Quill leaned her head against the Olds' quarter panel. Did all cattlemen carry knives? Long and thin, Andy had said. Sharp enough to slice through bone. Or wet leather.
Brady led the horse into the vet's barn. Quill got to her feet and followed him.
The barn was more of a giant, three-sided shed than what Quill knew as a horse barn. Back home in Connecticut, horse barns had been gabled, shingled, fancy affairs that were sometimes better kept than the houses of her friends who owned them. This place had a highly utilitarian, no-nonsense feel. The building was perhaps one hundred and fifty feet long and about forty feet wide. The door to the yard and clinic was on the short wall to the east. As Quill entered, she saw a row of pens on her left, and hay and supply storage on her right. The lights were on. It smelled of horses, cows, and the omnipresent Betadyne. Laura Crest was standing about halfway down, in a well-lighted area that had an arrangement of metal bars about waist high. A horse stood placidly between the bars, its foot in a rubber bucket. Brady led his horse past them, and Quill heard her say, "You all right, Jack? I heard you shout."
"Yeh. No problem." He paused by her. "Sarah Quilliam's here." Was that a cautionary note in his voice? He put the mare into a stall and came back toward Quill. He brushed the vet as he recrossed the aisle toward Quill; Laura was bent over the horse, but Quill could see her smile.
They'd met before. She was sure of it. The tone of voice, the brief physical contact, the intimacy of Laura's smile. Friends of long standing at least, if not more. Quill tried to remember what had happened the day she, Royal, and Brady had come out here to get Max's rabies shot. She'd been worried about Max, about whether he'd bite Laura, or whether she'd be rough with him. But she was darn sure that Royal had introduced the two of them to each other. And they had behaved with the politeness of strangers.
"The dog okay?"
Quill jumped. Brady bent slightly toward her. She edged back a little. "Max is fine. I mean, I'm not here because of Max." She smiled ruefully. "Although I suppose I should ask Laura if she runs obedience classes."
"Just have to let them know who's boss." He raised his voice. "Dr. Crest? You mind if we use the office for a talk?"
"Not at all." She stepped back from the pipe pen and spoke to the horse. "You just stand there for twenty minutes. Let that sucker soak." She wiped her hands on a towel as she came on through to the front door. "It's nice to see you again, Quill. Is Max okay?"
"Max is fine."
She darted a brief look at Brady. "Then, can I help you?"
"Actually, both of you probably could. You heard about Candy Detwiler's death yesterday?"
"I sure did." Laura's face sobered. "I understand you found die body. I'm sorry."
Quill considered several responses to this. I'm used to it, seemed too flip. I'm sorry, too, seemed insincere, for some reason. "Yes," she said. "I did. I thought I'd ask Brady a little bit about him, and then ask you about the Texas longhorn cattle. So if you both have some time, I'd appreciate it."
Laura looked back at the horse with its foot in the bucket. "I've got twenty minutes while that abscess soaks. And there's coffee on in the clinic."
"You don't have patients waiting?" Quill asked as they crossed the yard to the office.
"Not until five o'clock on Fridays. I allow this time for farm calls and work in the hospital." She blushed. "Not that you'd call the shed a hospital, really. But I always thought as soon as I got the practice built up a bit, I'd put in a real operating room, something like the arrangements they have at Cornell." She unlocked her office door and switched on the lights. "Here we are. And there's the coffee. Can I get you any?"
"No, thanks. But if I could sit down?"
"Sure." Laura cast a distracted glance around the office. The three-cushion vinyl couch was stacked with journals, newspapers, and manila folders. So was her gray metal desk. She shoved the pile on the couch onto the floor. Quill sat down. The whole place smelled of wet dog.
"I'll take a cup, Doc." Brady eased himself into a vinyl and chrome chair next to the desk. Laura poured coffee for the two of them, then leaned against the far wall. There was an ease between her and Brady that was unmistakable. He propped one booted ankle on his knee. "So you found Candy? Yesterday morning?"
"Did you know him very well?"
"Well enough. Been in a few bars together."
"In Texas?"
"Mmhm."
Terrific. Grade for interrogation of laconic cowboy: F. Quill braced herself to try a different tack. "Andy Bishop's our local G.P. He took a look at Candy. He's pretty sure that the bo—that Candy had been there three or four days based on the way the wounds clotted. But he died within twenty-four hours of my coming across him."
Brady took a sip of coffee. "That right?"
"So he lay there, for God knows how long . . ." Quill trailed off.
Laura, pale, asked, "How did he die? I heard he was stabbed."
"Yes. Although they can't be sure until the final autopsy."
"Met Candy way back. Maybe twenty years ago, when I was riding rodeo. He was a clown. You know about rodeo clowns?"
Quill shook her head. "Just that they divert the dangerous animals."
"That's right. It's a hell of job. Lot more dangerous than what I did. Bull riding," he explained briefly. "Candy put his life on the line for me more than once. You want to know how well I knew him? Well enough to be a little disappointed when he went to work for that lyin' sack of shit Randall Calhoun."
"You don't like Colonel Calhoun?"
He gave her a considering stare. "Like him? No, I can't say as I like him. Does he know his cattle? You bet. Is he a lyin' sack of shit? You can bet your life on that, too."
Quill wanted to pound her fist on the couch and scream with frustration. Instead she said, "Shirley Rossiter's checked in at the Inn. Have you seen her yet?"
"Hell, yes." He laughed. It was a hayloft kind of laugh. A Tom-Jones-at-the-chicken-dinner kind of laugh. Suddenly, Quill wasn't so sure that Brady had moved to the Motel 48 because of his horse. "Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to sound impolite about Mrs. Roy. Not with Candy lyin' dead as a doornail and Royal the same."
"Had she ever spoken to you about Mr. Rossiter's heart problem?"
"Heart problem? Roy didn't have no heart problem."
"Did he have any kind of health problems at all?"
"No. Not that I can think on. If you will excuse me, Quill, I'm going to go check on the horse for the doc, here." He drained his coffee and left. Quill sat back on the couch. She bit off a nail in sheer, screaming frustration.
"Is there something you wanted to ask me, Quill?" Laura smiled at her. But not with her eyes, Quill thought. Not at all with her eyes.
"Just a little more about the cattle. Was there anything special about Royal's herd? He and the colonel seemed at odds over them."
"Do you know much about the beef industry? Or about how beef is raised?"
"No," Quill said, very much afraid she was going to find out.
"Bear with me a bit. Basically, there're two reasons to raise cattle. One is to establish a championship stock, like Royal's, that has a lot of value as a foundation herd. In other words, the heifers and the bulls from a breeding herd are sold to guys who raise beef as the herd sires and herd dams."
"They don't get eaten."
"They don't. From a beef cattle point of view, you want a steer that's . . . well, beefy. It's more economical to get a lot of beef from one carcass than a little beef."
"Yes," Quill said, a little impatiently.
"Now. Royal was breeding foundation stock for the beef industry. So he was trying to get a heavier steer with more beef on it. All that stuff about longhorns is true. Their body fat is remarkable. It's actually healthier for you than lean chicken. And you can get more money per carcass if this carcass is taller.
"The colonel, on the other hand, is a sentimentalist. And there are a lot of them in the agricultural world. The original longhorn that came from the old West is
a small scrawny specimen that's built to survive in the wilderness. That's where the genetics of the low fat beef comes from. So Calhoun despised Rossiter's efforts to change the look and heft of the breed. He's a fanatic, Quill. And fanatics don't care much about money, or profit. They care about the cause. Look at those dolts from Q.U.A:C.K., or whatever they call it. Ready to slaughter human beings to protect animals."
"Gosh," Quill said, startled, "I don't know that Skye and Normal Norman would go that far."
"Oh, no? Have you seen today's paper?"
"The Gazette?" Doreen's third husband (or maybe it was her fourth, no one knew for sure) was Axminster Stoker, publisher of the Gazette. Quill always felt guilty when she admitted that she didn't read it.
"The Syracuse Herald. They covered that little fracas yesterday. Read this."
Q.U.A.C.K. quelled, the headline blared. There was an excellent photograph of Marge, looking like a Berserker, grabbing Skye by her long gray hair. CarolAnn smirked for the camera in the background. The article beneath reported on the demonstration (CarolAnn was not quoted, thank the gods of news) and then gave a brief history of the organization itself. "Norman's been in jail? For battery? My goodness, Laura. He pulled a boning knife on a chicken farmer and . . . ugh!" Quill put the paper down with a shudder.
"Protesting castration techniques," Laura said. "Which don't hurt the chickens all that much, I assure you. And the chicken farmer survived to have two more kids, it says later on.
"Candy Detwiler's death is on page one."
Quill paged to the front of the paper. There was an excellent photograph of a round-faced man in his late forties and a story headlined, body found in rural park. The article was brief. Trooper Harris was quoted: "Extensive leads are being followed up."
"Golly." Quill folded the newspaper up. "Do you mind if I keep this?"
"Not at all. Anything to keep the chaos in here to a tolerable minimum. I'd better go check on that gelding, too, if you don't mind." She shoved herself away from the wall. "Unless there's anything else?"
"I don't suppose you know Brady well enough to get him to open up about Candy."
"That's the cowboy way, you know. Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am. And then they spit . . ."
". . . and walk off into the sunset with their horse." She gazed at Laura steadily. "You haven't met him before this?"
"Me? Not a chance. Guy that good-looking I'd remember." She opened the door and waited for Quill to pass through. "You tell Max hello for me, okay?"
"Sure," said Quill absently. "No problem."
"And I don't believe her for a minute, John. They're hiding something. I just know it." They were at the train station, waiting for Meg and Lally to arrive. It was raining again, this time a hard steady downpour that was good for the lawn but a pain in the neck to walk around in. Quill lowered her umbrella to protect herself from a gust of wet wind.
"Why would it matter if they knew each other or not?"
"I don't know." Quill stamped her foot. Water splashed into her shoe. She stood on the other foot and shook the water out. "Something's funny about this whole business. Does anyone know when Candy Detwiler came into town?"
"I checked with Marge. The colonel was expecting him four days ago."
"And Calhoun wasn't worried when he didn't show up?"
"Apparently not. Said Candy would show up in his own good time. He wasn't going to be needed until the colonel's bull arrived anyway."
"And when's that supposed to happen?"
"Today. On this train, I think. That's what the colonel said at the Palate night before last."
"Do you know if Candy drove in from the Syracuse airport? Or if he took this train? It stops at the Ithaca airport."
"No one's found his personal effects yet. And as far as I know, no one's reported an abandoned rental car. But there are things the police will find out eventually, Quill."
"Yeah, well, good luck getting any information from the horrible Harris. If the train gets in, will you guys wait for me? I want to ask the ticket clerk if she saw Detwiler get off the train four days ago." She showed him the folded up newspaper. "Picture," she said proudly. "I may be a lousy interviewer of true Texans, but I did get a picture of the poor guy."
The ticket clerk, Muriel, was somehow related to the Peterson clan (almost everyone in Hemlock Falls was), Quill wasn't precisely sure how. She had to wait in line for a few minutes while Muriel dealt with a couple trying to get to Albany, then stepped up with the newspaper article in her hand.
"Hello, Quill. Heard that new restaurant of yours is doing well."
"Thanks, Muriel."
"Your sister is sure keeping us in business these days. My goodness," she chuckled, "you'd think she'd get tired going back and forth like that. Now, are you going to New York with her this time?"
"No, I just wondered if you'd seen this man in the station a few days ago. His name is Candy Detwiler."
"The poor guy you found in the park." Muriel shook her head, tsk, tsk. "Trooper Harris asked me the same thing. Although not," she added, "in as nice a way as you. Yes, I saw him." She nodded cheerfully, and said over Quill's shoulder, "Next."
"Excuse me," the man behind Quill pushed forward.
"Muriel!"
"Yes, Quill."
"When and where did you see Detwiler?"
"Do you mind?" The man elbowed Quill aside.
"On the four-thirty from Syracuse, same train as this one coming in now. Got off with a green duffel bag. Waited around for a few minutes, then some guy with a . . . just a minute, sir!" (this to the shover) "wispy beard met him and they went off together."
"Guy with a wispy beard?" Quill, well to the rear of the line now, had to strain to hear her.
"In the picture. The other picture. Those animal rights people—okay, mister. I'll get you your consarned ticket!"
"Hey!" Meg said, poking her in the back with her umbrella. "How's by you?"
Quill gave her a quick hug and greeted Lally.
"Sweetie!" Lally said. "Another murder! How lovely!"
"She thinks it's going to boost ratings," Meg said glumly. "I say, yuck. So, other than the odd dead body or two, what's been happening around here?" The four of them moved off to the Olds. Quill explained her latest discoveries on the short drive back to the Palate. "And it looks," she said, "as if the vegetarians are implicated after all."
"Oh, no, cookie," Lally said as Quill slowed in front of the restaurant. "I'm going up to the Inn. Just drop me off there, please."
"You're not staying with us?" Quill turned to look at Meg. Meg gave her a sarcastic wiggle of the eyebrows.
"Not this time, dearie. You're not going to make me walk, are you?"
"Of course not," Quill said hastily. "Is Marge . . . that is, do you have reservations?"
"Marge offered her a free week," Meg said. She snapped her fingers and began to hum "Mack the Knife" in a tuneless falsetto. At least Quill thought it was "Mack the Knife."
"I'll drive you up, Lally," John said. He, too, recognized Meg's storm signs. "I wanted to talk to Marge anyway. You two go on in, I'll be back in time for dinner.
Quill got out of the driver's seat, then grabbed Meg's backpack while she disentangled herself from the backseat safety belt. John got in the driver's side, Lally got in the front passenger side, and Quill felt she was in a Chinese fire drill. As John drove away, she shouted, "The colonel for dinner!" which later, Esther West told her, made the whole town think she and Meg were going to eat fried chicken.
Quill followed Meg up the stairs into her room. "So what's going on?"
"Marge is trying to steal Lally."
"Steal her? You mean get her to do a show about the Dew Drop Inn? Get serious, Meg."
"I am serious. Marge has got some of the best diner food in the United States."
"That's true."
"And there's nothing really wrong with a name like the Dew Drop Inn except that it's a little . . ."
"Cutesy."
"Cutesy," Meg agree
d, "and you wouldn't think twice about it if she hadn't renamed our, I mean, your Inn."
"Lally's still going to do the TV show, isn't she?"
"Yeah." Meg threw her duffel bag onto the bed. "But she says a place with the historic associations of a Laundromat isn't half as fascinating as a place dating back to the seventeenth century and Leaky Peg the trapper's friend."
"She's got a point."
"Sure she does. But dammit, Quill. My food . . ." Meg's voice rose in a familiar siren-like shriek. "My food is ART! Marge's food is CRAFT! And Marge doesn't even COOK IT HERSELF! Betty Hall does."
"Is Betty going to be on TV?"
"Betty Hall is so shy no one's heard her say more than three words in the forty-two years she's lived in Hemlock Falls. Sure she's going to go on TV. She'd sooner die. Those are the three words she's uttered, by the way, and she uttered them to Adela Henry, of all people."
"Adela Henry? When did you talk to Adela Henry? You've been in New York for three days."
"Well, somehow Marge got my number, and Betty Hall got someone to give Adela my number."
"Doreen!" they chorused at the same time.
"Where is she?" Meg demanded.
"Five o'clock?" Quill said, checking her watch. "The kitchen, poking her broom into Bjarne's business."
They clattered downstairs together. Doreen was at the sink, scrubbing potatoes. "So where you two been?" she greeted them.
Meg glowered. "Where have we been? Why did you give my phone number to Marge Schmidt so she could get Lally Preston to put her on the TV show instead of the Palate? So, where have you been, Doreen? Looking for your mind?!"
"Meg!" Quill said sharply.
"Marge is the competition!"
"Settle down." Doreen, her hands full of potatoes, indicated the two stools at the prep table with her chin.
"Siddown there. And keep out of Bjarne's way. He's in the middle of salmon filets."
"Tak," Bjarne said absently. He flipped one filet onto a chilled platter, and turned the gutted fish over with an expert turn of his wrist.
"You're welcome," Doreen grunted. "You two, on the other hand, are not. What d'ya mean coming in here shrieking like a pair of banshees? I gave Marge the number so that Betty Hall would quit."
A Steak in Murder Page 14
