Free Eat, Drink and Be Wary by Tamar Myers

sucked on her bottom lip. "That'll have to do, I guess."
     
     
I motioned to the chair vacated by George. As long as we both sat and made conversation, I didn't need to feel guilty.
     
     
"Thanks."
     
     
"So, you're a magazine editor," I said.
     
     
"Food critic," she corrected me. "Do you read American Appetite magazine?"
     
     
"Ah, the on with the meaty articles," I said. Lies by implication are off-white at worst. This one was ecru.
     
     
"Yes, that's the one. I travel constantly, trying to keep up with the food trends." She sighed. "People think it's a cushy job, but it definitely has its downside."
     
     
"Like what?" I wondered aloud.
     
     
"You have a very nice place here," she said, waving a hand as thin as a talon, "and, confidentially, Mrs. Hostetler is a passable cook, but this is more the exception than the rule. I've eaten in dives that the roaches gave up on."
     
     
"But you must find something satisfying about your work - don't you?"
     
     
It was a question that was beginning to nag at me. While I enjoyed presiding as proprietress over a prosperous pension, there is a lot of stress in my line of work. Quite frankly, there are times when there simply is not enough room under this roof for my ego and those of the rich and famous. As Robin Leach once said to me - never mind, that was confidential. At any rate, in recent months, especially since the unraveling of my mock marriage, I have entertained the idea of becoming a missionary. There is an eccentric lady at church whose parents were missionaries in the Belgian Congo, now just the Congo, and she has been encouraging me to go there and work in the refugee camps. She thinks I'd be a natural, due to my organizational skills and take-charge attitude. Of course such a drastic step is unthinkable until Susannah finally flies the nest for good. But by then, I'll probably be organizing wheelchair races at the Bedford County Mennonite Home for the Aged.
     
     
Marge Benedict leaned forward. Her chair was near the parlor window, and although the November sun was hitting her back, I couldn't see a shadow.
     
     
"I used to love my job - before he took over."
     
     
I leaned forward. "Who's he?"
     
     
She glanced at the parlor doors. The one on her left opens into the lobby. From where I was sitting, I could see that the lobby - really just a small vestibule - was empty. The other door, over my right shoulder, was problematic. It opened onto the back hall that, I hate to admit, is fairly dark and narrow. Susannah claims it is a perfect place for lurkers.
     
     
"Mr. Mitchell," she whispered.
     
     
"George Mitchell?"
     
     
She held a finger to her lips. No fairy-tale witch would ever eat her.
     
     
"I was on the road for six years before I worked myself up to management. Three years as assistant editor, and two years as editor. I was supposed to be presiding editor when Agnes Harkgrew retired, but he had other ideas.
     
     
"What does he have to do with it?" I whispered. In all fairness, my whispers have been likened to a drill sergeant on a bullhorn.
     
     
Her large brown eyes seemed to be searching the darkness behind me. "He owns American Appetite magazine, that's what. East Coast Delicacies bought us out last year. Agnes Harkgrew retired early and I - well, I didn't get her job. In fact, I got demoted."
     
     
"Back to square one," I said sympathetically.
     
     
"Well, not exactly square one. I used to do straight reporting - run-of-the-mill reviews, that sort of thing. Now I get to judge contests, and write inspiring articles on food trends. Of course this is all really just publicity for East Coast Delicacies."
     
     
Both Freni and Susannah think I'm bitter, but you could sweeten Marge Benedict by sprinkling her with lemon juice.
     
     
"Why don't you quit?"
     
     
"Food review is a specialized niche, you know. It's not like I run a motel."
     
     
"Well!"
     
     
"I'm sorry," she said. "I meant a B and B."
     
     
"This isn't a