"Nasty," said Marge with satisfaction. "Very nasty."
"Marge," said Quill, "dammit..."
"This food is bad?" said Mrs. Hallenbeck. "I don't believe we should pay for a meal if the food is bad."
"Here!" Marge rummaged in the pocket of her bowling jacket and thrust a creased paper at Quill.
Quill took it and said, "Marge, we are well aware..."
Marge grabbed it back. "I'll read it to you." Her lips moved and she muttered, "Shipment of beef tainted with E. coli, that ain't it. Here! Wait!" She took a deep breath, preparatory to another bellow.
Quill grabbed the memo, scanned it, and translated the governmentese which boiled down to John's statement of that afternoon: no more raw egg. "Now look, Marge..."
"I am ready to go up, Mavis." Mrs. Hallenbeck rapped the tabletop imperatively. "This person is loud. I am tired."
"Now you got the memo, you got no excuse, Quill," said Marge.
"MAVIS !" said Mrs. Hallenbeck loudly.
"All right, all right," Mavis replied, flustered. "Marge. I cain't take time to talk to you now, but I'll see you soon, you hear?"
"Right." Marge nodded ponderously. "We got old times to talk about."
"Northeast manager of what?" said Quill, hoping to divert Marge's attention from further bellicose thunderings about salmonella.
"You got some more damn fools wantin' to eat here," said Marge. "C'mon, Mave, I'll walk out with you."
Quill turned a distracted glance to the maitre d' station. Tom Peterson was waiting there patiently. John was nowhere in sight.
" 'Lo, Tom," said Marge as she walked by. "Stay away from the Italian puddin'." Marge disappeared in the direction of the front door. Mavis supported the miffed Mrs. Hallenbeck up the stairs. Quill wondered if she'd actually serve time if she gave Marge a fat lip.
"I should have made reservations," said Tom Peterson. "Is the kitchen still open?"
"Oh, sure, Tom." Quill picked up a menu. "How many in your party?"
"Just one other. He's looking at the mural in the men's room. He'll be out in a moment."
Quill took another menu. "Would you like to sit near the window?" Tom followed her to the table next to Edward Lancashire. The Petersons had lived in Hemlock Falls for close to three hundred years, their fortunes fluctuating with the business competency of each generation. A shrewd nineteenth-century Peterson had boosted the family fortune for some considerable period of time through investments in railroads. Tom, whose pale eyes and attenuated frame were a diluted version of his richer ancestor, had stuck with the transportation business after his brief excursion into the hotel with Marge; Gil's Buick partnership was part of Tom's larger trucking firm.
Quill seated Tom, then banged into the kitchen with Baumer's order in one hand. "Hey!" she said to her sister. "I quit."
Meg stood at the Aga. She'd inherited their father's rich dark hair and gray eyes, along with his volatile Welsh temper. Quill was an expert at reading her sister's moods; Meg's hair stood on end, which meant that the cooking was going well.
"The sauces are really behaving," said Meg, ignoring the familiar imperative. "I think it's the weather. I wasn't sure about the dessert for the Chamber lunch, though. Damn mint leaves kept wilting. Got the sugar syrup too hot, I guess."
"The food was great. The meeting was kind of a pain in the rear."
Meg raised an eyebrow in question. "Myles nominated guess who to be squashed artistically under a barn door. Under the current circumstances, that's a consummation to be wished for devoutly. Probably because of the consummation devoutly wished for by the jerk at table seven."
"Uh-oh," said Meg. She grinned, shook her head, and skill- fully ladled three perfect brandied orange slices over a crisply browned game hen. "Don't tell me you got hooked into playing Clarissa this year."
"Julie Offenbach is sick," said Quill gloomily. She sighed and consulted her order pad. "We've got one more order. One medium-rare New York marinated in fungicide. No veg. Double cholesterol on the potato. Table seven."
"Mr. Baumer?"
"Yes indeedy. He almost forced me to break my number one rule."
"I thought the number one rule was don't hit the help."
"That's number two. Number one is don't piss off the patrons." Quill flopped into the rocking chair by the fireplace. "It's been a long day. I've still got to pay bills and go over the accounting with John before I go to bed. And my feet hurt." She glanced at her sister, wondering how and when to bring up the raw egg ban.
Meg, indifferent to the business side of the Inn, sniffed appreciatively at the copper pot filled with orange sauce on the stove. Her brown hair was shoved back from her forehead by a bright yellow sweatband. She liked to be comfortable when she cooked, and wore her usual chef's gear - a tattered Duke University sweatshirt, leggings, and a well-worn pair of sneakers. She looked at her sister's elegant feet. "It's those shoes, kiddo. Handmade Italian leather is the worst possible thing for your disposition. Want to borrow a pair of sneakers?"
"I want to borrow a life." Quill pushed the rocker in motion and closed her eyes. "Preferably on a beach somewhere. In the Caribbean. With a gorgeous twenty-year-old lifeguard and an endless supply of rum punch."
"Umm. I've heard that song before. And what about Myles? Face it. You love it here." Meg piped potato rosettes around the base of the bird, added two rings of spiced apple to the brandied orange slices, and presented the platter. "Ta dah! For table twelve. Bless his little heart. Ordered all my specialties, including game hen stuffed with The Sausage that made us famous."
Quill got up and took the platter. "Meg. About table twelve..."
Meg placed a silver dome over the bird. "You said he was cute."
"Very cute. The sort that could take us both away from all this."
"Rich? Single? Got a yacht?"
"No, the sort that could take us away from all this because I think he might be from the D.O.H."
Meg scowled. "What are you saying?"
"I'm not sure. But he was scribbling notes. And he ordered the Caesar salad and the Steak Tartare" - Quill took a deep breath - "and I wouldn't put it past Marge Schmidt and her creepy pal to have called them after that memo about the salmonella came out. She showed up here with the memo not ten minutes ago. Although I don't see how he could have gotten here so fast. Meg, you'll have to stop with the raw eggs. Just temporarily."
Meg slammed down her wooden spoon, marched to the swinging doors to the dining room, pushed them open, and peered through. She looked back at her sister. "That's an Armani, or I'm a short-order cook. People from the D.O.H. wear polyester."
"Yes, but is he taking notes?"
Meg peered out the door again. "How should I know? He's holding the Merlot by the stem. He's swirling the wine. He's inhaling it." She shrieked suddenly. "Quill! He's taking notes!"
"I told you he was taking notes." She looked over Meg's head into the dining room. "Oh, damn. There's Tom Peterson ready to order. Where's John!"
Meg let the doors close and said tensely, "L 'Aperitif! You know, 'The Magazine to Read Before You Dine.' "