"I didn't know," Quill said frankly. "Any more than I knew what kind of cook Betty is. She's good, Marge. I should have been down to your diner before. It's my fault that I never made the effort. But I will from now on. And so will Meg."
"Good," said Marge flatly.
Quill extended her hand cautiously. "I apologize, Marge."
Marge shook it. Her hands were callused. "Don' mention it."
Quill swallowed the last of the peas, then leaned forward and said, "I've been doing a bit of a... well... an investigation into this."
"Do tell," said Marge sarcastically. "Myles know anything about this?"
"Yes," said Quill, which was the literal truth. "Actually, he doesn't approve, but Marge, this stuff can't keep up. I mean it can't be good publicity for the town, no matter what Harvey Bozzel says."
"That boy's a bozo." Marge rubbed her second chin with one massive hand. "So now that I ain't a suspect, who is?"
"Keith Baumer."
"That one!" Marge appeared to consider this. "He's an asshole, that's for sure."
"Do you think Mavis could have been blackmailing him?"
"Hell, yes. Wouldn't put it past her. And that jerk's done enough in this life to be ripe for it."
"You remember him from Doggone Good Dogs?"
"What female there didn't!" Marge scow led. "Went after two of my girls in the region. I would have been next, excepting he finally got his ass canned. I'll tell you something, though, never met anyone with as good a taste buds. Good nose, too. Could sniff one twenty-pound pack of froze hamburg meat and tell you what kinda cow it come from."
"John told me three hundred thousand dollars had been embezzled from the company just before the acquisition. He also said you had one of the best heads for business of anyone he'd ever met. Do you know of any way we could find out if Baumer had that money?"
Marge, preening at the compliment to her business acumen, was by now as chatty as Kathleen Kiddermeister's mother, who'd been known to talk to telephone solicitors for hours at a time. "Lemme think on it. To tell you the truth, I don't know what the hell happened to Baumer after the company canned his ass. If John wasn't in the slammer, he and I could probably figure it out. Be best if we knew where Baumer carne from, and who he's working for, though."
"He's with some sales convention at the Marriott," Quill said. "His booking got messed up and that's why he landed on us. I'm going over there and see if I can find out a few facts."
"He use a credit card to pay for the room?"
"Traveler's checks," said Quill regretfully. "And Peter deposited them in the bank Friday afternoon, so we can't trace him through the registered numbers. But if I can find his boss at the Marriott, I'll bet I can get a little more information."
"Maybe I'll truck on down to the bank. See if Mark'll let me on to the computer," said Marge. "If the two of us put our heads together, we can figure out somethin'."
"Then you don't think John did it, either?" said Quill.
"Hell, no." Marge reconsidered this. "At least, if he did, he musta had a damn good reason."
"I can't think of any reason that would force John into premeditated murder," said Quill. "I understand - at least I think I understand - the reasons that drove him to the defense of his sister. But this is different."
"It's all different," said Marge obscurely. "And it's all the same."
Quill left the diner with hope burgeoning, if not exactly springing, in her breast. Marge maybe was innocent of involvement with Peterson's scam. Quill would bet a year's income from the Inn that Marge was innocent of murder.
The Marriott lay twelve miles south of town on Route 15, and served both Ithaca and the surrounding small towns. Traffic was light, and it took Quill less than twenty minutes to pull into the hotel parking lot. She knew the manager from' meetings of the local Hotel and Motel Association meetings. A big, tall, open-faced man in his thirties - and single. Completely charmed by him after they met, Quill had bullied Meg into attending the next Association meeting with her, only to discover that Sean was quite happily gay. The three of them made a point of getting together for lunch at least once a month.
She asked for Sean at the reservations desk, and the ubiquitous Cornell student trotted cheerfully away to find him. The hotel business would certainly suffer if Cornell ever decided to move to, say, Seneca Falls or Waterloo.
"It's Sarah Quilliam!" Sean greeted her with a smile.
"So it is." She raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him. "How's the hotel biz?"
"Fine. Fine." He looked at her sidelong. "I understand you're making a killing."
"Yes. It's why I'm here."
"Serious discussion? Come into my office, said the spider to the fly." She followed him into the manager's quarters, impressed as usual by the array of computers, the NYNEX phone system, and the middle-class expensiveness of the furniture and carpeting.
"Can I get you some juice? Coffee?" he asked, as they settled into comfortable chairs.
"Not now, thanks. What you can do for me is give me some information about a guest. Or rather, a non-guest."
"Can't do it, Quill." He shook his head, "HQ would send small fierce people down with large weapons to kill me."
Quill pulled her lip. "You've got a sales convention here?"
"It's listed right outside on the welcome board. AmaTex Textiles, out of Buffalo..."
"Do you have a list of convention attendees?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. You can pick one up in any of the meeting rooms they're using, and I just stuck one in my file. Hang on a second." He reached one long arm out to a filing cabinet, and within a few seconds, pulled a manila folder out of the drawer. "Here it is."
The names were listed alphabetically. Quill scanned the B's. There was no Keith Baumer listed.
"Are all the convention-goers listed, Sean, including the ones that don't have rooms here?"
"I believe so. But we were able to accommodate everyone that came in from out of town."
"Are you at capacity?"
"About seventy-five per cent. Good for us this time of year."
The address and phone number of AmaTex headquarters was listed at the top of the page. "Can I use your phone to make a call to AmaTex?"
"Of course." He eased himself out of his chair. "Tell you what, I'll go get us some Coke."
Quill waited until his office door swung silently shut behind him. She dialed the 716 area code for Buffalo, hesitated briefly, then the rest of the number.
"AmaTex Textiles," said a young voice. "Could I speak to Personnel, please?"
"Human Resources, Compensation and Benefits, Pension Funding, or Training Department?" the voice asked.
"Urn. I'm checking out a resume. I wanted to confirm a prospective employee's background."
"One moment, please." Canned music blared onto the line: Tom Jones singing "The Green Green Grass of Home." Quill held the phone away from her ear.
"Department of Human Resources. This is Miss Shirley, may I help you?"