Toast Mortem (22 page)

“No problem.” Dina picked up the phone. “I’m on it.” She stopped, her finger poised over the speed dial. “Anything else? Would you like me to call somebody? Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“Not a thing.” Quill forced herself to get up and move. She sped back through town, keeping a wary eye out for traffic patrol, and made the trip to the academy in five minutes flat.

A black-and-white patrol car was parked at the academy annex. A dark blue Crown Victoria sat next to it. Chances were high that the police were going through Verena Owens’s apartment. And chances were slim to none that they were going to let a civilian like Quill rummage through Verena’s computer.

Quill debated with herself, then parked the Honda in the main lot. She had to let Davy know right away about the unmasking of the WARP group. Miriam was sworn to secrecy, but Quill was willing to bet her vow would last until the second glass of Chardonnay at the Croh Bar.

As expected, she was barred from going any farther than the annex foyer. She told the patrolman at the door there was an urgent message for the sheriff. She waited impatiently for several minutes. Davy finally emerged from the hallway that led to Mrs. Owens’s apartment.

“You look tired,” she said, with sudden concern.

He rubbed his hand over his unshaven chin. “I’m beat. I don’t mean to put you off, Quill, but can’t this wait?”

“I think it might be important.”

“Okay. Spill it.”

“None of the people in the WARP group are who they say they are.”

“What do you mean?”

Quill bit her lip. Damn it all. This was going to be tricky. She couldn’t reveal how Miriam hacked into the police computers. And—unworthy as it was—she was banking on whom she was married to to keep her out of trouble. “I think that Valerie Barbarossa, William Knight Collier, and Anson and Muriel Fredericks are all assumed names.”

“Is that a fact?” Davy unwrapped a piece of gum, stuck it in his mouth, and chewed it. He appeared to be thinking something over. Quill was pretty sure she knew what it was: somehow, Myles McHale’s wife had gotten hold of information known only to the police—the real name of the chief suspect in a nasty case of murder. He wanted to know how. If he knew how, he might have to arrest her. It was okay to arrest Sarah Quilliam. As a matter of fact, right about now he’d enjoy it. It was very not okay to arrest Myles McHale’s wife.

The solidarity that characterizes police forces the world over won out. Davy said, “How do you figure that?”

“It’s because they won’t tell us what WARP stands for. I mean, here you’ve arrested this guy with a record—and he’s an accepted member of a group that includes a banker, a stockbroker, and a little old lady with grandchildren in the dairy business. It didn’t make sense. So I Googled WARP . . .”

“
Star Trek
stuff,” Davy said.

“Exactly. So I Googled their names.”

Davy’s expression relaxed a little. “Yeah? That was pretty smart. You get something out of that?”

“Everybody’s dead. I mean, the names are all of people who’re dead. Lottery winners, as a matter of fact, but my guess is that was just a handy way to find useful aliases. I mean Vanderhausen, or rather Bobby Ray Steinmetz actually won one. I think that’s where they got the idea. More than that, I think it’s a gang. I thought you ought to know.”

“What kind of gang?”

“I don’t know! Maybe they make a habit of robbing live lottery winners. Maybe they plan to rip off the Hemlock Falls First National Bank. What I do know is that they’re unbelievably secretive. Whatever they’re planning, I’ll bet they’ve done it before.”

Davy nodded agreement. “Dina says they spend money like drunken Indians.”

“Dina would never say that. I mean, yes, they spend a lot and in kind of careless ways. But not like . . .”

A smile lightened his eyes. “Nope, and she’d clock me a good one if she knew I’d said it that way, too. So don’t blow me in, okay?”

“Okay. Anyhow, as soon as I found out, I came to tell you. I thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks. I’ll see about it.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me when you find out?”

“Don’t push it, Quill.”

“I wouldn’t,” she said apologetically. “It’s just that with Jack there . . . oh! And there’s one more thing. I moved them all to the Marriott.”

“Good. We’ll know where to find them.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Now, look, Quill . . .”

“The reason I asked, is because there might be some clues to Mrs. Owens’s activities before she died on her computer.”

“She doesn’t have a computer.” He chewed his gum twice and then added, “We didn’t find one. You know anything about her computer?”

“Not really,” she said cautiously. “But I heard.”

“Heard what? From who? And how?”

She raised her hands in defeat. “Sorry. You’re right. I’ll be up at the kitchens if you need me.”

Davy smiled at her. “If I tell you don’t hold your breath, will you get mad?”

There was a back entrance to the restaurant kitchen. Quill was pretty sure she’d find Meg there, so she took the path that circumnavigated the building. Pietro Giancava stood in the little landscaped area just outside the kitchen itself, smoking a cigarette. He pinched it out as Quill came up and tossed it into a holly bush. “She is inside, your sister, rearranging all. I am not happy.”

“The menu, you mean?”

“Of course, the menu. What else?”

Quill smiled at him. Cranky chefs were a familiar problem. “You, yourself, Pietro, would want to present your own work at a dinner like the one tomorrow night and not someone else’s.”

He smoothed his thick black hair with both hands. “I am, of course, a better chef than it may appear from my current station in life. Maitre Quilliam has seen that I have a . . . how would you put it . . . a genius with sauces. So yes. Unlike that rascal LeVasque, she has stated openly that I am to create my sauce Milanese for the chevon. However!” He paused, opened the door for her, and followed her inside. “We have not yet reached an agreement on the wines. She is insisting on using
les vins du pays.
There is not one acceptable red in the whole of this area. You must speak to her. The Rieslings?” He threw his hands in the air. “I have given up. I will use the Rieslings.”

Meg stood in the center of the gorgeous kitchen, frowning over a clipboard. She looked up as Quill and Pietro came in. “Hey, sis,” she said absently. “And I heard that about the reds, Pietro.” She looked around. “Anybody have a paper bag?”

Raleigh Brewster was at a huge ash prep table, chopping green peppers with furious abandon. “There’s a stack in the commodities room.”

“The commodities room,” Meg repeated. “This place doesn’t have a mere pantry. It’s got a commodities room. Could you get one for me, please, Raleigh? And give it to Pietro.” She tucked the clipboard under her arm and beamed at her sister. “Isn’t this place gorgeous?”

Quill had to agree. The floor—although it was covered in most places by thick rubber matting—was made of beautifully marled cork, easy on the feet and wonderful to the eye. The cupboards were from Smallbone, in the Baroque style, with fluted pillars supporting the prep tables. The huge room had windows on three sides, so that the place was filled with light.

“What am I to do with this paper bag?” Pietro scowled.

“You are to put it over your head and taste three Finger Lakes Pinot Noirs and three French Pinot Noirs. If you tell the difference between them I will personally give you ten thousand dollars. Of course, if you can’t, you will have to give me ten thousand dollars.”

“Still want the paper bag?” Raleigh asked.

Pietro tossed his head. “How much is ten thousand dollars in euros?”

A ripple of laughter went through the kitchen. Pietro grinned. “Okay. I give it to you. We will use the Keuka Spring red with the chevon, okay? It is tolerable.”

“It’s more than tolerable. It’s fabulous.”

Quill touched her sister on the arm. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure. LeVasque has this fabulous office. It’s right over here.”

The office was at the front of the kitchen, right off the big glass doors that led in from the lobby. Meg stopped at each of the workstations on the way, testing a reduction, inspecting the texture of a country pâté, suggesting an adjustment to a sorbet mixture of late raspberries. Quill controlled her impatience with an effort. Just before they went into the late LeVasque’s office, she turned and surveyed the kitchen. “We’re using almost all apprentices,” she said to Quill in an undertone, “but it’s working out pretty well. I sure could use Clare, though. It takes years to learn good pastry, and even then, she’s got a gift. Poor Mrs. Owens doesn’t seem to be much of a loss, though. Raleigh volunteered to supervise the compotes and I think it’s going to work out just fine.”

Quill put her hand on her arm. “We need to talk about the murders.”

“Quill! I’ve got a huge dinner in less than thirty-six hours!”

“And we need to get Clare out of jail!”

“Oh. Right.” Meg shoved the office door open.

The place was splendidly furnished. Coffee-colored area rugs covered the cherry floor. Tall filing cabinets of the same wood stood at each end of a sideboard with a sink and under-counter refrigerator. A long cherry conference table surrounded by executive chairs was under a bay window. The chairs were upholstered in fine beige leather.

This side of the academy building faced Peterson Park and the window took full advantage of the view. The statue of General Hemlock was partly visible through a small grove of maple trees. Quill noted there was only one entrance to the office: the big glass door they had come through.

Meg dropped her clipboard on LeVasque’s big cherry desk. “Okay. Shoot. What’s up?”

Quill took a seat in the chair next to the desk. “Every single member of WARP signed in with us under the name of a dead lottery winner.”

Meg’s mouth opened and closed. Then she said, “Why?”

“I have no idea why.”

“What does this have to do with LeVasque’s death?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Does it have anything to do with Mrs. Owens’s death?”

“I don’t know.” Quill picked up Meg’s clipboard, un-snapped the top, and began to neaten the pages up. “I’ll tell you what I think, though. Whoever killed Mrs. Owens wants us to think that. I mean, why else set up Bobby Ray Steinmetz for it?”

“Bobby who?”

“That’s Vanderhausen’s real name. But he doesn’t have any sort of obvious motive. He won some humongous amount in the Florida Lottery and he didn’t need to rob anyone, that’s for sure. And guess how I found out his real name?”

“Davy told you?”

Quill made a face. “Davy’s behaving like . . . well . . . like a sheriff. And you’re not going to believe this!” She re-clipped the tidy stack of pages to the clipboard and told her about Miriam.

“Holy crow.” Meg sat down at LeVasque’s desk. “So now what?”

“Now I take a look at Bonne Goutè’s personnel files.” She looked around the office. “Unless you’ve got them already ready? How’s your end of the investigation going?”

“I’ve been menu planning! I can’t just pull a menu for thirty out of my ear. Not to mention trying to get some kind of performance out of a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears apprentices.” Meg’s face was pink and cross.

Quill couldn’t check the color of her sister’s socks; it was summer and she wore clogs in the kitchen. You could calculate Meg’s temper most of the year by her sock selection. It just wasn’t possible in summer. “Don’t worry about it. Just tell me where to find the files, and I’ll get them myself.” She patted the monitor of the desktop computer in LeVasque’s desk. “Are they in here?”

“Probably not. My guess is they’re in that big filing cabinet.” Meg got up, went to the elegant cabinet in the corner, and pulled out the middle drawer. She took a clutch of keys from her apron pocket, sorted through them, and fitted the smallest into the drawer lock. She rummaged a bit and said, “Here.” She handed Quill a thick stack of manila folders.

“Can I go back to work now? I promise I’m keeping my ears open for any stray confessions that might come up over the goat carcass.”

Quill hefted the stack of files in one hand. “I can’t walk out of here with these.”

“You can put them in this.” Meg knelt on the floor and stuck her head under the desk. “You are not going to believe it. We should think about something like this for the Inn.” Then she snorted. “Not!” She emerged with a handsome canvas tote. One side was lettered with the culinary academy logo. The other had a full color reproduction of LeVasque’s face. “If Harvey Bozzel’s seen this, the town’s in trouble,” Meg predicted darkly. “There’ll be totes shrieking
mayor
on one side with Elmer’s smiling face on the other. Everybody will want one. We’ll walk down Main Street and it will look like everybody’s carrying their heads.” She hummed a line from a rowdy ballad about Anne Boleyn:
“With their heads tucked underneath their arms.”