"The estimable Harris is investigating the usual avenues concerning Detwiler's death. But he'll be stymied until the forensic autopsy's finished. He needs to establish the tie between the two deaths, retrace Detwiler's movements before he got to Hemlock Falls, discover who talked to him and what about before he died. It's even possible that he wasn't killed here, Quill, but that the body was dumped here, which is going to make solving this particular case all the more difficult.
"We won't know if Rossiter's death is at all suspicious until that autopsy is done, either. I have a suggestion, if you want to hear it."
"You mean, you want to help me investigate this case?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Well." Why not, because Myles always gets porky when amateurs butt into official police work. Why not, because Meg is too busy to be Watson, and thinks I'm the Watson, anyway. More seriously why not, because even a peripheral involvement in Rossiter's death might rebound to the discredit of Meg's cooking and the financial worth of the Palate. On the other hand, this last "why not" was a compelling reason "why to." She knew her sister, and there was no way that she or her cooking could have been responsible for Rossiter's death. And if the death were suspicious, then the sooner the perpetrator was found, the better.
"That's a lot of ifs, though," she said aloud. "What do you think we should do first?"
John grinned. "I know you, Quill. You're just being polite. Let's try this. What are you going to do first?"
"Follow the cows," Quill said promptly. "You're right about that, just as you were right about 'follow the money' in the Peterson case. And that's the big connection here, isn't it? The cows. First, we have the two rivals, Colonel Calhoun and Royal Rossiter. Both of them have been wrangling over who owns the right to what bull, have you noticed? Second, we have Harland Peterson, the slaughterhouse zoning problem, and the horrible CarolAnn Spinoza. Third, we have the people from Q.U.A.C.K., which also involves the awful CarolAnn. And finally, there's the Russians. Who are suspiciously eager to corner the cattle for themselves, in my view."
"They haven't behaved suspiciously, have they?" John asked.
"Ha," Quill said. "They're capitalist Russians. What could be more suspicious than that?" She wriggled her eyebrows. "I la-hove thees kontree."
"Very funny. So, what's your game plan?"
"Interrogation," Quill said promptly. "We ask questions of anyone who'll answer them. First, I want to talk to poor Mrs. Rossiter tomorrow morning. Then I want to speak to Colonel Calhoun."
"And you'd like me to talk to Laura Crest."
"To find out more about the cows. Yes!" Quill was delighted. With this kind of partner, her investigation could go very well. "Now, we need some background searches on both the—um—deceased. So when Myles called, I asked him."
The name fell like shrapnel between them. John's face closed up. Quill looked at her thumbs. There was a bit of artist's charcoal under her nail. Max nudged her knees and barked for the rest of the Devonshire cream.
"When is he planning on coming back?"
"As soon as this case is wrapped up. He's not sure. A week. Maybe." John took her hand in his. The engagement ring Myles had given her was elegantly simple, two sapphires on either side of a small diamond. John drew his finger down her palm. Quill clasped her hand convulsively.
"Why did you call me?"
She forced herself to look at him. "Partly because I was in a temper. Marge changed the Inn. It's her right to change the Inn. I hadn't realized until I saw it, talked to her, examined what it was that I really want out of life, how much all the work that went into the design and running the place had meant to me. I just lost it." He touched her red hair. She took a deep breath. "Partly because I can't believe how much I've missed you these last two months."
"What does that mean for me?" He looked away. "I can't stand it if you're frivolous, Quill."
"I've never felt less frivolous in my life." She needed to move. She got up and walked restlessly around the kitchen. Max followed her for a circuit or two, then went back to sleep on the floor. "You were always there, John. You were always so much a part of the Inn and the fabric of life. Then you were gone." She snapped her fingers. "Poof. Like that. At first, I didn't think I minded. At first, I told myself that in any event, this job, this opportunity, was the best thing that could have happened to you. Your career at the Inn wasn't much. Even I knew mat, as much as I love the place. And Meg told me I was responsible for keeping you here, even though I didn't know it. Or rather," she added, her voice low, "I knew it and didn't admit it. So. I began to realize that you weren't there to talk to. And that it was a great grief to me. I remember exactly when it hit me. This perfectly awful family of three came in for lunch. A preppy kid who must have been on his way to Cornell and his carefully well-dressed parents. They complained about everything. The table, the temperature of the ice water. Anyway, they sent back Bjarne's sour cream grapes, you know that dish he does with caramelized brown sugar. First time Bjarne's ever had that happen, even though it happens in the life of every chef—even Meg. The grapes were sour, they said. Not at the peak of perfection. Besides, they were Thompson grapes and oh, I don't know. Anyway they didn't want to pay for the meal. That type, you know? Maxed out on the credit cards and don't realize until halfway through the wine how expensive the bill is going to be. But what capped it was, well, Doreen was heading up the wait staff that day."
"Uh-oh."
Quill began to giggle in spite of herself. "Bjarne came out and started to yell in Swedish. Or maybe it was Finnish. I don't know. The woman, skinny, face-lift, that sort of streaky frosted blond hair, said that they should have known the minute an old lady waited on them that this wasn't a top of the line place. So they threw her two pennies for a tip and left in a huff. Or started to leave in a huff."
"And?"
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I wish you could have seen Doreen."
"The mop and bucket?"
"She hadn't emptied from washing the floor that morning. I had to pay for dry-cleaning that kid's double-breasted navy blue blazer, but my gosh it was worth it." She stopped laughing. "And I thought, John will get such a kick out of this. I turned to tell you. And you weren't there." John didn't say anything for so long that she began to blush. "What? That is, what's your job like? Is it satisfying?"
"A lot of meetings. I dress in a three-piece suit. I'm working with a team on an international acquisition now."
"And this nurse?"
"Very nice woman."
"So you've made a life for yourself."
"I have, Quill. I'm not a fool. I'm not self-destructive, not in the way I was when I was younger and drinking. Of course I've made a life for myself."
And what is this, then? The knock at my door last night. The tension I felt in you when we walked together this morning. She didn't say this aloud. She couldn't. She didn't know what it was, either.
"If there's a chance for me, Quill, you must tell me now."
"There is," she said, and went back up to bed.
Chapter Eight
"My Royal. My Roy!" the widow cried. She was surrounded by a respectful circle of Hemlockians in the Tavern Lounge. Or what used to be the Tavern Lounge. It was just after ten o'clock, a respectful time of day, Quill thought, to call on the grieving Mrs. Rossiter. She'd brought freesia and white roses. Esther West, who had diversified into flowers, suggested the tasteful addition of a tiny cowboy Stetson in the bouquet. Quill had declined.
"Hit me again, Nate." Mrs. Rossiter pushed a beer and shot glass across the bar. "And pour for my friends." The mayor demurred. Mrs. Mayor had a frozen look on her face. A sheaf of daisies lay in her lap. Harland Peterson and Marge looked at each other, shrugged, and held out their coffee cups in front of Nate.
The widow, a healthy brunette in her mid-forties, exhibited that curious phenomenon known to Quill and her sister as "big hair." She wore it long, past her shoulders, and it was pouffed and sprayed at right angles to her face. She resembled a chrysan
themum. She wore a white denim top decorated with sequined spurs, saddles, and pistols. Her feet were small, in bright red strappy shoes that wrapped around the ankle. Her white jeans were so tight that Quill could see where she might want to lose a few pounds.
"Yo, Quill," Harland said.
"Harland, Marge."
"Please join us, Quill," Adela Henry said. "Please:'
"As a matter of fact, Mother," Elmer said, "I think you said you had to make that call on your sister."
"You are correct, Mayor, I did." Adela rose to the full majesty of her five-foot-three. "Good day to you, Mrs. Um."
"Good day to you," Mrs. Rossiter sobbed. "But it's not a good day for my sweetie."
"No, indeed." Adela adjusted her hat. "Come, Mayor. Marge, are you and Harland joining us?"
"Hell, no," said Harland, who was gazing at the widow in frank fascination. "I want to see if she falls off that bar stool after that third shot and a beer."
"Me, too," Marge said.
Quill sat carefully on the stool vacated by the mayor's wife. She laid the freesia next to the daisies. Mrs. Rossiter regarded them mournfully, then broke off a fragrant stem and stuck it behind her ear. She had big earrings, too, Quill noted. Copper cows with gold horns.
"Shirley Rossiter." The brunette extended her hand. Quill took it. Shirley curled her fingers around Quill's hand and drew it to her bosom. "You knew my Royal?"
"Just for a short while," Quill said, reclaiming her hand. "I met him while he was walking his . . . while he and Impressive were out for a . . ."
"Dumb bastard spent more time with that bull than he did with me." She wiped the back of her hand under her eyes. "Dumb bastard," she repeated.
Quill, assuming that dumb bastard was a term of affection in Texas, patted her shoulder. "I'm very sorry."
"Me, too." She sighed. "Everyone here's been just fine to me. Just fine. Marge here? All this beer and a shot is free."
Marge opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap.
"In honor of my Royal. My Roy . . ."
"Had he had any heart disease?" Quill asked hastily, since subtlety would be wasted on Mrs. Rossiter.
"Roy?" She furrowed her brow. "Heart disease," she said flatly. "That's what that cute young doc told me carried him off. It isn't," she added suddenly, "the cough that carries you off, it's the coffin they carry you off in."
"Ha," Harland said.
Quill, emboldened by this foray into doggerel, said, "I suppose poor Roy left a pile."
"A pile," she repeated. "Well, I don't know that I'd call it a pile. Where's that lying son of a sea biscuit, Calhoun?"
"The colonel? Went out somewhere this morning," Harland said. "He was over to my place early on, checking out the slaughterhouse. We gotta get a couple of squeeze chutes that'll handle the horned cattle, and he was looking the land over."
Shirley blinked. Her mouth opened and closed like the koi that were (undoubtedly) no longer in Quill's pond. Eaten by cattle.
"Do cattle eat fish?" Quill asked.
"Sure they do. Fish meal. Good for them," Harland said. "Shirley, the colonel'll be back to pay his respects. Seems like the kind of fella that will do the right thing."
Marge nodded sober agreement.
Do cattle make a meal out of fish, or did he mean fish meal? "Harland," Quill began.
"Colonel!" Shirley said. "Colonel of what, I may ask."
"Well, what is he a colonel of?" Marge asked. "Thought it was the Army, myself."
"Army!" Shirley snorted. "Army!" She subsided into her beer.
"He wasn't in the Army?" Quill leaned forward and placed her hand on Shirley's arm. Her head dropped forward onto her chest. She began to snore.
"Thought that last beer'd do it," Harland said. "Out like a light. Margie? You, Nate, and I better get her to bed."
Marge rose off the bar stool and dusted her hands together. "Hell, Harland. The two of us can get her. You grab the feet."
"Done. Then we'll go check out the herd. Thought we'd move 'em down to my place rather than have 'em up here with you. When Shirl comes to, we can discuss how much she wants for 'em."
Shirley, slumped over the bar, stirred and murmured. Marge grabbed her shoulders with rough expertise, swung her around, and Harland lifted her feet with a grunt. Quill watched them carry Shirley off, and when they were out of hearing, said, "Nate, did Harland make arrangements with Mrs. Rossiter to buy the cattle?"
Nate took off his captain's hat and ran his fingers across his bald spot. "Bought them from Rossiter yesterday, far as I know. They were discussing the deal over a beer or two. You know how these things go . . ." His fingers stopped moving. "Do you think I've been losing more hair?"
Quill craned her neck to look. "Yes," she said ruthlessly. "Since you took this job, especially. Stress will do it, you know. What were the terms of the deal?"
Nate sighed. "You think Rogaine might work?"
"Nate?"
He leaned forward.
"I like you bald. Forget the Rogaine. Answer my question. What were the terms of the cattle deal? I had the impression that ownership of the herd was shared by Roy and the colonel."
"I don't know about that. I do know that CarolAnn Spinoza has been raising holy heck about the permit for the slaughterhouse."
"She has?" Quill thought a moment. "It hasn't come up before the Zoning Board. Although come to think of it, those space cadets from Q.U.A.C.K. mentioned it. CarolAnn must have told them about that, too." She didn't ask why CarolAnn was sticking her nose into the permit for the slaughterhouse. CarolAnn stuck her nose into everything. "Who has she been talking to?"
"The mayor. Harland. Augustus, too. And since he's the one who issues the permits, he's the one she's been harassing most. He's scared shi—I mean green whenever CarolAnn opens her mouth, so who knows whether Harland will get that permit or not?"
Quill took out her sketch pad, wrote down LEADS, and under that, slaughterhouse. Then she wrote: Cardiac history, Rossiter? Ask A. B.
"Who's A. B.?" Nate asked, craning his neck for a better look at the notepad. "Oh. Andy Bishop." He grinned at her. "Off on a case again, huh? I thought Mr. Rossiter's death was natural."
"You heard his wife—widow, rather. Royal was never sick a day in his life."
"She didn't say that, Quill. She said 'heart disease' like she was surprised. But she didn't say he was never sick a day in his life."
"Brady did," Quill said. "Somebody told me Brady did. Where is Brady?"
"Checked out this morning."
"He's gone?"
"No. He went down to that Motel 48 near the vet's place. Said he wanted to be near his horse."
"I think I'll go and see him. I'll either be there, or at the vet's if anyone's asking for me. And, Nate, could you leave a message for the colonel? I'd like to invite him to dinner at the Palate tonight. About seven-thirty, if it suits him."
"Will do."
Quill went out the front door feeling as though she was accomplishing something. Max lay curled up in the front seat of the car and wagged his tail lazily as she got in. "What do you think?" she asked. "Do you want to go with me? Or do you want to stay home?"
Max barked.
"Okay. You can go with me. But you can't hang your nose out the window. It looks like rain." The sky was threatening a shower, if not a downpour. She reconsidered her decision to take Max; there was nothing worse than a car filled with wet smelly dog. Max barked and put his paw on her knee. "Okay. But you'll have to stay in the car. All right?"
Max cocked his head. Quill made an unsuccessful attempt at getting him to go back to his nap. She even relented on keeping the window open, and as she drove down Route 15 to the Motel 48, it began to rain.
The Motel 48 was one of the many cheap, well run places that had sprung up at the end of the eighties, when occupancy of luxury hotels was down, and business travelers needed inexpensive places to stay overnight. Quill pulled into the parking lot. She didn't see Brady's truck among the vehicles par
ked in front of the two-storied structure. She dashed through the rain to the door marked OFFICE. The motel had forty-eight rooms, named for each of the contiguous forty-eight states. Brady, appropriately enough, was in Texas. "But he was up early this morning. Went out before six o'clock. The night manager told me." The clerk was young, with that kind of uniform prettiness that Quill saw in kids under twenty. She fervently hoped this observation wasn't a function of her own age.
"He didn't tell the night clerk where he was going? For example, to see his horse?"
"No, ma'am." The clerk sighed. "If I knew, I think I might have followed him. Is he married, do you think, Ms. Quilliam?"
Quill left a message for Brady, just in case she missed him at the vet's.
The rain was off-again, on-again as she drove a little farther down Route 15 to get to the Paradise Veterinary Practice. As soon as they turned down the familiar road, Max began to whine.
"No vet, Max. No vet."
Max barked, jumped into the backseat, then into the front seat and into her lap. She caught a sudden flash of hooves, cream, and a booted leg. She heard a shout, and slammed on the brakes. Through the windshield, she saw a horse down in the graveled yard, and a figure lying beside it. She jumped out of the car and ran toward the horse. The animal snorted, rolled its eyes at her, and heaved itself to its feet. The figure on the ground got to its feet, readjusted its hat, and gave her a level look.
"Brady! I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." He ambled over to his horse, who blew out with an angry sound. "Scooter's fine but you look a little pale, Quill. Here. Sit down and put your head between your knees."
Quill sat. It started to rain again. Brady left her alone, went to his horse, and methodically began to remove the strap under its stomach, the bridle around its head. "Dang," he muttered. He hiked up his jeans leg and pulled out a slender knife. It looked wickedly sharp. Quill's breathing slowed. Her head cleared. She watched as Brady sliced through a snagged buckle on his saddle with the knife. He stuck the knife back in its sheath in his boot and removed the saddle.
"I'll just put her back in the stall. Too wet to ride today anyhow. Didn't bring my slicker."
A Steak in Murder Page 13
