Murder Well-Done Read Online Free PDF

Inn. Quill could barely see the tops of the brussels sprouts for the snow. "They're predicting four inches more by this afternoon. If the rest of the wedding party doesn't get here by tomorrow, we'll have to cancel the reception and eat each other like the Donner party since we'll undoubtedly get snowed in. Which reminds me. I thought you were going to have lunch with Myles in Syracuse. You better give yourself plenty of time to get there."

"I'll be fine," Quill said. "I told him two o'clock."

"You're sure about it," Meg said, after a pause. "I mean, this business about it being the last lunch."

Quill nodded. "This relationship is just - not going anywhere."

"You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, at least it should end all this angst."

"What angst?" Quill demanded.

"The angst that's kept you functioning at half speed for the past couple of months. Good grief, Quill, you haven't even gone through the mail this past week."

Quill, who absolutely did not want to talk about her farewell to Myles until it was all over, changed the subject abruptly. "What's with the pig? It's down on the schedule as a delivery before noon. It's half past eleven now. Would you like me to take it somewhere before I leave for Syracuse?"

"One of the sous-chefs should be here soon. Unless the snow gets worse." She pulled the clipboard that held the day's rota from the wall by the small TV and studied it. "Bjarne's on today. He's a Finn and they're used to the snow. I'll get him to do it." Meg moved the roast pig into one of the aluminum pans they used to transport food and looked at it with a frown. "Do you think the holly's too Christmassy?"

Quill vaguely recollected Santini's offhand comment. "On the pig? Maybe a little."

"The holly's not in celebration of Christmas. It's a subtle reminder of the Druid influence on the S. O. A. P. rituals. Not that those idiots would know a Druid from a downspout."

Quill looked doubtful. "Suckling pig only serves twelve to fourteen, doesn't it? Last count, actual S. O. A. P. membership was thirty-two."

"The meeting this afternoon isn't the whole membership. It's just the executive committee. Elmer Henry, Dookie Shuttleworth, Harland Peterson, and those guys."

Quill sat in the rocker by the cobblestone fireplace, propped her feet on the hearth, and rocked back and forth. Menu planning had been a lot simpler before the Chamber of Commerce had split into two rival factions. S. O. A. P. wanted earthy, primitive fare with a gourmet touch, and H. O. W. was seriously considering vegetarian. She had a vague recollection that holly had something to do with Druid rites, but she wasn't sure what. "I don't think that S. O. A. P. is based on Celtic mythology. I think it's AmerInd."

"Do American Indians strip to the waist, paint themselves blue, and stick stones in their hair?"

"Is that what they do at those meetings?"

Meg grinned. "So I've heard. But it's just gossip. The men won't talk about it, and the women don't know anything because the men aren't talking." She began to pack the pig in aluminum foil. "It's all Miriam Doncaster's fault, anyway. She never should have let the mayor have a copy of The Branch of the Root. It's a stupid book."

Quill's mood wasn't improving, and wouldn't, she knew, until the final lunch with Myles was over. She said crossly, "How do you know it's a stupid book? Have you read it?"

Meg raised her eyebrows. "See this look on my face?"

Quill shoved the rocker into motion and muttered, "Never mind."

"Cheerful sarcasm," Meg said, "that's the look on my face. We're still recuperating from the Thanksgiving rush. We're headed into even worse chaos between Christmas and the most boring wedding of the decade, and you want to know if I've found time to read a seven-hundred-page book that's supposed to get white guys in touch with their maleness, for Pete's sake?"

"Good point."

"You betcha," She glanced at her watch, "You go on to your lunch in