“No,” said Quill firmly. “Well, I’m sure you know best, my dear. You seem to have such an excellent head on your shoulders.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I am taking your advice. Regarding Mavis.”
With the exit of the cast members in full costume to the dining room at six-thirty, Quill knew she should check the front desk, see to the wine cellar, and finally, beard the chaos in the kitchen. Instead, she went to John’s room with the picture from Gil’s wallet tucked in her pocket. She switched on the overhead light. The room was as she’d left it earlier in the day: silent, the clothes hanging neatly in the closet, the books and papers in the same places. The picture stood on the night stand where she had left it. Quill picked it up and turned it over. The cardboard backing was loose. She drew it carefully out of the frame. The picture from her pocket fitted the back. When she replaced the cardboard backing, it fit perfectly.
She held the frame in her hands, concentrating hard. It was all too obvious that both pictures had been kept here, in this frame. How had the one picture gotten from the frame to the duck pond, and from the duck pond to Gil’s wallet? And why? Did John carry it with him, as a reminder of his sister? If he didn’t, who took the picture from the frame? Had John or someone else dropped it at the duck pond while drawing the bolt to set a trap for… whom?
“Find anything interesting?”
The frame jumped in her hands. “Myles!”
He came into the room with that infuriatingly silent walk. “Let me see that.”
“It’s… just a photograph, Myles. Of John’s sister.”
“John’s sister? I found this picture at the pond. Nadine said it was her sister-in-law. Gil was going to put it in the family album.” He looked sharply at Quill. “It agitated her.”
Quill bit her lip. Myles took both photographs and put them in his shirt pocket.
Myles set the frame back on the night stand. “I’d like to talk with him, Quill. Is he here?”
“How did you know I was here?”
He nodded at the uncurtained window. “I’ve been waiting for him.”
“And you saw the light go on. Of all the sneaky - “
“This is serious business, Quill. We need to question him.”
” ‘We’? ‘Question’? What the hell are you talking about?” He looked at her silently for a long moment. “You’ll know eventually, so you might as well know now. The computer’s turned up a record on John.”
“What kind of a record?”
“I don’t want you involved in this, Quill.”
“Well, I am involved, Myles. Not only is he the real manager of this Inn, but he’s a friend. A good friend. And I think it stinks that there’s some stupid accident in that damn duck pond with a bunch of drunks horsing around, and the first thing you think of is - Oh! ‘Must be that Indian up to the Inn.’ ” Her mockery of local speech patterns nettled him, but she went recklessly on. “And of course you go to that blasted database and ask, not for Gil Gilmeister’s jail record, or Marge Schmidt’s or that fuzzy-headed Mavis’, but John’s.”
“Tom Peterson saw him at the pond earlier that evening,” Myles said levelly.
Quill was momentarily caught off stride. Then she said, “Of course he would. He probably did it! I was at Peterson’s today. Look at this matchbook.” She pulled it out of her skirt pocket and waved it at him.
Myles took it, his face grim.
“Tom Peterson was up in Mavis and Mrs. Hallenbeck’s room,” said Quill, recklessly. “He’s the person you should be investigating. Not John. And everyone knows that Mavis was the one person who was supposed to sit in the ducking stool. You should be looking for Tom’s motives!”
“Quill, I’ve told you before to stay out of this.”
“But why pick on John?”
“He served eighteen months in Attica for manslaughter. He was released last year, just before he came to work for you.” She sat down on the bed. She knew her face was pale.
Myles sat down beside her and took her hand in his. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
She stood up to avoid the touch of his arm against hers; physical proximity to Myles always weakened her resolve. “Do you know the details?”
“Of John’s case? No. I’m going to Ithaca to pull the files Monday. All I’ve got now is the computer record of the sentencing and time served.”
“Will you tell me when you find out?”
“Will you tell me when John shows up?” She glared at him, mouth a stubborn line.
Myles eased himself to his feet. “This could be a case of murder. Or it could simply be an accident. I don’t have enough information. And without information, I won’t know if it’s murder or accident.”
“What does your gut-feel tell you?”
“My gut-feel tells me I want to talk to everyone in the vicinity of the accident. And John was in the vicinity.”
“That’s not enough of a reason and you know it,” Quill said.
“Quill!” Myles stopped, exasperated. “Listen to me. I’m going to tell you one more thing. And if I tell you, you’ve got to promise me that you’ll let this alone. You agree?”
Quill put her hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. “Yes,” she said.
“A couple of the boys down at the Croh Bar said John and Gil got into an argument about ten-fifteen.”
“An argument? What kind of an argument? Over what?”
“It wasn’t over what, it was a who.” A reluctant grin crossed his face. “Mavis seems to be getting around quite a bit.”
“John got into an argument with Gil over Mavis? I don’t believe it.” She hesitated. “Was he drinking?”
“Not according to the bartender.”
Quill hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until she relaxed. “I’ll tell you what it was. I’ll bet he saw how much Mavis was drinking on top of that Valium and tried to get her to go home.”
“That sounds more like John,” Myles admitted. “But no one seems to know what the argument was about.”
“What does Mavis say?”
“That she doesn’t want to talk without a lawyer.”
“Can’t you do something about that, Myles?” said Quill anxiously.
“Of course I can do something about that, if I can find a judge on a Saturday night in Tompkins County in the middle of July. Davey’s gone to Ithaca to try and get the summons.”
“Marge must have been a - what d’ya call it - a material witness. What does she say?”
“That she was in the ladies room, and missed the whole thing. Given the amount of beer they were drinking, it’s not unreasonable. Now, I’ve told you more than I should. And you’re going to butt out, right?”
“Mm,” said Quill, nodding.
Myles narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ll see you at ten unless Davey’s back with that summons.”
Quill gave him her most innocent smile.
Quill made John’s rounds of the Inn before joining the Chamber members at dinner. The Inn’s lares and penates, perhaps in sympathy with the stresses of the past forty-eight hours, were being merciful tonight - and, thought Quill, it was about bloody time. Everything was in order at the front desk. Guests who were booked to check in had checked in; those who were scheduled to leave had left, without noticeable depredations to the supply of ashtrays, towels, or shower curtains. All the staff that was supposed to had shown up on time, and the line waiting for tables was satisfyingly long but not intolerable; even the bar hummed with relaxed, not drunken, voices.
Nate poured her a half glass of Montrechat. Guiltily, she decided to hide out in her office and drink it slowly and alone.
A breeze blew in the open window, carrying the scent of lilies. She sorted through the events of the past two days. There were questions to be answered, all right. Mavis might refuse to talk to Myles without a lawyer, but she might talk to Quill, given the right investigative technique. She needed Mavis. And Myles. She finished the wine. She’d weasel informa
tion about John’s prison time out of him, no matter what. Undeterred by the fact that she’d never once been able to get information out of Myles he didn’t want to deliver, she went in search of Mavis Collinwood.
Saturday night at the Hemlock Inn dining room with an overflow crowd was a scene to bring joy to a banker’s heart. As a rule, Quill didn’t much care for bankers, whose affable smiles and neatly pressed suits hid hearts of steel when it came to matters of cash flow and lines of credit. Bankers were prone to the chilling repetition of the phrase “prompt repayment of the loan,” just when it was most inconvenient to hear it. Bankers wanted to lend you money when you didn’t need it, charged horrible interest rates when you did, and all too clearly preferred that two hundred meals with a profit margin of 75% be pumped out by a raft of sous chefs and dumped in front of gluttonous hordes instead of carefully chosen, beautifully cooked meals presented to a discriminating few.
To Quill, fully booked Saturday nights were an etching by Thomas Hobbes, a perception reinforced this evening because of the costumed Chamber members. But given the Rableiasian noise level and rate of consumption in the dining room, the First Hemlock Savings and Loan guys were undoubtedly pleased as Punch.
There was no accounting for taste.
A place had been set for her at the Chamber table and she sat down between Elmer Henry and Howie Murchison. Mavis was four chairs away. Keith Baumer had invited himself to the dinner and had squeezed himself next to her. His right hand was under the table, his left busy shoveling bites of Potatoes Duchesse into Mavis’ open mouth. Mavis squealed at periodic intervals; Dookie Shuttleworth, eyes fixed on his plate, frowned disapprovingly on her opposite side. Directly across from Dookie, Marge and Betty slurped Zinfandel with abandon.
“Meg’s surpassed herself with this lamb,” said Howie to Quill, his tricorne tilted rakishly over one eye. “What’s in it?”
Peter Williams set a plate of lamb in front of her. Quill unwrapped the tinfoil encasing the chops.
“It’s coat dew agnes ox herbs!” said Keith Baumer loudly. Mavis and Marge shrieked with laughter. He waved the hand-written menu card at Quill and grinned sweatily. “Says so right here, Howie. But - oh!” He pulled a face of mock horror. “See Quill’s face? Is it my French, Quill? Tell her how good my French is, Mavis.”
“You bad boy!” Mavis shrieked, whacking him energetically with the menu.
Quill ate her lamb absent-mindedly, trying to figure out a way to get Mavis alone. An after-dinner brandy in the Lounge was clearly a bad idea - she was three sheets to the wind, if not four. Maybe Mrs. Hallenbeck could help. Quill glanced across the table. The widow was listening with glazed attention to Norm Pasquale, who was able, without any encouragement at all, to recite the entire high-school-band program-listings for the past twenty years. ” … clarinets in ‘Mellow Yellow’ ” Quill heard him say. He was up to 1976.
“Lemon?” said Howie in her ear.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said you don’t want to eat your lemon, and you were about to.” He took her fork, dumped the lemon slice on his plate, and placed the fork back in her hand, “No, You’re right, I don’t, Howie, could you do something for me?”
He peered at her over his wire-rimmed glasses, “You do want that stuff from the drugstore… .”
“I want him” - she pointed to Baumer - “out of the way so I can talk to Mavis.”
“I suppose I could take him into the Lounge for an after-dinner brandy.”
“What a good idea,” she said cordially. “It’ll be on the house. As a matter of fact, why don’t you give him several?”
Howie looked at Baumer doubtfully, “He’s had quite a bit already.”
“He’s not going to drive anywhere, so I don’t care if Nate has to carry him upstairs feet first.. Drink,” she said recklessly, ”as much as you want, as long as you keep him occupied.”
Quill stood up, tapped her water glass, and thanked the Chamber for its continued support of the Inn over the years. This was met with warm applause, She expressed her conviction that Sunday’s presentation of The Trial of Goody Martin would be the best yet, This was met with enthusiastic shouts. She invited the members to have brandy and crème caramel on the house in the Lounge, which was met with more cheers, except for Marge, who rolled her eyes and yelled, “milk puddin’ !” to no discernible purpose, Esther leaned across Elmer Henry and interpreted helpfully, “She wants to hold the meetings at the diner next year, She says these foreign puddings make Americans sick, She says…”
“Thanks, Esther. I get the picture.”
In the general scraping of chairs, Quill edged around the table and grabbed Mavis by the arm. “I’m going to the ladies’ room before I go to the Lounge, Want to come with me?”
“Why, sure, sugar,” Mavis moved like a rudderless boat, amiably correcting course as Quill guided her to the main-floor bathrooms. Inside, she peered blearily at herself in the mirror, “Shee-it, Would you look at this hair?” She patted the stiffly lacquered waves delicately. Quill, confronted with a real live opportunity for detection, wondered wildly where to start. What would Myles do? Ask to see some identification, probably, which was no help at all, since she doubted that much would be gained by asking to see Mavis’ driver’s license. Besides, she already knew Mavis.
Or did she?
“Mrs. Hallenbeck seems a little… difficult… at times. I really admire the way you handle her. Have you known her long?”
Mavis stretched her lower lip with her little finger and applied a layer of lipstick. “Long enough.”
Well, that answer was loaded with information. Quill took a moment to regroup. “I was absolutely fascinated to learn that you and Marge are old friends,” Quill tried again. “Have you visited her in Hemlock Falls before this trip?”
“That ol’ girl don’ like you too much,” said Mavis. “Why you want to know that?”
“John Raintree mentioned that he’d seen you before… I think,” Quill said hastily. “I may have misunderstood.”
“That Indian fella? You know what we say down South?” From the sly look in Mavis’ eye, Quill didn’t think she wanted to know what they said down South.
“Indians’re worse liars than niggers.” Quill drew a deep breath. Doreen pushed the swinging door to the bathroom open, stuck her head in, and said brusquely, “You’re needed, Miss Quill.”
Mavis dropped her lipstick into her evening bag and closed it with a snap. “I better be gettin’ back to that party.” She grabbed Quill with a giggle. “Think I’m gonna get lucky tonight. That ol’ boy Keith may be baldin’ on top, but there’s fire in that oven, or I’m Mary Poppins.” Her grip tightened and her eyes narrowed. “So I’ll be in the Lounge for a while, if you want to have a little more innocent girl talk.” Her long fingernails dug painfully into Quill’s wrist. “After that, I’ll have a sign out-readin’ ‘Do Not Disturb.’ ” She released Quill’s wrist. Bosom outthrust, she sailed out the door.
“Huh!” sniffed Doreen, skipping aside as the door swung closed. “That’s one of them wimmen that needs her devils cast out for sure.”
“What women?”
Doreen dug into her capacious apron pocket and thrust a fistful of pamphlets at Quill. THE LORD DESPISES THE SINNER WITH LUST IN HIS HEART! the first one thundered in scarlet ink. HE SHALL CAST OUT THE DEMON OF UNRIGHTEOUSNESS screamed the next. And third, YE SHALL EXERCISE THE DEVlLS OF HOT DESIRE. The line art featured large men with beards shaking impressively large forefingers at big-breasted women.
Lightning featured prominently in the background. “Oh, my,” said Quill.
“We exercised a right number of devils at the meetings in Boca Raton,” Doreen said in satisfaction. “Bit noisy, but those devils skedaddled out of the sinners like you wouldn’t believe.”
“It’s exorcise, Doreen, not exercise.”
“We got right sweaty doin’ it,” said Doreen indignantly. “I mean to show these to the Reverend Shuttleworth. He ain’t got e
nough fizz in his preaching. I’ll bet the Reverend would fill the pews right up if he had a bit of exercising in his sermons. Stop puttin’ people to sleep. There’s this 1-800 number he can call any time of the day or night to get the lowdown on this stuff.” Quill opened her mouth to lodge a protest, and Doreen swerved into an abrupt change of topic. “You’re wanted at the reception. What’re you standing around here for?”
Quill gave up. “What’s the problem?”
“Somebody’s here to check in.”
“I think we’re full.”
“Hey, do I run this joint or do you?”
A strong impression of smug hilarity hung around Doreen. Quill’s misgivings strengthened to dismay when she arrived at the reception desk, Doreen at her heels. The woman who stood at the front desk was both sophisticated and annoyed, a combination that guaranteed trouble. Dressed in a short tight skirt, platform shoes, and a well-cut jacket, she had the smooth, expensive hair and skin that meant money with access to Manhattan.
“Are you the manager here?” she said crossly.
Quill cocked an eyebrow at Doreen; there’d been a lot of women like this at the gallery when she was painting, and if Doreen thought she’d see her boss discomposed, she had another think coming. “I’m Sarah Quilliam,” she said, extending her hand. “And excuse me for saying so, but that’s the most marvelous jacket I’ve ever seen. It simply screams Donna Karan. Not everyone can wear her as well as you do.”
The fashion plate relaxed a little. “Darling, the cut hides the most awful flaws. She’s easier than you think. Can you help me out here? I’m trying to check in, and this little person behind the desk keeps saying she has to ask the manager. Nobody seems to be able to find the manager, for God’s sake.”
Quill winked comfortingly at the young Cornell student behind the counter. “He’s on an errand for me,” said Quill. “I’m the owner. What can I do for you? I’m afraid we’re booked solid at the moment.”
“But I’ve got a room.” Quill moved behind the front desk to check the bookings. The missing ledger had reappeared as mysteriously as it had gone. “And your name?”
A Taste for Murder Page 11
