“He did tell me to make sure she was comfortable. I got her a glass of water. And a cookie.” Davey slowly erased a line from the bottom half of his notebook and laboriously wrote at the top. “I’ll see her right after your sister and Mr. Lancashire.”
“Would you tell Meg and Mrs. Hallenbeck that I’ll wait for them outside?”
“Yes, ma’am. And you’re not supposed - “
“To tell anyone you belted me with a rubber hose to extract important information.”
Quill walked outside and sat on the steps of the library. Across the green lawn of the park four lines of tourists stood restlessly in the July heat. Myles had assigned uniformed officers to take the names and addresses of members of the audience. Others patrolled the lines, seeing that the elderly had a place to sit in the shade, and taking little kids to the Porta-Johns. Quill figured the interview took about three minutes, minus the demands she’d made of Davey, and did some calculations on her fingers. At eighty people an hour, it’d be several hours before she could ask Myles what the heck was going on.
Meg bounced out the library door. “Edward will be out in a minute,” she said. “I told him we’d wait for him. What do you suppose that clothes stuff was all about?” she continued, coming down the steps to sit at Quill’s side. “I mean, who cares what she was wearing? Does Myles ask people in a car crash if the driver was wearing designer jeans, or what?”
Quill, who had been wondering the same thing herself, let out a gasp.
“Well?” Meg demanded.
“The hood.”
“The hood?”
“The hood. Meg, somebody put the hood on Mavis. She was never supposed to wear the hood. She was supposed to ride on the sledge to the back of the stage, jump off, put the dummy in her place, and stroll on out to watch the rest of the fun and games. But Harland came stomping out complaining that she’d thrown up allover his shoes, and then Harvey said he’d drive the sledge. Mavis could have passed out on the sledge, which would account for the fact that she was there instead of the dummy, but she had no reason to put on the hood.”
“Wow,” said Meg. “Oh, wow. Murder. Oh, my God. Who did it?”
“How should I know?” demanded Quill. She watched the sheriff’s patrol across the green. “All kinds of people had motives to murder Mavis.”
“Who?”
“Who? I’ll tell you who.” Quill, upset, couldn’t think of anyone but John and Tom Peterson. But they had wanted Gil dead, hadn’t they? Or had they? “Celeste Baumer for one.”
“I thought she went back to Manhattan after Myles let her out of jail.”
“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she stayed here, lurking until an opportunity presented itself.”
“Dressed like she was, she’d stick out a mile. Who else?” Meg’s eyebrows shot up. “I know! Mrs. Hallenbeck!”
“Why? She’s out a companion, and I really doubt she’d find it easy to get another one. She’s terrified of being alone. Not to mention the fact,” Quill added sarcastically, “that she’s eighty-three years old and more than likely a grandmother six times over.”
“The Grandmother Murders,” said Meg. “I like it.”
“Now Keith Baumer - there’s a murderer for you.”
“Too obvious,” said Meg. “I mean, he was the one who lifted the heavy stone onto her.”
“Not if he wanted to divert suspicion from himself.” Quill locked her hands around her knees. She could see Myles’s broad shoulders in the distance. “Maybe Mavis was pressuring him to marry her, or something.”
“I wish John would get back,” said Meg, who obviously wanted to avoid a serious discussion as Quill did. “This is a mess. Do you suppose they’ll cancel the rest of History Days?”
“I don’t know.” Quill rubbed her hands over her face. “Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe it was an accident. Mavis was so drunk, she could have put the hood on as a joke or something, and then passed out on the sledge.”
“Myles will take care of it.” Meg sat up and brushed the seat of her jeans briskly. “Let’s walk over and ask him what’s going on.”
“He’ll just tell us to butt out, Meg. He always does.” Quill was seized with a desire to get back to the Inn, and jumped to her feet. “Where’s Edward? He’s been in there quite a while. Did he go in right after you?”
“Yep. I’ll go check.”
“Meg, we’re not supposed to go in there. Davey said…”
“Bosh!” Meg jumped up, disappeared into the building, then reappeared a few moments later with Edward Lancashire. “Mrs. Hallenbeck just went in to see Officer Kiddermeister,” he said in response to Quill’s inquiry.
“You were in there a long time,” said Meg. “Did he ask you the same questions he asked us?”
“I’m sure he did,” Edward said easily.
The door to the library swung open, and Mrs. Hallenbeck felt her way carefully down the steps. Quill went up and took her arm. “Are you feeling all right? This must have been such a shock!”
“This has been quite an experience,” the old lady said. “Most interesting. I warned her that liquor would be the death of her someday - that, and those pills.” She gazed around with satisfaction. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Did Mavis drink much, Mrs. Hallenbeck?” Edward asked.
“A cocktail every evening, without fail. I myself neither smoke nor drink, nor put any drugs in my body,” she said firmly. “I am often complimented on my youthful appearance. It is the result of taking care of myself. Shall we walk to the Inn? I could use a cup of tea.”
“Would you like me to call the van from the Inn, Mrs. Hallenbeck? It’s all uphill.” Quill was worried about her in the heat.
“What a thoughtful child you are, Sarah. You take such good care of me. No. I shall walk. I walk four or five miles a day most of the time. I am frequently complimented on my stamina.”
The four of them set off at a rapid pace, Mrs. Hallenbeck leading the way.
“Had you known Mavis long?” asked Edward of her.
“Oh, yes. She worked for my late husband, you know. Had a title - Human Resources Director or somesuch. Quite a stupid woman, really, when you think about it.”
“Such a terrible way to die,” murmured Quill, half to herself.
“Perhaps the sheriff will find some evidence on the barn door,” suggested Edward.
“I did not so much as pick up a stone, so I clearly am not responsible,” said Mrs. Hallenbeck with immense satisfaction. “But that terrible Baumer person. Someone should put people like that in jail. Imagine being responsible for an accident like that.”
They reached the bottom of the incline to the Inn. Mrs. Hallenbeck looked girlishly up at Edward. “I believe I’ll take this handsome young man’s arm up these little stairs.”
Edward presented his arm with a gallant gesture, and the two sisters fell behind. The words “frequently complimented” floated back to them more than once, and Meg muttered crossly, “I don’t think that woman’s elevator goes all the way to the top, Quill.”
“Meg, she’s eighty-three years old. We can’t imagine what that’s like. All the people that she grew up with, her husband, her friends, are either gone or going. The line between life and death must seem very thin to her, each day more of a struggle to stay on this side and not slip to the next.”
Meg started to hum the portentous strains of “Pomp and Circumstance,” and Quill told her to shut up. “That doesn’t make you think of fat guys with double chins making speeches full of hot air?” said Meg innocently. “It does me.”
“I’d rather think about what to serve the Chamber tonight.”
“Something comforting, but not depressing,” said Meg.
“Pasta in sauce ought to set Marge right up. As long as I don’t have to make it, smell it, or eat it. Frank’ll make it.”
“Pasta in sauce,” said Marge with satisfaction some three hours later. “Finally something I rekonize.”
“Very diplomatic,” said Howie dryly. “Tr
aditional village fare for weddings, anniversaries, and funerals.” He rolled a forkful around in his mouth. “Do I detect fresh basil? The last of the Vidalias?”
“Do I detect bullshit?” asked Marge, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “Or is it Heinz spaghetti sauce, like any sensible person uses.”
“We need to get to the purpose of this meeting,” said Elmer Henry. He rapped the gavel and stood up. Seventeen faces stared back at him. “This emergency meeting of the Hemlock Falls Chamber of Commerce is now in session. Will you lead us in a prayer, Reverend?”
“He’s not here,” said Betty Hall. “He called his own emergency session of the deacons at his church. Said he’ll be right along as soon as it’s over.”
“So Tom Peterson isn’t here either,” said Elmer. “And Myles is off on his investigation. We have enough to vote, Quill?”
“You need a certain portion of the membership,” said Quill hesitantly. “I’m not sure just how many.”
“Two-thirds,” said Howie impatiently. “There’s twenty-four active members.”
There was a pause while everyone figured this out. “We’re two short,” said Esther, which, unknown to Quill, helped enlighten Mark Anthony Jefferson, the vice-president of the Hemlock Falls Savings and Loan, as to Esther’s cash-flow troubles.
“No, we’re one over,” said Marge promptly, which would have surprised Mark Anthony not at all. “So, do we cancel the rest of the History Days or what?”
“If I might say something,” said Harvey Bozzel. He stood up, tucked his hands boyishly in the back pocket of his cotton Dockers, and composed his features into a grave, but not solemn, expression. “We’ve experienced a terrible tragedy here. Just terrible. And we sincerely mourn the passing of this celebrity in our town.”
“Celebrity?” said Betty Hall. “She was a paid companion to that old lady. What’s with the celebrity stuff?”
“She was a professional actress,” Harvey said gently. “She was a dancing hot dog!” said Betty. “I don’t call that being a celebrity.”
“A story… now, Ralph, you can help me on this… that will probably be picked up by the national media.”
“A TV station was here,” admitted Ralph Lorenzo, editor and publisher of the Hemlock Daily News. “But it was just the affiliate from Syracuse.”
“With the proper handling,” said Harvey, “this can be a story of national scope.” He ran one hand through his styled blond hair and asked rhetorically, ” ‘Does an ancient curse haunt the peaceful village of Hemlock Falls? Story tonight at eleven.’ With absolutely no disrespect to the dead, think of the publicity.” He lowered his voice and looked at them earnestly. “Think of the good it can do the businesses of Hemlock Falls. Quill, has anyone decided to shorten their stay with you because of this?”
“I thought it might,” said Quill, “but no. Everyone seems to be ghoulishly interested in what’s happened.”
“No, no, no, no, no. Not ghoulish, Quill. It’s the universal need to validate your own existence. In the midst of death, there is life. This is a well-known phenomenon in advertising.”
“It is, huh?” Harland Peterson banged his fist on the table. “If you’re talking about keeping this play going all week, I say it ain’t right and it ain’t fit, and I’m going to vote against it.”
“I have to agree with Harland,” said Quill. “This is capitalizing on - “
“On an accident that could have happened to anyone of us,” said Harvey. “Quill, if you had decided to go on, it could have been you! Don’t you see? You get on the expressway after a tractor-trailer hits a bus - you drive more carefully. These occurrences, terrible as they are for the victims, can help prevent such things from happening again. Now, if the town were to approve a small advertising budget, I’d be happy to handle the necessary press releases, to interface with the media, perhaps conduct tours of the fatal spot.”
The members responded with vehemence. Marge offered the practical opinion that it’d be good for the diner business, and probably the Croh Bar, too. Howie Murchison drew an analogy between Harvey’s proposal and the behavior of ghouls; Miriam Doncaster offered a precise definition of ghoul and agreed with Howie. Freddie Bellini, the mortician, said death was a decent business and he wasn’t going to sit still for nasty shots from lawyers and librarians. Quill abandoned any pretense at taking notes and wondered if John Raintree had been in a car wreck, and maybe that was why he’d gone missing.
Myles walked into the room and the squabble stopped abruptly. He was still in uniform. The lines around his gray eyes had deepened a little, and his mouth was grim. Quill thought he looked terrific, like Clint Eastwood riding into town to deal out frontier justice to the mob. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.
“We were just discussing the rest of History Days,” said Elmer. “Talking about whether or not to continue with the play. What do you think?”
Myles shrugged. “We’ve found all we’re going to find at the site. Go ahead.”
Quill would have preferred a response more in the heroic mode. A man who looked like Myles should wither the Harvey Bozzels of this world with a phrase or two of devastating pith. A direct blaze of contempt from his steely eyes would do it, too.
“I’m hungry,” said Myles. “Any more of the pasta around?”
Quill handed him her plate. “Take mine.”
“So we have the sheriff’s support,” said Harvey. “I can work up a fee schedule for you right now, and then we can take a quick vote.”
Myles wiped his mouth with Quill’s napkin. “You don’t have my support. I said the site’s not off limits.”
“What’s your opinion, then?” asked Esther. “Harvey said you don’t close the expressway after a car accident, so why should we lose the business from History Days?”
“I don’t have an official opinion. My personal opinion is that we’ve had two deaths in the past forty-eight hours and that’s no cause for celebrations of any kind.”
“We can always tell when it’s not an election year, Sheriff,” said Harvey nastily. “These two accidents could have happened anywhere, at any time… .”
“They weren’t accidents,” said Myles. “Gil Gilmeister and Mavis Collinwood were murdered.” Myles swallowed the last of the pasta and stood up. The silence was profound. “Quill, you’re to notify me if any of the guests here at the Inn check out. Any of you here have planned to take any time away from the Falls, let Davey know first.” He stopped at the door, and looked directly at Quill. “I’m going to need to talk to John Raintree. There’s an APB out on him. Any of you see him, call me.”
“Murdered!” said Miriam Doncaster. “Bullshit,” said Marge. She wiped her forehead with her napkin.
“S’cuse me,” said Ralph Lorenzo, “seems to be a story here.” He jumped up and ran after Myles, almost colliding with Dookie Shuttleworth and Tom Peterson as they came into the conference room.
“Forgive us for being late,” said the Reverend Shuttleworth.
“We had a most important meeting at the church.”
“Sheriff says Gil was murdered, Tom,” said Howie Murchison.
“Gil?” Tom stood uncertainly for a moment. The Reverend Shuttleworth took his arm and put him into a chair.
“Murder,” said Harvey Bozzel. “Can’t see that anybody would want to murder Gil, and if they did, whacking him over the head with that front loader was a piss-poor way to do it.”
“That Mavis Collinwood, too,” said Elmer. “Marge, you were there at the duck pond. What the hell happened?”
“You know what happened,” said Marge sourly. “Sheriff’s full of baloney. Coulda been me, coulda been Mavis sat in that ducking stool. You have some gripe with Gil, Harland? You set that tractor up somehow?”
“That tractor’s been used for thirty years, and it’s got another thirty in it. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that tractor!” Harland roared.
“We must not assign blame,” said Dookie Shuttleworth. “This is just further evidenc
e that there is some devilish device at work here in town. Quill, the deacons and I have decided to hold a prayer breakfast. This distressing news makes it all the more urgent that we do so. Would the dining room at the Inn be available to us tomorrow morning? For perhaps forty people?”
“Of course, Mr. Shuttleworth,” Quill said. “I’ll speak with the kitchen about the menu.”
“The church is not exactly in funds at the moment,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps we could work something out?”
The wail of a siren jerked Quill upright. “That’s the ambulance!” said the mayor. “What the heck? What’s happening to the town now?”
Quill ran into the hall and out to the front lobby. Two paramedics burst in through the door. The woman, a substantially sized brunette Quill had seen in town before, said, “Room two twenty-one, miss?”
“This way,” said Quill. They followed her up the short flight of stairs. Two twenty-one was Baumer’s room. Quill, her heart pounding, rapped on the door as she opened it with her master key. “Mr. Baumer!” she called. “It’s Sarah Quilliam. Are you all right?”
“In here!” Baumer’s voice was whispery, faint. Quill froze with anxiety bordering on outright fear. Some lunatic must be abroad in Hemlock Falls. Maybe Harvey Bozzel was right. The paramedics shoved her unceremoniously out of the way and charged into the bathroom.
Quill sat down on the bed and took several deep breaths. “Was that the ambulance?” Meg stood at the open door. She snapped her fingers nervously, a habit which had irritated Quill since their childhood. “Is Baumer okay?”
“Yes, to the ambulance, and I don’t know about Baumer,” said Quill. “The paramedics are in there with him.” Thumps and mumblings from the bathroom indicated the presence of too many people in too small a space. “Have you seen him tonight?”
“Umyah.”
“What do you mean, ‘umyah’? Was he at dinner?”
The brunette opened the bathroom door. Her partner, a thick-set guy with a mustache, supported Keith Baumer. Baumer’s face was furious. And green. Quill couldn’t decide which condition was uppermost.
A Taste for Murder Page 14
