'Nope? Are you serious? After all that ranting and raving last night? I would have thought the son of a gun would be embarrassed to show his sniveling face in town.'
'He's booked for the week. He's paid for the week. He'll stay for the week. That's what he said.'
'In-credible.'
'I assume it has to do with the sales convention at the Marriott.' Quill sighed. 'I can't think how that guy keeps a job.'
'And the marvelous round-heeled Mavis?'
'Mrs. Hallenbeck said, 'booked for the week, paid for the week.' '
'They'll stay for the week?'
'Besides, I think both of them are looking forward to the play this afternoon. Ow!'
Meg kicked Quill's ankle as Keith Baumer, Mavis, and Mrs. Hallenbeck arrived simultaneously at the entrance to the dining room. Conversation in the dining room came to a halt. Mrs. Hallenbeck, Quill thought, was superb. She ignored Baumer with aplomb bordering on the magnificent. Mavis meekly trailing in her wake, she swept past Baumer - whose face was tinged a dusky pink-to their regular table. Head down, Baumer slunk to table eight.
'Oh. There's Edward,' said Meg eagerly. Lancashire, in cotton Dockers, boat shoes, and a dark green denim shirt, walked in, and with a casual wave at Meg and Quill, began to come toward them. He stopped at the Hallenbeck table and spoke briefly to the widows. Mavis, in an off-the-shoulder tank top that showed more d ‚colletage than her Empire-styled gown of the evening before, smiled invitingly up at him.
'Would you look at that!' hissed Meg. With a brief, apologetic glance at Meg, Edward pulled out a chair and sat next to Mavis. One of the Inn's impeccably trained waiters was instantly at his elbow with a cup and freshly brewed coffee. 'How does she do it?' said Meg, awestruck.
Mavis flirted, giggled, and ignoring Mrs. Hallenbeck's imperious frown, beckoned to Baumer. Baumer shuffled over from his table and sat on Mavis' left. Sprightly conversation wafted through the air. Meg pulled at her lower lip. Quill looked at this familial symptom of deep thought in alarm. 'Meg, I know that look. What are you going to do?'
'Me?' said Meg innocently. 'Not a thing, sister dear, not a thing. Excuse me a moment.' She sprang up and went into the kitchen. Quill swallowed her French toast, took a gulp of tea, and followed her hastily.
'A lot of tarragon, I think,' Meg was saying to her sous chefs, 'and what else? Ideas, guys, I need ideas.'
'Baking soda instead of baking powder?' said the shorter one. His name was Frank Torrelli; his father ran a good restaurant in Toronto, and Frank was slated to take over the family kitchen when his apprenticeship with Meg was up. The taller one was a Swede from Finland, studying at the Cornell Hotel School on a green card. Bjorn's blond hair and blue eyes had the pale, icy look of plain water in a glass.
'Salt,' said Bjorn. 'A lot of it.'
'Too obvious;' said Meg. 'I want subtle stuff. So he's not really sure what it is.'
'I got it. I got it!' said Frank. He ran excitedly to the cupboard, pulled out a small bottle, and waved it in the air. 'Eh? S'all right?'
'All right!' said Meg.
They burst into laughter.
'What's all this, then?' said Quill, feeling a little like a policeman in a medium-grade British mystery.
'Never you mind,' said Meg. 'Don't you have a lot of stuff to do today? Beat it.'
'Peter's going to manage the front desk today. Doreen's taking care of the housekeeping staff. And I thought that Bjorn and Frank were in charge of the kitchen shifts.' Quill folded her arms and leaned against the butcher's block. 'One of the advantages of taking management courses at Cornell at nights is that you learn to empower your employees. So, I've got lots of time to spend with you guys, since you seem to be making all the decisions, anyway.'
'Hey. Wouldn't your life be a lot easier if that miserable Mavis and sleazy Baumer beat feet?' demanded Meg.
'Well, yeah. Baumer at least.' Frank had the mysterious bottle in his large hand and she couldn't see the label. Quill didn't know if she wanted to see the label. 'But if Mavis doesn't stay the week, I have to play Clarissa. And you could rate my enthusiasm to be dunked and squashed right up there with getting nasty letters from the Board of Health. Not only that, but Mavis is going to be subpoenaed as a witness in Gil's drowning accident. So she can't leave.'
'Just Baumer, then,' said Meg. 'We're just going to encourage Baumer to leave a leetle bit earlier than he had planned to. He's going to find the food not to his taste.' Gales of giggles came from the sous chefs. Meg flung out both her hands at Quill's outraged expression. 'Nothing illegal, immoral, or actionable. I swear.'
'Please, Meg,' said Quill. 'Think of the bad publicity.'
'From a guy whose wife shows up while he's in the sack with Mavis the Bimbo? From a guy whose wife whacks him up the side of the head with a lamp? He's lucky we don't turn him in to his company. One call to his boss at the Marriott, one call, that's all it'd take! He's lucky we don't sue him for damages. He's lucky he's alive!' Meg raked her hair back with both hands. Her cheeks were flushed.
Her eyes glittered. Frank and Bjorn exchanged meaningful glances and melted into the background. 'I will SHUT DOWN MY KITCHEN before I serve my good food to pigs like that!' Meg shouted. 'I will THROW MY SPATULAS INTO THE FIRE!'
'Mornin' ,' said Doreen, stumping into the kitchen. She was wearing her best polyester pantsuit and a small straw hat. She put her hands on her hips and stared at Meg. 'Well, missy. Looks like the Devil's got aholt of you.'
Meg drummed her fingers on the countertop.
'You look nice, Doreen,' Quill ventured into the charged silence.
