"What?! What are you talking about?! "
"Name then was Henry T. Smith. My friend in Trenton."
Quill's fatigue slowed her up. Once it hit her, she was wide awake. "What? Oh, no, Myles. Not another undercover officer! I can't stand it!"
"What do you mean, not another? There was only one in all the years you've operated the Inn."
"And you never said a word about it until I'd made a complete and utter fool of myself thinking the officer was a suspect in those murders."
"The Hank Smith I knew favored blue jeans, tattoos, and souped up Chevys. Your description of this Thorne Smith didn't fit the Hank I knew." He smiled at a memory. "I had Davy put a man on him today; didn't see him myself until he showed up to help with the search."
"Did he recognize you, too?"
"Didn't see me. Didn't want him to."
"And?"
Myles shrugged. "If he'd discovered the body, I would have had my suspicions. Wouldn't be the first cop to go bad, won't be the last. But he didn't. We got that call from the helpful motorist, instead. So I'm not sure why Hank's here, or what he wants. It could be coincidence, but I don't like coincidence in murder cases. I'll talk to him tomorrow. I want to call Trenton first. For all I know, he went to night school, shed the black leather jacket and the name Hank for good, and went into investment banking."
"But you think we're back to X, Myles."
"I do."
"You never believed the killer is someone we've met."
"Real-life cases don't work like that, Quill."
"You just assume the killer's unknown and that the motive is established after hard evidence has led to an arrest."
"Real police work is like that. Quill."
"What do you mean, 'real' police work? I'd like to remind you that my so-called amateur methods have led to the successful conclusion of several cases in the past. Unless you think I was lucky."
He rose and stretched. "Let's get to bed. The jet lag's catching up with me."
"You do think it was luck."
"Not now. Quill. I want to sleep. I have to spend some time in D.C. tomorrow and the day after."
"But you just—" She gritted her teeth and made herself shut up. Who, she asked herself fiercely, demanded space to handle these crises herself? You did. Do not whine.
"You weren't," Myles said. "You were about to, but you didn't say it."
She raised her eyebrows innocently. He leaned over and embraced her, his chin in her hair. "I'll call you with the answers from Trenton. Start a file on this case, Quill; it always helps to write things down. Davy's agreed to make all the reports available to us. I asked him to send them over tomorrow morning, as soon as the body's been taken to Syracuse. While I'm gone?" He shook her gently. "Do not go into dark warehouses, shut-down factories, or the east side of Syracuse looking for clues. Do not talk to anyone you suspect alone." He slid his hand firmly over her mouth, released it, and kissed the top of her head. "Not for your personal safety, although of course I worry about that. But because a lone operator interferes with the evidence to such a degree that you'll never convict. How many cases can you think of in the past year where the evidence has been absolutely clear, and the killer's walking around free?"
Quill knew this was true.
"If you're going to do this, you're going to handle it like a real pro. It's not a jobette."
"A jobette?"
"Work you do on a whim or caprice. A well-crafted investigation's crucial to conviction—and you don't do good work based on intuition and guesses. You do it through observation of detail. Examination of anomalies. Comparisons between behaviors. My advice? Wait for the file from Trenton. Collect the items of evidence from Davy. Wait until I get back, and we can establish a clear path to the solution." He yawned suddenly. "Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?"
"I want you to stay with me. Tonight and always." She followed him out of the living room into the bedroom. Max at their heels. "Luck!" she muttered. "Hah! It was brains, pure and simple."
Myles kissed her and left early for Washington. Quill got up with him and settled herself into her office to work. She called the hospital and received the news that Freddie and Robin were playing canasta in the TV room. She recorded the cash the dining room had taken in from the day before, the receipts for the three of their twenty-seven rooms that actually held paying guests, and looked at the revenues for the month of May in dismay. At this rate, the loan from Myles would be eaten up far sooner than she'd planned. A quick review of the bookings for the next three months showed that the lottery angel hadn't recorded an influx of business overnight. She'd promised John she would pay attention to bookings, and she meant to fulfill that promise.
She called the Golden Pillar Travel Agency, an excellent client in the past. Would, she delicately inquired, an increase in the commission help at all? What would help, was the candid response, was more customers. No one wanted to travel this year. "And it doesn't make sense," Brian the office manager told her, "the economy's booming, or so the media says. It's just one of those cycles. Quill. We all have to live through it."
Triple A had a different take on the dearth of customers. "Credit card debt," Angela the domestic travel package rep said. "We're pretty tight with American Express. The great middle class has maxed itself out spending, and now they're paying down debt. Me included. Sorry."
Quill felt like the moose with the target birthmark in the Gary Larson cartoon. "What to do, what to do?" Stalled, balked, and stymied. An ad in the Travel section of the Sunday Times would cost more than their mortgage balance. John had placed ads in the travel and leisure magazines in February and March, when most people plan their summer vacations, and the only booking in response to that had been the Crafty Ladies. "Good result," she muttered aloud. She could see a new series of ads now: "Come to the Inn at Hemlock Falls for the Time of Your … Death!"
Her in-house phone buzzed and she picked it up. "It's just me," Dina said. "David's here with the reports for you. Shall I send him in? It'll be a few minutes. I gave him some coffee, if that's okay, and he's drinking it and eating some breakfast. He was up all night."
"Sure." Quill pulled open her bottom desk drawer and found a new manila folder. She printed "Dunbarton, Lennox, and Patch, et. al." on the edge. She took a clean sheet of typing paper and wrote: 1. observation of detail
2. comparison of anomalies
3. compare with ordinary circumstances
She put this in the file. She'd accomplished this, at least.
Davy walked in. He was carrying a stack of papers. Dina edged in behind him. She whispered, "Okay if I sit in the corner and watch?"
Davy, puzzled, asked, "Why are you whispering?"
"Because I don't want to disturb you at work. I'll sit right here on the couch. I'll be very, very quiet. You won't even know I'm here."
"Fine." Quill stood up and reached for the papers in Davy's hand. He gave them to her.
"Sheriff said to leave the evidence locked up, but you should come down and take a look sometime today."
"Davy …" She stopped, caught Dina's eye, and corrected herself. "I mean, David. You're the sheriff."
"Nobody around here seems to think so. And I'm not doing a very good job."
"These are unusual circumstances. You recall that when Myles really was sheriff, he called on reinforcements all the time."
The pink in Davy's cheeks subsided a little. "That's true, isn't it?"
"The lone wolf investigator is much more liable to mess up the evidence," Quill said wisely. "An investigation should be solid, like a piece of furniture that's built to last."
"Beg pardon?" Davy said.
"Well crafted." She paused impressively. "Have a seat, David, and tell me what you think."
Davy was the sort of man who hitched up his trouser cuffs before he sat down. Quill wondered about this. Were his trousers too long? Too tight across the seat?
"… Quill."
"I'm sorry." She decided to title Myles' list of the th
ree essentials of investigation Observations Related to the Case ONLY.
"I said that each of the ladies was killed the same way. Strangled, then the duct tape on their mouths and hands. Then they were burned up with the phosphorous bomb."
"Any ideas on why they were strangled first? Before they were burned?" She shivered, then forced herself into a more professional attitude. If she had to actually look at the bodies, it was going to be a lot tougher than hearing a mere description.
"I don't have any idea why anyone would do this in the first place," Davy said. "I know why people go over the speed limit. I like to speed myself. But I don't know why this guy does all this sh—I mean stuff to these poor women." His ears were red with indignation. "My mother's about the same age as these ladies."
"Mine would be, too," Quill said softly. "Now. What kind of physical evidence did you pick up at each scene?"
"The list is right there. The sheriff said to pay attention to any duplications. You know, something that showed up at all three scenes."
Quill scanned the list. Gum wrappers. A cigarette butt. Coke can. Scrapings from under the fingernails of one partially burned corpse. "Triangular piece of metal," she read aloud. "What's that?"
"I found it," Davy said proudly. "At the scene last night. Doc said it's a musical instrument, although I can't see where you'd blow into it."
"There was one in Ellen Dunbarton's room, too."
"There was?" He looked perplexed. "We didn't find it."
"Doreen did," Quill said a little guiltily.
"We aren't going to be able to prove she did," Davy said. "I don't think it's an official piece of evidence unless a real investigator picks it up."
"She could swear out an affidavit," Quill said, although she had no idea whether this was true or not.
"Where is it now?"
"In the junk drawer in the kitchen," Quill admitted. She forced a laugh. "Guess we broke the chain of evidence, all right."
"I guess so."
"You didn't find a triangle in the Gorge, where Fran's body was, did you?"
"If it's not on the list we didn't find it."
Quill wrote: triangle, fire, murder on the sheet headed FACTS and repeated them aloud. "What do those words have in common, Davy?"
He blinked.
"Cool," Dina said. Quill jumped. She'd forgotten Dina was there. "Sorry," Dina added, "should I shut up?"
"No, no, of course not."
"I like word association," Dina said.
Davy (who was clearly bewildered) said, "Hm!" in an authoritative way.
Dina winked at Quill and said. "Word association goes like this, David: triangle-fire-murder. What do those words make you think of? Well, the Bermuda triangle? Triangle trade route? The Bermuda Triangle, now," she said seriously, "a lot of people think aliens are behind the disappearance of those ships." She caught Quill's look. "What?"
"Aliens?"
"You never know."
"I'll tell you what I know," Quill said nicely. "I know that we may be getting tons of phone calls from people wanting to stay at the Inn this summer, and there's no one on the phones at the front desk. And in Times Like These—" She grabbed her hair. "Aaagh! I said it." She folded her hands on her desk and continued, more calmly, "In times like these where we could go bankrupt any moment, somebody should be out there, capturing any stray business that may float by."
"Me, you mean." Dina bounced up from the couch and headed for the door. "There's one more fire-murder-triangle thing. The Triangle fire."
"What about the Triangle fire?" Quill said.
"You know, those women that died at the Triangle sewing machine company?"
"Oh, dear. Yes. I remember. Ugh."
"Did they catch the perp?" Davy asked.
"There wasn't a perp," Quill said. "It was in 1911 or something. And it was an accident. I remember seeing a black-and-white picture of the bodies piled against the door in school." She shuddered. "Horrible. Now, say good-bye, Dina."
"I'll call you instantly on the house phone if there's the slightest chance of a booking."
Davy didn't seem particularly interested in decades-old cases, and to tell the truth, Quill doubted the relevance, too. Facts, Myles had said, not intuition. "Should we look for a triangle again in the Gorge, Davy? Your guys, I mean. I won't go near it, I promise. But it would be interesting to know why, in two out of three murders, we found an orchestra triangle."
Davy looked pleased at the prospect of achieving something tangible. Quill knew just how he felt. "I'll get a few of the boys right on it. You think it could be important?"
Quill threw her hands up. "Who knows? But it's an anomaly, a recurring anomaly, and I don't think we should ignore it." Her in-house phone buzzed twice. Quill picked it up and said, "Quilliam, here."
Silence.
"Um. Hello?"
"Is that you, Quill?" Dina's voice. "You sounded sort of tough."
I'm feeling tough, cookie. Wish I had a cigar. "Sorry, Dina. Is there a problem? A tour bus filled with people who want to stay here for a month? An airplane load of tourists …"
"A fax just came in from Myles. Shall I bring it in? And Marge called. You want lunch or not, she says."
Quill looked at her watch. "Wow, it's eleven-thirty. Would you call her, Dina, and tell her I'll be there in about half an hour."
"I told her you were behind closed doors with the sheriff," Dina said primly. "And I wasn't sure when you'd be finished."
"You did, huh? What did she say to that?"
Dina giggled. "I'll tell you, if you really want to know."
"Never mind."
"I told her no, it wasn't Myles, it was our elected sheriff, and she was rude like she usually is and hung up."
"Call her back, tell her I'm on the way over. I'll pick the fax up on my way out." She hung up. "I've got to go eat lunch with Marge Schmidt, Davy. Thanks a lot for bringing these papers over."
"No trouble. But I'd better get on that search right away. Did you talk to the ladies at the hospital this morning?"
"I checked. They're playing canasta."
He shook his head. "When we catch this guy, I want to be alone with him for five minutes. Just five minutes. And, pow!" He smacked one hand into the other. "Doesn't it beat all? Killing women who could be your own mother? I mean, you have to ask yourself why each one of those poor women was strangled, suffocated, and burned. If he had to kill, why couldn't he kill quick?"
"We'll know when we catch him, I suppose. Do you want a copy of Myles' fax for your files, Davy? We should share."
"Depends on what it says."
The fax was hurriedly written, in Myles' gracefully angular hand.
Re: Smith: My old friend now works for a private security firm out of Boston, details of current case to follow, sweatshop abuses in manufacturing. Copies of Vinge correspondence arrive by courier after five p.m. Love to you, Quill. Myles.
"I don't think we need a copy of that for the file," Davy said, reading over her shoulder. "We find that little iron thing, I'll let you know right away."
Quill crumpled the fax into her purse. So there might be a connection between the triangles and the case after all. She'd have to find Thorne Smith and talk to him as soon as she could. "Thanks, David. Dina, I'll just tell Meg that I'm off to Marge's. If you need to reach me, you know the number of the diner."
Quill found Meg asleep on her couch in her rooms. The television was on, the sound turned off. On the screen, a very fat chef in a ponytail was slicing a rabbit breast. Quill shuddered and turned it off.
Like her own suite, Meg's room had a balcony, but it was hard to get to because of the amount of clutter. Cardboard pots of seedlings sat in every windowsill and on the floor near the bedroom. Cookbooks were stacked in knee-high piles in front of overflowing book cases. Meg loved bright, primary colors, and posters of apples, cheeses, herbs, flowers, and kitchenware plastered the walls.
Meg had refused to install a kitchen in her rooms; she had a drip coffe
epot, a small refrigerator, and a tiny cafe table, but that was it. The one professional framed piece of art in the room hung over this table, the first pencil sketch Quill had ever done of the two of them: Quill herself, at twelve, Meg at eight. Quill hadn't really looked at it for years. Meg stared out at her solemnly, her jaw firm, eyes bright. Quill had put herself in the background; by comparison she was indistinct, blurry, a cipher.
"You wouldn't draw it that way today," Meg said.
"I didn't mean to wake you up. Did you go to the hospital with Andy last night?"
"They seemed happier, once they got there. It was either Andrew's firm professional manner, the drugs, or Marge's 'buck up' smacks on the shoulder that calmed them down. I'm putting my money on Marge."
"I'm going there for lunch to discuss whatever it was the government types were discussing yesterday without us. Do you want to come?"
"Do I want to know my future, Madame Lasagna? Of course. Just give me a minute." She rubbed her eyes hard.
Quill said automatically, "Don't do that."
Meg grinned at her. "How's business?"
"Business sucks. I called around this morning to all our usual contacts. Nothing doing for the summer."
"That fifty grand isn't going to last too long, is it?"
"No."
"How long have we got? Before we have to do something dramatic, I mean."
"Dramatic like what? We can take out a second mortgage "
"Sand against the tide, don't you think?"
"Let's see what Marge has to say. The cavalry may be coming over the hill at any moment."
"I don't like having to wait on the cavalry any more than you do," Meg complained.
"Maybe we don't have to wait? Maybe Marge has some wonderful idea that's going to work fast, like Alka Seltzer. Come on, get presentable, and let's go."
"I'm presentable!" Meg stared down at herself. She was wearing baggy sweat pants, a purple T-shirt, and had bare feet "Oh, all right. I'll put on chinos." She disappeared into her bathroom.
Quill walked around the living room, stepping over a stack of magazines from L'Aperitif, a pile of kitchen equipment catalogues, a file filled with scrawled recipes in Meg's spiky, hurried hand. There was nothing in this room to speak of a life outside a professional kitchen. Quill sighed. The Inn was her sister's life.
A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) Page 18
