Toast Mortem (5 page)

“Gazpacho?” Quill guessed, hopefully.

“Maybe,” Meg said crossly. “Maybe I’m getting them nice and soft so I can pitch them at Bernard LeVasque the next time he sets foot in my kitchen.” She grabbed the pot, marched to the sink, and drained the tomatoes back into the colander. Then she began to peel them with her bare fingers. Meg’s hands looked like most professional chefs’—calloused and scarred with knife cuts—but Quill still couldn’t figure out why she never seemed to feel the heat of things like parboiled tomatoes. Then what Meg had just said registered and she said, “What? LeVasque’s been in your kitchen?”

“Yep.”

“When!”

“Just after lunch.”

“Just after lunch?” At least that explained Meg’s ill humor out in the gazebo. “And he’s gone now?”

“Unless Mike ran him over in the kitchen parking lot.”

Quill got up, went to the back door, which was open on this pleasant summer afternoon, and peered outside. All she saw was her dog, Max, stretched peacefully under the balcony that ran across the back of the building. The only cars in the lot were her battered Honda, Meg’s old pickup truck, and a rusty Ford Escort that probably belonged to a friend of Mike the groundskeeper. She came back inside and tugged at her hair. Quill’s hair was red and wildly springy and it suffered a lot from her emotional states. She perched on one of the stools at the prep station. “So tell me what happened.”

“Offered me a job,” Meg said briefly. “Figured I had some time on my hands and could use the extra work.”

“Oh, my.” Quill shot a glance at the wall where the sauté pans were neatly arrayed by size. The eight-incher was still in place and didn’t seem to be dented. Meg usually chose the eight-incher when she was in the mood to make her point in a forceful way.

Meg followed her gaze and said, “Nope . . . I didn’t chase him out of here with that.”

“Then what?” Quill asked, rather hollowly.

Meg nodded at the knife rack. The largest butcher’s cleaver hung slightly askew.

“Yikes,” Quill said.

“That fathead,” Meg said without heat. “Thought he’d come here to crow, but I fixed his little red wagon.”

“You didn’t actually hit him or anything,” Quill said.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Have I ever, in all my life, actually inflicted physical harm on another person?”

“Bobby DeRitter, in fourth grade,” Quill said promptly. “You pulled a fistful of hair right out of his tiny little head.”

“Okay. Excepting Bobby DeRitter. Who deserved it, by the way.”

“No,” Quill admitted. “You throw stuff around. You holler. But I’d have to say, it’s basically stress relief. So you just waved the butcher’s cleaver at LeVasque.”

“I may have given LeVasque a different impression,” Meg admitted. “I may have intimated that the garden out back is the repository for a number of people who’ve incurred my disapproval, and I may have suggested that I was ready to add to their number.”

“A-
hum
,” Quill said.

“So we may be getting a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

The screen door at the back slapped open and closed.

First in was Max, Quill’s dog. If Tompkins County ever ran an ugly dog contest, Max would win hands down. His coat was mostly to blame for his raffish appearance. It was a strange mixture of gray, ochre, tan, scruffy white, and flecks of black. One ear flopped over his left eye. The other stood straight up. At some point in his bohemian past, he’d broken his plumelike tail, and it drooped in a desultory way over his hindquarters.

Behind Max was Davy Kiddermeister, the village sheriff. Quill was pretty sure that the clench in her stomach wasn’t due to her need for some food, but to the official-looking document Davy held in his hand and the blush that turned his normally pink cheeks bright red. Davy was Kathleen Kiddermeister’s younger brother. Kathleen was the Inn’s most loyal waitress, and every time the Quilliam sisters ran afoul of the sheriff’s department (a frequent occurrence, due mostly to Meg’s and Quill’s misguided efforts at amateur detection) Kathleen gave Davy what for. It looked like Davy was dreading his sister’s wrath once again.

“Oh, dear,” Quill said. “Just tell me nobody’s dead.”

“Nobody’s dead. Somebody’s pissed off, though. Sorry. But I’ve got to lay this on Meg, here.” He waved the document in the air. When neither Quill nor Meg moved forward to take it, he straightened up, walked over to Meg, and said sternly, “Margaret Quilliam?”

“Phuut!” Meg said.

“I hereby serve you this summons and complaint.” He grabbed her hand and folded her tomato-stained fingers over it. “Sorry about that. Sometimes it’s rough, having to perform official duties. I know you won’t hold it against me.”

Meg shrugged. “Whatever.”

He added hopefully, “Got anything to eat?”

“Give me that.” Quill leaned over and grabbed the summons.

Meg relinquished the paper without comment. “Liver pâté with stone-ground mustard. And some pretty good goat salami.” She moved to the meat refrigerator and took out a couple of plastic containers. “Some blueberries, maybe?”

“Thanks,” Davy said gratefully. He eased himself onto a prep stool. “Been on traffic patrol all day and I missed lunch.”

“This says you threatened to kill Bernard LeVasque,” Quill said. “At least, I think that’s what it says.
Threat of grievous bodily harm, assault
. . . battery is actually whacking somebody, right? Assault’s the threat. So there’s no allegation of actual injury. Thank goodness for that.” She folded the paper into neat thirds. “Argh. Argh. I suppose I’d better call Howie Murchison.”

“Got a warrant, too,” Davy said through a mouthful of pâté. “Sorry.”

“A warrant? For Meg’s arrest?!”

“Yep. Sor—”

“Stop,” Quill said. Then, patiently, she continued, “Did anyone actually see this alleged assault? I mean, if it’s just Meg’s word against LeVasque’s, there’s no independent proof.”

“Yep.”

“Please don’t talk with your mouth full, Davy.” There were many advantages to being the fond mother of a two-year-old. Chief among them was Quill’s newly discovered ability to make polite demands. “And ‘yep,’ it’s just Le-Vasque’s unsubstantiated word, or ‘yep,’ there’s a witness?”

The swinging doors to the dining room banged open, and Dina Muir, Quill’s best (and only) receptionist walked in. She was followed by a slim, pretty brunette, who looked vaguely familiar.

Dina bent a purposeful eye on the platter of blueberries and headed over to the prep counter. “Hey, Quill. Hey, Meg.” She gave Davy a pleased smile. “And what are you doing here? We’re still on for the movies tonight, I hope?”

“Yep.”

Quill resisted the impulse to yank the liver pâté away from Davy and dump it into the disposal, along with the fistful of blueberries Dina was cramming into her mouth.

Dina’s long brown hair was drawn back in a jaunty ponytail. She adjusted her red-rimmed spectacles by resettling them on her nose with a forefinger and beamed. “Great. I’ve been looking forward to the movies all week. It’s been a real zoo, here. Those WARP people must have robbed a bank somewhere, and they’re trying to spend all their ill-gotten gains at once. Do you know what they’re going to do tonight? They ordered
four
stretch limos from . . .”

Quill held up her hand. “Can we talk about this later? We have kind of a situation here.” She smiled apologetically at the brunette, who looked anxious. “Hi! I’m Sarah Quilliam.”

The brunette nodded and bit her lip. “I know. I mean, I’ve heard of you. You’re the artist, right? I’ve seen some of your work at MoMA.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Clarissa Sparrow.”

“I think I’ve seen you before,” Quill said.

Clarissa looked even more anxious.

“But I can’t quite . . .”

“We’ve got to go,” Davy said abruptly. “Thanks for the lunch, Meg. It was great.” He stood up and unclipped the handcuffs attached to his belt. “You ready?”

“For cripes’ sake,” Meg said. “You aren’t serious.”

“A warrant’s a warrant,” Davy said. “You give Howie a call, Quill, and we’ll get her back on remand in no time, but like I said, we’ve got to go.”

“This is not going to happen,” Quill said firmly. “I am not allowing my sister to be dragged off to the county lockup by you or anyone else. For all you know, LeVasque could have made up this whole thing? Where’s your proof that my sister threatened to kill him? Where’s the witness?”

Davy jerked his thumb in Dina’s direction.

Quill whirled and stared incredulously at Dina. Dina paled, bit her thumb, and said, “Oh my God.”

“Don’t you oh-my-God, me, Dina Muir! You told Davy you saw my sister threaten this bozo?”

“Um,” Dina said.

“Um! That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself! Um?!”

“I didn’t think . . .”

“You most certainly did
not
think!”

“Oh my God,” Dina repeated feebly.

Quill turned back to Davy, who had clipped one hand-cuff around Meg’s wrist and was about to fasten the other. “You get those things off my sister!”

“Thing is,” Davy said reasonably, “you can’t expect someone like Meg to go quietly.”

“She’s not going anywhere!”

Davy sighed. “Look. I don’t like this any better than you do. But what am I supposed to do here? I’ve got this warrant. A threat to commit grievous bodily harm is a major felony. I’m supposed to give you guys a break? No way, Quill. I’m sworn to uphold the law.” He glanced sidelong at Quill’s furious face and said pleadingly, “Now what do you suppose the sheriff would do?”

Clarissa spoke up suddenly. “I thought you were the sheriff.”

“He means Myles,” Quill said. “My husband. Myles was sheriff of Hemlock Falls when we moved here twelve years ago, and nobody seems to be able to forget it. Including you, Davy. Only now is when you should forget that you are. Sheriff, that is. As for what Myles would do.” She grabbed her hair with both hands. “I would not let him arrest my sister!”

Davy gave Meg a gentle nudge toward the back door. “Call Mr. Murchison. As soon as I have a legal remand order, I’ll bring her right back home. Okay?”

“Meg!” Quill shouted as her sister’s slight form disappeared out the back door. “I’ll be down to get you out in two seconds.”

“Call up Bjarne!” Meg shouted back. “Tell him to save the tomatoes!”

—From
Brilliance in the Kitchen
, B. LeVasque

 

 

For a long moment, Clarissa Sparrow, Dina, and Quill just stood and looked at each other. The little impasse was broken by Max, who made an abortive lunge at the remains of the liver pâté on Davy’s plate. Dina hauled him off the counter by the scruff of the neck.

“Just give me two seconds here,” Quill said. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and found Howie Murchison’s office number on speed dial. He wasn’t in. She glanced up at the kitchen clock. Well after six o’clock. Doreen would be giving Jack his mashed carrots and tofu right about now. And Howie would be at the Croh Bar with Miriam Doncaster.

She tried his cell and got his voice mail message. Then she tried Marge, asked her to call Betty Hall and relay the message to Howie to call her as soon as possible, and set the phone down.

“You,” she said to Dina. “You are a rat fink.”

Dina put both hands over her face. “Do you think you should call Jerry?” she said, her voice muffled.

“Jerry Grimsby?” Quill glanced up at the clock again. The hands hadn’t moved much. Why did she feel as if she’d been stuck in this kitchen filled with lunatics for hours? “Jerry’s restaurant opens at seven for dinner in the summer. He’ll be prepping right now.”

“Maybe he can get somebody to take her some food or something. Or a file.”

Clarissa Sparrow cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Jerry Grimsby? You’re talking about the guy who runs L’Esperance over in Ithaca?”

Quill nodded. “He and Meg . . .” She fluttered her hand. “You know.”

“He’s going to be so pissed off at me,” Dina mourned.

“
He
is?” Quill muttered. “I’m not exactly swinging from the chandeliers, here.” Her cell phone shrilled the opening bars to “Rondo alla Turca
.
” The little window said
Howie
. Quill picked the phone up as she said, “Go into my office, Dina. Call Bjarne and ask him to cover for Meg here in the kitchen. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Howie, thank goodness, wasn’t a tut-tutter. But he reminded Quill that he couldn’t represent Meg himself, since he’d be the justice called upon to rule on the request for remand. “You know I’ve taken on a junior partner,” he said. In the background, Quill heard the cheerful din that meant Happy Hour at the Croh Bar was in full swing. “His name is Justin Alvarez. I’ll send him down to the clink and get things rolling.”

She thanked him, shut the cell phone off, and pushed open the doors to the dining room.

One of the three parties that had made dinner reservations was already seated. Quill saw with approval that Kathleen had a tray of drinks ready for them. The couple sat at the table nearest the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the waterfall. The part of Quill’s brain that was perpetually on innkeeper alert noted that the cadet blue carpeting could probably last another year, and that the deep cream table-cloths really looked very nice with the pale violet blue of the hydrangeas that made up the centerpieces.