"... in there right now," came a murmur, "trust me... "
A response, derisive.
"... show ya..."
The metal door swung open. Dorset's lanky figure shambled through the flood of light from the office. Quill blinked, blinded by the overhead light. Dorset whistled as you whistle for a dog. There was someone behind him. Shorter than Dorset, about Quill's own height. Shapeless in her down coat. Face concealed by her fur hat.
Suddenly, the overhead light went out.
She flung her hand up, shading her eyes against the glare from the office door. The man? woman? behind the sheriff stepped back, arm upraised. Light flashed against steel. The arm came down, once.
Dorset screamed. And again.
Dorset twisted, hands scrabbling for the unknown face. Quill willed her eyes open, strained against the dark.
The knife came down a third time, hard. Blood came from Dorset's mouth and nose. He cried, "Uh! Uh!" and fell in a clatter of boots and keys, arms outstretched.
The door to the office slammed shut. The cell was totally dark. There was a fumbling in the dark. The cell door clicked open. Quill shoved herself against the cold wall and grabbed the paring knife from beneath the pillow. She held it steady, blade out. There was the sound of dragging, then a shove and a grunt. Dorset's body rolled against her feet. She gasped and flung herself away, bruising her hands and knees on the iron bed frame.
A clatter and rattle of something dropped. The cell door clanged shut, and the lock clicked. The door to outside opened; the down-coated figure slipped through. Quill went to her knees and fumbled along the floor. She felt the knife, the butcher knife.
"Sheriff? Sheriff?"
"No," said Dorset. "No. Help. Help."
There was a horrible gurgle, like waste bubbling from a clogged pipe.
It didn't take him long to die.
-7-
"Drink that tea right up," Doreen said with rough affection. "It's a mercy that bozo didn't come after you, too."
Quill, freshly showered and in a white terry cloth robe, drank half a cup of the Red Zinger and sat on her couch. Meg moved restlessly around the room, successively picking up a small ceramic vase, a replica of a Chinese horse, then a crystal swan, and putting each one down again. "You can't pin down the time of the murder any more exactly than about dawn?" asked Meg.
"John said he didn't stop to look at the time when he heard me scream, and Davy didn't give me my watch back until you and Howie came with the order for release." Quill looked at it. "But it's eight-thirty now, in case you were wondering."
"Oh, ha."
"Howie must have gotten that judge up in the middle of the night. I can't believe you guys came back for me before the sun was up."
"Anderson was pretty annoyed at Howie."
"You went with Howie to Ithaca?"
"What did you expect me to do? Got to sleep?! Besides, the roads were awful and I didn't think he should go alone."
"Well, thanks."
"I didn't do a darn thing, except ride shotgun." Meg sat next to Quill with a thump. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes. The worst was not being able to help him. And not being able to see."
"And he didn't say a word about who did it?"
"He couldn't," Quill said dryly. "Not once the blood started to... never mind."
"I don't know why you're wasting perfectly good sympathy on that bozo. It's a mercy whoever killed Dorset didn't kill you, too," Doreen reiterated.
The snow had stopped and sunlight streamed in through the window. She looked old. AQuill sighed. Myles had told her once that each murder had more than one victim, that every violent death resulted in little murders of the living.
"Quill survived because the murderer wanted Dorset's killing to be pinned on her," said Meg. "If John hadn't been sitting outside her cell window and seen him take off, there wouldn't have been a thing Howie could have done to get Quill out of jail. The knife that killed him was from our kitchen, her fingerprints were on it, and a spare key was found inside the cell under the mattress, proving that Quill could have locked herself in and tried to blame the murder on person or persons unknown."
"Somebody did some good thinking ahead." Doreen scowled. "John didn't see who it was, either?"
Meg shook her head. "Too dark. And he couldn't exactly walk in and ask Dorset what the heck he was up to, could he? He wasn't after any visitors to the sheriff's office. John was worried about Quill and was planning on standing guard outside the cell window all night. And a good thing, too. Otherwise... otherwise... " Meg trailed off.
"Otherwise," Quill said cheerfully, "I would still be locked up, although without a corpse in my bed. I just wish the killer hadn't taken off with the key to the cell door, or that I'd know the other key was under the pillow. It seemed to take hours before John located Dave and let me out."
Meg drummed her fingers on her knee. "Wait until we find that creep."
"When are we gong to have time to find that creep, Meg? We've got Santini's bachelor party tonight, not to mention the terrace party for S. O. A. P."
"And who is going to catch this killer?"
"They're sending the state troopers to investigate. Until we find another sheriff, they'll be in charge of it."
"We gotta do somethin'," muttered Doreen.
Quill set her teacup on the oak chest and got to her feet. "What we've got to do is keep the Inn running smoothly. I'm going to get dressed and meet you guys in the kitchen."
"It is a full day," Meg admitted. "The rest of the Santini wedding party is checking in this morning, and that nutty Evan Blight is checking in this afternoon."
"You don't know that he's nutty," quill said.
"That's true. I don't know that he's nutty. But he's written a nutty book. Do you know what state of mind you have to be in to write a book?"
"No," said Quill, "and neither do you."
"I know that I have to be in a custard frame of mind to make custard. And dough is my world when I bake brioche. I," Meg continued, jumped up and waving her hands, "am one with the pig when I am in a roasting sort of mood."
"I see things are back to normal," John said, tapping at the door and walking in. There were dark circles under his eyes. Andy Bishop, the local internist, was right behind him, black bag in hand.
"Therefore," Meg shouted triumphantly, "Evan Blight is a fruitcake because it's a fruitcake sort of book he's written. Andy! My love!"
Andy Bishop skied in winter and played tennis in the summer and was always faintly tanned. He was slender, well-knit, and a mere head taller than Meg, who stood five foot two with shoes. He gave her a sunny, intimate smile, and then looked with concern at Quill.
"How are you feeling/"
"A little stiff and a lot sleepy. Otherwise, fine."
"Let me just do a few physicianly things, then I'll let you alone."
"Andy, I'm fine. Who called you ,anyway?"
"Let's just say I was in the neighborhood. Hey!" Meg wound her arms tightly around his neck and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, sweetheart, but you have to let me do my medical thing, here." He looked down at her. "Are you okay? I'm not going to have two patients on my hands, am I?"
"You are going to have no patients," said Meg. "I'm giddy with relief, I think. And Quill's okay, at least physically. And who did call you? Not that I wouldn't have, sooner, or later. Probably sooner."
"Doreen. Due to a little case of frostbite."
"John!" Quill leaped to her feet, penitent. "Are you okay? I didn't even think! And I had your parka!"
John made a slight movement in protest, and Andy went on smoothly, "As I said, I was in the neighborhood. Sit right there, Quill, and let me take your flood pressure and your temperature."
"Do it," said Doreen, forestalling protest. "You might check her for nits, while you're at it, Doc."
"DoREEN!" shrieked Meg.
Quill held her arm out while Andy wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it and made an inquiring
face at John.
"I'm fine," he said.
"Everybody's fine," Andy said absently. "Ninety-three over sixty, Quill. I wish I had your metabolism. You're looking a little thin, though. Lost any weight recently?"
"Mmm," said Quill.
"At least five pounds," said Meg. "Courtesy of that rat, the ex-sheriff McHale."
"Meg," said Quill, "don't."
"Well, he is a rat, If he'd stuck around the way he was supposed to, you never would have ended up in the clink. It's all," Meg said obscurely, "his fault."
Myles, who was lousy at entrance lines, cleared his throat in a perfunctory way. He stood at the open door, his khaki raincoat rumpled, his battered leather bag in hand, a day's worth ,of stubble on his cheeks.
The silence was profound.
"Quill," said Andy, "I don't like this pulse rate at all."
"Well," said Doreen, "I can get back to work, I guess." She punched Myles on the shoulder as she passed. "Don't tell anyone it's good to see ya." John grinned, slapped him on the back and shook his hand, and followed Doreen out the door. Meg snapped Andy's doctor's bag shut, handed him the blood pressure cuff, and pulled him toward the hall.
"I haven't finished the physical," he protested.
"Is she anywhere near sick?"
"Well, no. A little shocky, maybe, but..."
"Then you're being persistent." She eyed Myles with enormous goodwill. "Not that I have any objections to persistent men. On the contrary. See you for breakfast, Sis."
"Don't call me Sis," Quill said automatically.
The door closed to a second, uncomfortable silence. Quill sat down on the couch and covered her face with her hands. She held herself very still, then said between them, "Did Howie call you? Or John?"
"No." She heard him set his suitcase on the floor, then the rustle of his raincoat as he tossed it over a chair.
"There's coffee in the kitchen."
"Would you like some?"
She nodded. He crossed the carpet with his quiet, measured step. The coffee gurgled into the cups. He set it down and she felt the heat of the cup next to her knee, which was wedged against the oak chest she used for a coffee table. Myles settled next to her. He smelled of foreign places, of cigarette smoke, and - faintly - of fatigue.
"Were you on a smoking flight?"
He laughed. "Are you going to take your hands away from your face?"
Quill shook her head no.
"Why not?"
"If I do, I'll cry. If I start to cry, I won't stop. And I've got a busy day ahead. My hands," she explained, "are sort of holding my face on."
"I see."
"Did you..." Her throat was clogged and she stopped to swallow. "Did you hear what happened?"
"Just now. Downstairs. From Dina. Of course, having had experience with Dina's reportage before, I'm taking a lot of it under advertisement. I take it you didn't run over a little kid."
Quill shook her head.
There was a different note to his voice, a note she'd only heard once before, the day she'd been shot. "And you weren't raped by Frank Dorset."
"Good heavens, no." Quill took her hands away from her face.
"And the s‚ance this afternoon isn't your method of determining who killed Nora Cahill and Dorset."
"The what?" Quill sat up straight and took a healthy swig of coffee. "S‚ance. Tutti," she said darkly. "Oh, swell." She looked directly at him for the first time since he'd come back. "I suppose you heard all about Nora Cahill and the videotape and my missing coat and hat."
"Your coat? You mean that ratty - er - cherished sort of down thing you weir in the winter?"
Quill nodded, then gave a coherent account of the last two days.
Myles asked a few questions, then said, "I think I have the gist of it." He got up and put on his raincoat.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to have a little talk with the mayor. To inquire about the availability of the sheriff's job."
"Myles!" She set her cup down and rose to follow him.
"Later, dear heart. After this mess is cleared up."
The door clicked shut behind him. Quill slipped off her robe and began to dress.
"Wow, you look fabulous." Dina made a credible attempt at a wolf whistle as Quill came down the stairs into the foyer. "Where'd that sweater come from? And I love the lace at the throat. Medieval. You look medieval." She wriggled her eyebrows. "And happy. Sheriff McHale came down the stairs about ten minutes ago and he looked happy, too." She sighed. "I sure feel better. Sheriff McHale said that of course you didn't stab that creep Dorset when he tried to - you know - that somebody else did it. Stabbed Dorset, I mean."
"Nobody tried to you - know. Especially Dorset."
"But Davy told Kathleen who told me that Dorset tried to... and somebody stabbed him."
"Somebody sure did. But it wasn't me. I. Whatever."
"Well, Sheriff McHale will find out who did it. And who killed Nora Cahill, too. Unless you and Meg find out first, like you've done before. Although, really, all either one of you has to do is ask Tutti. She's going to find out this afternoon, you know."
Quill, who was absolutely famished, stopped on her way to the dining room and turned around. "Which reminds me. What's this about a s‚ance?"
"At one-thirty. Just after lunch."
"I didn't ask when it was. I asked what about it?"
"What about it?"
"Is it Claire's grandmother? Mrs. McIntosh?"
"You mean Tutti? Yep. And Tatiana."
"Tutti and her dog? The dog's psychic, too?"
Dina looked uncertain.
"Who's attending?"
"You mean who's going to be at the..." She quailed at Quill's expression.
Quill reminded herself that Dina was one of the brightest Ph.D. candidates at the limnology department at Cornell University. The fact that she knew far more about freshwater ponds and copepods than real life had stopped astonishing Quill, but it didn't keep her from occasional irritation.
Dina said (meekly enough to make Quill feel badly about her momentary ill temper), "Tutti invited Tatiana, Claire, Mrs. McIntosh - the one that's Claire's mom, that is - Mayor Henry, and that Mr. Blight."
"Evan Blight? I didn't have him listed for check in until this afternoon."
"Well, he showed up this morning. Said he'd been out all night under the hunter's moon and wanted the amenities of a civilized existence before he returned to the primitive glory of the woods... that's what he said, Quill, honest to God."
"It's not what he said, it's about where he was. Out all night? Where?"
"In the Gorge. Mayor Henry picked him up at the Ithaca airport, I guess, and they went off for one of those S. O. A. P. meetings. Anyhow, when the mayor brought him in this morning, I told him that you were in jail for murder and that's why you couldn't meet him yourself." She smiled sunnily. "I remembered what you told all us employees about being meticulously courteous to guests, and being in jail was a pretty dam good reason you couldn't meet him."
"I suppose it was," said Quill. She reflected briefly on the fact that she'd spent the best part of the previous night in the cold embrace of a corpse, survived with seeming equanimity the unexpected (and emotionally cataclysmic) return of her lover, and that it was twenty-four-year-old Dina Muir who was going to drive her to hysterics. "And after you'd welcomed a best-selling writer with the news that his host was in the slam for murder one, what did he do? I mean other than ask about the availability of rooms at the Marriott?"
"He had a reservation here. John made it himself. Well, he walked in with Mayor Henry and, Quill, you know me, I'm not one to gossip, because gossip is tacky, but my goodness, they smelled!"
"They smelled? Like what?"
"Like... like... I don't... dirt."
"They smelled like dirt?"
"Yep. And the mayor looked like he hadn't shaved since the elections, and of course Mr. Blight has that ratty-sorry-that long beard, and there were all kinds of twigs in
it."
"Dina. I'm starving. I want my breakfast."
"You want me to hurry up," Dina said wisely. "So they came in smelling like - you know - and Tutti was bombing around waiting for that icky Claire to come downstairs for breakfast, and Tutti started prophesying the minute she saw Evan Blight. He said she - Tutti, I mean - had the spirit of the ancient wise women, and like that. He was very impressed." She added with a slight tone of injury, "I mean, you and Meg dismiss things you can't hear or touch or see awfully easily, Quill, if you don't mind my saying so. So she got him to come to the s‚ance."
Murder Well-Done Page 13
