"I know L 'Aperitif; Meg." Quill patted her sister's shoulder soothingly. "Forget it. I'll just go out and get Peterson set up."
Meg tore her sweatband from her hair and wound it around both hands. "I'm going to scream."
"Meg..."
"It's been eighteen months since we were last reviewed, Quill. Oh, God. And that managing editor hates me. She hates me. You know what they said in that article?"
"They love you, Meg. You're the only three-star..."
"My tournedos were dry! That's what they said. That I overcook my beef!" She grabbed the game hen out of Quill's hands, stamped to the stove, and ladled more brandied orange juice over the hen, drenching the potatoes. "There! That'll teach the sons of bitches to call my cooking dry!"
"Meg!" Quill grabbed the platter back. "You have absolutely no proof that this guy's a food critic."
"Well, you thought he was from the Department of Health! In an Armani suit!" She shoved Quill toward the dining room. "You go out there. You find out what kind of review he's going to give me. If he dares even hint that that bird is dry, I'll personally shove the rest of his bloody meal down his bloody throat!"
Table twelve faced the window overlooking the gorge. Edward Lancashire's eyes crinkled at the comers when he smiled. They crinkled as Quill set the game hen in front of him. "Looks great."
"Thank you."
He looked around the dining room. Quill noticed his wedding ring, and discarded the possibility of a nice flirtation with Meg. "Not bad for a Thursday night," he said. "You must do pretty well."
"We do. Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Lancashire?"
He forked a piece of the game hen. His eyes widened. "This is terrific. That's tarragon. Maybe a touch of Italian parsley? And mint. Excellent." He swallowed, and waved his fork at the chair opposite. "Dining room closes at ten-thirty, doesn't it? It's past that now. Have a seat."
"The owners don't care for the help fraternizing with guests." He looked up, his eyes shrewd. She smiled. "What? Do I have a sign that says 'Owner-Manager'?"
"No. But there's a bronze plaque in the front that reads 'Your hosts, Sarah and Margaret Quilliam.' And your name tag says 'Quill'."
"I might be their impoverished cousin from Des Moines, living on the bounty of relatives, pinch-hitting as manager and eking out a bare existence as a waitress."
"The uniform doesn't fit," he continued unperturbed, "and a woman wearing a three-hundred-dollar pair of shoes wouldn't voluntarily wear a dress that was too big across the hips - and too tight across - " He stopped, as Quill frowned indignantly. "Sorry. You had enough of that this afternoon." He nodded towards Baumer, happily swigging down a final Manhattan. "Besides, I saw your show in New York a few years ago. Your picture was on the poster."
"Oh. That."
"Yes. You aren't painting anymore?"
"Some," she said, deliberately vague. "I don't have much time during the season. Are you staying with us long?"
"Depends on the food." He smiled, and Quill's heart gave an excited thump. He was asking enough questions to qualify as a food critic. Although he was awfully thin. Quill worried about the skinny part. But Meg was skinny, and she was the greatest chef in the state.
"Then you're not here for History Days?" He raised an interrogative eyebrow. "Hemlock Falls' biggest tourist attraction. Featuring Central New York's only three-star gourmet restaurant. Among other attractions."
He laughed a little. "Other attractions?"
"Craft booths and everybody in town dressed up like the Empress Josephine and Napoleonic soldiers. It's the wrong century of course, but the Ladies Auxiliary decided a long time ago that Empire costumes are prettier than Colonial." She cleared her throat a little self-consciously. "I may be prejudiced, but I think the reputation of the Inn has a lot to do with History Days' success. We're booked a year in advance for the whole week. We were even written up in the Times last year in the Sunday travel section. Maybe you saw it?" She leaned forward anxiously. "How's the sausage; stuffing in the game hen?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?" she said worriedly. "It's my sister's recipe, you know. Margaret Quilliam. L 'Aperitif wrote an article about her when we opened up two years ago. Maybe you saw that, too. 'Engorged at the Gorge'? Meg received Central New York's only three-star rating. Some people think it's time she was given a four. She's terrific, don't you think?"
"I'm not much of a gourmet," he said apologetically, "tastes great to me."
Quill calmed down. She'd pushed him too far. "Anything you need, just ask us."
"Coffee would be nice."
"Coffee. I'll have it here in a minute. Freshly brewed, of course."
Quill signaled to Kathleen Kiddermeister, who was clearing the Hallenbeck table, to take the Peterson order, and swept back into the kitchen. Meg sat nervously in the rocker, her feet up, smoking a forbidden cigarette. She jumped up and demanded, "Well?"
"It's L 'Aperitif."
Meg turned pale.
"He registered as Edward Lancashire. I've never seen an Edward Lancashire byline in L'Aperitif Probably a pseudonym."
"Now? Now!? The week of History Days. Oh, God."
"Meg! I'm not positively sure it's L 'Aperitif..."
"Oh, God."
"... but we are overdue for a review."
"Oh, God."
"And he's asking very gourmet-type questions. He wants coffee. I'll make sure the whipped cream is fresh... and the cinnamon sticks... fill the bowl of cinnamon sticks."
"Why not the week after next? Oh, God."
"I'll tell Kathleen to make sure the orange juice is fresh- squeezed tomorrow morning. What's the room service breakfast?"
"Blueberry muffins. It's July, remember? Oh, God."
"Take a deep breath."
Meg took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.
Quill patted her back. "We've survived Health Department notices, cranky widows, horny businessmen, drunks, even that kitchen fire last year - and the quality of your cooking's never dropped! Right?"
"Right."
"So!" Quill smiled affectionately at her. "What could happen that the two of us can't handle? You, the cooking genius. Me, the business genius."
John Raintree came through the door. He looked at Quill, his face grim. "That woman that checked in with the widow? The one with the stiff hair?"
"Yes, John. Mavis Collinwood. I moved both of them to three-fourteen."
"I've called the police. She's gone over the edge of the balcony in three-fourteen. To the gorge."
-3-
"I just don't have the littlest idea what happened!" Mavis slumped plaintively on the yellow-and-blue couch in front of the fireplace in Suite 314.
Mavis had been found dangling over the lip of the gorge, like a baby in a stork's beak. Her patent leather belt had caught on one of the joists which fixed the balcony to the side of the building. Mrs. Hallenbeck, with great presence of mind, had taken a sheet from one of the beds, wrapped it around Mavis' stomach, then tied the other end to the handle of the French door. Mavis' wildly swinging hands had scratched her cheek.