A Taste for Murder by Claudia Bishop Page B

patent-leather belt was cinched two notches tighter. The top of the print dress was unbuttoned. Her hair was loose, and the makeup laid on with a trowel.

"Goings-on !" sniffed a dire voice at Quill's elbow. "Dressed like the scarlet woman of big cities. Detroit, for instance."

"Oh, hi, Doreen!" Quill gave the housekeeper a hug. "So glad you're back from vacation. Did you have a good time?"

Doreen's beady brown eyes bored into hers. "Praise be that I went when I did, Miz Quill. Praise be, for I found the Lord."

Nobody knew how old Doreen was. Meg guessed late fifties, Myles late forties, with a hard life behind her. She'd shown up truculent and bellicose at the Inn's back door one January afternoon, and Quill had hired her on a temporary basis. That was two years ago. Except for a tendency to fierce, short-lived enthusiasms, Doreen was the most loyal, hardest-working employee they had. There was no one at the Inn Quill liked or trusted more. Except, Quill thought, for John Raintree and Meg.

"In Boca Raton? At your nephew's?"

Doreen nodded. "Just in time, too."

"For what?" Doreen folded her arms, leaned against the wall, and paused dramatically. Quill braced herself. Doreen had run afoul of Quill's erratically enforced guest-courtesy standards before. Cigarette dangling, skinny, and a frequent victim of the Hemlock Hall of Beauty's experiments in permanent waves, Doreen had profanely terrorized more than one unsuspecting visitor. Checkout was a favorite arena: "You inspect that sumabitch's goddam suitcase for towels and ashtrays? I'm missin' towels and ashtrays." Quill had a brief, happy vision of a kindlier, Christianized Doreen accosting visitors with reassuring Bible verses instead of fiercely wielded mops.

"Just in time for what, Doreen?"

"Day of Judgment is at hand," said Doreen darkly. "Those who have not been brought howling in repentance to the throne of the Lord will be damned in the Pit forever."

Quill found the regret in her voice spurious, given the glee in her eye.

"Now, Doreen - " began Quill.

"People!" Esther waved her hands imperiously in the air. "Dress rehearsal, people! Just one day to the Real Thing. Chop, chop!"

" - I'd like to discuss this religion thing with you - "

"Quill!" Esther cried. "Come on! We can't do without our star!"

" - but not right now," Quill finished hastily.

"What's that old bat Esther want with you?" asked Doreen suspiciously.

"Julie Offenbach's got the flu."

"So you're gonna be Clarissa?" She shook her head. "You ain't never been in a play in your life. I better pray for you."

"Pray for rain instead. A thunderstorm, even. I don't want to do this, Doreen."

"You'll be fine." Doreen gave her hand a rough, affectionate squeeze. "You can do anything you set your mind to. But I'll pray for a disaster, if you want." Her face lit up. "One to demonstrate His power."

"Great. After the rooms are done, though." Esther, thorough as always, had left a stack of scripts by the coffee table in the Lounge, and Quill thumbed glumly through a copy as the Chamber members settled into their seats. Myles walked into the room and Quill greeted him with a swift, intimate smile.

"Everyone seated!" Esther said. "Clarissa? Are you ready?"

Quill waved the script feebly at Esther, and settled across the table from Myles and Gil Gilmeister. "Any results from the lab yet, Myles?" she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. "Not until Monday or Tuesday. It's not exactly a priority problem."

"Maybe it was just a prank," said Quill, "or an accident. Doreen was gone on vacation and one of the temporaries could have spilled it."

"Full strength?" said Myles. "I doubt it."

"Accident," said Quill stubbornly. "Maybe you should just drop the investigation."

"We need to get to the bottom of it," Myles said. "You've got to be tougher than that, Quill."

"I'll say." Gil, his attention drawn by the latter part of this comment, leaned back in his chair and took an overlarge bite of the beignets Meg had set