"After the rehearsal at the duck pond, she took a walk while the others were making plans for the dinner that evening, and removed the bolt from the front loader of Harland's tractor. 'No one really pays attention to the old,' she said. 'We're overlooked, ignored, discounted. I just took advantage of that.'
"She shrugged Gil's death off as an 'unfortunate circumstance.' She knew her next good opportunity would come at The Trial of Goody Martin. She poured doctored mint juleps into Mavis. When Harland came around to the front of the stage, she nipped around the back. Mavis was passed out on the sledge. She pulled the hood over her face, hid the dummy, and came around to the bandstand in the space of three minutes."
"It was so chancey," complained Meg.
"She said she'd try until she did it," said Myles.
"That ought to help you sleep better, Quill," said Meg. "Good grief."
"Pretty single-minded," said John, "But then, she always was."
Quill sipped at her coffee and said nothing.
"She did give me enough evidence to convict Tom Peterson on several counts of Federal violations." He looked at his watch. "Couple of the boys should be pulling up to that warehouse now."
"And Mrs. Hallenbeck?" said Quill. "Where is she now?"
"It's done," said Myles, "They picked her up this morning. She'll be there until she passes on to whatever justice there is."
"Wow," said Meg. "Now if I just had some people to eat what I cook, things would be back to normal."
"You just wait," said Quill optimistically. "We've never been sunk for long. You the gourmet chef, me the efficient manager..."
John cleared his throat. "I haven't had much of a chance to go over the accounts, Quill, but I understand that we've been pretty free with donations lately."
"Donations?" said Quill. "He means the two checks to the volunteer ambulance fund, the free brandy and crŠme br–l‚e for the Chamber the night of the dress rehearsal, the full buffet breakfast on the house, for forty-two, Monday morning, the bar bill for the volunteer firemen, and not to mention the fact that we've got no hope of collecting from Mrs. Hallenbeck," said Meg. She grinned. "Maybe we can put a percentage of it on Baumer's bill. Sort of a P.I.A. surcharge."
"P.I.A.?" said Myles blankly.
"Pain-in-the-ass," explained Doreen. "We talk about it, but we ain't never done it, yet."
"Baumer's a P.I.A. candidate if there ever was one," said Quill, "except that he should be charging us. I let his wife into his room so she could sue him for adultery with Mavis. Meg poisoned him with various noxious substances, and he got exorcised by Willy Max and the two Creeps for Christ. I can't believe the guy stuck it out this long."
"Leastways Meg can still cook," said Doreen practically. "Long as the kitchen's open, we got people wantin' to eat."
"Well," said Quill, "it could be worse. I thought maybe Marge had made that phone call to the D.O.H., but she obviously didn't, since we haven't seen anything of them."
There was a double tap on the dining room doors. A thin, unhealthy-looking guy in a polyester suit pushed the doors open. He carried a clipboard and wore a New York State badge reading "Department of Health."
"Until now," said Quill, feebly.
"You!" said Meg, "get out of my kitchen." She ran her hands through her hair. It began to flatten ominously.
"Look, lady, I get a call, I gotta show up."
"I got rooms to clean," Doreen said, "Well, two, anyways." She trotted out of the kitchen.
"I'll give you a call later, Quill," said Myles hastily. He disappeared out the back door.
"Rats deserting the sinking ship," Quill yelled after them. Meg advanced on the inspector, a wooden spatula in one hand. "I've got the cleanest kitchen in Central New York," she said through gritted teeth. "I hire the best sous chef in six states. I use the finest ingredients you can buy!"
"Meg - " said Quill.
"GET YOUR CLIPBOARD OUT OF MY KITCHEN!"
"Excuse me, sir," said Quill.
She nodded to John. John took Meg by the right arm, Quill the left. They dragged her to the dining room. "Just keep quiet, Meg. Everything's going to be fine." Quill forced Meg into a chair at one of the tables and sat down next to her, keeping a firm grip on her arm.
Meg slumped over the table and groaned. "I can't believe that Marge did this! She's a fellow cook! She's a member of the clan! I'll wring her fat little neck."
"Maybe it wasn't Marge," said Quill. "It could have been Maureen, the paramedic. Or her pal, Doyle."
The guy from the D.O.H. poked his head around the door. He held up a small white card. "How often do you use this recipe for zabaglione?"
Meg threw the sugar bowl at him. The inspector ducked. The bowl shattered against the door frame and powdered the inspector with white snow.
"I gotta lot of questions," he said severely, and disappeared once again.
"I see you have company," said Keith Baumer.
Quill blinked at him. He looked different somehow. Cleaner. Less shabby. More... elegant. The baggy blue suit had been replaced by a beautifully cut double-breasted blazer and cream flannel trousers, the ash-covered ratty tie by a tasteful silk cravat. His weekender dangled from one shoulder.
"Just stopped in to say goodbye." Baumer extended his hand. Quill took it, reluctantly. Baumer clasped it and wiggled his middle finger suggestively against her palm. "Wanted to thank you for the interesting stay."
Quill, mindful of the courtesies incumbent on innkeepers who strove for professionalism (and of the fact that they were finally going to see the last of Baumer), shook her hand free, but said politely, "I sincerely apologize for the last few days, Mr. Baumer. I'm afraid you didn't find us at our best."
The kitchen door banged open. The man from the D.O.H. came out with a second recipe card in his hand. "This recipe for mayonnaise..." he said. "Oh! Mr. Baumer! How are you, sir?"
"So you called them in," said Meg. "It figures."
"At least it wasn't Marge," Quill whispered. "Just keep your lip buttoned. After Baumer leaves we can explain all about him to this guy. Maybe he'll give us a break."
"And your name?" said Baumer to the man from the D.O.H., with a hearty "my man" attitude that set Quill's teeth on edge.
"Arnie Stankard."
"It's a pleasure, Arnie."
"The pleasure's mine, sir." The two men shook hands.
"Stoolie," muttered Meg in disgust.
Baumer lit a cigarette and flicked the match on the floor. "Mayonnaise, zabaglione, and don't forget the Caesar salad, Arnie. Ladies? It's been an experience." He strolled out.
"Arnie," said Quill, as soon as Baumer was out of earshot. "I don't know where you met that man, but we need to explain him to you."
"You mean you know?" said Arnie. "I'm kinda surprised that you do. He always makes such a big deal of traveling incognito. Usually poses as a grungy salesman. Quite a boost for your restaurant, being visited by the food critic from L'Aperitif."