A Taste for Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  “The first day she was here, she was - I don’t know. I thought. This poor woman is completely under Mrs. Hallenbeck’s thumb. I even thought how awful her life must be, at this dreadful old woman’s beck and call. But now…” She moved the salt and pepper shakers a little closer to the sugar bowl, then back again. The dining room was quiet. Most of the staff had gone home.

  “Now, what?”

  “Mrs. Hallenbeck isn’t dreadful - just pathetic and lonely. And I don’t think it’s the Valium that’s making Mavis so …”

  “Slutty?” suggested Myles.

  ” … she’s just like that!”

  “Sheriffl” Davey Kiddermeister rapped at the dining room door and walked in. The youngest of the uniformed officers on Myles’s force, his normally ruddy face was pale. “Sheriff? Gil Gilmeister’s dead. They found him drowned over to the duck pond. Where the play was on this afternoon. He and Marge and a couple of guests from the Inn were at the Croh Bar. Guess they were getting into the booze pretty good.”

  “Dammit!” said Myles. He rose in a single powerful movement. “Quill. You stay here, understand me? I don’t want you meddling.”

  Quill, a little numb with shock, followed them out the door.

  -5-

  Davey raced ahead to set up the floodlights. Following Myles to the duck pond, Quill saw that the moon was a ghostly galleon riding the wine-dark sea. Bess, the landlord’s daughter, she told herself in justification, would have been a lot better off if she’d done something rather than hanging out the Inn window fiddling with her hair.

  “Myles.”

  Myles didn’t bother to turn around, but threw over his shoulder, “Back to the Inn, Quill.”

  “T-lot t-lot to you, too,” she muttered, jogging behind him. Then aloud, “If nothing else, I can see that the rescue team gets coffee.”

  The red lights of the ambulance spun wildly, bouncing off the cars and pickup trucks already jamming the small parking lot. Most of the onlookers were patrons-in-residence at the Croh Bar. Situated directly across from the Volunteer Firemens’ garage, the bar acted as a kind of holding pen for rubberneckers.

  There was a shout. The floodlights switched on. Quill stopped, dismayed. Gil’s body lay face-down on the grass beside the pond, the ducking stool twisting slowly above him. Mavis and Marge, both soaking wet, huddled near the body. Keith Baumer was nowhere in sight. There was a short silence as Myles approached, then a babble of voices.

  “Who pulled him out?” asked Myles. Davey jerked his thumb at Marge.

  “Andy Bishop here?” Myles crouched by the body.

  “He’s on his way, Sheriff,” somebody called from the crowd.

  Myles took a pen from his shirt pocket and pushed Gil’s rocked-up shirt collar aside. Quill peered over his shoulder. There was a gash in the back of Gil’ s head. The water had washed it clean, and the purple lips gaped at Quill.

  “Davey, I need a hand here.” Myles grasped the body’s shoulders, Davey the feet, and the two men turned Gil over.

  Quill had never seen a drowning before; one look at the blue face, the foam at nostrils and mouth, and she turned quickly away. Myles cleared the area around the body with a few sharp words. Quill backed up, then walked around the fence that concealed Harland Peterson’s John Deere tractor. It crouched like a metal Arnold Schwarzenegger, arms holding the front loader extending over the top of the fence. The front loader itself hung at a sharp angle, one end dangling free of the metal arm. Quill stood on tiptoe. The heavy shovel had worked loose. Partially dried blood glistened on the edge. Quill squinted at it in the glare of the floodlights. Blood, hair, and what may have been a bit of bone.

  “Gotta close this off, Ms. Quill,” said Davey.

  “Where’s the bolt?” asked Quill.

  “Ma’am?”

  “The bolt that held the front loader to the tractor arm.”

  Davey shrugged. “Into the river, maybe? It’d be swept away for sure. Sheriff wants to know if you could see to Mrs. Collinwood and Marge.”

  Marge and Mavis huddled under a blanket marked “Hemlock Falls Volunteer Ambulance.” Quill sat down in the grass next to them and folded her arms around ‘her knees. “You guys all right?” she asked. “Can I get you some hot coffee or anything?”

  Marge snorted.

  “What happened?”

  Mavis began to cry. Marge herself was weeping silently, and impulsively, Quill put her arm around her.

  “We were just practicin’,” wailed Mavis, “for the play. Just foolin’ around. I swear I never dreamed this was gonna happen.”

  “And Gil sat in the ducking stool?”

  Mavis gave a gigantic sniff. “He was saying my lines. Jus’ jokin’. Hopped in the stool, and the next thing happened was that big ol’ shovel came right down on his head. He fell into the pond and we went to drag him out, but we couldn’t find him. Marge here kept going under water and pokin’ around” - a convulsive shudder shook her - “and his arm or somethin’ brushed my leg and I screamed.”

  “Was Keith Baumer with you?” asked Quill.

  “Him,” said Marge with contempt. “Took off like a scalded cat. I pulled Gil out, tried CPR. Didn’t work. Mavis here called the ambulance from the pay phone.”

  A brand new white Corvette screamed into the parking lot and came to a screeching halt. The passenger door slammed, and a tall, skinny woman with bleached blond hair walked toward the body. Tom Peterson got out from the driver’s side.

  “Shit,” said Marge. “Tom Peterson’s brought ol’ Nadine.”

  “Nadine is Gil’s wife,” said Quill in response to Mavis’ bewilderment, “and Tom’s her brother.” And Marge is Gil’s girlfriend, she said silently. “Maybe you two ought to come back to the Inn with me.”

  “Too late,” said Marge practically. “Here she comes, and Tom with her.”

  Years of up-and-down dieting, combined with a permanent, free-floating discontent, had not been especially kind to Nadine Gilmeister’s face. Quill noted with interest that her makeup was freshly applied, and her hair as elaborately styled as ever. It was after midnight, at a time when only innkeepers and late-night partiers were in street clothes, but Nadine had taken the time to put on a newly dry-cleaned jumpsuit. Although, Quill saw, at least she’d been upset enough to forget to remove the cleaner’s tag from the collar.

  Tom held Nadine’s arm, greeted Quill with a nicely balanced degree of calm and concern, then said, “I was watching a videotape when I saw the ambulance light. I walked over here, and thought I’d better go get Nadine.”

  “Susan isn’t home?” asked Quill.

  “No. It’s her bridge night. I think I can handle Nadine-but I may need to call on you, Quill.”

  “So this supposed rehearsal and business meeting was with you, Marge Schmidt,” Nadine said.

  “You know darn well it was, Nadine. We was both there when he called you.”

  “Both?”

  Marge indicated the sodden Mavis. “Mavis. This is Gil’s wife, Mavis.”

  Mavis, still crying, said, “The one runnin’ the poor soul into debt?”

  “How dare you!” shrieked Nadine. “And my poor Gillying there dead as a doornail.”

  Tom looked nervously at Quill. “A pretty well-insured doornail,” said Marge. “Which is good for you, on account of he owes me a pile of money.”

  “Can you believe this woman?” Nadine addressed the stars. “I am standing right here and I cannot believe my ears. The man’s not yet cold.”

  Marge glared up at her, then rose menacingly. “He’ll never be as cold dead as you are living, Nadine Gilmeister.” She took a deep breath.

  Gil’s relationship with Marge, as yet unacknowledged by either wife or girlfriend, appeared to be the next item on the agenda. Quill, sensing ill will, if not the potential for outright violence, stepped forward to take a hand.

  “What is this dreadful noise!” demanded a familiar voice. “What has happened here? Mavis! Why in the world are you dressed in th
ose wet clothes?” Mrs. Hallenbeck trotted out of the darkness, well-wrapped against the evening air in a plaid Pendleton bathrobe.

  “What’re you doin’ here, Amelia?” asked Mavis sourly.

  “If I may remind you, both our rooms overlook this view. The emergency vehicle lights wakened me. I knocked on your door. There was no answer. I deduced that you must be down here. What has happened?”

  “Mrs. Hallenbeck.” The authority in her own voice surprised Quill. She would have to practice more. “I want you and Mavis to come with me. Marge, I think you should check with the sheriff to see if you can go home now.

  Nadine, I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  “Let’s go, Nadine,” said Tom. “You’ll want to ride with… er … to the hospital.”

  Nadine glared at Marge. “The ambulance’s waiting on me,” she said. “I’ll leave you to later, Marge Schmidt.”

  Marge took herself glumly off. Quill walked Mavis and Mrs. Hallenbeck back to the Inn.

  Most of the Inn’s guests had crowded into the lobby, and when Quill shepherded the widows in the front door, they volleyed questions. Meg, John, and Doreen were dressed, all three prepared to offer assistance. “But John said to stay here in case we had to evacuate or save the silver or something,” said Meg. “What happened?”

  Quill explained there’d been a drowning. The orthodontist’s wife clutched her youngest offspring, an unprepossessing ten-year-old, and wanted to know if the Inn was all that safe for children. The orthodontist cleared his throat portentiously and said, as a medical man, he’d be glad to help if the accident had anything to do with teeth, gums specifically. Quill, engulfed in waves of tiredness from a second disturbed night’s sleep, told everybody to please go to bed, and that breakfast in the morning would be on the house.

  Keith Baumer, who’d apparently headed straight for the safety of the Inn’s bar, volunteered to take the widows to their rooms. Edward Lancashire offered instead. Mavis, dimpling at them, said, “I swan!” with what she clearly thought was a delightful giggle. Mrs. Hallenbeck clutched Quill’s arm and demanded that Quill see her to her room. “You must have some tea sent up, my dear, and we can have a nice, long talk.”

  “Quill’s got an inn to run,” said John. “I’ll take you up, Mrs. Hallenbeck.”

  “Absolutely not!” said Mrs. Hallenbeck. “That is an intolerable suggestion! Quill, you will come up to my room at once.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hallenbeck,” said Quill, “but I have my responsibilities here.”

  Keith Baumer, loud in confused explanations of why he had left the scene of the accident, escorted Mavis and Mrs. Hallenbeck upstairs.

  Meg, after a close look at her sister’s face, marched her into the kitchen and poured her a double brandy. John and Doreen trailed after them.

  “What I don’t understand is why the heck it took so long to pull Gil out of the pond,” said Meg. “It’s not that deep.”

  “Drink is the opiate of the masses;” said Doreen, apropos of nothing.

  “You’re mixing up Marx with the Victorians,” said Meg briskly. “And what do you mean, ‘drink’? If this religious stuff you’ve come back from vacation with is teetotal, you can just forget it. Nobody wants you charging the bar and whacking the boozers with your mop.”

  “If Jesus turned water into wine for the Kennedys, then he blesses those that take a nip, on occasion,” said Doreen loftily. She poured a hefty belt from the brandy bottle into a coffee cup. “What I meant is, those three was down to Croh’s after, eatin’ at Marge’s.”

  “Real-ly?” said Meg with interest. “Probably to help them forget what they’d had for dinner. But were they soused, you think?”

  “I saw them,” John volunteered. “I’d say half the town did. They were knocking them back.”

  “You were at Croh’s?” said Meg. “Is that what you do on your nights off? I’ve never seen you take a drink here, John - not in all the months you’ve been here.”

  “Meg,” warned Quill, “give it a rest.”

  “Eternal rest,” mused Doreen, “rocked in the Everlasting arms.”

  “Poor Gil,” said Meg. “Better everlasting arms than Nadine, though.”

  Quill choked on her brandy, and raised a hand in protest.

  “So that shovel just whacked him on the back of the head and those two ladies were too smashed to pull him out of the water,” Meg continued sunnily. “What a lousy accident.”

  “If it was an accident,” said Quill. “And you didn’t actually see it, Meg, so let’s not joke about it, okay?”

  “What do you mean, ‘if it was an accident’?” said John.

  “The bolt that attaches the payloader to the support was missing,” said Quill. “Now, admittedly, that’s an old tractor. A fifty-six or fifty-seven, somebody said. And the Petersons don’t spend a lot on maintenance. But if it fell out, where was it? I investigated and I didn’t find it.”

  “You investigated!” hooted Meg. “I should have sold all your Nancy Drews to Bernie Hofstedder in the sixth grade.”

  “Couldn’t it have fallen into the river?” said John.

  “It’s not likely,” said Quill crossly. “There’s an enclosure there, remember? The bolt would have fallen inside the fence. I looked, and it wasn’t there.”

  “It depends on when it came off,” John persisted. “If it snapped under the tension of Gil’ s weight in the ducking I stool, it could have flown quite a distance.”

  “Not that far,” Quill said. “I looked at the one that was still in place on the other side of the tractor. That bolt has to weigh a pound at least. I just can’t see something that heavy flying lover the fence into the river.”

  “But who’d want to kill Gil Gilmeister?” said Meg. “I mean, I other than the poor shmucks who bought cars from him. And how could anybody know that Gil and those two were going down to the duck pond for a drunken ‘rehearsal’? More than that, how could this supposed murderer be sure that Gil was going to sit in the thing? The only person scheduled to use it was Mavis.”

  “The Devil’s abroad tonight,” said Doreen.

  “Oh, it is not,” said Meg. “Honestly, Doreen, just leave it to Myles. He’ll do his usual bang-up investigation and clear it up in no time.”

  “Thorough, is he?” asked John.

  “You haven’t been with us long enough to see him in action,” said Meg, “but he’s just terrific. He was a senior-grade detective with the New York City police force before he moved here.”

  “He’s too young to have retired,” said John.

  “He didn’t retire, he quit,” said Meg. “Just got fed to the back teeth. Said he was losing his sense of proportion. Thing is, he’s got all kinds of great connections from his days on the force. What crime there is around here gets solved really fast.”

  “You didn’t know about Myles, John?” asked Quill.

  “Come to think of it, you two don’t see much of each other,” said Meg, “but you’ll see him in action now. If Quill doesn’t solve it first.” She rolled her eyes at her sister.

  John’s face softened with what might have been a smile.

  “I wish you luck, Quill. Here - ” He dug his hand into his jeans pocket and dropped his Indian-head nickel into her palm. “Maybe this will help.”

  “From your grandfather, the Chief?” She wrapped her fingers around the coin. “Did you inherit any of his tracking skills? If we pooled our talents, we could solve this before Super Sheriff even files a report.”

  John was silent a moment. “I’ll leave it to the experts. Good night, Quill, Meg.” He touched Doreen briefly on the shoulder, an unusual gesture for him, and padded silently from the kitchen.

  “Well, Hawkshaw, what now?” said Meg. “Shall we haul out the magnifying glass, the scene-of-the-crime kit, and the rubber hose?”

  “The only thing I’m going to solve now is my fatigue. It’s after one o’clock. I’m going to lock up and go to bed.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Doree
n. “You look bushed. You too, Meg.” She shook her head dourly, the omnipresent cigarette dripping ashes on Meg’s wooden counter. “The Devil’s presence is here tonight. Just like the Revrund Willy Max warned us in Boca Raton. I shall seek Satan our in the dark corners of this place.”

  “Be quiet about it,” advised Meg, “or you’ll wake up the guests.”

  “Maybe some of ‘em should be woke up,” said Doreen smacking her lips. “See the signs for their ownselves.”

  “The only sign I want to see is the face of my alarm clock at six A.M. tomorrow,” said Meg.

  Quill, agreeing, went upstairs to bed, and fell into an exhausted sleep. She was awakened by the shrilling of the house phone.

  “Miss Quilliam? Sarah?”

  Groggy with sleep, Quill blinked at the bedside clock. “It’s eight o’clock!” she said into the phone. “Damn!” She shook the clock. The alarm, which had been set for six, burst into the morning silence like a chain saw. Quill smacked it against the night table and the ringing stopped.

  “Miss Quilliam? It’s me, Dina. You know, at the front desk. I’m sorry to get you up.”

  “It’s way past time to get up,” said Quill. Her thoughts soggy, she said belatedly, “Why are you whispering?”

  “It’s the guests.”

  “What?”

  Dina raised her voice. There was a suspicion of a shriek in it. “The guests! They’re milling around here like… like… hornets.”

  “They’re angry? What hap - Never mind. I’ll be right down.”

  She grabbed the first clothes at hand, a denim skirt and a navy blue T-shirt, hastily dressed, and headed for the lobby. The orthodontist, his wife, their little boy, Mavis Collinwood, and Keith Baumer were clotted in front of Dina. They did resemble hornets after prey. They broke into a buzzing whine of exclamations as Quill descended the staircase.

  “Here she is!” Dina said. Relief washed over her like water over a thirsty prospector. “Miss Quilliam, there’s this sort of problem…” She trailed off helplessly.

  “Why don’t you go into my office, Dina, and take care of the phones. Have you called John?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t answer.” “Call the kitchen and ask Meg to get someone to find him. Now - ” She turned to the orthodontist, who seemed to have the lowest level of agitation. “How can I help you?”