Quill watched Lila Fairbanks wind her way through the clustered vehicles across the parking lot to the awning tent. She was wearing one of an apparently endless supply of white gauze dresses, this one trimmed with rose-colored ribbons. Lyle, as usual, hovered beside her, carrying a matching parasol to shield her from the bright August sun. She couldn’t believe that this small, feminine woman with the sweet face could have made killer jelly on purpose. She said as much to Georgia.
“Myles wouldn’t like it, if he knew you told me.” Today’s caftan was bright pink, with blue and green embroidered trim at the neckline. Georgia looked tired and strained despite the cheerful colors. “It must have been an accident,” she said stubbornly. “I remember that Lila went through a real Martha Stewart period, canning, drying flowers, baking bread from scratch. It drove her housekeeper wild. She’s vague and a little silly, Quill, but she’s no more a murderer than 1 am.”
“And she never said a word about knowing the Conways from before?”
“The rich travel in small, tight circles, Quill. I went into a real moult after Doug died—I wasn’t much of a party goer in the first place. You know me, give me a good book, a plate of Meg’s food, and a nice lounge chair, and I’m set for life. But it doesn’t surprise me that the Fairbanks drifted in and out of café society. There’s a handful of the really rich who all know each other—and Lyle’s one of them.”
“I guess I won’t.” Quill maneuvered the Olds onto the grass verge and turned the ignition off.
“Won’t what?”
“Park behind Hedrick. I’m going to find him and ask a lot of seemingly artless questions about his stepfather’s death.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Georgia’s forehead creased with worry. “It might be dangerous.”
“Pooh! as Meg would say. How dangerous can he get in this crowd?”
“Well, I’m going to stick with you like glue. I don’t want your body found in the river with a neat little bash in the temple.”
“In that outfit I think you should stick to Marco De-Marco,” said Quill with a grin. “You’re sure that on the day Louisa was murdered, neither Lyle nor Lila wandered off in the direction of the septic system?”
“Positive. Jerzey can confirm it. As a matter of fact, so can Axminster Stoker and Mr. Sakura. We wandered around in a group the whole time, gawking at the construction and getting in the way of the work crew.”
“And DeMarco wasn’t even there. He was in San Francisco. You know what I think?”
“What?” They began to stroll toward the awning tent. Outside, the Hemlock Falls High School Marching Band swung into a spirited, if flawed, version of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”
“We should just enjoy the afternoon. Forget all this.”
“Georgia, we’re close to a solution here. Suppose the Fairbanks are killing off Conways as revenge for Mr. Conway’s murder? If I can find Hedrick and get him to explain a few things, we might nail them.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, who knew of Carlyle’s little party trick?”
“The Fairbanks, probably.”
“And why did he refuse to let anyone here know he’d known the Fairbanks before? It’s very suspicious, don’t you think? If I’d been a fragile little person like Lila Fairbanks, you can bet your bottom dollar I wouldn’t acknowledge the man who had substituted poisoned jelly for the good stuff and tried to get me implicated in a murder, either. And if Hedrick is guilty of that first murder, it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to acknowledge them, either. So, when I find ‘this reporter,’ I’m going to ask him the sixty-four-thousand dollar question: Since he murdered Mr. Conway, ·why the heck doesn’t he admit it?”
Georgia threw back her head and laughed, then looked at Quill with great affection. “Just don’t,” she warned, “see the little blighter alone. What does Myles think of all this?”
“He said to stay out of it. To stay away from the Fairbanks and from Hedrick and let him wrap up the case. There’s something,” Quill said in frustration, “that I’ve missed. He told me Hedrick was dangerous. But if Hedrick did it—Where’s the motive? He doesn’t have any money. There’s something I’ve missed. Some vital clue.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait until the Jell-O contest is over.” The Sousa march came to a crashing conclusion. “And what the devil is that noise?”
“ ‘The Stars and Stripes.’ Sousa. The piccolo’s got the flu.” Quill heard Elmer’s amplified voice testing the sound system from inside the tent. “It’s just on two o’clock. Hedrick’s probably in there getting pictures for the loathsome rag. Will you help me find him?”
Georgia gave a gusty sigh. “Okay. But ‘don’t go into the basement.’ Promise?”
“Promise.”
Despite the fact that the tent was open on four sides to the afternoon breeze, the crush of people made the interior stifling. Georgia took the lead, and the crowds parted before her pink caftan like tuna before a trawler. Quill scanned the crowd, waved to Marge Schmidt and Betty Hall, smiled at Chris Croh, and smiled again at Monica Peterson, architect of a Jell-O building Quill had been unable to identify the day before. Monica semaphored urgently. Quill smiled vaguely and tried the Dodge, a trick she’d observed Helena Houndswood use when greeting the legions of fans (six, including Esther West’s poodle) that had greeted her on Main Street the week of her ill-fated visit to Hemlock Falls the year before. Basically, the Dodge consisted of a broad grin, eye-contact just above the petitioner’s forehead, and a graceful turn-and-wave maneuver Quill had much admired.
“Didn’t you see me?” Monica demanded, planting herself directly under Quill’s chin.
“Monica! Isn’t this wonderful!”
“Mrs. Henry wants you,” said Monica despairingly. “She’s been wondering where you are. She’s a little upset that you haven’t judged anything yet.”
“Urn,” said Quill. Georgia, who’d successfully made her way to the small stage set up at the front of the tent, was looking over the heads of the crowd for Quill. Quill raised herself on tiptoe and waved energetically. Georgia caught her eye and mouthed “no Hedrick.”
“Quill?”
“I didn’t exactly agree to judge the Jell-O Architecture Contest, Monica. I mean, I’m sure there are a lot of people more qualified than I to decide who built the best building.” She had an inspiration. “What about Mr. DeMarco? He’s in construction.”
“Mrs. Henry says the buildings are art. And you’re an artist. Could you come over pretty quick, please?” She craned her neck up and whispered in Quill’s ear. “Esther’s not speaking to her. Miriam’s so mad she’s sitting on a chair reading a book, because Adela disqualified her entry—it was an homage to Agatha Christie, with the cutest little train out of Knox Blox—because her fixative is Super Glue and you can’t eat Super Glue. And even Mrs. Shuttleworth is getting a little cranky. She said, ‘Oh, God! Adela,’ in this cross way, twice. It’s terrible!!”
Quill resisted the temptation to pat Monica on the head and say “there-there.” Instead she said confidingly “I’ll tell you what the trouble is, Monica. It’s that I can’t be objective about this contest, knowing everybody that I do. And a judge has to be objective. What about Howie Murchison? He’s town justice. And Doreen told me this morning that everyone’s mad at him anyway because of... never mind. Forget I said that.”
“Mr. Murchison said he’d rather shave a bear’s behind with a buzzsaw than judge.” Monica’s eyes sparkled with tears. “Mrs. Henry is just going to be so mad! It’ll wreck everything.”
“What we need,” muttered Quill, “is an objective panel of judges. Wait here.”
She found Elmer frowning over a sheaf of much-folded paper. “Quill, d’ya’ll think I should greet the second secretary to our Congressman before I present the Assemblymen? Or should I present the Assemblywoman before the second secretary? This-here protocol’s tough.”
“The Assemblyman and -woman first,” s
aid Quill. “They’re the elected officials. Elmer, may I make an announcement?”
“What kind of an announcement?” A look of what Quill could only call terror crossed his face. “Not the results of the Jell-O Architecture Contest? You didn’t give the blue ribbon to Esther or anything, did you? I’m telling you, Quill, it’s a terrible bidness to have the wife involved in something as important as this.”
“No,” soothed Quill, “and I’m not going to. Judge, I mean. I want to ask the Kipling Condensation Society and Mr. Sakura to judge the contest.”
“Hah? You mean outsiders?”
“Elmer! What better way to handle it? They’ll all be gone in a week!”
“I get your drift, Quill, I get your drift. It’s an excellent plan!” He looked a little wistful. “You think maybe I could announce it? Lot of the folks around here are kinda mad on account of what happened with the mini-mall. But Howie said—”
“Later, Elmer. I think it’d be terrific if you got up, welcomed everybody, in a general sort of way you understand, not”—she eyed the dozen or so handwritten sheets in his hands—”the whole speech, but just that you’d like to ask our out-of-towners, the Kipling Condensation Society, and Mr. Sakura Toshiro, the famous former managing director of Sakura Industries, to contribute to the day’s festivities by judging the contest. Oh! And be sure to read a copy of Adela’s Rules and Regulations, so they know what they’re judging for.”
“Got it.” He squeezed her arm in fervent gratitude. “I owe you one, Quill. You’re a true pal.”
In subsequent years, when the Jell-O Battles had passed into town history, and the pros and cons were discussed with the cooler attitudes that the mere passage of time brings, the citizens of Hemlock Falls were unanimous in one thing: Elmer Henry started it. This was unfortunate, and may have had something to do with the closeness of the race for mayor fought the following year (Henry versus Henry) because, as no one but Quill and the mayor knew, it was really all her fault.
“Terlits,” said Doreen in Quill’s ear, while she watched Elmer ascend to the podium.
“Doreen! I’m glad you finally got here. Did you come by yourself?”
“I tolt you that there Stoker was follering me,” said Doreen obscurely. “But the terlits is backed up.”
“At the Inn? Again? Darn it! Is Petey Peterson here? I know he was scheduled to drive in the Monster Truck Ralley. Maybe you can persuade him to go back and pump the septic out.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Elmer’s voice boomed, faded, and then came back at a tolerable volume. “I have an announcement to make. Please do not use, I repeat, do not use, the toilets. We have a tempr’y back up in the system ... what?” He turned and bent down to Marco De-Marco, who was, Quill was pleased to see, standing next to Georgia. They already looked like a long-married couple. “Mr. DeMarco here, is having PortaPotties come in, but it’ll take about a half hour. In the meantime please, ah, use the woods. Thank you. Thank you.”
“Terlits,” said Doreen again. “What I want to know is, how come? All of a sudden we’re having all this trouble with terlits, when we never did before.”
“Probably something stuck in the system,” said Quill, knowledgeable after her septic system lecture from Eugene. She rubbed her forehead. There was something Eugene had told her about the system ...
“Quiet, please!” said the mayor. “I would like to welcome you all to the Opening Day Ceremonies of this fine mini-mall... what? Oh, Howie says it’s more like a de minimus mall, ‘cause it looks like we’ve agreed to accept Mr. Sakra’s offer. Anyhow, I’d like to ask some of our out-of-town guests to he’p us here, with an effort the ladies of this town have made to memorialize some of our greatest memorials.”
The Kiplings, Quill discovered, were more bewildered than flattered, but in the true Victorian spirit, up to the challenge. Mr. Sakura (followed by the inevitable Motoyama) with many bows and nods, joined them as they solemnly marched up and down the display table to judge the Jell-O contest. Each of the ladies stood more or less proudly beside her creation, except for Miriam Doncaster, who rather elaborately ignored the whole thing and continued the charade of reading her book. Somebody had upended a bucket over her train.
Mr. Motoyama, trailing his boss, growled, “Jer-ro.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Henry.
“Jer-o. Jer-o! Jer-rooooh!” howled Mr. Motoyama, with sudden ferocious intent. He snarled. Shook his fist. Dashed out of the tent. In the stunned silence Quill heard a shriek, and clatter, and the ominous sound of a Monster truck being gunned to ear-splitting pitch.
Fortunately, most of the crowd dashed outside, the men, bored, in the hopes that the Monster Truck Rally had started without them, the women, Quill later believed, out of an atavistic survival impulse present in the most obdurate feminist whenever an enraged male is around a large truck.
Motoyama barreled the shiny red truck through the south opening and headed straight for the display table, knocking over the jellies, the baked goods, the soft drink stand, and the flower display on its way. Women screamed. Elmer bellowed. Outside, the several deputies who’d been directing traffic jumped in the black-and-white and turned on the siren. Motoyama, with sporadic cries of “Jer-roooh!” threw the truck in reverse (flattening a tuba that had been left carelessly near the Coke machine) and rammed the display table again. The gears clashed. The motor revved. The truck jumped forward like a bull out of the chute and slammed into the tent pole.
The awning collapsed in billows around the truck. The engine died. Shouts, curses, and imprecations issued from various spots under the fallen tent.
“Jerroooh!” snarled Mr. Motoyama, muffled, but undefeated.
“It was Mrs. Henry’s replica of Mount Fuji,” said Andy, applying a small Band-Aid to a cut above Quill’s brow. “Nearly as we can figure out, he thought it was a sacrilege.”
“Well, it was sacrilegious,” said Meg tartly. “What do you think poor Dookie would have thought of a Jell-O crucifix? It was in lousy taste. I’m just glad nobody was seriously hurt.”
“Has everybody gone home?” Quill got up and wandered around their restaurant. The staff had decorated it with balloons and crêpe paper. The glassware on the cafe tables shone sparkling clear. The menu on the blackboard displayed the opening day specials. A scent of tarragon and crab made the area pleasantly reminiscent of the kitchen at the Inn.
“Almost.” Andy tried, but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Between the toilets malfunctioning and the tent collapse, Myles decided it was better to reschedule the event for next week. I co-opted the Inn van, Quill, to run some of the elderly back to the village. So the Kiplings and Mr. Sakura are outside, waiting to get picked up. Myles sent Mr. Motoyama to the lockup with Deputy Dave.”
The drone-shove of the backhoe in operation in the distance attracted Quill’s attention. “Is the plumbing really messed up? Are we going to be able to open next week?”
“John and Myles are down at the septic tank now.” Andy packed up his black bag and snapped it shut. “Whatever the obstruction was, it didn’t seem to be in the pipes leading to the system. Myles asked DeMarco to take off the top of the tank.”
“Wow!” Meg shook her head. “When I think of what the Horrible Hedrick is going to do with the headlines! You know, if we’d been thinking, we’d have created a plan to get him out of the way today.”
“Somebody already did,” said Myles. He walked through the open door. His uniform was streaked with dirt. “Andy? I’m going to need you down at the septic tank. Looks like he’s been in there at least overnight.”
“Christ.” Andy picked up his back. “What’s your best guess?”
“Hammer blow to the head. Same MO as the first one. Rigor’s set in and gone, but there’s no bloating. I’d say twenty-four hours or less, but you’re the expert. Whoever put him in there must have been in a hurry. The body’s shoved up against the outlet valve and blocked the waste line from the building. Quill? Unless you want to come down to
the pit with us, I’d appreciate it if you’d go back to the Inn.”
Quill watched his eyes. “Myles. It’s not your fault.”
“Dammit, Quill.” He looked at the ground at his feet, then back up at her. She started toward him, then stopped. “I don’t have an excuse. Don’t you understand? After I talked with Matthews in Palm Beach last night, I knew. Instead, I...”
He’d come to her.
“Lila Fairbanks,” said Meg softly. “Golly. And her husband, too, I bet.”
“It fits,” said Quill in an undertone. “They were here yesterday, with the others.”
“Do you have proof, Myles?” asked Andy.
“No. No proof. It’s been a series of clever crimes. But, goddammit, I could have stopped this.”
“How?” asked Quill gently. “You said he’d been in there more than twenty-four hours. When did you talk to Matthews?”
“After dinner. Around eight.”
“Then he was already dead,” said Meg bluntly. “Quill, are you coming?”
“I’ll stay here. I’ll make coffee.”
Myles looked at her. “Has everyone gone? Quill? I don’t want you here alone.”
“I’ll be fine, Myles.”
He made a movement, impatient to be gone.
“Go on, all of you. I’ll be here when you get back. Meg? Can you wait just a second?”
“Sure. I’ll be with you in a minute, Andy.”
“The Kiplings are in the parking lot. I’d better get them and bring them in here until Mike gets back with the van.”
“But the Fairbanks! Quill! You’re not going to feed a murderer!”
“Did you see Myles’s face? He thinks Hedrick died because I distracted him. It’s my fault, Meg. He blames me. If he’d been concentrating on his job instead of what was happening to me, I know he thinks this never would have happened. The Fairbanks don’t know that he’s on to them, but there’s a chance, just a chance, that they’ll try and slip away now that Hedrick’s been found. I’ll just keep them altogether and give them a meal and make sure that Lyle and his wife get back to the Inn with the others.”
A Pinch of Poison Page 24
