A Steak in Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  "I think she's been kicked." He eased the dog up into his arms, then got to his feet. Tye whined, but didn't bite.

  "Is she going to be okay?"

  "I don't know. But we'll get her back into the kitchen and give Laura a call."

  They walked back to the house, not speaking. In the kitchen, Quill spread several large dish towels on the prep table. John laid the dog down. She waved her legs feebly, licked John's hand, then closed her eyes. Quill went to the phone on the wall and dialed directory service for Laura Crest's number, both the emergency and the clinic number. "No answer at the clinic," she told John. The answering service promised to call the vet's private line, and no, they wouldn't release the number to Quill. "It's extremely urgent," Quill said into the phone. "Please have her call right away. Tell her we've found her dog Tye, and she's seriously hurt."

  Minutes passed. John kept his hand on Tye's head, which seemed to quiet her. Quill paced restlessly up and down the kitchen. "I'm going to try again."

  Sorry, the answering service said. Her line was busy.

  "Then will you interrupt, please?! And call me back right away." Quill left her number and hung up the phone with a frustrated snap of her wrist. "What if we try Andy? She doesn't look good, John." Tye's tongue lolled from her mouth. She panted heavily. Quill called Andy at home and her sister answered.

  "A what?"

  "The vet's dog."

  "But Andy's a people doctor. He doesn't know a thing about animals."

  "He must know something, Meg. Please. The poor thing."

  "Oh, all right." Meg banged the phone down. Moments later, it rang.

  "That phone is off the hook," the answering service operator said.

  "Laura Crest's phone? Off the . . ." Quill's breath came short. "All right, thank you." She hung up for the final time and turned to John. "We'd better call the police."

  "How did you know she was dead?" Trooper Harris demanded, several hours later.

  "I didn't know she was dead. I just knew that something must be wrong." They were seated in the semi-darkness of the dining room. It was three o'clock in the morning. John had taken Tye to a vet in Syracuse, where they had a 24-hour emergency service. Andy had said he wasn't sure, but he thought that, at worst, Tye had a ruptured bladder.

  "A kick, probably," he'd said sadly. "If I'm right, she'll just need a week or two off her feet."

  Max was asleep in his pen in the backyard.

  "You must have had some prior knowledge to call the police at that hour for a phone off the hook. Why didn't you go out there first, before giving us a call?"

  Quill didn't like his tone of voice at all. She kept her temper and said calmly, "The biggest problem with running a restaurant this size is that there's no place to really sit. Would you like to go into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee there?"

  "No."

  Quill raised her eyebrows. She got up and flipped on the dining room lights. She felt better, with the darkness at bay.

  "You were telling me why you called us and didn't go out to take Crest's dog to her."

  "I was afraid to transport the dog, John told you that. I told you that. And that dog meant the world to Laura. It just seemed very suspicious that the dog would be here, ten miles from the clinic without her, and that her phone should be off the hook. She's a vet, Mr. Harris."

  "Sergeant Harris."

  "Sergeant. And a good one. Responsible vets don't leave their phones off the hook. They're on call twenty-four hours a day."

  "Right."

  The sarcasm in his voice raised her temper. She controlled it with an effort. "What did you find? Do you think it was a burglary?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "How . . . how did she die? I understand that it must not have been a natural death . . ."

  He leaped on that. "Why?"

  "Because you're asking me all these questions." You idiot, she added silently.

  "It's enough for you to know that the circumstances weren't by the book." His eyes slid up and down her face. He got up, placed both his hands on the table, and leaned into her. "Now. Let's go through this one more time."

  "Let's not," Quill snapped. She shoved herself away from the table and went into the kitchen. She could feel him behind her. "Sergeant, can't we continue this in the morning?"

  "You have some reason you don't want to talk now?" His hand caressed the gun at his belt.

  "It's three o'clock in the morning. And you're a by-the-book kind of guy, aren't you? That's what Myles McHale said tonight. And a by-the-book kind of guy should really have another person present when doing . . . whatever it is that you're doing."

  "You know McHale?"

  He was standing so close to her that she had to bend back from his breath in her face. She put her hands on his chest and gave an angry shove. He didn't even flinch. "I said, you know McHale?"

  "She knows McHale. And she knows me." John came through the back door, face impassive with anger. Harris backed off.

  Quill stood up straight and took a deep breath. She felt sixteen different kinds of a fool. Make that twenty. It could have been worse. She could have thrown herself on John's chest and squealed, "John."

  "Coffee anyone?" she said brightly.

  Harris left, with a silent glower in John's direction. Quill covered her face with her hands and counted to ten.

  "You okay?"

  "I'm okay." She took her hands away. "Did you find out what happened to Laura, John? And how's the dog?"

  "The dog's fine. Or will be. Andy was right about the kick. She'll be at the clinic for a couple of days, and then she can come home."

  "And Laura?"

  "I don't know any more than you do."

  "The whole town will know by morning. All we have to do is wait."

  "I'll see you in the morning then." He hesitated, then went upstairs. Quill heard the quiet tread of his feet, the closing of his bedroom door. She waited for a long while before she went to bed herself.

  "Quill?" Someone was pulling her out of water. "Quill!" Quill woke up. Doreen stood over her, a scowl on her face. "I didn't want to wake you up. John said you didn't get to sleep till after four. But you better come downstairs."

  Quill rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Ten-thirty. "Good grief, Doreen, I slept past the breakfast trade." She sat up. "What's going on?"

  "Hear that?" Doreen gestured toward Main Street with one scrawny arm. There was a thud of marching feet and a rhythmic chant.

  "What in the heck is it?" Quill pulled her robe from the rocking chair and went to the window. "Who are all those people?"

  There was a crowd on Main Street. All ages. All sizes. All genders. Some of them were carrying signs: DON'T SEND OUR FRIENDS TO SLAUGHTER and ONLY CANNIBALS EAT MEAT. The chant was loud, if uninspired: "No! No! No! No!"

  "Oh, dear."

  "What'ya goin' to do about it?"

  "What am I supposed to do about it, Doreen? And why should I get involved in what looks to be perfectly peaceful . . ." She gazed out the window again. It was an oddly ragged crowd for a vegetarian demonstration. Quill didn't know a great deal about vegetarians, but she hadn't noticed that they dressed any worse than anyone else. ". . . if somewhat disreputable demonstration." An old yellow school bus was parked directly across from the Palate. The sides were painted with slogans such as FREE THE INNOCENTS and STOP THE SLAUGHTER! The whole was dominated by the picture of a pitiful-looking calf squashed into a carrying crate. Quill saw Sky and Normal Norman talking to CarolAnn Spinoza. CarolAnn Was nodding her head so vigorously Quill hoped her hair would fall off.

  "Jeez," Meg said. She came into the room without her usual bounce. "What are you going to do about this, Quill?"

  "Me? Why me?"

  "Because it's our restaurant they're picketing." Meg pressed close to her and peered over her shoulder. "See? They're protesting the Russians coming here to buy cattle to ship back to Moscow or the Gulag or wherever. They want to close down International Night. Sky and Norman w
ant to talk to you."

  "Oh." Quill considered this.

  Meg nudged her. "Well?"

  "Well, what?" she said crossly. "Where's John, anyway?"

  "Went over to talk to that bozo from the Marriott," Doreen said.

  "Besides, you're in charge of public relations," Meg added.

  "Right. Yes. I am. Okay." Quill threw off the robe, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and smoothed back her hair. "I'm ready."

  "Shoes," Doreen said briefly.

  "Right. Shoes."

  They followed her downstairs. The dining room was totally empty. Half filled cups of coffee, uneaten food, and pushed back chairs told Quill that at some point the diners here had made a hasty departure. And without, she suspected, paying the bill.

  She walked out onto Main Street and surveyed the situation. Esther West stood in front of her store, arms folded over her chest. Marge stood beside her. Both of them were glaring in the direction of the Palate. Quill crossed the street and went up to them. "Hi, guys."

  "What are you going to do about this, Quill?" Marge demanded. "These are the same damn fools what picketed the Dew Drop day before yesterday. I thought that Harris ran them out of town, but hell, no, here they are back again. Harland," she added with a slight blush, "is all upset. 'Fraid they'll be out to his place next. And if they are"—she hitched up her chinos with a determined hand—"they're gonna know what hit 'em."

  "Why aren't they going to know what hit them right now?" Quill said. "You're good at this sort of thing, Marge. Why don't you tell them to go?"

  "She can't go near them," Esther contributed nervously. "Trooper Harris served her a restraining order after she clobbered that bearded guy up at the Inn the other day. She's not allowed to go near them."

  The protesters had formed into a ragged circle smack in front of the Palate's teal blue door. Quill could see Doreen and Meg staring at them through the large plate glass window. Suddenly Max bounded around the edge of the stone building and joined the group. Tail wagging, he attached himself to Sky (who apparently had the lead, although since it was a circle Quill wasn't sure).

  "I hope," CarolAnn Spinoza said sweetly, coming up to her, "that you aren't contemplating the disturbance of a peaceful protest."

  "CarolAnn," Quill said, "why are you doing this?"

  "I don't know what you are talking about."

  "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. You got these protesters here. Why are you stirring up all this trouble?"

  CarolAnn grew sullen. "You'd better watch it, missy."

  "Now, CarolAnn," Marge said, "Quill didn't mean what you think she means."

  This was the last straw. Rough, tough Marge groveling in front of this person? "Now, you look CarolAnn Spinoza . . ."

  "Hang on," said Marge, grabbing her arm. Quill threw it off. "Hang on yourself, Marge. It's about time somebody . . ."

  "No. Hang on. Somebody called the cops."

  Two state police cars drove slowly through the crowd (half Hemlockians and half protesters) and stopped in front of the Palate. Trooper Harris got out of the passenger side and swaggered up to Sky and Normal Norman.

  "Down!" Sky screeched. The circle promptly collapsed onto the pavement. Sky lay flat on her back and resumed her chant, "No! No! No!"

  Trooper Harris said, tight-lipped, "Norman Francis Smith? You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to counsel to represent you, and if you do not have counsel, one will be appointed . . ."

  Quill, Marge, and Esther edged closer.

  "That little snot," Marge said two decibels lower than her usual bellow. "Whyn't the heck he arrest them when they was up to my place?"

  Harris jerked Normal Norman upright. Two troopers from the second car put handcuffs on him. Harris droned, ". . . for the murders of Laura Crest, and Bruce Detwiler, known as Candy Detwiler. The charge is murder one."

  "I don't believe it for one minute," Quill said, astonished.

  Harris shot her a glance that would have wilted kudzu.

  "I do." CarolAnn was loud, as usual. "I guess you didn't hear about what happened up at the vet's?" She smirked at Harris, who smirked back. "They were up there yesterday afternoon, trying to free those poor test subjects in that so-called clinic."

  "Trashed the place," offered a fair-haired trooper, as he pushed Norman into the patrol car. "Trashed the vet's office, too, and then . . ." He made a sharp thrust with his hand.

  "She was knifed?" Quill said.

  "Same as Candy Detwiler," CarolAnn said. "The O.M. was exactly the same, which is why they're arresting Norman for the both of them."

  "M.O.," Marge said sourly.

  "Huh?"

  "M.O., not O.M.," Quill said. "It stands for modus operandi."

  "Now look at that." There was such smarmy glee in CarolAnn's voice that Quill's palm itched to smack her. A van marked THE RUSTICATED LADY, HGTV squealed to a halt behind the trooper's car. "Lally Preston's good for something, I guess." CarolAnn sprinted toward the car.

  "That's her TV crew, innit?" Marge said.

  "Yes." Quill glumly returned Lally's wave. Lally's cameraman got out of the back and looked vaguely around, his camcorder in hand. Lally herself grabbed his shoulders, pointed him in the direction of the protesters still milling around the Palate, then trotted over to Quill and Marge. She had the grace, at least, to look embarrassed. "Sorry about this, but we make an extra dollar or two when the networks call for footage. They'll cut in the national anchor later, I guess."

  The cameraman ran alongside the protesters, who broke happily into their chant. One of them turned the sign that read: CLOSE THE PALATE! straight into the camera lens.

  "Gee, Quill," Marge said with a grin, "that can't be good for the price of that business now, can it?"

  So the truce was over. In several minutes the protest was over, as well. Lally's cameraman shot a few more feet of tape, got back into the car, and gestured to Lally.

  "See you, bye," Lally said. "We all set for tonight?"

  "I guess so," Quill said. "You mean the banquet's still on?"

  "Of course. Time and TV wait for no man. Dead or alive."

  "Uh, Lally," Marge said. "We talked about maybe serving Betty's lemon custard pie tonight? Instead of that puddin' thing Meg mixes up out of a bag."

  "It's NOT out of a bag," Quill said indignantly. "It's crème brûlée, which is eggs, sugar—"

  "Well, the sugar's out of a bag, innit?"

  Quill slammed the door on her way back into the restaurant.

  "Wow," Meg said. She was sitting at a table, her feet propped up on a chair. She was drinking lemonade. "Want some?"

  "I just made a record," Quill said. She shoved Meg's feet off the chair and sat down.

  "What's the record?"

  "For the shortest amount of time between wanting to smack two people ever."

  "CarolAnn I can understand. Who else?"

  "Marge, of course. Where's Doreen?"

  "Went to chase Max and bring him home. I told her it was her turn." Meg set the lemonade on the table. "So they arrested that poor geek Norman."

  "Q.U.A.C.K. was up there yesterday, and Trooper Einstein must have put one and one together to get five. Those people didn't kill Laura. And I'll bet they didn't kill Candy Detwiler, either."

  "I don't know, Quill. Norman's got a record."

  "I can see them maybe clobbering a human over the head," Quill admitted. "But, Meg, would animal rights people kick a dog? With as vicious a kick as laid out poor Tye?"

  Meg's eyes widened. "Jeez," she said.

  "CarolAnn let something drop that didn't make sense. She said that Q.U.A.C.K. was at the clinic to free test animals."

  "Test animals?"

  "You know. Lab animals. Rabbits. White rats. The sort they use in labs to test cosmetics."

  "Laura Crest didn't have test animals at her clinic."

  "I know who can tell us if she did. Jack Brady."

  First, they drove out to Motel 48, where the hopefu
l little desk clerk said she hadn't seen him all night, and if they found him, would they tell him they could have a drink some other time. Then they went to the Inn. Marge, in charge of setting up the conference room for the Chamber lunch, said belligerently she hadn't seen Brady, and would they please get their keisters outta there, unless they had a couple million in their pockets to drop into her bank account.

  They finally found Jack at the Croh Bar, slouched over a table in the corner and listening to Patsy Cline's "Walkin'." He looked awful. The skin under his eyes was purple. He hadn't shaved. He sat like a man defeated. He didn't notice either one of them at first. Quill signaled Ben Croh for another round of whatever Brady was drinking with a circular sweep of her finger.

  "It's beer," Meg whispered.

  "So we'll drink beer."

  "At eleven-thirty in the morning? I think not."

  "Ladies." Brady raised his head. Quill was shocked at the expression in his eyes. "Y'all have a seat."

  They sat down on either side of him. Ben set three beers down. Quill took a sip, then remembered she hadn't had any breakfast. Meg gave her glass a disgusted shove. Brady drained his, took Meg's with a courteous crook of his eyebrow, and drained that. Quill pushed her glass toward him. He wrapped his big hands around it. "What can I do for you two?"

  Quill hesitated. "It's about Laura Crest."

  He ducked his head once.

  "You knew her before, Brady? Before you came to Hemlock Falls?"

  He ducked his head again.

  "In Texas?"

  "At Cornell." He drank half of Quill's beer. "I brought up some steers from San Antonio. Fellas in the research lab wanted to study 'em, L guess. Laura was just gettin' herself out of school."

  "She was a resident in the lab?"

  "Ahuh."

  And Brady, being Brady, would have seduced the young resident with no problem at all. "Brady, why would the animal rights people protest against the clinic?"

  His face was bleak. "I think it was my fault. They killed her. And it was my fault." He rotated the beer glass between two palms. "I was shootin' off my mouth. In here. Laura was with me. She keeps a couple of those horses for blood serum. You know, you can make a decent buck collecting antibodies from them couple of times a week. She supplies Cornell. She needed the money. It don't hurt the horses none, to have blood drawn every once in a while. But I was kind of raggin' her about it, and that fella Norman was sitting right over there. By the jukebox. He comes up, all goofy, starts hollerin' about how animals have souls, too, Jesus." He expelled his breath. "I'm a horseman myself. You think I'd . . . anyhow, I just kind of egged him, just to tease Laura."