'Doctor!' commanded Mrs. Hallenbeck. 'You will send your bill to Ms. Quilliam. This entire affair is the responsibility of the Inn.'
Quill glanced quickly at John. He nodded reluctantly. 'Of course, Andy,' she said. 'I'm so sorry this happened, Mavis.'
Myles, who had been leaning against the mantel with a thoughtful expression, said, 'Sarah, maybe you and John could move Mrs. Hallenbeck and Mrs. Collinwood to a different room.'
'Why?' Quill asked. 'Myles, the Inn is booked to the gills in two days for History Week. There isn't any place we can put them but here, after Sunday.'
'I'm going to seal off the room until the investigation is completed.'
'Maybe they'll be gone by then,' said John, surprisingly ungracious. 'Come on, Sarah. Mrs. Hallenbeck, we'll take you down to two-fourteen. I'll see that your luggage is packed up and brought down.'
'Where we began,' said Mrs. Hallenbeck. 'I am assuming the rest of our stay will be free of charge. And we do intend, Mr. Raintree, to stay the entire week.'
Quill, distracted, watched them go. 'Myles - how long is this going to take? And what kind of investigation? I'll have to have the insurance company in to look at it, of course, but it's just the balcony, for Pete's sake.'
'I want to show you something.'
Quill looked at her watch; after midnight. She yawned suddenly. 'Can't we do this in the morning, Myles?'
'Now.'
Quill followed him out to the balcony. The July night was soft, the moon a silvery half crescent over the Falls. The northwest edge of the balcony gaped, bent and broken, just as it had when she'd looked at it before.
'Look at this.' Using his handkerchief to protect the wrought-iron surface, Myles gently rocked one of the posts free from the edge of the concrete.
Quill peered at it in the half-light from the suite behind them. 'The mortar's all crumbled away,' she said. 'What do you think the insurance company's going to want me to do? Should I call the architect?'
'Look at it, Quill.'
She reached out to touch the mortar. Myles caught her hand gently and moved it aside. 'It's eaten away,' she said.
'My guess is acid. Do you have any here?'
'Sulfuric,' said Quill, suddenly wide-awake. 'Doreen insists that a solution of sulfuric acid and water is the only thing that gets the mold off the concrete. She uses it once every six months.'
Myles crumbled a few bits of mortar in his handkerchief and sniffed it. 'Undiluted, is my guess. It's been poured around these five posts here. How much have you got on hand?'
Quill's thoughts scattered, then regrouped. She stood up slowly. 'A fifty-gallon drum, at least. John orders it in bulk. It doesn't decay or lose its potency or anything.' She stared at him. 'But who? And why?'
'Who has access to it?'
'It's in the storeroom. We lock it at night, but during the day - anyone, I guess.'
'I'll send someone down to check it. What did those two do today?'
'They checked in about noon. Mavis went for a walk. Mrs. Hallenbeck stayed in her room until tea-time. They both came down for tea at four o'clock. They ate a huge one. Then Mrs. Hallenbeck went up to her room for a nap, I think. That was about five o'clock. I guess Mavis went with her. They came back down to dinner about nine-thirty. They'd changed clothes after washing up, I guess.'
'How many guests did you have for tea?'
'Four tables. Two tables were people passing through on their way to Syracuse. The fourth table was a guest that checked in about two o'clock, Keith Baumer. He - '
'Wait a minute.' Myles wrote in his notebook. 'And after nine-thirty? Who was at the Inn?'
'The regular kitchen staff. Meg, me, John, Kathleen Kiddermeister. We were short a waitress, which is why I was waiting tables. Other than the guests, just Tom Peterson and some customer of his, I think. They came in around ten-thirty. Oh! And Marge showed up.'
'And the guests?'
Quill ran over the roster of the guests. 'Excluding Hallenbeck and Collinwood - we've just got six others. There's a family in three twenty-six and three twenty-seven. An orthodontist, his wife, and two kids taking a tour of the Finger Lakes Region. They're due to check out tomorrow, and they were hiking all day today. And - oh, Myles! The most awful thing! We think the food critic for L'Aperitif is here incognito. He's calling himself Edward Lancashire. Meg's fit to be tied. But that last one - ' Quill broke off.
'What about the last one?'
'The most disgusting human being. Keith Baumer. Eyes like sweaty little hands. Ugh.'
'Do any of the guests smoke?'
'Keith Baumer does. He's a sloppy smoker. Why?'
Myles reached into his shirt pocket and took out a plastic evidence bag. It contained a matchbook.
'That's one of ours,' said Quill. 'Notice how it's folded?'
Quill examined it through the clear plastic. The cover had been folded over three times, exposing the
