way too much to do on the costumes.'
'The kitchen? Marge is in Meg's kitchen?'
'She was headed that way.'
'Oh, God,' said Quill. 'I'll be right back.'
Quill pushed open the kitchen door to silence, which meant one of two things: either Meg had discovered Marge among her recipe books and had killed her, or nobody was there.
The flagstone floor was clean and polished. The cobblestone fireplace in the comer, where Meg had a Maine grill to do her lobsters, crackled quietly behind the Thermo Glass doors that kept the heat from the rest of the kitchen. Meg's precious copper bowls and pans hung undisturbed in shiny rows from the pot hanger. No sign of either Marge or for that matter, her sister. Quill pulled at her lower lip, went to Meg's recipe cabinet, pulled out the lowest drawer, and flipped through the zs. Zuppa d'Inglese, zucchini, zarda, zabaglione. She edged the zabaglione card carefully out of the file. Was that a greasy thumbprint? It was. But was it Marge's or Meg's? And if it were Marge's, did that mean she was going to place a phone call to the Board of Health? She read the recipe gloomily. There it was in Meg's elegant script: four raw eggs per serving. She closed the file drawer and marched determinedly back to the conference room. It was empty, except for Myles.
'Where'd they all go?' Quill demanded. 'Did they vote on whether or not to move the meetings to Marge's diner?'
'Since neither you nor Marge were here, Howie voted to table. Esther asked for an adjournment because she's still sewing costumes. I waited for you to see what you wanted to do tonight. Would you like to go to supper? Can you get away about eight-thirty?'
'Myles, can you take a fingerprint from a recipe card?'
'Yes, Quill,' Myles said patiently. 'Do you want to go to supper? I thought I'd make a stir-fry at my place.'
'Where was Marge, when I wasn't here?'
'I don't know. She came back in here grinning and said she had to make a phone call. Why?'
Quill gazed at him thoughtfully. Myles had strong views on law and order. He had an annoying tendency to spout phrases like 'due process' and 'probable cause.' Those gray eyes would get even icier if she asked him to arrest Marge for snooping. That strong jaw would set like an antilock brake at the merest suggestion of a phone tap on the Hemlock Home Diner. There was no way he'd test a recipe card for fingerprints without uncomfortable questions regarding the existence of an eggless zabaglione.
She decided to answer his first question, and solve the Marge problem herself. 'Why don't you come by the kitchen for dinner about eleven, after we close? You made dinner last night. It's my turn.'
'Fine.' He kissed her on the temple. Quill wasn't fooled for a minute. This was a man who'd lock her in stir the instant she whacked Marge up the side of the head with Meg's skillet.
Halfway out the door, Myles turned to look at her. 'You sure nothing's wrong? You're not coming down with anything, are you?' His eyes narrowed. 'Wait. I know that look. You're fulminating.'
'No,' said Quill absently. 'One of the waitresses is, though.'
She gasped and glanced at her watch. 'The second shift! It's after three o'clock! Damn!' She sprinted past him and ran down the hall.
-2-
Quill dashed through the lobby to the locker room at the back of the kitchen. The fresh odor of Meg's private stock of coffee filled the air, but there was no sign of her sister, just two assistants scrubbing pots at the triple sink. Quill grabbed a clean uniform and looked at her watch: three-ten. No time to go to her own quarters and change into more comfortable shoes. She changed her silk blouse and challis skirt for a freshly laundered uniform and swung into the dining room. Three tables were already occupied for tea. John stood at the opposite end, carefully polishing the silver tea urn.
'John, where's Meg?'
'Supervising the fish delivery in the back. Red fish in lime for the special tonight.'
'I think Marge Schmidt went through the recipe file and found we use raw eggs in the zabaglione.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. Thing is, I told her Meg had an eggless version.'
'Even Marge isn't going to believe in eggless zabaglione.'
He thought for a moment. 'Dookie Shuttleworth might.'
'Did you see Marge in the kitchen?'
'No. That what's-her-name - Mavis Collinwood - went through on her way out back.' He rubbed harder at the tea urn, his lips tight. 'Said she wanted to explore.'
'Don't you think we ought to do something?'
'Like what?'
Quill wrapped a strand of hair around her finger and pulled on it.
'I don't know,' she confessed. She let the curl spring back.
'Why did you book Mrs. Hallenbeck on the second floor when she'd asked for the best suite in the house three months in advance?'
John rubbed at a spot on the handle and didn't reply.
'And she's not mean,' Quill continued. 'Rather sweet, as a matter of fact. In terrific shape for her age. She's a
