Ground to a Halt (Hemlock Falls Mystery)
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Sisters and innkeepers Meg and Quill have an inn full of guests who can't stop fighting. Soon, one ends up murdered on a pig farm. And when a psychic correctly predicts a second murder, business grinds to a halt.
your Inn, Sarah Quilliam. And what are you and that stuck-up little sister of yours going to do about it?” CHAPTER 5 “Stuck up?” Meg said. “Me?” “Forget it.” Quill curled herself up in the corner of her couch and took another sip of the Syrah. Meg had arrived at her house at eight that evening, as promised, and with a basket full of food, also as promised. She’d prepared a cassoulet; the evenings were getting cool as true autumn approached, and the hearty stew was perfect with the muscular
were filled with somnolent bodies. And the sound of the falls outside was a constant music. She lay in her comfortable bed, aware of Max asleep at her feet, the empty space beside her—which wasn’t truly empty, since she carried Myles in her heart—and the quiet rustle of the trees outside. The world of her home with Myles was totally different. Her attention was directed inward, the demands of the Inn and all its residents eight miles and a universe away. The outward demands seemed too heavy, at
chefs tended to support each other with enthusiasm. Marge leaned out into the aisle and hollered. A faint response came from the general direction of the kitchen. Marge settled back into her seat. “Be out in a minute. Heard from the sheriff lately?” Quill knew Marge didn’t mean Davy Kiddermeister. Whenever old Hemlockians referred to the sheriff, they meant Myles. After taking early retirement from the NYPD, he’d held the post for eight years. “Last night,” Quill said, “and briefly again this
appointment.” They had arrived at the door to the Croh Bar. Marge gestured Quill inside. Midmorning at the bar was usually very quiet. The breakfast crowd had left to go about its business, and the lunch crowd hadn’t yet started trickling in. But to Quill’s surprise, Rudy Baranga sat at the counter, nursing a beer. “’Lo, there, ladies.” Rudy tipped his cigar at them in a jaunty salute. Marge gave him a not-too-friendly jab in the arm. “Right on time, Baranga.” “Would of come here for lunch
were all there, Dina with Davy Kiddermeister, Doreen and her husband Stoke, the mayor and his scarily competent wife, Adela, Howie and Miriam. Quill changed the color of her dining room every few years—whenever the carpet in the dining room needed to be replaced—and the new cloths had just arrived. They were a clear crystal pink, a color that shouldn’t have worked, but did. Autumn roses held pride of place in the centers of the tables; the beautiful bronze of Oregold, the passionately red Mr.