A Taste for Murder Read Online Free PDF

said Mrs. Hallenbeck sternly. "She is dressed abominably. She is too fat."

Quill warmed to Mrs. Hallenbeck.

"You remember Marge Schmidt, Amelia. She ran the Northeast region for a couple of years before she quit to come home here. She runs a restaurant now."

"Northeast region of what?" said Quill.

"Brought that D.O.H. order for you, Quill," Marge said loudly. "'Bout the salmonella? You din't eat the Italian puddin', did you, Mave?"

"No, not yet," said Mavis, sounding alarmed.

"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