Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138)

by Bishop, Claudia

  “You must have gotten home very late,” Quill ventured. “Didn’t you have a lot of messages waiting for you?”

  “P’ah!” Adela repeated. “All of them from that man, I’m sure.” She waved at the landline. The red message button blinked furiously. “He banged on the door repeatedly last night, too. I ignored him. I suppose many of the messages were from the Chamber members, offering apologies, but as you know, I prefer to deal with people face-to-face. I’ll get around to listening to the phone messages later.” She frowned. “I’m quite disappointed that you are the sole emissary. A delegation would have been appropriate, I think. As I say, under the right circumstances, I could be persuaded to return.”

  Quill decided that it was better to rip the bandage off fast. “The committee’s talking about bringing in a professional organizer.”

  Adela’s face fell. “I see.” She cleared her throat. “I wish him luck. I doubt that he’ll be up to the challenge. I doubt anyone else could do it. But I wish him luck.”

  The kettle began to whistle. Adela didn’t seem to hear it, so Quill got up and turned the gas cooktop off and poured the hot water into the teapot. “It’s a her, actually. Someone named Linda Connelly, from Syracuse. Elm…that is, the committee’s talking to her this morning.” This was a lot easier with her back to Adela, so Quill forced herself to come back and reseat herself at the table. “There’s more, Adela, and it’s unpleasant, so I want you to be prepared.”

  Adela bit her lip. She folded her hands in her lap, which for some reason made Quill feel even worse than she felt already. “First, I want you to know I admire you a great deal. I believe in you, too. So does everyone at the Inn, and Marge and Miriam—there are a great many of us.”

  “I have always had my supporters.”

  “Yes, you have,” Quill said warmly. “Sometimes that isn’t enough. There’s going to be an investigation into the missing money, of course. I know you’ve probably anticipated that…”

  “The what?”

  “The money missing from the fete account.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Davy hasn’t talked to you?”

  “Davy Kiddermeister? That youngster that took Myles’s job? Talked to me about what?”

  “No one’s called you?”

  “I told you. That man attempted to call, of course. When I arrived home last night, I took the phone off the hook. I haven’t come to a final decision, but you may inform that man if you happen to see him, that I have consulted the finest divorce lawyer in the state. I will need more than a written or spoken apology from him. He will have to crawl.”

  Quill wasn’t listening. Davy must have run into a delay getting a warrant to investigate the checking account. Which meant he would be at the Henrys’ home any minute. She ran her hands through her hair and tugged at it. “How much money is in the account right now?”

  “One hundred and eighty-six thousand five hundred and twenty-six dollars.”

  “No. There isn’t. One hundred and eighty-six thousand is missing.”

  Adela turned perfectly white.

  Quill dug her nails into her palms and went on. “Elmer’s asked me to look into this, and I’m happy to do what I can.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “We don’t know yet. The bank has checked their records, and they say the problem isn’t on their end. Marge has hired an expert to support the investigation. She doesn’t seem to think much of Mark Anthony’s fraud unit…”

  “Fraud unit?”

  “Look. All we need to do is sit down and figure out who could have had access to the checking account. Other than the committee members, I mean.”

  “Somebody stole that money? It was for the literacy fund!”

  “Maybe it isn’t stolen. Let’s just say we don’t know where it is at the moment.”

  “A banking error. It has to be. I don’t trust that little teller Andrea Peterson. She’s careless, very careless. Perhaps she put my deposits into another account.”

  “Mark Anthony is checking into that, too.”

  “Or those computers! Something is always going wrong with those computers!”

  “The investigators will find out, if that’s what happened. You know how good Marge’s people are.”

  “Investigators!” Adela’s eyes were wild. “There’s an investigation?” She began to breathe in a big, gaspy way that alarmed Quill a lot. “Excuse me, I…” Adela got to her feet. “The doorbell. There’s someone at the doorbell. It’s Elmer, undoubtedly.” She compressed in a tight, white line. “That fool.”

  Quill followed her to the front of the house feeling utterly helpless. Adela paused a moment at the front door, adjusted her earrings, smoothed her jacket over her hips, and put her shoulders back.

  She opened the door to Davy Kiddermeister, dressed in his uniform and carrying a warrant.

  She fainted at Quill’s feet.

  7

  “So where is Adela now?” Marge asked. “In the hospital, or what?”

  Marge and Quill sat in the All-American Diner (Fine Food! And Fast!), one of Marge’s many holdings in Tompkins County. Meg claimed that Marge’s diner partner, Betty Hall, made the best diner food in the northeastern United States. With the increasing popularity of the village as a tourist destination, Marge had redecorated. Instead of vinyl, the restaurant now had pale oak floors, and captain’s chairs replaced the old vinyl stools at the counter. The sticky plastic menu was replaced by a chalkboard. Quill was glad the food hadn’t changed. She felt like everything else in her universe was upside down.

  “In the hospital, for observation. Andy Bishop was great about it. Anyone else would have discharged her, but she’s better off under medical supervision, Marge. I mean, she’s all alone in that house, and heaven knows what that idiot Carol Ann and her stupid Citizens for Justice are up to. What if they picket her, or something?”

  “There’s been discussion about picketing.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. They had another meeting this morning to decide what to do.”

  “Where? And how do you know?”

  “The showroom at Peterson Automotive’s big enough for those fancy cars and a crowd, too. Carol Ann called the meeting there. Just like last night. There’s a sign out front, now. It says CITIZENS FOR JUSTICE HEADQUARTERS.”

  “Did you go to the meeting?”

  “Heck, no. They know Elmer’s staying up to the farm and they know you and I are tight and they know you think Carol Ann’s a terminal disease. No, I sent somebody in undercover.”

  “You did? Who?”

  “Betty. So don’t order the special since she’s not here to cook it.”

  “Wow. Betty’s undercover.” Quill sat back. “That was smart.”

  “You bet it was,” Marge said with an air of satisfaction. “Nothing like having a good spy in place to gather intelligence. So. What’s next?”

  “What’s next is that I’m starving. Then we need to make a list of people who might have had access to that account. But food first.”

  “You better order something and eat it. What you weigh, a hundred and ten soaking wet?”

  “None of your business.” Quill looked at the chalkboard. “What do you recommend?”

  “The Reuben. The rest of the kitchen’s got the sandwich down pat and it doesn’t matter if Betts isn’t here.”

  “I’m hungry, so I’ll go for the onion rings, too.”

  “Fries are a better bet.” Without looking around, Marge raised her voice and yelled, “Reubens-with. Two of ’em.” She directed her beady gray gaze back at Quill. “So. What’d you find out before Adela hit the floor?”

  “She doesn’t know a thing about the missing money, I’m sure of that. And I had a chance to talk with her once she got admitted to the ER. The checkbook hasn’t been out of her sight. She swears up and down that nobody on the committee even knew where she kept it. She’s never had a meeting at her house, and it’s locked in her
desk drawer.”

  “Elmer had access, then.”

  “Come on, Marge.”

  Marge shrugged. “Just pointing out the obvious. What about deposit slips and things like that? She keep those in her purse? The account number’s on those.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Not to mention the bank statements. Those go to the house, right? And the mailbox is right outside for anybody to burgle. Thing is, once you got the account number, it’s a lot easier to hack into the system. Knowing Adela, the password’s ‘fete’ or even ‘1234.’” Marge waited until the waitress set the Reubens in front of both of them. “Doesn’t matter who has the checkbook. The real question is who knows enough about computer hacking to get into the system.”

  Quill picked up her sandwich and put it down again. “I’ve been thinking about that. Althea Quince claims to know her way around a computer.”

  “She does, huh?” Marge put a couple of French fries in her mouth and thought this over. “Maybe we ought to check Ms. Quince out. Betty texted me the names of the idiots at that meeting this morning. Althea Quince was there.”

  “She was?”

  “Got there late, and didn’t stay long. She had a companion, Betty said. Didn’t say who that might be.”

  “Mr. Quince, probably.” Quill ate a couple of French fries, too. “He seems like a very nice man. Quiet.” She thought a bit more. “Smart, too. Who else was there?”

  Marge pulled her cell phone out of her chinos pocket and tapped at it. “The guys from the Gazette. But no TV, like there was last night, and the reporters didn’t stay. There still isn’t any proof, and past a certain point, no editor is going to run what amounts to a bunch of unsupported allegations over and over again.” Marge raised her eyes from her cell phone. “I’d like to get Carol Ann in a small room with a big dog and find out just what the heck she does know.”

  “Marge!”

  “See, my guess is that Carol Ann never got over having to step out of the mayor’s race last year. This is part of a power grab. She lost that job as food inspector.” A grin flitted across Marge’s face and disappeared. “And now she’s got nothing going on except a job cashiering at Wegman’s over to Syracuse and some loony-tunes diet scam called Nutra-Noshers. Anyhow, once the media figures out this is just Carol Ann after some free press she’s going to go begging for coverage.”

  “Carol Ann has a job as a cashier at Wegman’s?” Quill was fascinated by this piece of gossip.

  “Not too much that suits her notion of herself in these parts. Job at least keeps the rent paid.”

  “I thought she owned her own ho…never mind. So you think she cooked up this investigation to unseat Adela and the mayor, too?”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “But the money’s gone.”

  “I think Dina’s right. I think Carol Ann lucked into that.”

  Quill shook her head. “That doesn’t make much sense. Somebody tipped her off. I’d sure like to find out who. Unless…Do you think she stole the money?”

  “Now that would surprise me. Carol Ann’s too much of a law-and-order type. Besides, did you see her face when Mark Anthony told us how much was in the account yesterday? She was as surprised as anybody there. I think young Dina had it right. She’s a spoiler, Carol Ann is. If the money had been there, she was just going to holler louder, asking for a public accounting, blah, blah, blah. Lot of folks figure where there’s smoke there’s fire, which is why big lies work so well.” Marge sighed heavily. “Tell you what. Unless the bank comes up with some computer error, we might as well look where the smoke’s rising.”

  “You mean the people on the fete committee.”

  “They’re the likeliest to know how much money was floating around. And they knew where the account numbers could be found.”

  Quill ate some of her sandwich without really tasting it. “Okay. So the only person on the fete committee we don’t know a thing about is Althea Quince. “

  “So we’ve got a possible lead.”

  “Right. A possible lead.”

  “Or a what d’ya call it? A line of inquiry.”

  “Fine! A line of inquiry, then. Why did she go off to that meeting this morning? I think that’s suspicious, don’t you? She’d want to find out what kind of investigation this citizen’s committee’s going to launch to protect herself.”

  “Maybe. And maybe she was just nosy.”

  “Who else did you say was there?”

  Marge tapped on the phone. “A bunch of Harland’s idiot relatives, but since there’s so many of them you have to expect it. Most of the Chamber members, excepting you, me, Miriam, and Dookie. Some little old guy Betts says is at least a hundred and ten with a cane. She’s never seen him before.”

  “A little old…” Quill searched her visual memory, which was excellent. “My goodness! Mr. Swenson? What do you suppose he was doing there?”

  “Since I don’t know him from a hole in the ground I couldn’t guess. Who is he?”

  “If it’s the same man, he’s a guest at the Inn. He took the Provencal Suite on a Long-Term Let.”

  “The only really old people with canes around here are widows,” Marge said. “So maybe it is the same guy.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Marge.”

  “What?!”

  “I don’t know. I’m just asking for a little respect, that’s all. Not for me, for the little old…never mind. Anybody else? Anybody suspicious?”

  “If you mean former secondhand-rust-bucket drivers flaunting a new Corvette bought with stolen fete money, no. Or if there was, Betts didn’t text me about it.” Marge clicked her cell phone shut. “Best thing we can hope is that my guy can go through that bank system and trace the money transfer. In the meantime, we got thirty thousand people headed for the fete in two weeks, and nobody to run it…” Marge broke off and narrowed her eyes. “Who the heck is that?”

  Quill turned around. A small, dark-haired woman was entering the restaurant. She was dressed in an expensive suit—Adolfo, Quill thought—and followed by two much taller men, who stayed a respectful two feet behind. She carried a slim Hermes briefcase that might have cost less than the suit, but not by much. One of the men had an affable expression. He had a ponytail, wore a headband, and in general looked like he’d headed for California twenty years before and gotten lost.

  The other was a hunk. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and muscular. Mid-thirties, maybe, with an aquiline nose, square jaw, and intelligent brown eyes under level brows. He caught Quill’s gaze and winked.

  Quill, suddenly mindful of the fact that she was a married woman, looked hastily away from the hunk and again at the short, well-dressed woman preceding him.

  She looked around the diner in a calculating way. One eyebrow went up when she sighted Quill and she headed briskly toward the booth. She extended a nicely manicured hand and said, “You must be Sarah Quilliam. Or do you prefer McHale? I’m Linda Connelly.”

  Quill dropped the remains of her sandwich in her lap, dabbed futilely at the sauerkraut with one hand, and shook Linda’s hand with the other. “Hello. You’re with the company that we’ve asked to run the fete.”

  “That’s right. I just came from a meeting with your mayor. He told me you might be here. Call me Linda. Okay if I call you Quill?”

  “Certainly.”

  “This is George McIntyre, our driver, with the headband, and Mickey Greer, my assistant.”

  The corners of Mickey’s eyes crinkled in an attractive smile. He took Quill’s hand in a brief, firm clasp.

  Linda nodded at Marge. “And you’re Mrs. Peterson?”

  Marge tore her gaze from Mickey Greer and said, “Schmidt. Marge Schmidt.”

  Linda nodded. “Yes. Well. We’ve come to an agreement with your mayor. We’re going to run the fete for you.”

  “That’s terrific,” Quill said warmly. “Would you like to sit down?”

  George smiled. “What we’d like is to sit down and eat a
few of those great-looking Reubens. But we don’t have time at the moment. We’re headed over to the Resort to check in. We wanted to stay at the Inn, right, Linda?”

  Linda blinked. Then she smiled. It wasn’t a very warm one. “Right. We would have liked to stay at the Inn—we’ve heard so much about it up in Syracuse, but expenses are going to be on the town’s dollar, so we’re economizing.”

  “We’d like to schedule a meeting with you later, though,” George said. “Get to know you folks a little better. We were wondering if we might meet with you and the rest of the fete committee tonight? Say about eight o’clock if that’s not too late for you? I know you need some time with your little boy. We’ve got to come up to speed pretty quick, here.”

  “Eight would be fine,” Quill said. “I’ll give the other committee members a call. Would you like to meet at the Inn?”

  “Sure,” Linda said. “Whatever suits you. We’ll see you there.” She shook hands with Quill and Marge, wheeled around, and left, trailed by George, who waved a cheery good-bye, and the hunk, who didn’t look back.

  “Holy cripes,” Marge said after they were safely out of hearing.

  “She did seem pretty efficient,” Quill said. “Somehow you’d expect an event co-coordinator to be warmer.”

  “Who? Linda Connelly? I meant the guy with her.”

  Quill rubbed the back of her neck. “Really? Which one?”

  Marge pursed her lips. “You know what? If you’d left it at the ‘really’ I might have bought it. It was the ‘which one’ that did it. The hunk, of course. I think I better come to that meeting of yours tonight. Keep an eye out for Myles while he’s away.”

  Quill raised both eyebrows. “Oh, yeah? So who’s the one that said ‘Call me Schmidt’ rather than admitting she was married? I think you’d better come to the meeting, too. And bring Harland with you.”

  Marge made a rude noise.

  “I’m glad Elmer found someone so quickly.” Quill gazed doubtfully out the window. Linda and her crew were getting into a silver Lexus. George the headband guy got into the driver’s seat. Mickey Greer sat next to him. Linda sat in the back. “They certainly knew a great deal about both of us, Marge. Kind of odd, don’t you think?”