A Steak in Murder (Hemlock Falls Mystery Series)

by Claudia Bishop

  Quill noticed the "we" and smiled at him.

  "Do you want to talk about it now?"

  Max veered off to investigate the leg of a park bench. From there, he cocked his head alertly and charged into the stand of old oaks which were the pride of Peterson Park. Quill whistled. Max ignored her, scrabbling frantically at something in the dirt. She watched the dog for a long moment then asked, "What do you think? Do you think I'm avoiding real life by wanting the Inn back?"

  "That depends. On how you handle it this time." He sighed. "You don't have to let everyone in, Quill. You spend a lot of time responding to the guests, the employees, to whomever plants himself in your path. That hasn't changed since you've downsized to the Palate. Instead of using your free time to paint, or spend time with Myles, you joined the Zoning Board, which has given you a whole new set of people and causes to worry about. I agree with Meg that you're neglecting your own life so you can live someone else's. But I don't think your desire to repurchase the Inn has anything to do with that."

  "So you think I'm a cuckoo?"

  John seemed unaware of how icy her voice was. "You mean as in the bird that borrows someone else's nest?"

  "That's what you said, isn't it?"

  "It's not what I said at all. I said that for whatever complicated reasons, you're putting off making decisions about your own life by becoming involved with other people's. Here, let's sit down." He pointed at the bench. Quill sat, her temper ebbing as fast as it had come. He stood in front of her. His gaze was direct, unchallengingly friendly. "What did you like least about running the Inn?"

  "Worrying," she replied promptly.

  John waited a bit. Then he said, "About the food?"

  "Meg took care of that."

  "About the rooms?"

  "Doreen took care of that. And you generally booked the guests, and Mike took care of the gardens—and, come to think of it, what was I worrying about?"

  She needed to move. She got up, walked around the bench, and sat down again. Max cocked his head in a puzzled way. "Well, I worried about money when we didn't have any."

  "That was a legitimate concern."

  "I told you on the phone what Marge was doing. Charging a booking fee. Why didn't we think of charging a booking fee?" She held her hand up and said hastily, "That may sound as if I think you did a bad job. You know I don't mean it that way."

  "It must have crossed your mind that if Marge thought of it, I could have." He smiled and sat down beside her. "Marge's tactics work very well in an economy like this. You'll remember that we hit bottom when the economic cycle was down. It's likely to turn down again, that's just in the nature of things."

  "So you're saying Marge will go broke, too?"

  "I'm not sure what Marge is up to. She had enough resources to pay off the debt. That's cut her carrying costs a lot. But Marge isn't about to lose the money she took from other funds on the Inn. I'd bet my last dollar on that."

  "Then what's going on?"

  "I have an idea. I'm going to make some phone calls. But let me ask you this. Are you absolutely sure you want the Inn back?"

  "I'm sure. Doreen's sure. Meg will agree if . . ." She hesitated.

  "If she's sure that it's not going to overwhelm you. You've got to be sure it's not going to overwhelm you."

  She'd asked him here for his advice. She hadn't asked him here to see if he would take his old job back. She wouldn't ask him now. He hadn't brought up Myles. And if she did, she knew him. He'd talk with her calmly, objectively, as he always had. Her friend when she needed him most, he would always back off when she needed the room.

  She couldn't ask him now. Not until she knew, herself, what she really wanted to say. The pad-pad-pad of rhythmically running feet jerked her from her absorption. "Here's Andy," she said unnecessarily. Max shot out of the brush under the oak trees and raced toward the sound, head up, tail wagging happily. Quill dashed forward and grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck. He liked Andy, but he liked chasing joggers more. She took her fingers away from his ruff and frowned. "SIT, Max!" she said in a ferocious tone. "Leave Andy alone!" There was sticky stuff all over her fingers. Another dead raccoon. Ugh. She knelt to clean her fingers on the grass.

  Andy Bishop bent forward and rumpled Max's ears. "Are you out recapturing him?"

  "No, he's legal; this time," Quill said absently. "Yuck. This darn dog gets into more messes."

  Andy shook hands with John, slapped him on the back, and said, "Good to see you again." Andy was of medium height, with the well-muscled but lithe build Quill always associated with tennis players. His reserve balanced Meg's volatile nature, and although she'd never tell her sister this, he was very like her young first husband, who had died in a tractor-trailer pileup on an icy night in November ten years ago. "Sorry about last night," he said. He jogged in place. "Meg was pretty upset."

  "I don't know why she should be," Quill said a little tartly. "Bodies seem to follow us around everywhere we go."

  "Speaking of the . . . er . . . body," John said. "What's your take on Rossiter's death?"

  "His wife's coming up from Dallas this afternoon," Andy said. "So I'm assuming I'll be able to get more of a medical history. His cattle manager Brady worked for Royal for almost twenty years. Says he's never known him to be sick a day in his life, but then, Royal may not have mentioned any heart problems to Brady. Some middle-aged guys can be in denial about illness. But it looks like a massive coronary occlusion to me, and I've seen a few. What is that smell, Quill?"

  "Max got into something under the trees. He knocked me into a dead raccoon the other day. Why is it that dogs have a thing for carrion?"

  Andy inhaled sharply. The breeze was from the west and came from the trees. There was a sweetish odor of decay. "Wait here a minute, Quill," he said. "Hang on to that damn dog. John, can you come with me?"

  Quill watched the two men jog to the oaks. From the sudden stillness in the set of John's shoulders, the intent curve of Andy's back as he bent over the ground, she knew it wasn't a raccoon, that it was much, much larger than a dead raccoon.

  "Right." Trooper Harris rolled his tongue behind his lower lip, increasing his resemblance to a gorilla. "How long you say the body's been here, Doc?"

  Andy pulled the plastic gloves off his hands with a snap. The forensics team was back, cameras flashing strobelike in the shadows under the oak trees. Quill stood back a little. Max roamed the path to the far side of the statue. A crowd of people stood behind the yellow police tape Trooper Harris had used to cordon off the area: the breakfast crowd from the Croh Bar.

  "Forensics is not my specialty, Harris." Andy adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "Three or four days, at a guess. Decomposition wasn't much advanced. I would suspect that the wounds on the neck are the result of insect activity; I also suspect that he died of that stab wound to the chest. But these are guesses, Trooper. Not facts."

  Harris spat on the ground. "We got any idea who this fellow is?"

  "I don't think he's from around here," Quill said hesitantly. "The Texans might know."

  Harris swung around and glared at her. "And why is that?"

  "He . . . it . . . the body was in snakeskin boots and jeans, and a Stetson was found a few feet away. No one in Hemlock Falls dresses like that."

  "Had quite a tan on his face and neck," Andy offered. "And from the shape of the femurs I'd say the man was a horseman."

  "Bunch of them staying up to the Inn," Harris said. "Burton?"

  The trooper with the crew cut who had leaped to Harris's demands the night before stepped forward. "Yessir."

  "Go on up to that big stone inn on the hill, the one with a big plaster cow in front. Get what's her name— Marge Schmidt down here."

  "That's Marge now," Quill said in some surprise. "In that Izuzu Jeep thing."

  Marge's tangerine-colored Jeep bounced down the road winding from the park and came to an abrupt halt. She flung herself out of the vehicle and came stamping across the grass. Her lower lip jutted out.
Her forehead was wrinkled in a fierce scowl. Her lantern jaw was set. "Not here," she roared at the sight of Trooper Harris. "Up at my place. Where'n the heck is that Dave Kiddermeister when you need him?! I didn't call the flippin' staties, anyhow, I called the flippin' sheriff!"

  "Sheriff Kiddermeister is away at traffic school," Trooper Harris said. "I told you that last night. And your flippin' call can wait, Miss flippin' Marge Schmidt. We'll get to it when we've taken care of this business, understand?"

  "What business?" Marge's expression was no less truculent as she took in the ambulance, the evidence bags, the yellow DO NOT PASS POLICE tape surrounding the oak tree. "What the hell. Not another body, Quill. What'd you, poison this one, too?"

  Trooper Harris surveyed Quill like a lizard considering a bee. He blinked once, slowly. "We don't know that yet," he said slowly, "No, we don't know that yet."

  "Who is it?" Marge asked.

  "We were hoping you could take a look and tell us," Harris said. Quill wondered if he practiced sounding reptilian when he was shaving. She could just see him, like Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver: You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? "Some guy about sixty, Bishop says. Farmer's tan on him . . ."

  Marge's cheeks paled. "Not—not anyone I know? Not Harland Peterson?"

  "It's not Harland," Quill said quickly. "My goodness, Marge, he's right over there with the mayor and the rest of the breakfast clubbers. Harland!" She waved. "Harland!"

  Harland ducked under the tape and walked awkwardly across the grass toward them. "Marge thought it might be you!" Quill greeted him.

  Marge gave her a malevolent glance.

  "So was you worried?" Harland asked in a low, pleased voice.

  "Yeh," Marge said shortly. Harland's hand crept out, grappled hers briefly, then withdrew.

  "I've got a body to identify here!" Harris said loudly. "You going to take a look?"

  "You watch your mouth, young fella," Harland growled. "Stay here^ Margie. That's not something you want to see, I expect."

  "Oh, I dunno," Marge said. "Might as well take a look. As long as you're comin' with."

  "I'm comin' with."

  The whole party moved to the trees. Quill came along unwillingly; she didn't want to look at the body again, but she did need to know who it was.

  The med tech looked at Andy, who gave a short nod. "Just the face," he said. The tech zipped the body open down to the neck. Quill took a deep breath and looked at her feet. "Huh," Marge said in a speculative tone.

  "You okay, Margie?" Harland asked in a low voice.

  "Hell, yeh. I mean, as long as you're here."

  "Will you cut the crap!" Trooper Harris exploded.

  "Pull that zip down a little bit more, Calvin," Marge said to the tech. "Yeh. Lookit that. See that belt buckle?"

  Quill peeked. The silver buckle was huge, four by five inches at least, and heavily inscribed.

  "That's a championship rodeo buckle." She leaned forward, seemingly indifferent to the odor. "Southwest Texas Bull Riding, 1998."

  "So you know who this is?" Harris demanded.

  Marge narrowed her eyes at Harris. Since they were little and beady anyway, this added a malicious sparkle to her complacent tone. "Says so right on the belt buckle, Trooper. That's Candy Detwiler, the colonel's cattleman. Now that I've done your job for ya, you wanna do your job for me? Seein' that I'm a taxpayer in this county? Those damn vegetarians are all over my place up there, carrying signs and hooting and hollering fit to bust. I want those bums outta my rose garden, and I want them out now."

  "Two bodies," Quill said to Myles. "This isn't looking good." She adjusted the phone against her ear. She was sitting up in bed. Max snored in the corner of the room. The lace curtains at the open windows fluttered in the nighttime breeze. Charles Sheffield's Aftermath lay open on her knee. She'd found the story of a postholocaust earth oddly soothing after the events of the day. "And how's your day been going?"

  Myles's deep voice was amused. "Just fine. Surveillance is a pretty tedious job, but I'm hoping things will break tonight or tomorrow."

  "So you won't be back for a while?"

  "Not for another week, at least. Are you holding up all right?" His tone was tender. "I miss you."

  "I miss you, too. I'm holding up fine. But this Harris, Myles. What a jerk." Quill found her indignation returning. "He herded those poor vegetarians off in a county sheriff's bus. I talked to Howie Murchison about it. He said they have a right to protest if they want. And I told you about the scuffle."

  "You told me about the scuffle."

  "Vegetarians are peaceful, nonviolent. I mean, their whole lives are dedicated to everyone living together in a nonaggressive way. That wispy bearded guy—Normal Norman I think his name is—had this whole belt of implements just for freeing caged animals, he said. Pliers, wire clippers, knives, that sort of thing. And he told Harris that's what the tools were for, and Harris had two of his goons put Norman in a headlock . . ." Max woke up and barked. Quill made a conscious effort to lower her voice. "Anyway, I'm surprised there wasn't any bloodshed. So can you check out this guy Harris? He's scary, Myles. I'm afraid something's going to happen."

  "Such as?"

  "I don't know. Someone getting hurt. Harris is convinced these two deaths are related, why I don't know, because Andy told him poor Royal died of a heart attack."

  "What does Rossiter's medical history say?"

  "You mean did he have a history of heart trouble? I don't know. Mrs. Rossiter was supposed to be here this afternoon, but her plane was diverted and she got in late. She's staying up at the Inn. I think I'll mosey on up there tomorrow morning, as the Texans say, and see what's going on."

  "Quill."

  "Don't 'Quill' me," she said crossly. "All poor Meg needs is another suspicious death. And things were going so well, Myles. John says the Palate is showing enough of a growth curve to command a pretty good price from an outside buyer. And if I get a good price for the Palate, I may be able to afford to buy the Inn back. I will NOT let some bozo of a hotshot state trooper screw things up because he wants to make a name for himself."

  Silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "You're sure about that?"

  "Why does everyone ask me that? Of course I'm sure!"

  "Easy, easy. I was just asking."

  "I'm not a horse, Myles."

  "Why do you think you're a horse?"

  "Don't say 'easy, easy' like that."

  "This conversation is getting ridiculous," he growled.

  "Sorry," she said after a moment. "So. Do you think your guys can check out these names for me? Both of the men who died."

  "I'll put someone on it. But I doubt anything will turn up."

  "I know Harris is checking them out," she said mutinously, "and I want to know what he knows."

  "Just a moment." Myles put his hand over the receiver, and she listened to the cupped quiet. He came back on suddenly. "I'm needed. I'll call you." And was gone.

  Wide awake, a little cranky, Quill put the phone back on the nightstand and got out of bed. She needed something to eat. Meg had bounced off again, and wouldn't be back from New York until tomorrow afternoon, which meant there wouldn't be anything good in the refrigerator. Bjarne was very economical (another reason for the financial success of the Palate; Meg was prone to throw out any produce that was over a day old, and make more than was needed for the week's bookings) and there was usually nothing left in the coolers from the evening trade. She went downstairs to the kitchen in her bare feet, Max clicking along behind.

  No desserts. A bowl of dough, chilling for tomorrow's muffins. Strawberries and cantaloupe, clearly portioned for tomorrow's breakfast customers. Unopened cartons of Devonshire cream. Quill thought about it. If she took one strawberry from each parcel, slit open the cream container and repasted it, Bjarne might not notice he was shorting his customers. She pulled out a colander and gathered half a dozen strawberries to rinse under the faucet. She jumped a foot when John came into the room.

/>   "Now, that looks great."

  Quill smiled at him. He was wearing pajama bottoms, a dark blue robe, and his hair was tousled from sleep. She went back to the fridge and gathered a second set of strawberries, some from each serving.

  "What are you doing?" He was curious, not challenging. John, she realized suddenly, was never anything but kind.

  "You never intrude, you know that?"

  One black eyebrow rose.

  "Meg would want to know what I was doing so she could argue about it. Bjarne would want to know what I was doing so he could give me a lecture about the food budget. Doreen would want to know what I—"

  "I get the picture." He sat down at the prep table and yawned. "With all due respect to Bjarne's management style, I think you should take as many strawberries as you want."

  "I don't know, John. He's been very firm about raiding the refrigerator."

  He held up one coppery finger. "One—he can buy more from Peterson's farm market before we open. And two—" he leaned forward and whispered, "it's your restaurant."

  "Oh. It is, isn't it." Recklessly, she grabbed two bowls of the fruit and an entire container of Devonshire cream. "This is definitely one of the great all-time midnight snacks."

  They ate at the prep table, perched on the stools, a comfortable silence between them. Quill scooped up a last bit of cream, then said, "So who do you think killed Candy Detwiler?"

  "I haven't the least idea."

  "It had to have been an outsider. I mean, no one who lives here even knew him."

  "Didn't they?"

  "Colonel Calhoun said Detwiler hadn't been north of Texas since he was in the Army forty years ago. There's just no connection that I can see."

  "There's the cattle."

  "True. But all the cattlemen are from Texas, as well. And one of them is dead, too. John, do you think that Royal Rossiter's death is connected to this?"

  "There have been stranger coincidences, Quill."

  "Does that mean yes or no?"

  "It means that I haven't a clue. We really don't have enough facts." He got up and took his bowl to the sink. "What we might do is some discreet information gathering tomorrow, if the cows are the connection, then perhaps we should find out all we can about the cows. Didn't you say that Laura Crest had quite a bit of information on them?"