Quill’s eyes flew to the painting over the couch. She’d drawn two slender women, one a head taller than the other. They had turned to look at the waterfall in the distance. The faces were obscured, but she’d concentrated on the language of their bodies. The older, taller woman had her arm around the younger. The small sister was vulnerable. The tall sister was protective. Some local yokel had painted that, huh?
“The Bryants,” she said. “Skipper and Andrea.”
There was a tap at the door. It opened. “Hello,” Andrea Bryant said coyly. “Did we just hear our names? I hope you aren’t taking it in vain!”
14
∼Meg’s Scones∼
2 cups flour
1 tablespoon raw sugar
2½ teaspoons baking powder
4 tablespoons salted butter
2 eggs
2⁄3 cup whipping cream
1 teaspoon grated lemon peel
½ cup golden raisins
Blend flour, sugar, baking powder in bowl. Cut in butter. In a separate bowl, stir eggs and cream to a smooth liquid, then add to flour mixture. Add lemon peel and raisins. Mix with a fork until all liquid is absorbed. Knead on a floured surface for about ten seconds. Divide dough into an eight-section scone pan, or shape into eight wedges. Bake at 400 degrees for fifteen minutes. Serve with butter, lemon cream, and the jam of your choice.
“Quill, my dear.” Andrea Bryant wore tight black jeans, an oversized men’s white shirt, and blown glass earrings that caught the sunlight in a distracting way. She’d pulled her white hair back with a tortoiseshell clip. She walked into Quill’s office with an apologetic twitch of her hand. “I hope we’re not disturbing you.”
“Hello,” Skipper Bryant said. He wore gray wool trousers and a striped Brooks Brothers long-sleeved shirt. The sleeves of a navy blue cardigan lay over his shoulders, as if the sweater had hopped on his back for a ride. Quill wondered if they’d discussed the proper attire for a post-murder Friday before they’d come down for breakfast. She looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. Brunch, then.
Andrea settled herself on the sofa arm next to Dina and dangled her Hermès bag over Dina’s lap in a pointed way. “Do you mind?”
Dina flushed and got to her feet. “Maybe we can talk about this later, Quill.”
“Sure thing.” She smiled. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Dina left with a soft click of the latch.
Skipper pulled a chair away from the small Queen Anne table Quill used as a conference center, spun it around, and settled himself backward, legs out to either side and chin in his hands. He gave her a boyish smile. “We wanted to come and apologize.”
“About that wonderful piece.” Andrea tilted her head backward and gazed up at the painting. “We’ll be candid with you. We recognized it at once for the marvelous piece of work that it is …”
“A genuine Quilliam,” Skipper said, with just the proper degree of awe.
“Exactly,” Andrea said.
“… And yes, we admit it,” Skipper said. “We thought we could acquire it from the small-town innkeeper. We had no idea it was you.”
Andrea shot Skipper a look filled with dislike. “Cut the crap, Skip. She’s not buying it.” She looked at Quill and smiled sourly. “You know what the antiques business is like. Everybody fantasizes about coming across the deal of the century. This was as close as we’ve come at striking it big in quite a while. So, yeah, we made you an offer we thought you couldn’t refuse. We should have recognized you, but your sister introduced you as Mrs. McHale, and the penny didn’t drop until later. I’m sorry. I figure you must be used to it by now, the way this business runs, I mean. You’re too much of a realist to hold our little dodge against us.”
“You didn’t do anything illegal,” Quill said uncomfortably. “And yes, art can be rough. On the business side, at least.”
“Okay, then. I don’t suppose you would be interested in selling it? At a price more commensurate with its worth, certainly. No? I thought not. Too bad. There are two galleries we work with in New York that’d kill to get their hands on it.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. I’ve shocked myself. I didn’t think that was possible anymore. Terrible thing last night, wasn’t it?”
“Terrible,” Skipper echoed. “Great loss to the community, Edmund’s death. Very sorry to see it. You’ll be glad to know that we’re already planning a tribute.”
“I’m sure Rose Ellen will welcome it,” Quill said politely.
“We’ll have to speak with her about it,” Andrea said vaguely. “Something just occurred to me, though. I don’t know, Skip, do you think Quill might want to come on the show and say a few words about Edmund?”
Skipper nodded. “You’d be quite a draw as far as the art community goes. Of course, the average viewer isn’t going to know you from a hole on the ground, but you’re pretty enough. And we could feature Sisters in the background.” He waved a forefinger in the direction of the painting.
Quill blinked. “You’d like me to come on the show? What show?”
Andrea’s smile was catlike. “Your Ancestor’s Attic. Oh. You didn’t know? Yes. Well. News of Edmund’s death got around pretty quickly, as you might imagine, and before you could say ‘Henri Matisse,’ the producers from New York were on the line demanding that we take over.”
Quill took that with a grain of salt. She was willing to bet Andrea had had her cell phone out and put a call into the producers before Edmund’s body was cool.
Skipper blustered. “They were pretty insistent. It took some convincing, especially with Andrea, here. But we figured we’d give it a trial run.”
“We agreed to a five-year contract with options,” Andrea said. “She’s not an idiot, Skipper. Look at her face.”
Quill adjusted the cloisonné bowl on her desk from one side to the other.
“Yes,” Andrea said flatly. “The show will be good for us. As a matter of fact, it’s just what we needed right now. Our finances have been a little less secure than I’d like, Quill, as I’m sure you’ll find out if you snoop around.” Her eyes were cool and calculating. “You should know, Skip, that not only does she have a reputation as artist-that-was, she’s developed a bit of a reputation as an amateur detective. You don’t want to be pulling the wool over her eyes, or even be seen trying to.” She got up, with an abrupt, decisive movement. “So. We just wanted to let you know that we realized our gaffe almost immediately and wanted to apologize once more for our mistake.”
“It looks like we’re stuck here for a bit,” Skipper added. He paused on his way out of the office. “Your local sheriff as good as told us not to leave town. So we’re going to go ahead with the Hemlock Falls segment of the show, just as Edmund had planned. He would have wanted it that way. You’re sure about not appearing on the show? It’d be good advertising for the Inn.”
“I’m sure. Very, very sure.” She added, silently, And don’t let the door hit you on your way out.
Dina came back in as soon as they were gone. “Well?”
“Another motive,” Quill said with satisfaction. “A good one. They’re taking over Ancestor’s Attic. Plus, they’re broke. Well, not broke. Just not as rich as Andrea would like to be.”
“They told you all that?”
“It could hardly be kept a secret. And they’re not idiots. Well, Andrea isn’t, anyway.”
“What now?”
“I’ve got two more people to talk to. Mr. Barcini and Rose Ellen.”
“I’ll go with you,” Dina said promptly.
“Who’s going to mind the front desk?”
“I’ll ask Mike. He’s done it before. And he’s really good about telling the media to piss off. Sorry. I meant bug off. He’s really good about keeping the media at bay. So can I come? All the best amateur detectives have sidekicks, and I know Meg is usually yours, but you argue about which one of you is Sherlock and which one is Watson, and it’s pretty obvious who the senior detective is.” She fluttered her eyelashes.
�
�Flattery,” Quill said, “will get you everywhere. Let’s go see the widow.”
“Edmund would have wanted that phony Bryant and his witch of a wife to take over the show?” Rose Ellen threw back her head and said, “Ha!”
Mike Santini had been more than willing to take over the desk. He had been the Inn’s groundskeeper for more than twelve years. Quill had sketched him once, in charcoal. His tough, wiry body resembled the roots of a banyan tree, so she had drawn a banyan in the background and ever since, he’d tried to find a variety that would grow in upstate New York with no success at all. At Dina’s insistence, Quill also stuck an extra wad of tissues and a small pint of brandy in her tote, “In case Rose Ellen is a basket case,” Dina said. “Because, my gosh, she must be devastated.”
Nothing was further from the truth. Quill thought she might need a nip of the brandy she’d brought, herself, just to adjust to the behavior of Rose Ellen, the non-grieving widow. “Edmund didn’t see the Bryants as suitable successors as hosts on Ancestor’s Attic?”
Quill and Dina sat in the narrow living room of Rose Ellen’s third-floor apartment. Clare was right. The rooms were small and shabby. Rose Ellen had concealed the peeling wallpaper with a collection of prints and photographs, and draped the shabby windows with graceful swoops of muslin, but the dreariness of the place was inescapable. The cramped space was reduced even further by a collection of empty cardboard boxes. Rose Ellen was leaving Hemlock Falls as soon as the sheriff allowed it.
Rose Ellen’s face and voice were acid. “Suitable successors? Edmund was cheap. Edmund was tight. Edmund thought he was going to live forever. He wasn’t going to let the show go to anybody, much less Skipper and Andrea. And he wasn’t about to leave any money to me. Not before I slept with the bastard anyway, and I was so careful to insist that we waited until we married. And when I think I might have gotten something out of him if I’d just … damn it all.” Rose Ellen tossed a couple of throw pillows into a cardboard box, then sank into a chair. It was a reproduction Louis XIV, reupholstered in satin brocade. Rose Ellen smoothed the edge, lost in thought. “I redid this myself, you know. When Edmund and I became engaged, I thought all of that was over. Scrabbling through other people’s leftovers, spending hours with those ghastly paint thinners and horrible restoring fluids.” She held out her hands. The nails were polished and well cared for, but the palms were calloused and there were faint acid scars on her wrist and the backs of her hands. “We had a prenup, you know. He was going to settle two million dollars on me the day after we were married, and then give me twelve thousand a month—for my very own—as long as the marriage lasted. And now … I’m back to this.” She swept a bitter gaze around the room.
Quill didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” seemed inappropriate.
Dina’s eyes were shocked and she blurted, “You didn’t lo …” She blushed fiery red. “Sorry, I meant um … you didn’t …”
“Didn’t get a thing?” Rose Ellen said. Her smile was ugly. “Not a dime. Not a centavo. Not a sou.”
“That’s not what Dina meant,” Quill said.
Rose Ellen clasped her hands together tightly. “He only agreed to the expenses here because it would have been so much cheaper than a wedding in the Seychelles or the Hamptons, which is where I wanted to be. He said since the wedding was part of the shoot we could expense it out. Damn. Damn. He was so afraid he was going to outlive his money. That’s a common fear of the rich, you know. You see it all the time. It’s ironic. He was such a tightwad, and it killed him.”
“Excuse me?” Dina said.
“If we’d been in the Seychelles or the Hamptons, he wouldn’t have gotten those bad eggs or whatever. He wouldn’t have been doing the TV show at all.”
“He didn’t die of bad eggs,” Dina said. “You don’t die the way he did from bad eggs.”
Rose Ellen bit her lower lip. “What are you saying?”
“The coroner hasn’t filed his report, but the sheriff’s department is treating it as murder,” Quill said.
“No.”
“I’m afraid so.”
She sat very still for a moment, looking down at her hands, rubbing them over and over again. Then she nodded, as if in response to a voice only she could hear. “Wonderful. Just wonderful. You know what? I try and try, and I just never catch a break.” Then, “Who killed him? Barcini?”
“We don’t know.”
“I suppose you’ll find out?”
“The sheriff is very experienced,” Quill said loyally. “I’m sure we’ll get some answers soon.”
“If the bastard who did it has any money, will you let me know? Maybe I can sue him.”
Quill glanced at Dina. Bewilderment had replaced shock. “I think we’ll be getting along now, Rose Ellen. We just dropped by to see how you were doing.”
“I’ll be fine, thank you. It was good of you to call.” The mask had slipped back into place. “Let me walk down with you.” She rose fluidly to her feet, looking just like Audrey Hepburn in slim black pants and a black turtleneck. She opened the door for Quill and Dina, and then followed them onto the landing. “I’m having a fire sale at the store. I haven’t had a chance to price anything yet—I think I may just leave it in the hands of what’s her name, the sales girl …”
“Delores Peterson?”
“Yes. She’s perfectly capable of selling up the shop, isn’t she?”
“I’m sure she is.”
“I’m going back to New York. I’ve got some friends on Fire Island who will let me crash there for a while, until I decide what to do next. At the moment, I just want to get away from this godforsaken place. So much for trying tourist towns.” She stood at the head of the stairs and looked back at them. “Come down with me. You liked that trompe l’oeil of the fountain, didn’t you?” She tucked her arm beneath Quill’s and led her downstairs. “You’ve been such a dear friend to me, Quill. I can let you have it at a discount. Say, two hundred dollars. In cash, if you wouldn’t mind. Delores can run it up to the Inn, and you can pay her then. That’ll be all right with you, then?”
They reached the bottom floor. Rose Ellen pushed the door open. Quill and Dina found themselves on the sidewalk.
“Bye,” Rose Ellen said.
She closed the door.
Outside, the day was brilliant with sunshine. The maple trees along Main Street were just beginning to show the faint rosy flush of fall. Elmer and Adela Henry drove past in their Cadillac. Elmer had affixed large signs to the rear passenger doors that read, HENRY FOR MAYOR: YOUR HOMETOWN HERO! Two of the ladies from the Fireman’s Auxiliary walked by, giggling. The scent of roasting coffee drifted on the air.
“It looks so normal out here,” Dina said. She zipped her gray hoodie up. “It’s a little chilly out, though, don’t you think?”
Quill didn’t say anything. It was seventy-two and sunny.
“Rose Ellen …” Dina tried again. “She was …” She stopped and shook her head, as if to clear it, as if to brush the episode away. “My goodness.”
“Goodness has nothing to do with it.” Quill put her arm around her. “That coffee smells great. Let’s get a cup. And let’s not think about Rose Ellen Whitman ever again.”
15
∼Josephine’s Corn Pone∼
12⁄3 cups yellow corn meal
12⁄3 cups flour
½ cup sugar
2 tablespoons baking powder
12⁄3 cups milk
4 large eggs
2⁄3 cup salted butter, melted
¼ cup raw sugar
1⁄3 cup butter, chopped into one inch squares, for topping
Mix all ingredients except for last two. The batter will be lumpy. Butter an eight-by-eight square pan and pat the batter into it. Sprinkle the raw sugar and chopped-up butter over the top. Bake in preheated 375-degree oven for twenty-five to thirty minutes. Let stand for twenty minutes. Remove from pan. Serve with maple syrup.
A latte at the Balzac’s Café brought Dina back t
o her sunny self.
The café was very pleasantly laid out, with posters of Honoré de Balzac on the walls and a wide selection of coffee beans in clear glass bins. The tables and chairs were made of pine. The floors were terrazzo tile. It felt Parisian.
“I guess she didn’t murder him,” Dina said. “I guess she didn’t love him, either, but she sure didn’t want him dead.” Dina poked at her latte with the plastic straw. “This sidekick stuff is pretty amazing.” She stared absently into space, and then shook herself, as if getting rid of horrible thoughts. “Who’s next? Belter Barcini? His people-whomping mom? Melanie Vampira Myers? Are they going to turn into monsters before my very eyes, like Rose Ellen Whitman?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the Inn? It’s been an eventful twenty-four hours.” Quill checked her watch. “Not even that. Eighteen.”
“I’ll say. Edmund Tree dropping dead right in front of my eyes, and then Rose Ellen Whitman dancing on his grave. Stomping, actually, since she’s so pissed off he’s dead. She’s not even going to stick around for his funeral. Who’s going to bury the poor guy?”
“The family, I guess.”
“All he’s got is a half sister he hasn’t seen for years. What do you want to bet she’ll show up speedy-quick? Twenty million dollars is a lot of money. I figured it out, you know. My paycheck if I had twenty million dollars invested at four percent. It’d be eight hundred thousand dollars a year divided by fifty-two, which is sixteen thousand dollars a week, minus taxes. The sister could pay for the funeral and not even notice.”
“His lawyers will take care of the funeral and the sister. In any event, we don’t have to worry about it. If you don’t want another latte, I think we should go back to the Inn. I want to give Marge a call about the umm …” Quill glanced around a little nervously. Why did she feel guiltier about snooping into suspects’ financial backgrounds than about the rest of the detecting?
Dread on Arrival Page 17
