"Elaina happened."
"Yes."
"But what would Tom Peterson want with tainted meat?"
"Resale," John said. "Selling meat to third-world countries would give you the biggest money. Reselling to small restaurants and diners wouldn't be worth it. But if you shipped the containers offshore... I don't know, Quill, this is all guesswork."
"We'd need proof," said Quill. "What if we checked out Peterson's warehouse?"
"There'd be no need for him to have the trucks move through here."
"Somehow we got some of it," said Quill. "Isn't there. some indication where the stuff came from? If we could find the truck that had the stuff we got, wouldn't there be some bill of lading, or whatever, that would tell its point of origin?"
"The carcasses are tagged," John said. "But there's all kinds of ways to fake the documentation. Except for the tattoos."
"The tattoos?"
"On the carcasses. They're stamped by the USDA. If they've been rejected, there's a code for that. It's inked onto the carcass. Of course, it can be cut off, but if we could find a whole carcass we'd have proof."
"I'm going over there," said Quill. "Right now. Coming with me?"
John grinned. "Sure. What the hell?"
"What the hell," Quill agreed. "Just give me a few seconds to change into my burglar outfit."
"We'll need a rope, a camera, and a flashlight."
Quill pointed to the credenza. "Camera and flashlight in there. Rope's in the car trunk."
Quill re-emerged from her bedroom minutes later dressed in a black turtleneck, jeans, and running shoes. "Do you think I should black my face?"
"No. But it's a good thing you're not blond."
The July air was soft and still. John and Quill crept to her car. After a fierce whispered discussion about who should drive, Quill started the motor, and kept the lights off until they reached the end of the drive and turned on to Route 96. Quill's heart was beating faster than usual. Her palms were damp. Her sense of time was warped; the ride to the Peterson warehouse seemed endless, but when she pulled into the gravel road to the buildings, it seemed as though no time had passed at all.
"Park behind that shed," said John in a low voice. "We'll I walk up on the grass. It'll be quieter."
In the open air, Quill felt exposed, sure that a floodlight would go on and a siren sound any minute. "Over the top, Ma," she hissed at John's back. She bit her lip to keep the nervous giggles down.
"Only you," John whispered, "would do Jimmy Cagney imitations at a time like this."
The chain-link fence loomed up at them. John put both hands in the wire and leaped lightly upward. The wire chinged in the darkness. John clung for a moment, then moved rapidly toward the top, his feet finding purchase where Quill could see none at all. She grabbed the fence, and the wire bit into her palms. John dropped lightly to the other side. Quill pressed her face close to his. "I don't think I can climb this," she mouthed. "There's a dug-out spot a little farther down. I'm going to go under."
She followed the line of the fence to the hole where the German shepherd had made his escape, and wriggled under. Her long hair caught in the tom wires at the bottom, and she bit her lip to keep from yelling. She rolled free and got to her feet. John was already at the warehouse door.
"Can you pick the lock?" she said into his ear.
He shook his head. "It's bolted from the inside." He pointed up, then motioned her to wait. He unwound the rope at his waist and made a quick lasso, spun it rapidly a few times, and tossed it into the air. It caught on the roof joist. He pulled the rope taut, then rappelled quickly up the side of the building. The thud of his tennis shoes on the metal wall sounded like thunder. He disappeared through a ventilation duct. Quill pressed herself against the building and quivered. The moments before John opened the door seemed endless. She let out her breath, only half-aware that she'd been holding it, when she heard the quiet click of the bar being drawn from the inside door.
Moonlight leaked through the open ventilation shafts in the roof, picking out the cab of a semi truck and four Thermo King refrigeration units. John took her hand, and they made their way carefully across the floor.
"If anyone comes in," John said very quietly, "roll under the cab and stay there."
Quill nodded. "These things are locked, aren't they? How are you going to get in?"
"There's a maintenance door under the roof. Give me leg up."
Quill crouched down and cupped her hands together. John put his hands on her shoulders, stepped into her cupped hands, and sprang up. Quill staggered back; he was unexpectedly heavy.
She waited, searching the darkness. It was quiet. Too quiet. Quill bit back hysterical giggles. Time stretched on. Suddenly, a dark shape appeared at the back of the unit. Adrenalin surged through Quill like a lightning strike. "Safety door," said John. "You can open the units from the inside once you get in."
"God!" said Quill, "did you find anything?"
A low growl cut the air. Quill's breath stopped. John grabbed her hand. The growl rose, fell, and turned into a snarl.
"The dog's back," said Quill.
"Oh hell!" John thrust her behind him. Quill could smell the rank, matted odor of an animal neglected. The snarl spun on, a sinister, mesmerizing purl of sound. John flattened himself against the metal unit and pulled her carefully with him. The snarl died. Quill could hear the dog panting. It wriggled out of the dark, ears pinned against its head, lips pulled back, eyes slits of red in the moonlight. The dog sprang. John hurled himself in front of her. Quill, her lip bloody from the effort not to scream, swung the flashlight hard and connected with the dog's thick furry skull. The animal shrieked and dropped back. The door to the unit was slightly ajar. Quill swung it open, scrabbling frantically in the frigid air. She pulled a box from the unit. It fell to the ground. Packages of hot dogs spilled into the dirt. The dog shook its head and got to its feet.
"Good doggie," said Quill, "nice boy." Moving carefully, eyes on the dog, she bent and picked up the frozen hot dogs, rolling them to the dog like bowling balls. The dog sprang on the meat, both paws protectively over the package. It glared at them. The growl heightened to a snarl, the snarl to a bark which split the air like a hammer.
"Okay," gasped John. "It's not going to charge if it's barking. Back off, slowly. Don't run until we get outside."
He forced Quill behind him. She held on to his arm; he grunted in pain, and she let him go. Her palms were wet and she smelled blood. The dog's barking grew intermittent, interspersed with snarling gulps of the frozen meat.
They reached the warehouse door. Backed out slowly. Quill slammed it shut. Lights in the trailer snapped on.
They ran. John forced Quill under the fence and followed her. Freddie Allbright shouted into the dark. Quill fumbled for the keys to the car, threw herself into the driver's seat, and was out on Route 96 before John had the passenger door closed.
"Good Lord," said Quill, when they were back in her room.
She peeled John's shirt back from his forearm. "He got one good chomp in, didn't he?"
"It was worth it," said John. "There's a carcass there with the reject stamp." He waved the camera. "And I got the pictures. Now, Quill, I have a favor to ask. I'll need until Tuesday at least to go through Tom's financial records. Myles is gone until then, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to turn myself in. But not for another forty-eight hours. I'd appreciate it if you gave me some time."
"Gave you some time? You mean, you think I'd turn you in? John, how could you?"
"How could you not?" he said wryly. "You can't harbor a fugitive. I wouldn't let you, anyway."
"Just tell me where you're going to be, so I can report on my progress to you. I'm going down to the Marriott tomorrow, and I'm going to pump Mrs. Hallenbeck for everything that she knew about Mavis' affairs. Peterson's got to be connected with her somehow. And... now, this is the worst sacrifice of all, John." She paused impressively. "I'm going to eat lu
nch at the Hemlock Hometown Diner-Fine Food and Fast. Are you grateful, or what?"
For the first time that evening, a real smile crossed John's face. "Pretty noble, boss."
" 'Pretty noble'? I'd say that's incredibly noble." There was a hard, imperative knock at the door.
"I didn't lock it," Quill hissed, then loudly, "Just a moment, please."
The door swung open and Mrs. Hallenbeck walked into the room. "So!" she said. "You finally caught him!"
-11-
Mrs. Hallenbeck marched into Quill's quarters frail, rude and triumphant. Quill, astonished, looked at her watch: six-thirty in the morning.
"You didn't answer my phone messages," said Mrs. Hallenbeck. "I thought perhaps you didn't get them. I woke up and Mavis wasn't there to get my coffee. I always have just one cup, cut with hot water before I take my walk. Would you get it for me, please?" She sat down in the straight-back chair near the easel, and frowned at John. "What are you doing in Sarah's room? Have you spent the night here?" She lifted her chin. "If you have, I shall think twice about offering Sarah the opportunity to be in my employ." She smoothed her linen trousers with a precise hand. "Now. Tell me why I shouldn't call the police immediately. Everyone has been looking for this man."
Quill, unable to think of an adequate response, heated a cup of weak coffee in the microwave and handed it to Mrs. Hallenbeck. She sipped it and gave it back to Quill with a demand for more hot water. "You are extremely dirty," she said to John. "I suppose you have been hiding out."
"Do you remember me, Mrs. Hallenbeck? I thought you might have when you checked in three days ago, but you. didn't say anything. Did Mavis tell you about me?"
"I thought I'd seen you before. I mentioned it to Mavis. She said I was mistaken. I am rarely mistaken."
"I worked for your husband a long time ago, in the accounting department."
"My husband?" Mrs. Hallenbeck didn't seem to hear John. She mumbled slightly. Her eyes clouded. She held her coffee cup out to Quill with a wordless demand that it be taken away. Quill put it in the small sink in her kitchen, and wondered what to do. Finally Mrs. Hallenbeck said in a querulous voice, quite unlike her usual crisp tones, "You remember my dear Leslie? Of course, he would have been Mr. Hallenbeck to you. Well, I don't recall you specifically. There were so many employees. They all simply adored Leslie. As I did."
Quill and John exchanged a cautious look. "I only met Mr. Hallenbeck once a year, at the company Christmas party," John said. "I saw you there too, of course, but we never spoke before you came here."
"I should have remembered you if I had. I am frequently complimented on the accuracy of my memory."
The spell, or whatever it was, seemed to have passed. Quill wondered at the harshness of memory; a husband's suicide would be an intolerable burden to bear, the guilt horrific. Had John's quiet reference to her dead husband touched off memories too painful to bear?
The morning sun poked an exploratory finger through the southeast window. Its light made Quill aware of just how old eighty-three was. Blood, muscle, and bone all shrink, she thought, as though a tide has ebbed. Does the spirit shrink, too, and the healthy young become the senile old? Or does it wear away, as the physical does, to leave bedrock character behind? She thought of her own mother, and her mother's loving, changeless heart trapped in a body diminished, but not conquered, by age. She couldn't begin to make sense of it, and wouldn't bother.
"You have not yet given me a reason as to why the police haven't been called. What are you going to do about him?" Mrs. Hallenbeck jerked her chin at John. Her eyes were suddenly clear and shrewd. "He's wanted for murder, I understand."
"It's a mistake," said Quill. "And John's going to clear that up. He'll be back managing the Inn again. In the meantime I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything about seeing him here. We're keeping it a bit quiet until John gets a chance to talk to the sheriff himself."
"So you're going to solve the murders. Huh! It's obvious to me that he did it. Killed that Mr. Gilmeister and Mavis, too." Her eyes widened in alarm. "You're not going to kill me are you?"
"But he didn't, Mrs. Hallenbeck. He's innocent. And why in the world would anyone want to kill you?" The doubt was back; perhaps she was senile.
"I know things, of course. I know all about Mavis, and what she was like." Her hands shook. Her lips tightened in disgust. "Dreadful girl. I should have fired her years ago. I am far too tender-hearted. It's very easy to take advantage of me." She looked at Quill out of the comer of her eye. "As an example, I believe it was Mavis who staged that little - ah - incident with the balcony for the insurance money. I'm afraid she's done it before. If that is so, I have a great deal to make up for. You will, of course, present the bill for repairs to me. Sometimes I believe that all the trouble that has come since then is a result of Mavis' foolishness. If I had kept better control of her, if I had refused to allow her to go out with those appalling people, the rest of this would never have happened." She pursed her lips, and said anxiously, "You don't think people will blame me, do you? I confess to feeling a small portion of responsibility for what happened to her, and to Mr. Gilmeister. I believe the trap on the ducking stool was set for her. I should have managed her better. But I've never had a head for people like Leslie had."
Quill, reeling from the news that Mavis had made a career of conning hotels, couldn't respond for a moment.
"I don't think that's true, Mrs. Hallenbeck," said John. "I didn't know you well, and you know what employee gossip is like, but everyone agreed that you were probably better at managing the business than your husband. And successful business is all about how well you manage people. Mr. Hallenbeck always used to say that at the Christmas parties. My boss, Carl Atkinson? You may remember him. He had the greatest respect for your abilities. Someone with your kind of intelligence doesn't suddenly lose it. You can't blame yourself for Mavis' behavior."
Mrs. Hallenbeck smiled primly. Moving quietly, as though not to startle a small animal, John got up from the couch. "Can I get you another cup of coffee?"
"Just a little, perhaps. Quite weak. I am very sensitive to caffeine." Quill heard John making a fresh pot. She waited. She wasn't entirely sure what he was up to, with these flagrant compliments, but at least Mrs. Hallenbeck hadn't reached for the phone to call the cops yet. "I think," said John, coming back into the room, "that Mrs. Hallenbeck could be very helpful in the investigation to clear my name."
"Oh," said Quill, enlightened. "Yes. Absolutely."
"I?" said Mrs. Hallenbeck with a gratified inflection.
"The reasons for Mavis' murder must rest in her past. I left the company a long while ago, Mrs. Hallenbeck, and I have very little idea of what went on in the past five years or so. You were there. You knew Mavis. You've even had her living with you for... how long?"
"Just a year. My son insisted that I have a companion to live with me."
"So, you know her better than any of us. Now, Quill and I have a suspicion that Mavis was a blackmailer."
"Wouldn't surprise me in the least," said Mrs. Hallenbeck. "I had a suspicion of that right along."
"You did?" said Quill, fascinated. "And you didn't get rid of her, or anything?"
"Well, she wasn't blackmailing me. And Mavis could be a great deal of fun, you know. Huh. Blackmail. Who, do you suppose?"
"That's what we were hoping you could tell us," said Quill. "Had you heard her mention Marge before, for example? In any way that would lead you to believe that she had something on her?"
"Marge Schmidt? No. I mean, of course, they worked together way back when. Margie was good, I'll give her that. Never had a proper respect for me or for Mr. Hallenbeck, but then, with that background, what can you expect? Blue-collar all the way, high-school education, no proper home life at all. But she was quite efficient at running the East Coast operations. I told Mr. Hallenbeck he should offer Marge more money when she quit. The profit margin in that was never the same after she left. I would guess," said Mrs. Hallenbeck w
ith a twinkle, "that Mavis met her match in Marge Schmidt."
"You must have a good reason to suspect Mavis of blackmail," said John. "Think back. Any phone conversations, or letters, or people she mentioned? Especially if you've seen them here."
"Gil Gilmeister never worked for Doggone Good Dogs, for example?" said Quill. "Or Tom Peterson?"
"Oh, no. The first time Mavis met Tom was at the play rehearsal when Marge introduced him to both of us."
"And then you went to dinner with Gil at the diner."
"Yes. Marge had a loan outstanding against Mr. Gilmeister's half of the auto business. She suggested that I buy him out. Mavis knew that my investments hadn't been doing too well lately. The market these past few years has been simply appalling. I used to get quite a decent return on my portfolio, and it's been halved. Halved. I'm seriously considering suing my broker."
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