A Steak in Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  "Well," Quill said. She took a breath. "Well."

  "Hey!" Meg came into the room. "Andy says 'hi' and where can he buy the beef? He says if Michael Debakey eats it, he wants to eat it, too."

  "I'll talk to Harland in the morning," John said. "And I'm bushed. I'm going to bed." He looked at them sternly. "You two be careful."

  "At what?" Meg said innocently.

  "Just be careful. And tell Brady—thanks for the tip." He left quietly, closing the door behind him.

  "Who would have thought that Brady would be a blabbermouth?" Meg said with some indignation.

  "It's a guy thing," Quill said with a wise air. "You ready?"

  "Ready, Watson."

  The who was Holmes and who was Watson argument hadn't been settled by the time they picked Brady up at the Croh Bar, and continued all the way down Route 15 to the clinic.

  "Hush up," Meg said as they bounced down the gravel road.

  "Why?" Quill asked reasonably. "There's no one there at this time of night. And, Brady," she twisted around so she could see him in the backseat, "you're supposed to be there, anyway, right? To feed the animals."

  He didn't respond right away. "Right," he said finally. Then, "I brought my pistol."

  "Oh, God," Meg muttered.

  "We've told you we're pretty sure CarolAnn Spinoza's behind this," Quill said. "You aren't going to shoot her?"

  "Don't think I could shoot a woman," Brady admitted. "Even if she . . . well, I just can't believe she'd kill Laura. That's all."

  Quill pulled the Olds to a stop in front of the clinic.

  The outdoor halogen lights were on, flooding the gravel yard. The perimeter around the buildings was dark. There was a hint of rain in the midnight air, and the moon had a gauzy veil over it.

  "Do you think we should hide the Olds?" Meg asked anxiously.

  "No. We told her we'd be at the clinic. Or rather I told her I'd be at the clinic. Why would I hide the car?"

  "Because if she sees the car, she'll think it's a trap," Meg said.

  "That's reasonable enough."

  "Pull it into the shed." Brady pointed with his thumb. "Where do you all want me to be?"

  "There's an examining room just off her office," Quill said. "Why don't you hide in there, and Meg, too, while I go through the desk until she comes. Then we'll have two witnesses to her confession."

  "We should have brought a tape recorder," Meg said. "Some detectives we are."

  "Laura's got one so she can keep records," Brady said. "I'll take that into the closet with me." He shook his head. "I think you ought to let me take care of the rough stuff."

  "She expects to see me there," Quill pointed out. "This will work, guys, trust me."

  She pulled the Olds out of sight against the wall of the shed. Now that they were close to trapping CarolAnn, Meg's high spirits were gone. She looked pale in the light from the outdoor lamps.

  Brady had a key to the office. They came in after him. He found Laura's tape recorder in the bottom drawer of her desk, and checked it to make sure the batteries were live and that a tape was in place. Quill found a flashlight under the tape recorder and took it out. Brady and Meg disappeared through the door to the examining room.

  Quill—out of some sense that it was more fitting to conduct a search at night in the dark, switched the office lights off, turned the flashlight on, and began to search methodically through Laura's files. Despite the chaos on her desk and couch, her files were in excellent order. She listed her patients by customer name, and Quill thumbed through the manila folders looking for Rossiter, then Longhorn Cattle, and finally, Calhoun.

  No health certificates. The stack of data in the Rossiter file was thick, and the contents a dense collection of data related to genetic testing, back fat, and composition and disposition of fat throughout the Longhorn carcass. Quill came to a letter from the research lab from Cornell University, and, more out of a sense of relief that she could understand the language, read it quickly. Then she read it again. More slowly.

  Laura Crest DVM

  Paradise Veterinary Practice

  Box 36, Route 15

  Hemlock Falls, N.Y.

  Dear Laura,

  It is with a great deal of interest that I report the results of the DNA testing of the Rossiter Texas longhorn carcasses. This is not, as you surmised from your visual examination, one hundred percent pure Texas Longhorn, but a Longhorn-Angus cross. The attached lab results will verify that the cattle are crossbreds.

  While final reports on the fat composition are yet to be collated, it is clear that the cholesterol and fat index of these cattle are closer to those of the Angus, rather than the leaner longhom, which clearly invalidates any claims of health benefits in human consumption. Please call me at your earliest convenience. If beef from these carcasses is being marketed as one hundred percent Texas longhorn, it is clearly a case of consumer fraud and a matter for criminal investigation.

  Very truly yours,

  N.D. Phillipone, DVM

  N.B. Glad to hear that Brady is back in your life.

  — Neville.

  Quill read the letter a third time. She sat down in Laura's chair. So it wasn't the health certificates CarolAnn was looking for. It was this. Evidence that Rossiter and Calhoun were selling—could she call it adulterated beef? It seemed a pretty strong term for it, but the U.S. Attorney's office might not think so.

  And what would have led CarolAnn to believe there was fraud, anyway? She'd never even looked at the beef up close, refusing to eat it at the menu tasting, demanding a vegetarian meal tonight. Quill frowned. Her lovely little case was collapsing around her. And CarolAnn was probably at home right now, calling the folks at the local rubber room to come and take her, Quill, away. Well. Since CarolAnn clearly wasn't coming—and the cops she'd probably called would—it didn't matter whether her search was in the dark or not. She reached up and flipped on the overhead lights.

  Her breath stopped in her throat. "Colonel! You scared the dickens out of me."

  "Hand me the letter," he said.

  "This letter?"

  "I've talked to Neville Phillipone. I know what's in it. I told him he received the wrong carcasses by mistake. He's going to redo his tests. Withdraw his allegations."

  Quill handed it to him. His hat was off. He was breathing shallowly. His face was distorted with some emotion Quill couldn't name.

  The rage in his voice was-unmistakable. It was rage that transfigured his face. "Pollution," he said. "Pollution. My purebred line. My bull."

  And the penny dropped.

  "You killed Royal, didn't you?"

  He blinked at her, bewildered. "Ma'am?"

  "You killed Royal because he was out crossing the cattle with Angus. Because of the taste. He didn't think people would eat leaner meat. So he modified the cows, didn't he?"

  "Royal was a man driven by money," he agreed. "Not by principle."

  Quill hoped very much that the tape recorder was on, that Meg and Brady were getting all this. She darted an involuntary glance toward the examination room.

  "Oh, I came through that way," the colonel said softly. "She isn't going to bother either one of us, now, Miss Quilliam."

  Quill felt herself turn pale. "Meg!"

  His arm shot out and grabbed her wrist. He was dismayingly strong. He held her with one hand. In the other was a knife. A boning knife. Quill looked away from the fresh red stain and wanted to scream. "She can't hear you."

  "What about—" Quill stopped herself just in time. She took a light breath. She was aware that she was cold, aware that her hands were stiff, that she was almost inarticulate with hate and grief. But she said, "Tell me. Tell me about the cattle."

  "Oh, you know. You know what Royal did. Did I kill him? No. But I would have."

  "And Laura? Why Laura? She loved cattle. She wasn't in it for the money." Quill took an imperceptible step backwards. Then another. Calhoun followed her, his eyes hot on her face, the knife raised.

  "S
he knew the samples were from Rossiter's herd. She and Neville Phillipone had done research at the lab together. He knew she wouldn't make a mistake. So I told him. I told him Rossiter had made the mistake. Or I would have had to kill him, too. Because she knew, of course. That my bull had been with Angus heifers. And I could never sell that bull once word got out. Lost half my net worth when Rossiter pulled that scam. And the shame of it. Couldn't hold my head up in the meetings again. So . . ." He raised the knife. Pushed her backwards.

  Quill gasped. "Candy? What about Candy?"

  "Candy!" His face twisted and he wailed, "Candy! I wouldn't touch Candy." Quill brought her knee up into his groin. He jackknifed forward, whooping. Quill jerked her head, but she was too late. The knife clipped her cheek. She twisted hard to the right, his heavy body pinning her so that she couldn't move. Then he jerked hard against her, in a strange orgasmlike way that froze her in terror.

  He collapsed against her, facedown, head twisted to the side.

  He coughed.

  Blood spilled from his nose to the floor. She saw the knife in his back and looked up, terrified.

  "Hey," Brady said. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Sorry, kid."

  And he raised the pistol he'd brought to protect her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Quill stared at the dying man at her feet. Brady bent forward and pulled the knife from his back with a grunt of effort. "Not right," he said, "to take him in the back. But I thought he had you."

  "Meg," Quill choked the word out. A part of her registered the terror in the whisper. She fumbled at her cheek. Her hand came away slick with blood. She pushed herself away from the desk. She was aware of Brady's blue eyes, of Calhoun's sodden black coat in strobelike flashes of time. She ran to the back room, stumbling on legs drained of strength by fear. Her hand was wet; she fumbled with the door latch.

  "Don't push" came a cross, beloved voice. "I can't get out!"

  Quill stepped back. The door opened. Meg fell into the room. Blood covered her T-shirt.

  She screamed, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, Quill. Quill!"

  And the room went dark.

  "Just lay still. I said, lay there."

  "Lie," Quill corrected the voice. "Objects lay, people lie."

  "What the hell."

  She opened her eyes. Trooper Harris loomed over her. Meg's face hovered over his right shoulder. She was in the office, on the couch. The room was filled with people. Ambulance lights flashed red/red/red/ outside the office window.

  "Get out of the way, dammit." Meg shoved Harris to the side and knelt on the floor. "Hey, you."

  Quill closed her eyes again. She felt sick.

  "Are you going to barf? You look pretty green. Shall I get a wastebasket?"

  Quill laughed, and regretted it. Her cheek hurt like the devil. "Remember horse camp?"

  "Of course I remember horse camp. I was sick as a dog from the heat, and I thought I was going to die. You got the hut wastebasket. Worked a treat, as Doreen would say."

  "I want to sit up." Meg put her arm around her. Quill could feel her trembling. She shoved Quill upright. Quill swung her feet off the couch and onto the floor. Her head swam.

  "Maybe you'd better lie down again."

  "No. No, I feel so . . . It's too scary. Where's Calhoun?"

  "Dead as a doornail, the lying snake." Meg sat next to her, her arm less shaky, her voice steadier. "Your color's coming back."

  Quill blinked. Her head cleared. John leaned against one wall, his face pale, his eyes on hers. Harris and his men walked in and out of the office. A tarp partially covered the body next to the desk. Blood seeped from underneath it. Quill made out the shape of an out flung hand, the fingers curled around the handle of the boning knife. "Wow." She looked at Meg. Her T-shirt was stiff with drying blood. Her eyes were clear, her smile a little uncertain. She was okay. Quill put her hand out and touched her cheek. "What happened?"

  "Just call me Vincent." Meg tucked her hair back. "Calhoun got the bottom of my left ear. It bled like the dickens."

  "I thought he . . ." Quill started to shake.

  "Well, he didn't. When he came at me, I just fainted. Not for long. But I was so scared, Quillie."

  Quill squeezed her hand. "Where was Brady all this time? Where's Brady now?"

  "We need to talk about that." Meg lowered her voice. "Don't say a thing to Harris, okay? Not until we . . ."

  "You ready to talk?" Harris crossed the room with his deliberate, heavy tread. "I want to know what the hell went on here."

  Meg looked at John and lifted her chin slightly. He sprang forward as if released from a heavy chain. He came to Quill and took both her hands in his. "I'm getting both of them to the hospital, Harris. Your questions can wait."

  "The med tech said nothing much was wrong with either one of them. And I'm going to talk to them now." His voice was ugly.

  Meg tightened her hand on Quill's shoulder, then she screamed, "John! Quill's going to pass out again! Harris, get the medic!"

  "I'm not either," Quill began indignantly. Meg shoved. "I . . . oooof!" She fell against the side of the couch. "I give up," she muttered, and closed her eyes.

  She kept them closed while the medics put an oxygen cone over her nose, strapped her on a stretcher, carried her from the room and into the ambulance. She felt Meg's knees against her right arm, sensed John's presence on the left. She peered through her eyelashes; a med tech was at her feet, busily snapping the stretcher into place. She heard Harris's complaining voice outside, abruptly cut off as the doors slammed shut. The siren went on, and the van took off, moving slowly for all the noise.

  Quill muttered behind the oxygen mask. Meg pulled it off her face.

  "Hey," said the medic. The name stitched over his lab coat pocket read: Oliver. "You start messing with the patient, I'm leaving you on the side of the road."

  "I'm fine," Quill said. "Honestly. Just a little lightheaded. I think it's the oxygen, actually, that's making me feel woozy."

  "Huh." Oliver crouched forward. He took her pulse, looked into her eyes with a penlight, then slapped a blood pressure cuff on her arm. "Jeez," he said after a few moments. "You're in better shape than I am."

  "Can you unstrap me, then?"

  He shook his head. "Against regulations until we get you to the hospital."

  "Can you call ahead?" Meg asked. "Make sure that Dr. Bishop's there at the E.R.?"

  "Jeez, I . . ."

  "Just let him know Meg and Quill are coming in. And that we're fine," Meg added hastily. "If you could let me talk to him."

  The medic scratched his head. "Well, I . . ." He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched the automatic dial. He talked into it, then handed it to Meg.

  "Before you say anything, I just want you to know we're fine." She listened and pulled a face. "I'll tell you when we get there. Just a little cut, Andrew. Honest. Quill's a little worse off, she has a nasty thing on her cheek."

  Quill tried to smile. She did have a nasty thing on her cheek. John's hand curled comfortingly around hers.

  "Just hang on, we'll be there . . ." The ambulance took a turn, then stopped. "Right now." She handed the phone back to Oliver.

  Quill suffered the next hour and a half in impatient silence. Once she was in Andy's capable hands, Meg and John disappeared. She was checked into the hospital, her cheek was stitched by a tired-looking plastic surgeon who murmured reassuring things about scarring, and finally she was wheeled out of emergency surgery, exhausted, and increasingly annoyed. "We're going to get you right into that nice bed," the nurse pushing the wheelchair said. "You just hang on a minute." She was a large woman, about Quill's own age. Her bossy, repellently happy attitude reminded Quill of someone, she couldn't think who.

  "Miss Francis," she said suddenly.

  "Yes, dear."

  "This perfectly horrible kindergarten teacher."

  "Mmhm."

  "We all hated her. Underneath that big fat smile, she was mean as a snake." Q
uill gave an exasperated sigh. "You haven't seen my sister?"

  "Or your boyfriend, either," the nurse said cheerfully. "Heeere we are." She made a sharp right turn with the wheelchair, into a hospital room.

  "He's not my boyfriend," Quill said crossly. "Where are they?"

  The nurse's patience was apparently inexhaustible. So was her insufferably cheery tone. "You'll see them in the morning, I'm sure. Here, now you can walk, can't you?"

  Quill quelled the urge to punch her. "I can walk."

  "Then I'll just help you into this nice bed."

  Quill glared at her. "Do you know how I got this cut?"

  "No, dear, I don't."

  "In a knife fight." Quill bent forward. "The other guy died."

  The nurse's eyes widened.

  "I can get," Quill said ominously, "into the bed myself." And she did. She refused a sleeping pill, asked the time, and when she learned it was well after four in the morning, gave it up and went to sleep.

  She woke to sunshine streaming through the window. Someone was snoring. Doreen was asleep in the chair by her bed, head flung back, mouth open, gray hair as wild as kudzu. Quill got up and went into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror. What she could see of her face was a mess. A gauze bandage covered half her face from her cheekbone to her chin. Her hair was a bird's nest, and she saw, a lot redder than usual. She felt it. It was stiff with dried blood.

  "You're supposed ta be in bed."

  Quill jumped. "Doreen? Where is everyone?"

  "Meg'll be here in a minute."

  Quill poked at her hair. "I hope she brings some shampoo."

  "You get back inta bed."

  "I don't need to be in bed."

  "The minute you step outta this door, Harris is goin' to give you the third degree."

  "I've got to tell the police what happened," Quill said reasonably.

  "You talk to Meg first."

  Fortunately for her state of mind, Quill didn't have to wait very long. Meg and John came in minutes later, John holding a paper bag that gave off a delicious smell of yeast and cinnamon, Meg with a cardboard tray of cafe lattes.