles turned to look at her. "You sure nothing's wrong? You're not coming down with anything, are you?" His eyes narrowed. "Wait. I know that look. You're fulminating."
"No," said Quill absently. "One of the waitresses is, though."
She gasped and glanced at her watch. "The second shift! It's after three o'clock! Damn!" She sprinted past him and ran down the hall.
-2-
Quill dashed through the lobby to the locker room at the back of the kitchen. The fresh odor of Meg's private stock of coffee filled the air, but there was no sign of her sister, just two assistants scrubbing pots at the triple sink. Quill grabbed a clean uniform and looked at her watch: three-ten. No time to go to her own quarters and change into more comfortable shoes. She changed her silk blouse and challis skirt for a freshly laundered uniform and swung into the dining room. Three tables were already occupied for tea. John stood at the opposite end, carefully polishing the silver tea urn.
"John, where's Meg?"
"Supervising the fish delivery in the back. Red fish in lime for the special tonight."
"I think Marge Schmidt went through the recipe file and found we use raw eggs in the zabaglione."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Thing is, I told her Meg had an eggless version."
"Even Marge isn't going to believe in eggless zabaglione."
He thought for a moment. "Dookie Shuttleworth might."
"Did you see Marge in the kitchen?"
"No. That what's-her-name - Mavis Collinwood - went through on her way out back." He rubbed harder at the tea urn, his lips tight. "Said she wanted to explore."
"Don't you think we ought to do something?"
"Like what?"
Quill wrapped a strand of hair around her finger and pulled on it.
"I don't know," she confessed. She let the curl spring back.
"Why did you book Mrs. Hallenbeck on the second floor when she'd asked for the best suite in the house three months in advance?"
John rubbed at a spot on the handle and didn't reply.
"And she's not mean," Quill continued. "Rather sweet, as a matter of fact. In terrific shape for her age. She's a little bossy, but God, at that age, that's allowed."
John shook his head. "Move them both to the first floor."
"Why?"
"Bad feeling."
"Oh." John's bad feelings were not to be taken lightly. "About what exactly? Isn't her credit good? She's paying for both of them. Should I check with American Express? I hate doing that."
John shrugged. "It's not money."
"What then, John?"
"Remember the guy from IBM?"
Quill took a deep breath. "Of course I remember the guy from IBM. Who around here doesn't?"
"Had a bad feeling about that, too."
"He was drunk. And high on coke. He fell over that balcony into the gorge by accident. I can't see Mrs. Hallenbeck stoned on a gallon of Rusty Nails smuggled into her room in a Thermos bottle, which is what that guy did."
"You're the boss." Quill knew that attitude: polite, courteous retreat. He looked at the open archway. "More guests. I'll seat them."
Quill's intention to grab a quick look at the script for Clarissa's speech, probe John for the real reason behind his discomfort with the widow and her companion, and finally, talk to Meg about the raw egg ban and the threat posed by Marge, got lost in the rush of the next six hours. The tea trade was followed by the Early Birds, patrons who took advantage of reduced-cost meals before seven o'clock, then the regular evening trade, and finally, at ten o'clock, a few late diners, Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mavis among them.
They ordered a dinner as enormous as their tea had been. Mavis requested a single glass of the house white, which she sipped all through the meal, and Mrs. Hallenbeck no liquor at all. On one of her trips to the kitchen, Quill hissed to John in passing, "They're both sober as judges."
Just after ten-thirty, Quill stopped to take a rapid survey of the tables. Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mavis were at table two by the big windows that overlooked the gardens. The man in his fifties at table seven was Keith Baumer, who'd said he was part of the overflow crowd from the sales convention at the Marriott on Route 15. Baumer slumped over the menu, smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes onto the rug. Table twelve held another sole diner - the dark, good-looking Edward Lancashire. After careful deliberation, he'd ordered some of the specialties that had made Meg's reputation: Caesar salad, Steak Tartare, Game Hen a la Quilliam. He finished his Caesar salad with a thoughtful expression, writing briefly in a notebook by his plate.. Quill hesitated, alarmed. He looked awfully well-dressed to be a Department of Health inspector, who tended to be weedy, with thin lips and polyester sports coats. The suit on the guy seated at twelve was an Armani. Could Department of Health inspectors afford Armani?
Quill went to Baumer to take his order, one eye mistrustfully on table twelve.
"Quill," Baumer purred, reaching up to lift her name tag away from her breast pocket. He let it fall back with a smirk. "Let me guess. The hair. Hair that red and curly has gotta be the reason. Looks soft, though, not prickly like porcupine quills."
Quill moved the ashtray nearer his cigarette with a pointed thump. She was tired. Her feet hurt. If Edward Lancashire was from the Department of Health, the Inn could be in trouble. She had Marge to fence with and Clarissa's stupid speech to memorize. It'd be another three hours before she could even think of going to bed. If this turkey pushed it, he was going to find out just how prickly she could be. She'd admired Mrs. Hallenbeck's beady stare. She tried it. Baumer jumped a little in his chair. She said politely, "Are you ready to order, sir? I can recommend the Red Fish in Lime, or the Ginger Soy Tenderloin. Either is delicious."
Baumer dropped the menu onto the table, knocking his knife and fork onto the floor. Quill bent over to pick them up. He slipped his hand past her knee up her thigh. She disengaged with the ease of long practice, took the place setting from table six, and laid fresh silverware next to his plate.
Baumer closed the leather-covered menu with an exaggerated pursing of his lips. "Hemlock Inn," he mused. He looked arch. Quill braced herself, then lip-synched silently with him, "Sure I can trust the chef?"
"We're named for the Hemlock Groves, Mr. Baumer, not the poisonous herb. You must have noticed the trees when driving in. A lot of our guests like to walk the path to the foot of the gorge at this time of year. The hemlocks are in full bloom."
She deflected the invitation to join him in a walk after dinner, with gritted teeth, and took his order for the New York strip, medium, no veg, extra sour cream and butter on the baked potato. She cheered up. That meal and the two Manhattans preceding it forecast a short life of waitress-harassing. She crossed the mauve carpeting toward the kitchen, and stopped at the Hallenbeck table. Mavis had teased her hair into a big bubble. The scent of hairspray fought with the perfume of the scarlet lilies in the middle of the table. "How is everything, Mavis, Mrs. Hallenbeck? Are you comfortable? Was your dinner all right?"
"It's just lovely here," said Mavis, "and the room is wonderful. The food! Why, it's just the best I've ever had."
"I am having hot water and lemon after my meal," pronounced Mrs. Hallenbeck. "It's a habit I acquired while traveling abroad with my husband." She lifted her chin. "We prefer England. Although this place is quite English, for an American restaurant." She paused and fixed Quill with a modified version of The Glare. "I assume there is no charge for the hot water?"
"No," said Quill. Then as she reflected on the probability of Mrs. Hallenbeck's next question, "Just for the meal itself."
"Mavis," said Mrs. Hallenbeck disapprovingly, "had the tournedos. Quite the most expensive thing on the menu."
Mavis blushed, and Quill said curiously, "Have you and Mavis been together very long, Mrs. Hallenbeck?"
"Mavis is my companion. We are both impoverished widows." She waved a gnarled hand at Quill. The third finger of her left hand held a diamond the size of an ice rink. "We are companions in loss, on an adventure. I assume that we are eligible for a senior citizen's discount?"
Quill ignored the latter half of this statement and said warmly, "I hope you both find adventure. You're going to stay for the whole week of Hemlock's History Days? Admission is free."
"We will consider it," said Mrs. Hallenbeck regally. She sat up straighter, if that were possible, and said, "Move, please. You are blocking my view of the entrance." Quill stepped sideways. "Mavis! I recognize that person. What is her name?"
Quill turned around and groaned. Marge Schmidt stumped in. She'd exchanged her blue bowling jacket for a pink one, which did nothing to soften her resemblance to an animated tank. Marge's turret eyes swung in their direction.
"Marge!" squealed Mavis. "Coo-ee!" She waved energetically.
"Mavis!" Marge bellowed. She marched up to the table. "So you made it okay!" Mavis got up. The two women embraced. Mavis squealed again. Marge thumped her back with bluff good humor.
"This is a friend of yours, Mavis?" said Mrs. Hallenbeck sternly. "She is dressed abominably. She is too fat."
Quill warmed to Mrs. Hallenbeck.
"You remember Marge Schmidt, Amelia. She ran the Northeast region for a couple of years before she quit to come home here. She runs a restaurant now."
"Northeast region of what?" said Quill.
"Brought that D.O.H. order for you, Quill," Marge said loudly. "'Bout the salmonella? You din't eat the Italian puddin', did you, Mave?"
"No, not yet," said Mavis, sounding alarmed.
"Nasty," said Marge with satisfaction. "Very nasty."
"Marge," said Quill, "dammit..."
"This food is bad?" said Mrs. Hallenbeck. "I don't believe we should pay for a meal if the food is bad."
"Here!" Marge rummaged in the pocket of her bowling jacket and thrust a creased paper at Quill.
Quill took it and said, "Marge, we are well aware..."
Marge grabbed it back. "I'll read it to you." Her lips moved and she muttered, "Shipment of beef tainted with E. coli, that ain't it. Here! Wait!" She took a deep breath, preparatory to another bellow.
Quill grabbed the memo, scanned it, and translated the governmentese which boiled down to John's statement of that afternoon: no more raw egg. "Now look, Marge..."
"I am ready to go up, Mavis." Mrs. Hallenbeck rapped the tabletop imperatively. "This person is loud. I am tired."
He cocked his head, swept a look from her ankles to her chin, gave her a thumbs-up sign of approval, then leered at Dina. "Okay, dolly. You take American Express Traveller's Cheques?"
Quill looked longingly at the Japanese urn nearest Baumer's thick neck.
"Too heavy," said the man who'd been waiting behind Baumer. "Now, that replica of the Han funeral horse on the coffee table? Just the right size for a good whack."
Quill choked back a laugh. "Are you here to check in? Let me help you over here." He was, thought Quill, one of , the best-looking men she'd ever seen, with thick black hair attractively sprinkled with gray. He wore a beautifully tailored sports coat.
"Quill," Esther called, "we're going back to vote now."
"I don't mind waiting for young Dina, there," he said. "I'm I Edward Lancashire, by the way."
"We're looking forward to having you at the Inn, Mr. Lancashire."
"You go ahead to your vote. I'll be just fine." Quill went back to the conference room and sat down, a little breathless.
"Who was that?" hissed Esther. "The second one, I mean. The first one sounded horrible."
"The first one was horrible. Speaking of horrible, where's Marge?"
"In the kitchen." Quill froze. Esther looked at her watch. "This darn meeting's got to get over soon; I've got way too much to do on the costumes."
"The kitchen? Marge is in Meg's kitchen?"
"She was headed that way."
"Oh, God," said Quill. "I'll be right back."
Quill pushed open the kitchen door to silence, which meant one of two things: either Meg had discovered Marge among her recipe books and had killed her, or nobody was there.
The flagstone floor was clean and polished. The cobblestone fireplace in the comer, where Meg had a Maine grill to do her lobsters, crackled quietly behind the Thermo Glass doors that kept the heat from the rest of the kitchen. Meg's precious copper bowls and pans hung undisturbed in shiny rows from the pot hanger. No sign of either Marge or for that matter, her sister. Quill pulled at her lower lip, went to Meg's recipe cabinet, pulled out the lowest drawer, and flipped through the zs. Zuppa d'Inglese, zucchini, zarda, zabaglione. She edged the zabaglione card carefully out of the file. Was that a greasy thumbprint? It was. But was it Marge's or Meg's? And if it were Marge's, did that mean she was going to place a phone call to the Board of Health? She read the recipe gloomily. There it was in Meg's elegant script: four raw eggs per serving. She closed the file drawer and marched determinedly back to the conference room. It was empty, except for Myles.
"Where'd they all go?" Quill demanded. "Did they vote on whether or not to move the meetings to Marge's diner?"
"Since neither you nor Marge were here, Howie voted to table. Esther asked for an adjournment because she's still sewing costumes. I waited for you to see what you wanted to do tonight. Would you like to go to supper? Can you get away about eight-thirty?"
"Myles, can you take a fingerprint from a recipe card?"
"Yes, Quill," Myles said patiently. "Do you want to go to supper? I thought I'd make a stir-fry at my place."
"Where was Marge, when I wasn't here?"
"I don't know. She came back in here grinning and said she had to make a phone call. Why?"
Quill gazed at him thoughtfully. Myles had strong views on law and order. He had an annoying tendency to spout phrases like "due process" and "probable cause." Those gray eyes would get even icier if she asked him to arrest Marge for snooping. That strong jaw would set like an antilock brake at the merest suggestion of a phone tap on the Hemlock Home Diner. There was no way he'd test a recipe card for fingerprints without uncomfortable questions regarding the existence of an eggless zabaglione.
She decided to answer his first question, and solve the Marge problem herself. "Why don't you come by the kitchen for dinner about eleven, after we close? You made dinner last night. It's my turn."
"Fine." He kissed her on the temple. Quill wasn't fooled for a minute. This was a man who'd lock her in stir the instant she whacked Marge up the side of the head with Meg's skillet.
Halfway out the door, Myles turned to look at her. "You sure nothing's wrong? You're not coming down with anything, are you?" His eyes narrowed. "Wait. I know that look. You're fulminating."
"No," said Quill absently. "One of the waitresses is, though."
She gasped and glanced at her watch. "The second shift! It's after three o'clock! Damn!" She sprinted past him and ran down the hall.
-2-
Quill dashed through the lobby to the locker room at the back of the kitchen. The fresh odor of Meg's private stock of coffee filled the air, but there was no sign of her sister, just two assistants scrubbing pots at the triple sink. Quill grabbed a clean uniform and looked at her watch: three-ten. No time to go to her own quarters and change into more comfortable shoes. She changed her silk blouse and challis skirt for a freshly laundered uniform and swung into the dining room. Three tables were already occupied for tea. John stood at the opposite end, carefully polishing the silver tea urn.
"John, where's Meg?"
"Supervising the fish delivery in the back. Red fish in lime for the special tonight."
"I think Marge Schmidt went through the recipe file and found we use raw eggs in the zabaglione."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Thing is, I told her Meg had an eggless version."
"Even Marge isn't going to believe in eggless zabaglione."
He thought for a moment. "Dookie Shuttleworth might."
"Did you see Marge in the kitchen?"
"No. That what's-her-name - Mavis Collinwood - went through on her way out back." He rubbed harder at the tea urn, his lips tight. "Said she wanted to explore."
"Don't you think we ought to do something?"
"Like what?"
Quill wrapped a strand of hair around her finger and pulled on it.
"I don't know," she confessed. She let the curl spring back.
"Why did you book Mrs. Hallenbeck on the second floor when she'd asked for the best suite in the house three months in advance?"
John rubbed at a spot on the handle and didn't reply.
"And she's not mean," Quill continued. "Rather sweet, as a matter of fact. In terrific shape for her age. She's a little bossy, but God, at that age, that's allowed."
John shook his head. "Move them both to the first floor."
"Why?"
"Bad feeling."
"Oh." John's bad feelings were not to be taken lightly. "About what exactly? Isn't her credit good? She's paying for both of them. Should I check with American Express? I hate doing that."
John shrugged. "It's not money."
"What then, John?"
"Remember the guy from IBM?"
Quill took a deep breath. "Of course I remember the guy from IBM. Who around here doesn't?"
"Had a bad feeling about that, too."
"He was drunk. And high on coke. He fell over that balcony into the gorge by accident. I can't see Mrs. Hallenbeck stoned on a gallon of Rusty Nails smuggled into her room in a Thermos bottle, which is what that guy did."
"You're the boss." Quill knew that attitude: polite, courteous retreat. He looked at the open archway. "More guests. I'll seat them."
Quill's intention to grab a quick look at the script for Clarissa's speech, probe John for the real reason behind his discomfort with the widow and her companion, and finally, talk to Meg about the raw egg ban and the threat posed by Marge, got lost in the rush of the next six hours. The tea trade was followed by the Early Birds, patrons who took advantage of reduced-cost meals before seven o'clock, then the regular evening trade, and finally, at ten o'clock, a few late diners, Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mavis among them.
They ordered a dinner as enormous as their tea had been. Mavis requested a single glass of the house white, which she sipped all through the meal, and Mrs. Hallenbeck no liquor at all. On one of her trips to the kitchen, Quill hissed to John in passing, "They're both sober as judges."
Just after ten-thirty, Quill stopped to take a rapid survey of the tables. Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mavis were at table two by the big windows that overlooked the gardens. The man in his fifties at table seven was Keith Baumer, who'd said he was part of the overflow crowd from the sales convention at the Marriott on Route 15. Baumer slumped over the menu, smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes onto the rug. Table twelve held another sole diner - the dark, good-looking Edward Lancashire. After careful deliberation, he'd ordered some of the specialties that had made Meg's reputation: Caesar salad, Steak Tartare, Game Hen a la Quilliam. He finished his Caesar salad with a thoughtful expression, writing briefly in a notebook by his plate.. Quill hesitated, alarmed. He looked awfully well-dressed to be a Department of Health inspector, who tended to be weedy, with thin lips and polyester sports coats. The suit on the guy seated at twelve was an Armani. Could Department of Health inspectors afford Armani?
Quill went to Baumer to take his order, one eye mistrustfully on table twelve.
"Quill," Baumer purred, reaching up to lift her name tag away from her breast pocket. He let it fall back with a smirk. "Let me guess. The hair. Hair that red and curly has gotta be the reason. Looks soft, though, not prickly like porcupine quills."
Quill moved the ashtray nearer his cigarette with a pointed thump. She was tired. Her feet hurt. If Edward Lancashire was from the Department of Health, the Inn could be in trouble. She had Marge to fence with and Clarissa's stupid speech to memorize. It'd be another three hours before she could even think of going to bed. If this turkey pushed it, he was going to find out just how prickly she could be. She'd admired Mrs. Hallenbeck's beady stare. She tried it. Baumer jumped a little in his chair. She said politely, "Are you ready to order, sir? I can recommend the Red Fish in Lime, or the Ginger Soy Tenderloin. Either is delicious."
Baumer dropped the menu onto the table, knocking his knife and fork onto the floor. Quill bent over to pick them up. He slipped his hand past her knee up her thigh. She disengaged with the ease of long practice, took the place setting from table six, and laid fresh silverware next to his plate.
Baumer closed the leather-covered menu with an exaggerated pursing of his lips. "Hemlock Inn," he mused. He looked arch. Quill braced herself, then lip-synched silently with him, "Sure I can trust the chef?"
"We're named for the Hemlock Groves, Mr. Baumer, not the poisonous herb. You must have noticed the trees when driving in. A lot of our guests like to walk the path to the foot of the gorge at this time of year. The hemlocks are in full bloom."
She deflected the invitation to join him in a walk after dinner, with gritted teeth, and took his order for the New York strip, medium, no veg, extra sour cream and butter on the baked potato. She cheered up. That meal and the two Manhattans preceding it forecast a short life of waitress-harassing. She crossed the mauve carpeting toward the kitchen, and stopped at the Hallenbeck table. Mavis had teased her hair into a big bubble. The scent of hairspray fought with the perfume of the scarlet lilies in the middle of the table. "How is everything, Mavis, Mrs. Hallenbeck? Are you comfortable? Was your dinner all right?"
"It's just lovely here," said Mavis, "and the room is wonderful. The food! Why, it's just the best I've ever had."
"I am having hot water and lemon after my meal," pronounced Mrs. Hallenbeck. "It's a habit I acquired while traveling abroad with my husband." She lifted her chin. "We prefer England. Although this place is quite English, for an American restaurant." She paused and fixed Quill with a modified version of The Glare. "I assume there is no charge for the hot water?"
"No," said Quill. Then as she reflected on the probability of Mrs. Hallenbeck's next question, "Just for the meal itself."
"Mavis," said Mrs. Hallenbeck disapprovingly, "had the tournedos. Quite the most expensive thing on the menu."
Mavis blushed, and Quill said curiously, "Have you and Mavis been together very long, Mrs. Hallenbeck?"
"Mavis is my companion. We are both impoverished widows." She waved a gnarled hand at Quill. The third finger of her left hand held a diamond the size of an ice rink. "We are companions in loss, on an adventure. I assume that we are eligible for a senior citizen's discount?"
Quill ignored the latter half of this statement and said warmly, "I hope you both find adventure. You're going to stay for the whole week of Hemlock's History Days? Admission is free."
"We will consider it," said Mrs. Hallenbeck regally. She sat up straighter, if that were possible, and said, "Move, please. You are blocking my view of the entrance." Quill stepped sideways. "Mavis! I recognize that person. What is her name?"
Quill turned around and groaned. Marge Schmidt stumped in. She'd exchanged her blue bowling jacket for a pink one, which did nothing to soften her resemblance to an animated tank. Marge's turret eyes swung in their direction.
"Marge!" squealed Mavis. "Coo-ee!" She waved energetically.
"Mavis!" Marge bellowed. She marched up to the table. "So you made it okay!" Mavis got up. The two women embraced. Mavis squealed again. Marge thumped her back with bluff good humor.
"This is a friend of yours, Mavis?" said Mrs. Hallenbeck sternly. "She is dressed abominably. She is too fat."
Quill warmed to Mrs. Hallenbeck.
"You remember Marge Schmidt, Amelia. She ran the Northeast region for a couple of years before she quit to come home here. She runs a restaurant now."
"Northeast region of what?" said Quill.
"Brought that D.O.H. order for you, Quill," Marge said loudly. "'Bout the salmonella? You din't eat the Italian puddin', did you, Mave?"
"No, not yet," said Mavis, sounding alarmed.
"Nasty," said Marge with satisfaction. "Very nasty."
"Marge," said Quill, "dammit..."
"This food is bad?" said Mrs. Hallenbeck. "I don't believe we should pay for a meal if the food is bad."
"Here!" Marge rummaged in the pocket of her bowling jacket and thrust a creased paper at Quill.
Quill took it and said, "Marge, we are well aware..."
Marge grabbed it back. "I'll read it to you." Her lips moved and she muttered, "Shipment of beef tainted with E. coli, that ain't it. Here! Wait!" She took a deep breath, preparatory to another bellow.
Quill grabbed the memo, scanned it, and translated the governmentese which boiled down to John's statement of that afternoon: no more raw egg. "Now look, Marge..."
"I am ready to go up, Mavis." Mrs. Hallenbeck rapped the tabletop imperatively. "This person is loud. I am tired."
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