Toast Mortem Read Online Free Page B

Quill’s direction. “We did?”
    “We did,” Quill said. “Since the culinary academy opened up, tourist revenues have gone up by . . . by . . .” She flipped through the sketch pad, in fruitless search for her notes on the exact percentage. “By a lot,” she finished.
    “The man’s a genius.” Elmer’s expression of solemn respect nettled Marge, who grunted in a derisive way. But she said, reluctantly, “You might be right about that. He’s got out-of-towners flocking to that place. And when we get tourists, everyone benefits. I hear the resort’s booked through the summer. The Marriott down on Route 15 is doing well, too.” She swiveled her head and eyed Quill. “Even you guys are full up these days. And it’s all students and people wanting to slurp down wine and stuff their faces with this so-called gourmet food at Bernie’s academy.” She sucked reflectively on her lower lip. “Both my restaurants are doing okay, too, despite those damn parking meters. People’s guts need a rest from the fancy stuff.” Marge’s partner, Betty Hall, was in charge of both the All-American Diner (Fine Food! And Fast!) and the popular Croh Bar. Meg claimed that Betty was the best short-order cook in the eastern United States.
    “Exactly,” Elmer said. “Everybody’s doing right well by this fellow.”
    Marge’s steely gaze narrowed a touch. “Except Meg. Way I hear it, you got people stayin’ here at the Inn, but they ain’t eating here at the Inn.”
    Nobody looked at Quill.
    “Yeah,” Elmer said. “Well, that’s true. The way I see it, there’s a limit to how much gourmet food a body can take. You’ve got to take the bitter with the sweet, I always say. Anyhow!” He thumped the gavel against the chair leg, but since everyone in the room was paying attention to him already, it seemed quite superfluous to Quill, who was smarting a little at the cavalier dismissal of her sister’s concerns. “So here’s the thing. We’re giving M’ser LeVasque a thank-you from the town this Friday.”
    “How much of a thank-you?” Marge asked.
    Elmer addressed the air over his head. “Hello? Excuse me? Is this why we’re having an executive session here?” He lowered his gaze and looked just past Marge, concentrating on the oil painting hanging over the couch. Quill had painted it twelve years ago, just after she and Meg had purchased the Inn. The two sisters sat on the banks of the gorge, with the waterfall behind them. “I just got the numbers from M’ser LeVasque, and all we have to do is vote approval of the budget . . .”
    Marge leaned forward and clapped a meaty hand on Elmer’s thigh. “Hang on a second. You got numbers from who? And for what?”
    “A select dinner of the town’s most important officials.” Elmer slipped an envelope out of his shirt pocket. “LeVasque says he won’t cook for more than thirty people, though. So we have to keep the invite list pretty quiet. I got the menu and the budget right here.” He waved the envelope in the air. Marge grabbed it, removed the contents, smoothed it out on her knee. She looked up at Elmer and glowered.
    There was a short silence.
    “This would be you and Adela, attending this here dinner,” Marge said. Something in the tone of her voice reminded Quill of the very aggressive cat under the hydrangea bush outside.
    Elmer nodded. “And you and Harland, of course, and Howie and Miriam.”
    “The town justice and the village librarian,” Marge said. Since everyone in the room knew perfectly well who Howie Murchison and Miriam Doncaster were, Quill knew Marge was making a point. But where Marge was headed was anybody’s guess.
    “Who else?” Marge demanded. “Dookie and them?”
    Quill fiddled with her pencil. Then she started a quick sketch of a scowling Marge holding a panicked Elmer upside down by his heels. When Marge’s grammar started to deteriorate, you knew she was annoyed.
    “Of course, the Reverend and Mrs. Shuttleworth will be