Murder Well-Done hf-4

by Claudia Bishop

  Quill stepped into the living room. "Excuse me." She kept her voice as well under control as she could, but thought she could hear a nervous quaver. She scowled to cover it.

  The guy in the living room didn't jump. This made Quill uneasy. Any friend of Nora's would have assumed the apartment was empty.

  "Hi. You're Nora's sister, Sarah?" He stuck out his hand. "Joseph Greenwald."

  Well, south of Northern Italy, Quill thought. Very south.

  "Rita at the station thought you might be here." Quill looked at him.

  "Nora told me quite a bit about you two as kids." He grinned. Like a shark. "You don't know who I am?" Quill cleared her throat. "I can't... that is, Nora never mentioned you."

  "No? We've been dating almost a year. But she was pretty goosey about letting anyone know about us. Even you. Her favorite. Sister."

  "Why?"

  His eyelids fluttered. "She thought the single-minded career woman bit would keep the station focused on her performance. Was she as determined to make it big-time when you two were kids?" He shook his head, clicked his tongue against his teeth, and said admiringly, "That Nora. God. She was one focused lady. I miss her, you know? What a shame. What a rotten shame." He took a step toward her. Quill dodged and moved left, out into the living room, toward the front door.

  "Rita said she'd given you the box of Nora's things from the office. If you don't mind, I'd like to take a look. Have you been through it yet? There was a picture of the two of us that I'd like to have, as well." He glanced around the living room. "It's why I came here. To pick it up. She used to keep it on the shelf right here. But it's gone. Was it with her stuff from the office?"

  "I haven't had a chance to go through it." Quill added cleverly, "If you leave me your address, Joseph, I'd be happy to mail it to you."

  "I'll see you at the funeral, won't I? Could I get it from you there?" He frowned at her expression. "You have been making the arrangements, haven't you? The police wouldn't tell me a damn thing. Just told me anyone could walk off the street and claim they'd known her and I had no proof that we'd been dating." His voice sounded bitter. "She was right on her way to being famous, you know. So anyone could take advantage. People are scum. Just like whoever killed her is scum."

  Did Nora have a sister? Suddenly, Quill felt like the worst kind of liar, the most offensive kind of intruder. She was exploiting a tragedy.

  Joseph Greenwald sat down on the couch. He looked sad. He also looked as if he had been there before. "The police must have told you if they have a lead on who did it. They'd let family members know."

  "I haven't really heard anything," Quill said cautiously.

  "You want to sit down? I'll make us some coffee." His expression was wistful. "I haven't been able to talk about her to anyone yet. She didn't want anyone to know about us."

  "Was there a reason she didn't? I mean, other than the fact that she thought it'd be better for the station not to know she had a personal life?"

  "God, I don't know. I teach ninth grade math at the University High School. Nora knew a lot more about the real world than I did."

  "You never went to law school?" Quill asked. "Or banking? You were never interested in banking?"

  "Me? Heck, no. I like kids. I've always liked kids. That was the one area Nora and I never did agree on. I wanted to get married and she - Say, are you sure you wouldn't like me to make you a pot of coffee?"

  "No. Thanks." Quill, feeling more traitorous every minute, was positive that her cheeks were red. "I've got to get back to the, um, hotel."

  "Where're you staying?"

  "The Hyatt," said Quill. There had to be a Hyatt in Syracuse. Every large town in America had a Hyatt.

  "I didn't know we had a Hyatt," said Joseph.

  "Could you give me your phone number?" Quill said desperately. "I'll be sure to call you about the... you know."

  "The funeral. Yeah. You have a piece of paper?"

  Quill drew her Investigations notebook out of her purse and took out a pen.

  "It's a local area code, 315. And it's 624-9123."

  Quill wrote this down. After this was all over, she could call and explain and apologize. He might forgive her. By the next millennium. "I'll let you know as soon as everything's been completed." She shoved the notebook back in her purse, dislodging the computer disks she'd stolen from Nora's desk. She laughed, "Ha-ha!" stuffed them clumsily into the depths of the purse, and held out her hand. "Goodbye, Joe. I'm so sorry."

  "Yeah. Can I drop you off at the Hyatt? It must be new. Of course, you know us teachers. Never pay much attention to anything outside of test scores."

  "It's really more toward Rochester." She shook his hand. "We'll keep in touch."

  She clattered down the stairs, her purse banging against the wall, warm with embarrassment. No detective she'd ever read in any of her favorite fiction, from Philip Marlowe to Dave Robicheaux, ever got embarrassed in the middle of an investigation. And they were sensitive guys. She'd have to work at being tougher.

  She pushed outside to the sidewalk. The snow was falling faster now, and the temperature had dropped. She slid on the sidewalk. The OIds' windshield was covered with a thin coat of icy mush. She scraped it free with her bare hand, and removed the flyer some enterprising entrepreneur had stuck under the wipers with a click of irritation. She balled it up and wiped futilely at the glass, then turned and opened the driver's door. She glanced up. Joseph Greenwald stared at her through the living room window. She forced a smile, waved, and caught herself just before she tossed the flyer in the street. "Red-haired, early thirties," Greenwald would tell the cops. "Said she was Nora's sister. No, we've never met. But Nora told me a lot about their life together as kids. And I tell you this, Officer, Nora's sister was no litterer."

  The OIds started, as always, with a cough and reliable roar. Quill buckled herself in and took a right off Westcott onto Argyle, from Argyle to Genesee and from Genesee to the entrance ramp of 81 north without really seeing anything at all.

  She became aware of the intensity of the snow when she almost hit the car in front of her.

  Its taillights flashed. Quill braked automatically, and the Olds skidded on the rutted slush, narrowly missing the car on her left. There was a blare of horns, a shout, and the Toyota next to her swung wide. She swerved into the skid and came to rest against the ramp curb. Behind her, a line of cars slowed, and inched by her stopped vehicle, an occasional hollered curse adding to her misery.

  She pounded the wheel and yelled, "Ugh. Ugh ugh, UGH!"

  It snowed harder as she watched, moving from a veil to a heavy curtain in minutes. She waited until her heart slowed and her breath was even, then inched out into the traffic. She made it to the expressway. The snow was thick, gluey, and treacherous. Her windshield wipers were on full speed, but the snow fell faster than the blades were moving. Quill hunched forward in the classic posture of the snow-blind driver and followed the taillights ahead of her.

  She switched the radio on, punching the buttons until she hit the Traffic Watch.

  "Seven to eight inches expected before nightfall," came the announcer's excited voice. "Most major thoroughfares have been closed to all but emergency traffic. High winds are expected to pick up as a front moves in from Canada. Our travel advisory has become a snow emergency. The sheriff's office has ordered no unnecessary travel, I repeat, no unnecessary travel."

  Why, thought Quill, do these weather guys always sound as though we're about to be bombed by Khaddafi? Half of her anxiety about driving in snow came from the we-who-are-about-to-die-salute-you tone of this guy's voice.

  She drove on, keeping her speed under thirty, and told herself that somewhere on the continent the sun was shining, the roads were dry, and the outside temperature wouldn't kill you if you fell asleep in it. She imagined a map of the United States, with the sun shining everywhere but this little stretch of Interstate 81 north. She pretended that all she had to do was drive a few miles more, and she would break into clear ro
ads and blue skies.

  The line of cars in front of her exited at the off ramp at 53. She looked in the rearview mirror. There were a few sets of headlights in back of her, not many. The snow whirled and spun like a immense bolt of cotton, now obscuring the road altogether, now whipping aside to reveal snow as high as her knees.

  She switched the radio, found Pachelbel's Canon, which she'd come to loathe, then a mournful harpsichord version of Claude-Marie deCourcey's Spring Fate.

  "Oh, humm," Quill sang. "Hummmm hummm." She shivered, despite the fact that the heater was going full blast.

  She checked her watch. Three-thirty. At the rate she was traveling, she wouldn't be home before five. When it would be dark.

  "This is stupid," she said aloud. She'd take the next exit, find a motel, and call Myles, then Meg, and tell them not to worry, she'd be back home in the morning.

  The miles crawled by. On her left, headed south, two exits went by. The next one northbound would be 50. It was on the outskirts of the city, and her chances of finding a motel right off the ramp were not good, but at least she'd be close to the ground, near a gas station or a diner, where there would be light, and the warmth of human beings, and an end to the white that so ruthlessly wrapped the car.

  She checked the rearview mirror. The traffic was gone, the road almost empty but for a pair of headlights traveling at speed in her lane. She slowed again, to under twenty-five, and signaled a move into the far right-hand lane. The headlights moved, too. They were high above the ground, shining eerily above the piled snow, plowing through the drifts like a fish through water. Four-wheel drive, Quill thought glumly. I should have taken the Inn pickup.

  She turned her attention to the road in front. The Olds was lugging a little, the snow was halfway up the hubcaps. Her headlights were almost useless, bumping above the snow as often as they were obscured by drifts.

  High beams flashed in her rearview mirror. She ducked, swerved, and cursed. She regained control and then the Olds jumped forward, like a frightened horse.

  "No," said Quill. The high beams filled the car, drenching the inside with light. Quill slowed to a crawl. The truck behind her was pushing now, its bumper locked into position. Quill leaned on the horn, the noise whipped away on the flying wind, driven on the snow. She blasted the horn once, twice. The headlights behind her dimmed and flared in answer.

  The truck backed off. Quill remembered to breathe. The headlights filled her mirror again, and she peered frantically out the windshield, looking for a place to stop, to let the bastard pass. The truck didn't hit her again, just hung there like a carrion bird, the headlights hovering.

  The world was filled with snow. The dark was coming.

  She looked at her watch. A quarter to five. The exit to 96 had to be coming up next. She searched the side of the road. A green sign crawled by. Two miles. If she could just make it two miles.

  The lights from behind filled her vision.

  She squinted. She drove on. She rubbed her right hand down her thigh, pushing hard against the muscle to calm herself. Her gloved hand brushed the flyer she'd dropped in the seat beside her. "Pizza," she said, just to hear the sound of a voice. "Oh, I wish I had a pepperoni..."

  She smoothed the paper out.

  FREE DELIVERY!

  "Lot of good that'll do me." CALL 624-9123-ANYTIME!

  "624-9123, 624-9123," Quill chanted, fighting a hopeless battle against the choking fear.

  It's a local area code, 315. And it's 624-9123, Joseph Greenwald had said.

  And then, from days ago, Nora Cahill's voice: No offense, but if you tell me you've got your love life socked, too, I'm going to hit you with a stick. / haven't had a date for eight months.

  She got mad.

  "You idiot!" she yelled. "You bonehead! You twink!"

  / could pull over to the side, wait for him to come up to the car, and hit him with... what?

  The tire iron was in the trunk. And she wasn't sure she could use it on flesh and bone no matter how mad and scared and stupid she was.

  HEMLOCK FALLS, 10 mi., the green sign said.

  Quill thought about the exit ramp. At this juncture of 81, the exit ramps were on a gentle upward slope to 96, which ran along a drumlin left by glaciers. So the snow wouldn't be any higher at the exit than it was now - more than likely less, since the wind would blow it downward. And the highway department always started plowing 96 here first, at the boundary of Tompkins County.

  Unless the blizzard was too much for even the plows.

  "Nah," said Quill.

  Then...

  "It's just like the West End at rush hour," she said aloud, to reassure herself. "And you remember the West. End at rush hour. Oh, yes, you do. In your short - and unlamented career as a taxi driver...."

  She gunned the motor. The OIds leaped forward. Thank God, she thought, I never got a lighter car. Thank God...

  She signaled left and instead swerved into the center lane.

  The truck behind her faltered, moved left, and spun briefly out of control. She had time. A little time.

  She could barely see the signposts now, between the dark and the snow and the wind. The tiny mile reflectors flashed white-white-white as she hurtled by, the front-wheel drive giving the heavy car purchase in the drifts, her speed preventing a skid. She'd be all right until she had to make that turn.

  The pickup behind her straightened out, barreled forward, and nudged her bumper with a thud.

  The mile marker for the exit flashed.

  Quill bit her lip, pulled a hard right, spun, drove into the skid, and gunned the accelerator. The OIds fishtailed. Quill let it ride, keeping her hands off the wheel, her foot off the brake.

  She broke through the barrier of snow at the ramp's edge.

  The upward incline slowed the OIds, steadied it. She waited.

  Behind her, the pickup roared and tried to turn to follow. The engine whined. The pickup bounced, the height and weight of the truck throwing it into a spin from which it couldn't recover - and she heard the squeal of the transmission. He'd thrown it into reverse. His engine screamed and died.

  "Fool," Quill said, and slammed her foot on the accelerator again.

  The tires bit into the powdered snow and held.

  She drove up the ramp, the OIds' rear end slamming against the guardrail, now to the left, now to the right. She clenched her hands to keep them from the wheel and braked, gunned, braked, gunned, the car rocking back and forth until she broke through onto 96....

  "And thank you, God!" she shouted. The road was plowed.

  -9-

  Quill had approached the Inn at Hemlock Falls at least two thousand different times over the past seven years, in every season, at practically every time of the day and most of the night.

  It had never looked more welcoming. Warm golden lights shone through the mullioned windows as she drove carefully up the driveway. There was a pine wreath at each window - as they had every year at holiday time - wound round with small white lights. Mauve taffeta bows shot through with gold were wired to the wreaths. Hundreds of the small white lights sparkled in the bare branches of the trees clustered near the Gorge, casting jewel-like twinkles over the snow.

  Mike the groundskeeper had been busy; white snow was piled in neat drifts on either side of the drive. The asphalt was powdered with at least a half an inch. He'd be out again with the plow later, when the snowstorm finally quit.

  The Olds was lugging worse than ever. Quill took the left-hand path to the maintenance building out back in low gear, with a vague idea that this would save the engine. She hit the button for the overhead door opener, then pulled in and stopped. The engine died with a cough.

  "Good girl," she said foolishly, patting the dash.

  She was surprised to discover that her legs were weak. And she had trouble opening the driver's door. She got out, then turned back and opened the rear door to take the red down coat to Myles.

  It was gone.

  "Damn." She punched the light
switch and the garage flooded with light. The coat hadn't fallen to the floor in that hairy ride down 81 and it wasn't under the seat. The box with the contents of Nora Cahill's desk at the office was gone, too.

  "Damn and damn again." She slammed the rear door shut. Joseph Greenwald. She hoped he was up to his eyeteeth in snow. The computer disks from Nora's home office were still in her purse. Quill hoped her quota of luck for the week hadn't run out; she'd made quite a dent in it with Route 96 being plowed at just the right time. If her luck held, those disks would contain Nora's investigative files.