'You know what happened,' said Marge sourly. 'Sheriff's full of baloney. Coulda been me, coulda been Mavis sat in that ducking stool. You have some gripe with Gil, Harland? You set that tractor up somehow?'
'That tractor's been used for thirty years, and it's got another thirty in it. Ain't nothin' wrong with that tractor!' Harland roared.
'We must not assign blame,' said Dookie Shuttleworth. 'This is just further evidence that there is some devilish device at work here in town. Quill, the deacons and I have decided to hold a prayer breakfast. This distressing news makes it all the more urgent that we do so. Would the dining room at the Inn be available to us tomorrow morning? For perhaps forty people?'
'Of course, Mr. Shuttleworth,' Quill said. 'I'll speak with the kitchen about the menu.'
'The church is not exactly in funds at the moment,' he said apologetically. 'Perhaps we could work something out?'
The wail of a siren jerked Quill upright. 'That's the ambulance!' said the mayor. 'What the heck? What's happening to the town now?'
Quill ran into the hall and out to the front lobby. Two paramedics burst in through the door. The woman, a substantially sized brunette Quill had seen in town before, said, 'Room two twenty-one, miss?'
'This way,' said Quill. They followed her up the short flight of stairs. Two twenty-one was Baumer's room. Quill, her heart pounding, rapped on the door as she opened it with her master key. 'Mr. Baumer!' she called. 'It's Sarah Quilliam. Are you all right?'
'In here!' Baumer's voice was whispery, faint. Quill froze with anxiety bordering on outright fear. Some lunatic must be abroad in Hemlock Falls. Maybe Harvey Bozzel was right. The paramedics shoved her unceremoniously out of the way and charged into the bathroom.
Quill sat down on the bed and took several deep breaths. 'Was that the ambulance?' Meg stood at the open door. She snapped her fingers nervously, a habit which had irritated Quill since their childhood. 'Is Baumer okay?'
'Yes, to the ambulance, and I don't know about Baumer,' said Quill. 'The paramedics are in there with him.' Thumps and mumblings from the bathroom indicated the presence of too many people in too small a space. 'Have you seen him tonight?'
'Umyah.'
'What do you mean, 'umyah'? Was he at dinner?'
The brunette opened the bathroom door. Her partner, a thick-set guy with a mustache, supported Keith Baumer. Baumer's face was furious. And green. Quill couldn't decide which condition was uppermost.
'This,' Baumer rasped, 'is the hotel from Hell.' The male paramedic dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. Baumer groaned theatrically and closed his eyes.
Quill, who had a growing, uneasy suspicion about the cause of Baumer's illness, asked the medics what happened.
'He has food poisoning,' said the brunette. 'We got a sample.' She held up a clear tube. Quill averted her eyes from the loathsome contents. 'I just think he ate sumthin' that didn't agree with him.'
'He have anything with raw egg in it?' asked the male medic. The tag on his white coat read O. DOYLE. 'This could be salmonella.'
'Salmonella,' agreed his partner. 'Deadly stuff. Ought to take him to the hospital.' She nodded her head in gloomy relish. 'Might not last the night otherwise.'
'There is no salmonella in my kitchen,' snapped Meg. 'And if he's sick, it's because; he grossed out on my food. Pork roast, potatoes duchesse, asparagus with hollandaise - and the eggs were cooked, thank you. He started the meal with sausage-stuffed mushrooms, and ended it with a chocolate bombe, and nobody's gut can take all that, even a cow, which has four stomachs instead of that guy's one.'
'He looks a little better, Mr. O'Doyle,' said Quill, eyeing Baumer with hope.
'It's Doyle, ma'am. Oliver Doyle. And I think he does, don't you, Maureen?'
'I'll take his temperature.' She opened a black bag, took out a thermometer, and rolled up her sleeves. 'CAN YOU HEAR ME, MR. BAUMER!'
'I can hear you fine,' he snapped. 'It's my stomach, not my ears.'
'CAN YOU ROLL OVER ON YOUR STOMACH FOR ME? WE'RE GOING TO TAKE YOUR TEMPERATURE.' Maureen advanced on him, the thermometer held aloft.
'We'll wait in the hall,' said Quill. She shoved Meg out of 221, across the hall, and flat against the opposite wall. 'What the hell have you been up to, Meg!'
'Nothing,' said Meg, meekly.
Quill knew her sister's literal mind. 'Then what have Frank and Bjorn been up to?'
'A little creative cooking, that's all,' said Meg. 'Nothing remotely harmful.'
Quill stood back and glared at her, hands on her hips. 'That little bottle. What's in it?'
Meg opened her mouth, closed it. 'Ipecac,' she said. 'A very weak solution.'
Maureen and Oliver came out of 221, closing the door behind them. 'Temperature's normal,' said Maureen regretfully. 'Pulse is normal. And he only threw up five or six times and he's not gonna heave again, he says. Told him to stay in bed for a few days, eat boiled eggs and tea, maybe a little toast.'
'Aw, Maureen, the guy's going to be fine,' said Doyle, 'just ate something that didn't agree with him. I seen guys a lot sicker come out of the Croh Bar and work the late shift at the paint factory, no problem.'
'Still got to report it to the Board of Health,' said Maureen. She waved the test tube. 'Send this in for samples.' She brightened. 'Might be salmonella. Just a teensy little bit.'
