A Taste for Murder by Claudia Bishop

to impose her beliefs on the guests.

"That scarlet woman," said Doreen, "that whore of Babylon."

"I thought it was the whore of Detroit."

"Don't you laugh at me, missy. I need a little Bible study is all." She sat back on her heels and contemplated the gleaming porcelain with satisfaction. "I joined the Reverend Shuttleworth's Bible classes this morning. Learn me a bit more."

"Let's get back to this wormy person," suggested Quill. "You haven't whacked the orthodontist's wife, have you?"

"They checked out. Nope. It's that Miss Prissy butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her mouth friend of the widow lady. Mrs. Hallenbeck's companion. A righteous woman, that Mrs. Hallenbeck, to my way of thinking. She shouldn't have to put up with a person bound for the Pit."

"You mean Mavis Collinwood? Where is she?"

"Bar. Acting no better than she should with that skirt-chasing salesman."

"Doreen, I've just finished telling you that the guests' behavior is no business of ours."

Doreen got up from the tile floor with a groan, and attacked the tub. "Will be if that poor Mrs. Hallenbeck has a heart attack from the sheer cussedness of that woman."

Quill, mindful of the alarming changes in Mavis' personality after her ingestion of Andy Bishop's Valium samples, went to the bar. The mystery of John's whereabouts would have to be put on hold. Besides, she could tackle Baumer about the phone calls. Meg was probably right.

Called The Tavern in their brochures, the bar was the most popular spot at the Inn, occupying an entire quarter of the first floor. The bar's floor and ceiling were of polished mahogany. Floor-to-ceiling windows took up the south and east walls. Quill had painted the north and west walls teal, and Meg had persuaded her to hang a half dozen of her larger acrylics on the jewel-toned walls.

When Quill left her career as an artist, she'd been heralded as the successor to Georgia O'Keeffe. "A small stride forward in the school of magic realism," wrote the critic in Art Review. The brilliance of the yellows, oranges, and scarlets of her Flower Series leaped out from the walls with exuberance.

Some weeks, when Quill longed for the rush of her old studio in Manhattan, she avoided The Tavern altogether; at other times, she sat in the bar and took a guilty pleasure in her work.

It was early for the bar trade, but the tourists had started arriving for History Days, and the room was full. At first, Quill didn't see Mavis and Baumer. When she did, she wondered how she could have missed them.

Mavis had bloomed like the last rose of summer. Gone were the prim collars, the below-the-knee print skirts, the spray-stiffened hair. Mavis' full bosom spilled out of a black T-shirt with an illuminated teddy bear on the front. Quill couldn't imagine where Mavis had tucked the batteries. The T-shirt was pulled over a pair of black stirrup pants. Mavis' high-heeled shoes were a screaming red suede with bows at the ankles.

"Coo-eee!" Mavis called, waving her hand at Quill. Nate, the bartender, gave Quill a wry grin and a shrug. Quill leaned over the marble bartop and whispered, "How long have they been here?"

"Through two Manhattans for the gentleman and two mint - "

"Don't say it!" groaned Quill.

" - juleps for the lady."

"Nobody drinks mint juleps, Nate. Not willingly, anyway."

"That's one dedicated Southerner, I guess."

"As far as I know, she's still taking that Valium Doc Bishop prescribed for her," said Quill. "Keep an eye on them, will you?"

"Hard not to," said Nate. "I can short the drinks, if you want."

"If you do, short the bar tab, too." Quill threaded her way through the tables and sat down next to Keith Baumer. "Did you and Mrs. Hallenbeck get a decent night's sleep, Mavis?"

"I did, I guess. I don't know about the old bat. She was up walking around awful early, I can tell you that."

"Best part of the day," said Baumer genially. "I'm up at six and out for a walk every morning. Get a head start on my work."

"Does your business include a