"Two things. One's kind of a pain in the neck, the other's more of a question."
"Bad news first," said Tom. "Then we can end on a positive note."
"This last shipment of beef was spoiled," Quill said apologetically. "I haven't brought the whole side, of course, just the fillets."
Tom blinked his pale eyes at her. "It's been awfully warm, Quill. Are you sure your cooler's working properly?"
"This was delivered yesterday," said Quill, "and your guys are great, Tom, they always bring it straight into the cooler. Meg takes the beef out to let it get to room temperature about three hours before the dinner crowd shows up. Anything that isn't used is disposed of that night. She said this stuff is tainted." Quill rummaged in the box and unwrapped a pair of fillets. "See the graininess at the edges?"
Tom raised his eyebrows and gave the beef a cursory glance.
"Meg and I both thought you might want to check the whole shipment."
Tom nodded. His hands fiddled impatiently with a piece of paper on his desk. Quill, exasperated at Tom's indifference, said tartly, "Can you give us credit for this, Tom? And we're going to need another delivery."
"I've got one coming in from the Chicago slaughterhouse in about twenty minutes. We'll have it up there within the hour."
"That'll be fine."
He smiled at her. "And the second request?"
"Oh." Quill, not entirely sure why she was uncomfortable demurred a bit. "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am that Gil's gone."
"Yes," Tom nodded. "Nice guy. Lousy business partner That it?" He rose, clearly prepared to show her out. The piece of paper he'd been playing with fell to the floor. It was a matchbook. A full one. The cover was folded in threes.
Quill picked it up.
"Nervous habit," said Tom, "ever since I quit smoking."
"I'd like to have a pack with me. Just in case." Quill slipped the matchbook into her skirt pocket. "There was one thing I wanted to ask you, about your brother's wife?"
"Jack's wife?" Tom's eyes narrowed. With his thin lips and prominent nose, he looked more like a lizard than ever. "She's no longer with us, I'm afraid."
"They divorced?" said Quill sympathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Jack's dead," said Tom. "I don't know where that little bitch is, and I don't care."
Quill's face went hot with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to intrude," she said, "but..."
"None of your business, Quill. The past is past. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to check on Freddie. He's supposed to retrieve that damn German shepherd and plug the hole in the chain-link fence where it dug out. Has trouble remembering orders. I have to keep tabs on him every minute." Still talking easily, Tom had her out the door and in front of her car before she knew it. He opened the driver's door and waited for her to get in. "Any more trouble with the deliveries, you call me directly, Quill. See you tonight at the meeting."
Quill drove back to the Inn, the matchbook and the photograph safely in her purse. Something, she told herself darkly, was definitely afoot.
She parked in her usual spot by the back door to the kitchen, turned the ignition off, and thought through the events of the past few days. John, the ready recipient of all her confidences over the past year, her true partner in the sometimes harrowing responsibilities of innkeeping, had to be protected somehow. Quill knew there was an explanation of the picture, of Tom Peterson's matchbook, of Gil's death, if she could just buy a little time for John. She had to talk to him.
But first she had to find him.
The dashboard clock said six-seventeen. The Chamber was in the middle of a costume rehearsal, followed by dinner at six-thirty. She and Myles had a standing date Saturday nights - subject to various Tompkins County or Hemlock Inn emergencies - which started about ten. The rest of the evening left very little time to search John's room for further clues - such as, a nasty voice whispered in her head, the bolt from Peterson's John Deere tractor. Quill bit her lip hard, and pushed the thought away.
She couldn't talk to Meg; the presence of L'Aperitifs critic coinciding with a dining room oversold to History Days tourists would already have her bouncing off the walls. As it was, with John still missing and unable to serve as sommelier, Quill would have to scrape her off the ceiling.
Myles could help, of course - with an All Points Bulletin. But exposure to official questions raised by the presence of that photograph in the wallet of a drowning victim could only endanger John, at least until she knew the facts.
No, Myles was out of the question. Besides, she'd interfered with his investigations before. The wrath of Moses on discovering the defalcations of the Israelites was nothing to it. She would just have to handle this herself. There was one advantage to half of Hemlock Falls stuffing the Inn tonight - somebody must have seen John. If she kept her inquiries discreet, she might find him before anyone other than she and Meg knew he'd gone missing.
"Did John show up yet?" Meg thrust her head in the open car window. "Did he tell you where he'd been? Is he sober? Did you get the meat? And what the heck are you doing sitting in here doing absolutely nothing! Do you know what's happening?" Meg raked her hair forward in irritable bursts.
"What's happening?" asked Quill, calmly getting out of the car. "Are the sous chefs all here?"
"Yes!"
"And the wine and fruit deliveries okay?"
"Yes! Yes! Yes!"
"And the Inn's not on fire." Quill steered her sister back to the kitchen.
"No! Don't be such a smartass, Quill. We need John! Look!" Quill pushed the right half of the dining room door open and peered around it. Edward Lancashire, dressed in an elegant charcoal-gray suit, was talking to an equally elegant blonde by the windows overlooking the gorge. His wife, Quill bet. The dining room was filled with chattering tourists for the Early Bird specials. Quill squinted at a tuxedoed figure seating guests. Not John, but Peter Williams, the young graduate student who worked as headwaiter on weekends. Peter circled the room, quietly observant of the quality of service. Quill let out a small sigh of relief; Peter could pinch-hit as sommelier cum maitre d'. All she had to do was distract Meg long enough to get her back to the kitchen. Once absorbed in her cooking, Meg would be oblivious to Armageddon and stop plaguing her with questions she couldn't answer.
"I've seen the woman with Edward somewhere before," Quill said mendaciously. "Is that one of the editors, do you think?"
"Oh, God," breathed Meg: "I'll bet it is! Where's John, dammit. They'll need an aperitif."
"I'll tell Peter to take care of them."
"Don't tell him they're from L'Aperitif They're supposed to be incognito."
"And you go back into the kitchen."
"Right."
"And cook like hell."
"Right." Face as tense as any Assyrian coming down like a wolf on the oblivious Sennacharib, Meg flexed her hands and returned to the Aga.
Quill looked at her watch and dashed to her room to change. One of these days she'd get organized enough to leave time for a real bath, but two years at the Inn had honed her fast-shower technique. The desire for a leisurely soak fell prey to necessity more and more often.