A Carol for a Corpse

by Claudia Bishop

  Ajit put his arm around LaToya’s shoulder. “I think coffee’d be a good thing.”

  “With maybe a little brandy in it,” LaToya said with a shudder. “That’s the first dead body I’ve ever seen. And it’s somebody I knew.” Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Now, now,” said Ajit. “Now, now.”

  “Take her on back to the Tavern Lounge,” Quill suggested. “Ask Nate to make both of you a hot toddy. I’ll be down in a moment.” She waited until they’d gotten halfway across the field to the parking lot. Beyond them, the ambulance took off, sirens silenced, red lights flashing. Most of the crowd of gawkers surged forward. Overhead, the helicopter turned and flew off after the emergency vehicle.

  Either the Tompkins County Sheriff’s Department or Davy himself had strung a yellow police tape around the spot where Zeke’s skis had apparently hit a large tree trunk hidden beneath the snow and been thrown into the fence. A police photographer crouched in the snow, taking pictures from every angle. Quill walked down the ski trail, attempting to trace the Zeke’s path. A substantial portion of the trail had been obscured by snowmobile treads.

  “I didn’t think about leaving any evidence for the police to find when I went looking for him this morning,” Mike said from behind her. “Until I saw the busted fence. Then I stopped and got right off.” He pointed at the snowmobile parked under the trees at the edge of the trail opposite the gorge. “She’s still parked there.”

  “I’m so sorry about all this, Mike.”

  Mike shoved his orange Arctic hat further down his forehead. “Yeah, well, I can tell you this, Quill. I was out here to groom this trail yesterday and there’s no way that the tree trunk was there.”

  “Oh?”

  “No, sir,” he said firmly. “And I told the police that. Somebody put that tree trunk there, and dug up the posts to my fence, and then let the snow last night cover all of it. I swear to God that’s what happened. You know what? Some bas . . . that is, some jerk’s setting me up.” Mike had a pleasant, unexceptional face, the kind that got lost in a crowd very easily. He was in his midforties now; he had a wife and two kids who were a junior and senior at Hemlock Falls High School. He was the kind of guy that did his job, did it well, and went home to Monday Night Football and a comfortable, contented wife.

  It was rare—unsettling—to see the anger in his face now.

  Quill put her hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. Mike had worked for them for years, ever since they’d brought in enough money to pay for his landscaping skills. Actually, Quill thought, it was before they were making a profit. The beauty of the woods and gardens surrounding the Inn were an inextricable part of their success. A large part of that was due to Mike.

  Quill took a deep breath. If Mike was right, this wasn’t an accident.

  “You get what I’m saying?” Mike said.

  “I not only get what you’re saying, I believe you,” Quill said.

  “Then you want to tell that to those bas . . . those cops over there?”

  “I will. And I’m going to do my best to find out what happened here, Mike. You can be absolutely certain of that. Right now, I think it’d be a good thing if you took the rest of the day off.”

  “I’d rather get into culling out that deadwood on that back acreage.”

  “I can see why,” Quill said. “I wouldn’t mind working out some of my frustrations with this using a chain saw and an ax. But I think it’d be wise if you were unavailable for the time being, except to the police of course.”

  Mike’s lips worked. Finally he said, jerkily, “Now, if it’s that you’re going to be wanting to fire me, I guess I can see why. But I’m here to tell you it ain’t fair.”

  “The only way you’ll lose this job is if the bank padlocks the doors for debt,” Quill said. Then, at his look of horror, she said, “Bad joke. Really bad joke. Now listen to me, you remember when Meg and I arranged to have you and Doreen and Kathleen own a small percentage of the Inn? Because you three were such an important reason for our success?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “I mean, not that being a shareholder has been exactly profitable for you all these days,” Quill said wryly. “I’m doing my best to fix that, if I can. But my point is, you’re a partner in this business, Mike. A small partner to be sure. But a partner nonetheless. And you don’t fire your partners.”

  He nodded, jerkily. “Yeah. Gotcha. And thanks.” He stared at his feet for a long moment. “Look. I’ll lay low for a couple of days. But if you and Meg need me”—he put his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and ear in a jaunty imitation of a cell phone—“all you gotta do is call.”

  They shook hands. Mike got into the snowmobile, gunned it, and took off in a spray of white. Quill waited until she was absolutely sure he was out of earshot and muttered, “Lie low, lie low, lie low.”

  “Excuse me, Quill?” Dave Kiddermeister tapped her gently on the shoulder. “You’re talking about somebody laying low?”

  “I was relieving my tensions by having a grammar snit. And if you don’t pay attention to your verb forms, I’m going to rat you out to Dina.”

  “Ha-ha,” Davy said in a bewildered way. “Just wanted to tell you we’re about finished here. We’re wrapping it up.” He shook his head. “Terrible accident. Just terrible. And of all the people to buy the farm on your property. The most famous man in America.”

  “He was certainly the most notorious man in America,” Quill said tartly. “And you took Mike’s statement, Davy. You know this wasn’t an accident. Mike never would have left that tree trunk directly in the path of the ski trail. Anyone with half a grain of sense can see that a skier would be picking up speed down that slope, and that at the very least, there’d be a nasty fall into the fence.”

  “It’s easy to overlook these things,” Davy said. “And I know how upsetting this must be for you. I mean, the most famous man in Amer—”

  “Stop,” Quill said.

  “Yes, ma’am. And there’s Mrs. Kingsfield saying already that she’s going to sue you—and Kingsfield’s life has gotta be worth a mint.”

  “Kingsfield’s life has got to . . . what?!”

  “There’s no cap on the cost of a wrongful death in New York State,” Davy said helpfully. “This Mrs. Kingsfield can sue you for everything your insurance company’s got, plus whatever you’ve got, too.”

  Quill shoved her hands in the pocket of her parka and looked at him. Davy squirmed uncomfortably. “Now, I’m not so sure why you’re getting hot under the collar here.”

  “I’m getting hot under the collar because I cannot believe that you are going to let this murder go uninvestigated. Unsolved. That you’ll let a murderer walk free and clear.”

  “But, Quill . . .”

  “But Quill nothing. You know Mike. You know how honest and reliable he is.”

  “I’ve got to have corroboration,” Davy said. “He doesn’t have anyone who can back him up.”

  “I can back him up!”

  He folded his lips in determination and regarded her sternly. “You inspected this ski trail yesterday and can attest to the fact that the tree trunk wasn’t there? You inspected the fence to make sure that the foundations hadn’t worked loose because of this last thaw-and-freeze cycle? And you’ll swear to that in court?”

  Quill glared at him in frustration. Davy had fair skin, bright blond hair and very blue eyes. She remembered the days when Davy was so shy he turned bright pink when talking to anyone but his high school buddies. She remembered when he was so unwilling to give out speeding tickets that an investigator from the county sheriff’s office showed up to see if he were taking bribes. And now this . . . this junior G-man had turned into a bully. “At least call out the scene-of-the-crimes unit,” Quill said. “I’m positive if you look hard enough, you’ll find something incriminating.”

  “Like what?”

  “Did you lift up the tree trunk to see if it had been moved recently?”

  “As a ma
tter of fact, we did.”

  “And?”

  “The evidence is inconclusive,” he said stiffly.

  “What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

  “That any halfway decent lawyer can pull it apart in court.”

  “And what about the fence posts?”

  “That’s inconclusive, too.”

  Quill rubbed her forehead, forgetting her bump. She winced.

  “Anything wrong?” Davy asked with concern.

  “Just that I was mugged in the woods last night,” Quill snapped.

  “You’re kidding. Are you okay? Did you see the guy? Why didn’t you make a report?”

  “Yes, I’m okay, and no, I didn’t see the guy.” Quill bit her lip. “And to be perfectly fair, I may have tripped. But I don’t think so. I’ll tell you what I think, Davy. The person who smacked me last night was either on his way to, or coming from, putting the tree trunk in the way of Zeke Kingsfield.” She looked up at him. “And I intend to find out who it is.”

  Davy unzipped his official Hemlock Falls Police Department jacket, as if he were suddenly hot. “Quill, please. It’s bad enough that somebody like Mr. Kingsfield’s croaked on your property without you and Meg interfer—”

  “With Meg and me what?”

  He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably.

  “You have to admit that we’ve been pretty helpful once or twice in the past.”

  Davy didn’t look as if he were willing to admit this at all. Then he said, “Is the sheriff due back anytime soon?”

  “David, you’re the sheriff. Myles hasn’t been sheriff for several years now.”

  “True enough.” He smiled reluctantly. “I can’t help thinking he could handle you . . . I mean this situation a lot better than I can. I’m good at traffic tickets and shoplifters. This kind of stuff, especially with somebody this famous, well, I’m not sure what steps I should be taking, to tell you the truth.”

  “I’ll tell you what Myles might suggest,” Quill said briskly. “If nothing else, we’re going to be plagued with a lot of souvenir hunters and gawkers. You might station a few patrolmen around the scene here for a week or two, just to keep the crowds from forming.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “And you won’t mind if I poke around the woods for a bit?”

  “I guess not. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “You bet I am. Evidence that someone set up this murder.”

  Davy flushed. “Quill, you can’t go messing around in the woods.”

  “And why not? Look, Davy. Either this is a murder or it isn’t. If it is, you should get your forensics team in there and check everything out. If it isn’t, there’s no reason why I can’t go back there myself, is there?”

  “Dammit!” Davy wore a knitted blue watch cap, standard issue for the winter uniform. He pulled it off and balled it up. “You’ve got a point. Okay, we’ll check the woods out.”

  “You don’t mind if I wait right here, do you?” Quill asked.

  “Suit yourself. Just stay well back from the police tape, okay? This will take a while. And it’s cold out here. Maybe you ought to go back to the Inn.”

  “No chance,” Quill said. “I just know you’re going to find something.”

  It was cold. Davy sent three patrolmen into the woods. She saw them fan out in a semicircle, with the tree trunk as a nexus. They disappeared into the underbrush. Quill walked up and down for a bit to keep her feet warm. Then she jogged in place to keep the rest of herself warm. She was just about to call it quits and return to the Inn when she heard a shout. One of the patrolmen emerged from the woods and waved for the photographer. After a short colloquy with the patrolman, he hurried over to the remains of the chain-link fence. He knelt down, examined the tipped-over fence post, and yelled, “Got it!”

  Quill walked a littler closer to the police tape and stared hopefully at Davy.

  He did his best to ignore her. He took his watch cap off and put it on again. He stamped his feet. He walked up and down. Finally, he ducked under the tape and came up to her. “Okay,” he said. “We found something. But it’s not all that significant. Not by itself.”

  “What?”

  “It’s purely circumstantial, mind you.”

  “Okay. But what is it?”

  “You hang any wires across the trail recently?”

  “Ah-ha,” Quill said. “He was tripped.”

  “That’s a pretty big leap. We did find a scar in the tree trunk behind the boulder, and a similar scar at the same height on the post.”

  Quill looked from the fence to the woods. “So whoever it was stretched the wire across the trail. But it’s behind the boulder. You know what it was, Davy? It was a backup plan. If Zeke didn’t hit the tree trunk when he came zipping down the slope, the wire would have tripped him up. He didn’t have to hit the tree trunk at all. And,” she added with excitement, “whoever it was must have been there this morning. Otherwise you would have found the wire, right?”

  “Maybe,” Davy said. “I’m putting it all into the report. The rest of it will be up to the ME’s office.”

  “Gosh.” Quill shivered. Suddenly, it seemed very cold. “Whoever it was must have stood there and watched Zeke Kingsfield die.”

  She walked back to the Inn, lost in thought. She came in through the kitchen door, to be greeted by Max, Elizabeth, and Mikhail, and no one else. “Where is everybody?”

  “Mrs. Kingsfield’s in the Tavern Lounge with Ajit and the rest of them,” Mikhail offered.

  “The rest of them who? LaToya? Ajit? The Bs?”

  “Yes. Ajit thought they should all go back to New York. Mrs. Kingsfield and LaToya want to stay here and finish the Christmas shoot. I guess they’re arguing about it.”

  “What about Meg?”

  “She left us in charge of the kitchen,” Elizabeth said. “And she went up to her room to get something, and then she stomped outside, got into her car, and drove off.”

  “I think she went to that special meeting of the Chamber of Commerce,” Mikhail said. He was a good-looking kid, with a smooth, caramel-colored complexion and a sweet smile. He looked ill at ease and very unhappy.

  Quill looked at her watch. She was astounded to see that it was after eleven o’clock. “I suppose I’d better go down and get her.” She looked at each of them in turn. “Are you going to be all right?”

  The two of them exchanged glances. “Things are pretty creepy,” Elizabeth admitted. “And I don’t know if the two of us can handle the kitchen all by ourselves.”

  “Where’s Melissa?”

  “She hasn’t been in yet in this morning.” Mikhail shrugged his shoulders. “So, I don’t know.”

  “Give her a call,” Quill suggested, “and tell her you really need that extra pair of hands. Kathleen’s out in the dining room, isn’t she? Good. I’ll ask her to give some of the backup staff a call. I’d be truly grateful if the two of you could carry on, though. Do you think you can manage?”

  “I think so,” Mikhail said. “But the thing is, Quill. When Meg ran out of here, she was carrying a gun.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Quill stood in the parking lot of the Village of Hemlock Falls Town Hall. She kept her hand firmly clasped around Meg’s right wrist and said, “Give me the gun.”

  Meg shrugged her off and kept the paintball gun aimed at the Hemlock Falls Fireman’s Auxiliary’s latest addition to municipal decorations. A twelve-foot inflatable Santa Claus bobbed gently in the middle of a fifteen-foot inflatable toy shop. The Santa was surrounded by a dozen inflatable elves. The exhibit stood smack in the middle of the lawn.

  “What in the world set you off like this?” Quill demanded.

  “Stress,” Meg said promptly. “You get ulcers. I get an irresistible desire to whack helium-filled lawn ornaments. You know the whole thing lights up at night,” Meg added accusingly.

  Quill sighed. “Yes, I know.” Meg cocked the trigger and she added, “If you puncture that S
anta Claus, the mayor’s going to insist that we pay for it. Those things are expensive.”

  Meg lowered the paintball gun and looked speculative. “How expensive?”

  Quill told her.

  Meg shook her head. “Good grief! Well, it isn’t worth it, I suppose.” She ejected the CO2 cartridge. “Why can’t people stick to plain old Christmas lights? What was wrong with last year’s decorations? Good old wooden Christmas trees.”

  “There does seem to be some kind of weird extra enthusiasm for the holidays this year,” Quill admitted. “If you’re not going to splatter the Santa Claus all over the snow, we’d better get going. It’s way after one o’clock. They’ll have started the Chamber meeting without us.”

  Meg slung the paintball gun over her shoulder and trudged down the sidewalk in grumpy silence. Quill followed her. “I’m surprised that the mayor hasn’t called off the meeting. Zeke Kingsfield was supposed to give his real estate seminar. And of course, now it’s moot, isn’t it?”

  “Moot.” Meg stopped in her tracks, swung the derringer up, aimed at a denuded maple tree, and pulled the trigger. The wad of orange paint hit the trunk and dribbled down to the snow. “This is quite therapeutic, sis. I mean, I’d far rather turn Lydia Kingsfield and her raft of lawyers bright orange, but hey, this isn’t a bad substitute.”

  “Is there a reason why you decided to go to this meeting? You avoid Chamber meetings like the plague.”

  “I thought I might hear something about this so-called accident that can help us avoid being sued.” Meg’s face turned pink. She flung her hands up in the air. A few drops of orange paint splattered on her knitted hat. “And I don’t want to think about the wreck of all our hopes.”

  “The wreck of all our hopes?”

  “Doesn’t this mean that the whole Kingsfield deal is off? Not to mention the fact that Lydia’s going to sue us for every nickel we haven’t got.”

  Quill tugged at Meg’s jacket. “Hang on a minute.”

  Meg clutched the little gun to her chest. “It’s mine. If you want to shoot something, get your own.”