A Taste For Murder hf-1 Read online

  Doreen nodded. "Just in time, too."

  "For what?" Doreen folded her arms, leaned against the wall, and paused dramatically. Quill braced herself. Doreen had run afoul of Quill's erratically enforced guest-courtesy standards before. Cigarette dangling, skinny, and a frequent victim of the Hemlock Hall of Beauty's experiments in permanent waves, Doreen had profanely terrorized more than one unsuspecting visitor. Checkout was a favorite arena: "You inspect that sumabitch's goddam suitcase for towels and ashtrays? I'm missin' towels and ashtrays." Quill had a brief, happy vision of a kindlier, Christianized Doreen accosting visitors with reassuring Bible verses instead of fiercely wielded mops.

  "Just in time for what, Doreen?"

  "Day of Judgment is at hand," said Doreen darkly. "Those who have not been brought howling in repentance to the throne of the Lord will be damned in the Pit forever."

  Quill found the regret in her voice spurious, given the glee in her eye.

  "Now, Doreen - " began Quill.

  "People!" Esther waved her hands imperiously in the air. "Dress rehearsal, people! Just one day to the Real Thing. Chop, chop!"

  " - I'd like to discuss this religion thing with you - "

  "Quill!" Esther cried. "Come on! We can't do without our star!"

  " - but not right now," Quill finished hastily.

  "What's that old bat Esther want with you?" asked Doreen suspiciously.

  "Julie Offenbach's got the flu."

  "So you're gonna be Clarissa?" She shook her head. "You ain't never been in a play in your life. I better pray for you."

  "Pray for rain instead. A thunderstorm, even. I don't want to do this, Doreen."

  "You'll be fine." Doreen gave her hand a rough, affectionate squeeze. "You can do anything you set your mind to. But I'll pray for a disaster, if you want." Her face lit up. "One to demonstrate His power."

  "Great. After the rooms are done, though." Esther, thorough as always, had left a stack of scripts by the coffee table in the Lounge, and Quill thumbed glumly through a copy as the Chamber members settled into their seats. Myles walked into the room and Quill greeted him with a swift, intimate smile.

  "Everyone seated!" Esther said. "Clarissa? Are you ready?"

  Quill waved the script feebly at Esther, and settled across the table from Myles and Gil Gilmeister. "Any results from the lab yet, Myles?" she asked hopefully.

  He shook his head. "Not until Monday or Tuesday. It's not exactly a priority problem."

  "Maybe it was just a prank," said Quill, "or an accident. Doreen was gone on vacation and one of the temporaries could have spilled it."

  "Full strength?" said Myles. "I doubt it."

  "Accident," said Quill stubbornly. "Maybe you should just drop the investigation."

  "We need to get to the bottom of it," Myles said. "You've got to be tougher than that, Quill."

  "I'll say." Gil, his attention drawn by the latter part of this comment, leaned back in his chair and took an overlarge bite of the beignets Meg had set out with the coffee. Sugar dribbled down his chin. He licked it off reflectively. "You got to be tough all over. That darn Mark Anthony Jefferson at the bank? Well, I had to get tough with him this morning. Wants to call in that loan I got right this minute." He looked at Myles. "He can't do that can he, Sheriff? I mean, it's gotta be against some law or other. I've been paying on the note right along."

  "Can't help you there, Gil."

  "Well, it's not right," Gil said again. "I have to find some cash somewhere. Thing is, people just aren't buying cars. Got any rich widows here at the Inn, Quill? One that might want to invest in one of the best little businesses in Hemlock Falls?"

  "Sorry, Gil. It's been a tough year for everyone. But things are getting better, don't you think? Business looks great for us for the rest of the summer."

  Gil gave her a cheerful smile. "You might be right. Now, I'll tell you who's got money. Marge Schmidt. That diner business is all cash, if you know what I mean, and she's not paying half the taxes I have to. 'Course, she doesn't have my expenses, either."

  Quill, who knew how frequently Gil's wife, Nadine, went to Syracuse with Gil's charge cards, murmured sympathetically.

  "Where is Marge, anyway?" asked Gil. "She's supposed to have my judge's costume with her."

  "Right here!" boomed Marge. "And guess who I have with me!" She stumped into the Lounge towing Mavis behind her. "Everybody? I wanna introduce you to an old pal of mine, Mavis Collin wood. Mavis, this is the cast of the play I was telling you about. That's Gil Gilmeister." She winked at the car salesman and waved heartily. "Gil's the judge in the play. Next to him is Myles McHale, our sheriff. He's here 'cause of the traffic control and on account of we use some equipment that's gotta be safe. Then there's Howie Murchison, Tom Peterson, Mayor Elmer Henry. They're all witnesses to the witch, and say the things she's done. And Reverend Shuttleworth plays the minister who condemns the witch. Esther's our director. And Norm Pasquale directs the high-school band. You know, they play that Funeral March as the witch is dragged off in the sledge." Marge paused for breath.

  Mavis waved at the crowd, and spoke in a low voice to Marge.

  "Hah? That there's Betty Hall. She's my business partner. No way she could play the part."

  Betty, unclear as to the nature of the discussion, clearly heard an insult implicit in Marge's dismissal of her, and said, "What the hell?"

  "No," Marge said, again in response to a question from Mavis, "Clarissa's usually played by some girl from the high school. Miss Sarah poison-your-guts Quilliam's supposed to play it this year." She gestured in Quill's direction.

  "Marge!" said Esther. "For heaven's sake! This is a private rehearsal. As director, I must insist that your guest wait outside while we finish."

  "You've met before?" said Betty icily.

  "Met before?" said Mavis breathlessly. "Why, we worked together for this age!"

  "Doggone good dogs," said Marge cryptically.

  "Doggone good dogs," responded Mavis, and both women went off into gusts of laughter.

  "The fast-food chain," said Tom Peterson. "It's out of Syracuse. You wouldn't know this, Quill, but they do quite a bit of recruiting from the high school." He blinked his pale eyes slowly-rather, Quill thought, like a lizard in the sun.

  "Yeah," said Norm Pasquale. "Hot dogs and paint are the only jobs our graduates get unless they go to college. It's not like the old days, when all the kids went back to the farm."

  "So what's your point, Marge?" said Elmer impatiently.

  "Point is that Mavis here is a hell of an actress. She can do this part better'n anyone here."

  "Then she'll have to audition," said Esther.

  "She din't." Marge threw a large thumb in Quill's direction.

  "Yes, she did," said Esther. "I auditioned her. I'm the director, and I say who auditions and who doesn't:"

  "Quiet!" said Elmer. "Whyn't you tell us your experience, Ms. Collinwood. What exactly did you do at Doggone Good Dogs?"

  John Raintree came into the room and settled unobtrusively! in a chair. Doreen tiptoed in behind him. Quill drummed her fingers in irritation and wondered who else from the staff was coming to watch her debut as an actress.

  "Best hot dogs in the South," said Mavis.

  "Best in the whole damn country!" said Marge. "Good plain American food."

  "I never knew you worked for somebody else before," said Betty Hall stiffly.

  "Oh, yeah. Managed a whole chain of 'em down to Atlanta," said Marge. "Mavis was in the Mid-Atlantic region. She was Human Resources Coordinator and - "

  "That's just fine, Marge," said Elmer Henry impatiently, "but we've got to get on with this rehearsal."

  "Let me finish," said Marge, "and the best damn actress in the whole chain."

  "Oh, I don't know about that," said Mavis modestly.

  "Do they have actors in fast-food places?" asked Esther, in genuine bewilderment.

  "Of course," said Marge scornfully. "We had an employee talent show every year a
nd Mavis got the cash prize every time. Sang "The Doggone Good Dog" theme song. Go on, sing it for' em, Mavis. She done a little dance, too," she said in a helpful aside.

  "I don't have my costume or anything." Mavis sent a brilliant smile around the room.

  Quill, acutely sympathetic to the agonies of performing in front of crowds, and still somewhat nettled over the "poisoned-guts" remark said, "Honestly, Marge. Let the poor woman sit down," surprising herself. If she kept this up, she could handle a dozen Mrs. Hallenbecks in a week.

  "Go on, Mavis," said Marge.

  "Well." Mavis cleared her throat and said confidently, "Now, y'all are going to have to do some imagining, and pretend I'm dressed as a hot dog." She winked at Dookie Shuttleworth, whose eyebrows rose in alarm. "The hot dog comes out in front of me, and out back - I'm in the middle of the bun." Then she sang, in a contralto:

  "You can slather me with mustard

  and a dilly pickle, too. Tickle me with onions,

  I'll be doggone good for you.

  I'm a plump and juicy red-hot

  In a toasted whole wheat bun.

  For less than two and fifty

  We can have a lot of fun."

  She and Marge locked arms and swayed together in

  "Hot-Hot-Hot dog

  Doggone Doggone good.

  Bet you'd love our hot dogs

  Anyway you could."

  Harvey Bozzel broke the silence. "Could use a leetle bit of editing, but it's good. Pretty good."

  "Sing it again," said Gil Gilmeister huskily. "You looked great, Mavis. You, too, Marge."

  Mavis tossed her head, and dimpled. Her dangling earrings clicked. She reminded Quill of someone: a chubby Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara. Quill cleared her throat and stood up. "This is a wonderful opportunity, don't you think? I mean, we practically have a professional right here. We'd be crazy not to take advantage of it. If you don't mind, Mavis, I think you'd make a wonderful Clarissa."

  "We voted on Quill and we should stick with her," said Betty Hall. "Some newcomer just swanking on in here, even if she is a famous actress-I don't know how the town is going to feel about that."

  "She's not a famous actress, Betty," Esther snapped. "She's a Human Resources Director."

  "Whatever." Resentment was in every line of Betty's bowling jacket.

  "Marge, you have the best judgment of anybody in the Chamber I know of," said Gil earnestly. "And I think this is a prime example of it."

  "We gotta talk about that loan, Gil," said Marge jovially. "What d'ya think?"

  "I move to have Mavis Collin wood take on the role of Clarissa in the History Days play," said Quill immediately. She ignored Myles's sardonic grin with the restrained dignity appropriate to an innkeeper rescued from public humiliation at the last minute.

  "Second," said Gil.

  Elmer called for a vote. Esther and Betty abstained, with what Quill identified as darkling glances, but the motion passed. Quill entertained a fleeting thought about the efficacy of Doreen's new commitment to prayer; she decided she was inclined to leniency in the matter of religious fervor. This was much more satisfactory than a tornado.

  "I suppose we'll discover just how quick a study you are, Miss Collinwood?" Esther said stiffly. "Come, people, we're running behind schedule. Everybody at the pond in ten minutes."

  Quill stopped John in the hall during the general exodus. "Do your plans include watching the rehearsal?"

  He smiled faintly. "Not if you're a member of the audience rather than the cast."

  "Thank you so much."

  He glanced at her out of the comer of his eye. "Did you talk to the widows?"

  "Yes."

  "Is Myles going to continue with the background checks?"

  "I'm not sure. John, Mrs. Hallenbeck's sitting by herself by the fireplace." Quill looked back at the chattering crowd leaving the Inn. Mavis, expansive, was in the center. "I'll just speak to her."

  She crossed the lobby and sat next to Mrs. Hallenbeck. "Did you get a chance to walk in the gardens today, Mrs. Hallenbeck?"

  "Not yet. Mavis and I were going to go this afternoon, but she appears to be busy. Perhaps we'll go tomorrow."

  She folded her hands. "I'll wait until she is finished with her friends. The old are boring to you youngsters."

  Quill was quiet a moment. It was pathetic, this small confession. "Would you like to walk down to the rehearsal with me? Only part of the cast will be in costume, but it might be kind of fun. I can't stay for the whole thing, but you're more than welcome to. There's always a crowd watching. Mostly townspeople."

  "I'd like that very much."

  It was one of those July afternoons that made Quill glad to be in Central New York in summer. The sky was a Breughel-blue, the sun a clear glancing light that made Quill's hands itch for her acrylics. As they came to the edge of the Falls Park and the small man-made pond that had been formed from the river water, Edward Lancashire picked his way over the grass to them.

  "I'd call this a paintable day," he said by way of greeting.

  "Do you paint, Sarah?" asked Mrs. Hallenbeck.

  "I used to. Not much anymore."

  "She was becoming quite well-known when she quit," said Lancashire. His dark eyes narrowed against the bright sun, he smiled down at Quill.

  "A painter," said Mrs. Hallenbeck with satisfaction. "I knew you were quite out of the ordinary, my dear. I should like to see your work."

  "My sister's work is more impressive," said Quill. "Are you finding the food to your liking, Mr. Lancashire?"

  "Call me Edward. And the food's terrific."

  "And what do you do?" asked Mrs. Hallenbeck.

  "Oh. Reporting, mostly," he said vaguely. "What's going on down there?"

  "This is the part of the play that's the witch test."

  "The witch test?"

  "Yes. When a person was accused of witchcraft, there was sort of a preliminary cut made of witches and non-witches. A real witch could swim. Innocent victims couldn't. So many American villages used the ducking stool as a test. The real witches swam to shore and were tried and convicted at a later trial."

  "And the innocent victims?" asked Mrs. Hallenbeck.

  "Drowned," said Quill.

  "My goodness!" With a certain degree of ceremony, Mrs. Hallenbeck took a pair of glasses from her purse, fitted them on carefully, and peered at the makeshift stage by the ducking stool.

  With the steadily increasing popularity of Hemlock History Week, the town had turned the area adjacent to the ducking pond into a twenty-acre municipal park some years before. An asphalt parking lot lay at the north edge, and half a dozen picnic tables surrounded the pavilion. The pavilion itself consisted of a large bandstand surrounded by enough wooden benches to seat two hundred spectators. The entire park fronted the Hemlock River; the Falls that formed such a unique backdrop to Meg and Quill's inn rushed gently into the river at the south of the park. The ducking pond was edged with concrete. A sluiceway was lowered to fill the pond in spring, and lifted to empty it in winter. A ten-foot fence of treated lumber stood at right angles to the pond's edge, where Harland Peterson parked his ancient John Deere farm tractor every year to power the ducking stool into the water. A chorus of cheers greeted him as the John Deere chugged into place behind the fence. He hopped out of the cab, waved his baseball hat to the crowd, and began hooking the ropes attached to the ducking stool to the metal arms on the front loader.

  "That thing is old," Edward observed. "Fifty-six or fifty-seven at least."

  "The Petersons are pretty thrifty," said Quill. She avoided Mrs. Hallenbeck's eye. Harland jumped back into the cab and raced the motor. Belching black smoke, the tractor jerked the front loader aloft. The ducking stool dangled freely in the breeze from the river.

  "I thought a ducking stool was sort of a teeter-totter," said Edward. "The judge or whoever sat on one end, the accused witch on the other, and then the judge got up."

  "Yes," said Quill.

  "That's a lot sim
pler than using a tractor, isn't it?"

  "Yes," said Quill. "So why..."

  "Harland Peterson wanted to be part of the play. But he refused to dress up in a costume."

  "And!"

  "The Petersons have owned most of the town for generations. See that nice house there, over by the pavilion? Tom Peterson lives there. He's Harland's cousin. Harland donated the land for the park. And he owns a tractor."

  "Ah." A look of ineffable pleasure crossed Edward's face. "I'm going to enjoy this."