Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138)

by Bishop, Claudia

  “I know that, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Dolly Jean Attenborough: motive is also revenge. Thought Harvey should have vic’s job. Carol Ann Spinoza, ditto; Michael Allan Ryan Greer, wanted to take over the company.”

  “That’s Harker’s suspect list? Harvey, Dolly Jean, Carol Ann, and Greer? The only one who makes any sense at all is Greer, but that’s mainly because we don’t know him from a hole in the ground.” And, she added to herself, he looks dangerous.

  “This will make you feel better. He’s redlined Louis Bergdorf.”

  “Louis Bergdorf? Who’s he?”

  “Mechanic who found the body.”

  “The mechanic who found the body. Oh, dear.”

  “For once, Harker seems to have his head screwed on straight. Somebody called Zeke Peterson with a cockamamie story about a lottery win and the kid hared off to Syracuse. This mechanic showed up in his place, disappeared, and hasn’t been heard from again. Not only that, Brady Beale claims the guy took off with his laptop and forty thousand dollars’ worth of tools.”

  “Forty thousand dollars’ worth of tools?” She rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache. What in the world would Althea want with forty thousand dollars’ worth of automotive tools? And where the heck would she keep them?

  “Yep. He’s already filed a claim with his insurance company.”

  “Oh.” Of course Althea didn’t have forty thousand dollars’ worth of tools. Those tools were in Brady’s active imagination. Then she said, “I’ll bet he has, the little weasel.” Then, “He’s insured through Schmidt Realty and Casualty, I’ll bet. Poor Marge.”

  “My money’s on this Louis character,” Davy said, who hadn’t listened to a word she’d said. “It’s nice and straightforward, like most crimes. Guy cons the Peterson kid out of town so he can rob the garage and Linda Connelly walks in on it. Bam. There you are.”

  Quill shook her head. “This whole Louis Bergdorf thing is a no-go, Davy.”

  “You’re kidding! It makes total sense. The vic shows up at the dealership, tries to stop the perp from swiping the tools, and bang, Bergdorf shoots her in the head and stows her in the trunk of her car.”

  “But why would Althea…I mean Bergdorf stick around to discover the body? Why not just take off?”

  “If crooks were smart, they’d be on Wall Street.”

  “There are crooks on Wall…never mind. Trust me, Davy, there is no Louis Bergdorf.”

  Davy swung his feet to the floor and stood up. He loomed over her. “Whatever you know, you’d better tell me, Quill.”

  “Sit down, Davy. Please.” She held his gaze until he sank back into his chair. “Thank you. All I can tell you is this: Louis Bergdorf is going to make Lt. Harker look like a big fat idiot.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. So if you insist, I’ll tell you who Louis Bergdorf really is and why Louis Bergdorf was at Brady’s car dealership but I really wish you’d leave it alone. Believe me, it has nothing to do with the murder.”

  “Not good enough, Quill.”

  “Okay, then let me tell you something I couldn’t know unless I know the identity of Louis Bergdorf. Zeke Peterson found a number ten office envelope with two hundred dollars in his mailbox when he got back from his futile trip to collect his lottery winnings.”

  “Dammit, Quill!”

  “I know he’s a fellow law enforcement officer and all that—but Harker is…ugh. And trust me, he’s going to look pretty foolish. Let the Bergdorf thing ride, Davy. If Harker does discover who Bergdorf is, he’ll have egg all over his face.”

  Davy thought about this for a minute.

  “And there is nothing, nothing criminal involved at all. Who has Brady’s insurance policy? Marge, right?”

  “She does, sure.”

  “Then I’ll let her know the tools claim is bogus.” She thought about the laptop. She wanted a look at that laptop and she’d return it to the dealership herself after she had a chance to go through it. “And I’ll bet you five bucks Brady misplaced his laptop and it isn’t even stolen. Or maybe he lent it to somebody and forgot that he did. Look, hasn’t Harker done a background search on Linda Connelly?”

  “Sure. She’s a successful event planner from Syracuse. Former Xerox employee. All kinds of recommendations from her clients. Doesn’t appear to have any enemies in her background. Not the homicidal type, anyway.”

  “Think about this for a minute. I’ve met the woman, remember? She’s here less than two days, and she manages to offend half of the people in town. Just look at your suspect list. A successful event planner rides to the rescue of a little town swamped with one of the biggest events of its year and she incites half the village to homicidal thoughts? It doesn’t make sense. When you think event planner, what do you think? Cheerful, friendly. A real…people person, if you don’t mind the cliché. This woman is cold as ice and has a pair of thugs in tow. She’s no event planner, Davy. And she ends up in the trunk of her car at Brady Beale’s place? She’d already been out to the dealership once that day. Why did she go back there?”

  She didn’t add what she was thinking. It was all speculation, and Davy hated speculation. What if Brady Beale had hacked into the fete bank account and set up Adela’s departure? He’d shown up at the steering committee meeting almost immediately and volunteered to take over. But they’d hired Linda Connelly instead, and somehow, some way, Linda had interfered with Brady’s plans.

  What were Brady’s plans? And how did Linda Connelly manage to interfere with them?

  “So you don’t think Linda Connelly’s an event planner, despite a ton of references from her former clients and a résumé a yard long?” Davy shook his head in exasperation. “If she isn’t, what is she?”

  “I don’t know.” Quill got up and slung her tote over her shoulder. “But I’m going to do my best to find out.”

  14

  Outside, it was getting hot and the sun was unusually fierce. It had been a dry summer, so far, and Quill wondered vaguely if the dryness had to do with the heat or the other way around. She was pretty sure there was a hat of some kind in her Honda. She wanted to sit outside and make an orderly list of questions. And then make a little map with connecting lines, to show the relationship of all the unknowns. She was very curious about what might be on Brady’s laptop—she might need Marge and Marge’s computer wizard for that. She needed a list and the peace and quiet to make one.

  Peterson Park was only two blocks away. It would be a good place to sit and figure out what her next steps should be. By then, justice court should be over, and she could turn the letter from the Syracuse law firm over to Howie.

  She wished Myles were home. Too many things were up in the air.

  She was sure of one thing, though. As much as she liked Althea Quince, there were too many questions about that overly resourceful lady. She made Quill uneasy. Was she going to regret diverting Davy from investigating the fictitious Louis Whatsis? But what possible reason could Althea have for whacking Linda Connelly over the head? And why stick around to discover the body?

  She opened the rear hatch of her car and stood contemplating the chaos inside. An extra car seat for Jack, in case something went wrong with the car seat up front. Three pairs of shorts, two jackets, and a fuzzy hat. A Game Boy, a portable crib, a portable stroller. A cooler, packed with snacks in foil and juice boxes. All Jack’s.

  “Hello, Quill. Having a yard sale?” Howie Murchison hailed her as he crossed the parking lot. He had his judge’s robe over one arm and his briefcase in one hand. “If you are, you can toss this in the mix.” He flapped the robe.

  She turned with a smile. “This is a lucky surprise! I was going to look you up later today. Tough day in justice court?”

  “Not bad, actually. And I got through the docket before lunch. That’s even better.” He stood beside her and gazed into the depths of her backseat. “It seems to me, when I was younger, and married, and my kids were Jack’s age, that we made do with far less stu
ff.”

  “I seem to recall that when I was Jack’s age, my mother made do with less stuff, too.” She rummaged through the detritus. “Aha.” She emerged with a John Deere billed hat. “Perfect.”

  “I’d say something gallant, like the green of the hat matches your eyes, but they’re not green, are they?” He moved closer and peered at her. “More tea-colored. I thought all redheads were green-eyed.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

  “Then you must have flunked Logic 101.” Surprised at her tart retort, she apologized. “It’s just that you don’t usually flirt with me, Howie.”

  “I don’t, do I? I’m off my game. I’ll tell you why if you join me for lunch?” He held up his hand, palm out, as if taking an oath. “I promise, no flirting.”

  She hesitated. “Well, okay. I wanted to talk with you about something anyway, so over lunch would be nice. Shall we walk down to the Croh Bar?”

  “My local spot,” Howie said with satisfaction. “Miriam’s, too. You think we’d get tired of it, but we never do. It’s the endless fascination of small-town life, I suppose. Sooner or later, everything and everyone seems to pass through the Croh Bar.”

  They didn’t have to wait for a booth. In just a few days, the place would be crowded with tourists from the fete, although, Quill thought, not as crowded as the other restaurants in the village. With its orange-patterned indoor-outdoor carpeting, red vinyl stools, and battered pine bar, the Croh Bar had been a village institution for years. Marge and her partner Betty Hall bought it when Norm Pasquale retired to Florida, and, with that instinct for business that made her the richest woman in Tompkins County, Marge had updated the tattered bar in exactly the same materials, only new. It smelled like it had since 1932; old wood polish, warm beer, and aging carpet.

  Betty herself took their order. She greeted Quill with a friendly blow on the shoulder, ignored Howie, and cocked her head with weary expectancy. “Special’s mac ’n’ cheese.”

  “I’ll have that,” Quill said. Betty’s macaroni and cheese was made with heavy cream, top-of-the-line Cheddar, and panko bread crumbs.

  “Cobb salad for me,” Howie said. He slapped his middle, which bulged gently over his belt.

  “You’re dieting, Howie?”

  “Setting up for the big day, most like,” Betty said. “Ha-ha.” She clumped away.

  “What big day?”

  Howie wore wire-rimmed spectacles, primarily, Miriam said, so he could peer sternly over them at the petitioners in his court. He took them off, polished them nervously, and put them on again. “I don’t know how she does it.”

  “Who? Betty? Does what?”

  “Guesses. I’ve been thinking about asking Miriam to marry me. You know. I’ve been divorced for what, fifteen years now, and I’ll be retiring from the bench, soon. I’m thinking maybe it’s time.”

  “Why, Howie! How wonderful.”

  “Yeah.” He stroked his chin. “Think she’ll say yes?”

  “I have no idea. Well, actually, I think she’d be thrilled, but I certainly can’t speak for her.”

  “You two are pretty good friends.”

  “We are, but if you think I’m going to run interference for you, you can forget it. You’d better ask her before Betty lets the cat out of the bag.”

  “You and Myles are pretty happy.”

  “Very.”

  “I’m thinking we could be happy, too.”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “So. You wouldn’t want to maybe sound her out a bit before I made a fool of myself?”

  “That would be no. If she turns you down, you can handle it. And if this is why you wanted to buy me lunch, you can forget it. We’ll go Dutch. Although, I’ll be happy to pick up the tab if you don’t mind answering a few questions.”

  “My advice is worth exactly what you pay for it.”

  She picked up the menu. “Good. Then I want exactly six dollars and ninety-eight cents’ worth. I think I’m about to get sued.” She pulled the letter from her tote and handed it over.

  Howie read it with the absorbed, focused attention that made him so good at his profession. Then he read it again.

  “Saber rattling,” he said. “You notice the summons and complaint is marked ‘draft.’ And the cause of action is pretty weak. This assumes that you have an obligation, under the Innkeeper’s Act to exercise greater care and control over your guests than you actually do. As the law is written now, at least.”

  “Should I retain you and Justin to handle it?”

  “I think that’d be a good idea.” He folded the letter and tucked it into his suit jacket pocket. “I’ll ask Justin to write a formal response.”

  “Porter says he knows you.”

  “He does. We were at Cornell together. He called at my office a few weeks ago. Wanted to retain us to handle a competency hearing for Jeeter.”

  “You turned him down?”

  “Yep.”

  “Because Jeeter Swenson isn’t demented.”

  “Any healthy ninety-eight-year-old has some dementia, Quill. It’s a normal part of the aging process. And further than that, I’m not willing to go.”

  “Because you don’t like Porter Swenson?”

  “All lawyers take an oath…aw, hell.” He grinned suddenly. “Because I don’t like the son of a B. There’s lawyers around that’ll take the case. As a matter of fact he found some.”

  “Do you know the firm?”

  “Not at all. I think they’re from Savannah and opened a satellite office up here, but I’m not even sure of that.”

  “Why is Porter so anxious to put his father in some nursing home? If Jeeter were a danger to himself or to other people, I guess I can see it. But he handles himself awfully well, Howie, except for that bit about the Loch Ness Monster, but I know forty-year-olds who believe in the Loch Ness Monster.”

  Howie looked momentarily bemused, and then shook his head, as if to get rid of flies. “Family law. It’s a swamp.”

  Betty slapped Quill’s mac and cheese down on the table, and held Howie’s salad out of reach. “Does that mean you’re not going to handle the Henrys’ divorce?”

  Howie scratched his chin. “What are my options, here? Can I get my lunch? Or are you going to dump it on my head? Come on, Betty. I’ll talk about anything you like. The Rochester Rhinos. The weather. Meg’s dumping poor Justin for some slick out-of-towner. But not my profession.”

  “Meg did what?” Quill asked.

  Betty turned on her heel and walked off. Howie pressed his lips together and looked stubborn. Quill took the bread plate and scraped half her mac and cheese onto it. “Here. Have some of mine.”

  “I didn’t want the damn salad anyway. I’m not a rabbit.”

  “Miriam will love you with or without your little tummy,” Quill assured him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “If it’s about Elmer and Adela…”

  “No, no. It’s about Meg. She didn’t dump Justin, did she? She wouldn’t.”

  “Oh. That.” Howie sighed. “Relationships. You know what? Maybe I’ll wait a bit to pop the question. Miriam and I are getting along fine just as we are.”

  “But what about Meg?”

  “A smart man stays completely out of his friend’s relationships issues. You’re going to have to talk to Meg yourself.”

  ~

  Quill finished what was left of her lunch more quickly than she wanted to, and headed back up the hill to the Inn. She found Meg at the prep sink in her kitchen. She was dressed for the weather in shorts, a T-shirt that stated I’m Not Doin’ It! on the back, and one of the kitchen’s long cotton aprons. Her socks were a temperamental orange.

  “You dumped Justin Alvarez for this guy Greer? You’ve known him what…for an hour and a half?” Quill kept her voice down. The lunch hour was in full swing, and Meg’s kitchen was bustling.

  “NYB, Quill.” Meg held a colander of fresh peas. She pushed them around with her forefinger, and then ran the colander under the tap
.

  “What? What? Oh! Not my business. Well, it is my business. You’re my sister.” Furiously, Quill grabbed the clip out of her hair, and then rewound her hair on the top of her head. The activity gave her enough time to keep her temper in check. “You know, you go through men like a bag of Oreos on movie night.”

  “Oreos are a fake food, did you know that? Chemicals. Pure chemicals.”

  “Whatever.” Then, very gently, “Don’t you want a sort of settled relationship, Meggie?”

  Meg didn’t look up from the peas. “I had one. He died. End of story.”

  “But that was fifteen years ago.”

  Meg bit her lip. She and her husband had been very young and married only six months when he’d been killed in a horrific car accident. They hadn’t time to emerge from love’s heady, irreplaceable beginnings to the more sober realities of a long-term relationship. If her sister was going to measure each new lover against the long-ago image of her young husband, she was never going to find heart’s ease.

  Quill kept her voice gentle. “I’ll shut up about Justin. I’m sorry you had to break his heart.” She grabbed a handful of pods and began to shuck peas back into the stainless-steel bowl. “I guess you know what you’re doing.”

  “I guess I do. So. What’s up with the fete?”

  Quill grabbed a second handful of pea pods. “Adela seems to be in the clear, so the steering committee is sending a delegation to her home this afternoon to ask her to reconsider her resignation.”

  “No kidding. That’s great news. What happened? Did Marge’s computer whiz discover that Adela’d been set up?”

  “The official word is that the account was hacked by any one of those computer bandits that lurk in the cyber sphere.”