Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138)

by Bishop, Claudia

  “Those crafty devils.” Meg combined Quill’s shucked peas with the ones in the colander and rinsed them. “Do you believe that?”

  “Do you?”

  “It seems kind of…serendipitous to me.”

  “Serendipitous for whom?”

  “Carol Ann, of course.”

  “I don’t see how Carol Ann could have taken the money. Marge says the money’s in some offshore account in the Caymans and Carol Ann can barely manage her e-mail. Plus, she’s all about law and order. It just doesn’t fit, Meg.”

  “Damn. I keep thinking somehow, someway, she’ll disappear forever. Well, at least you’re off the hook for the fete. I hope so anyhow. Who’s in the delegation to coax Adela back on board? Not Elmer. She’s still as mad as fire at him.”

  “No. Harvey, Dolly Jean, and Dookie.”

  “Dookie will swing it. He’s the sweetest man I know. So what’s next? How are you and the Amazing Althea doing on solving our recent murder?”

  “Althea swiped Brady Beale’s laptop.”

  Meg’s eyes got big. “She did? Why?”

  “She says that Brady’s the likeliest one to steal the money because he wanted to move the fete to Summersville and he wanted to embarrass Adela. That made sense to me. She was also on the spot, or very nearly, when Linda Connelly was killed. Did you know she discovered the body? Do you know how frequently the murderer is the one who discovers the body?”

  Meg rolled her eyes. “I refuse, absolutely, categorically, and unequivocally to believe that Althea Quince murdered anybody. She’s practically seventy years old, for Pete’s sake. Did Howie buy you a couple of vodkas for lunch? Because tipsiness is the only explanation for this lunatic speculation.”

  “You’re probably right. But just in case, I wanted to take a look at Brady’s computer myself. So I swiped the laptop from Althea.”

  Meg pounded the top of the prep table. “Whoa! Way to go, Sis! Now what are you going to do?”

  “I can’t trust Althea.”

  “You never did trust her. I don’t know why. I think she’s a hoot.”

  “And I think Linda Connelly’s a fake.”

  Meg handed the peas to Elizabeth Chou, who distributed them over four plates containing the basics of Meg’s spring salad: new lettuce, goat cheese, hothouse tomatoes, and chives. “Linda Connelly’s a fake what?”

  “A fake event planner.”

  “A fake event planner? Why? Who’d want to be a fake event planner?”

  “I don’t think it’s the event planning part so much as the fact that it got her here.”

  “To do what?” Meg chuckled. “Rob the fete?” Her mouth dropped open. “Oh. My. God. You’re serious. I’d just like to point out that somebody has already robbed the fete.”

  “How many people are we expecting?”

  “Thirty thousand, this year.”

  “And how much are tickets?”

  “Twenty bucks at the gate.”

  “And we get about ten thousand of those paying cash at the gate. So you do the math.”

  “I can’t,” Meg said frankly. “You do it.”

  “Okay. It’s…” Quill rubbed her nose. “Give me that scratch pad.”

  “That’s not a scratch pad, that’s my notes for a new recipe.”

  Quill snatched the pad and the pencil attached to it. “It’s two hundred thousand dollars. In cash.”

  Meg grabbed the scratch pad back. “Wow,” she said in a small voice. “So maybe Brady Beale robbed the fete and Linda Connelly was in on it so she could help him rob more of it, and they had some kind of falling out.”

  “You betcha.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now I find Marge so I can get into that purloined laptop. There’s something else, Meg. That hottie you dumped good old honorable Justin Alvarez for? I’ll bet he’s a crook, too.”

  Meg’s face darkened. “Hang on a minute. Have you bounced this crazy idea off anyone else?”

  “It’s not a crazy idea.”

  “It’s not,” Meg admitted. “But you have zero proof. Zero. You’re theorizing ahead of the facts. Wait! Wait! Did I say facts? There aren’t any!!” She glanced at the pot rack, where her trusty, much-dented eight-inch sauté pan hung invitingly close. “I’ve never thrown that thing at you but I maybe, just maybe, am ready to break the habit of a lifetime.”

  Quill backed a prudent six feet away. Meg’s aim was lousy, but there was no sense in taking a chance. “Listen. Are you really going out with Mickey Greer?”

  “It’s Thursday,” Meg said, as if this explained everything.

  “So you’re out of here at two o’clock. It’s almost that now. Where are you two going?”

  “We were planning on hiking Buttermilk Falls.”

  “Meg! That’s where you and Justin had your first date.”

  Meg looked thoughtful. “I guess you’re right. Maybe that’s what set him off.”

  “Set who off? Justin? You know what? I don’t want to know anymore. Not right now. Honestly, I don’t think you ought to cross the street with this guy, much less hike forty miles from civilization.”

  “Buttermilk Gorge is practically a suburb of Ithaca.”

  “And besides, what the heck is this guy doing going out on a date when his boss is lying murdered in the Tompkins County Morgue?”

  “I needed a little downtime. Your sheriff said it would be okay.” The voice was very male and very deep.

  Quill whirled. The double doors to the dining room swung closed behind Mickey Greer. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, perhaps an inch or two under six feet. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, either. His mouth was too wide, his nose too aquiline. His eyes were deep set; the whites very clear, the pupils dark. He wore jeans and a denim shirt. The sleeves were rolled halfway up, revealing heavily muscled forearms. The combination of all of these things made him devastatingly attractive.

  “Your sister said she was in need of a little downtime, too.” He paused. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Of course not,” Quill said. “I mean, not with Meg needing some time off. But Ms. Connelly’s death must be very upsetting for you?”

  “Naturally,” Mickey said, with a reassuring air. “Very upsetting. Not to mention the fact that I’m out of a job.” He grinned attractively. “Your Lieutenant Harker seems to think that my taking over the company is a motive for knocking her off myself. She was great at it. There’s no way I could take over from her. No way that I’d even want to. I’m very sorry she’s gone. George is taking it harder than I thought. But he’s worked with her longer than I have. I wasn’t close to Linda. We’d only worked a few events together. But her death was a shock, certainly.” He smiled, devastatingly. “I’m lucky your sister agreed to spend a little time with me. I need to clear my head.”

  Elizabeth Chou waved her whisk. “I can go with him, Meg. If you’re too tied up.”

  “I’ve got it covered, thanks.” Meg untied her apron and tossed it on the floor. “I’m just going to run upstairs and get my gear. Give me two seconds.”

  “In the meantime, Mickey,” Quill suggested. “Why don’t we sit in the dining room? Would you like something to eat?”

  “Why not?” He stepped to one side and pushed the doors open. “After you.”

  “Elizabeth, could you bring Mr. Greer something light? He won’t want to eat too much if he’s hiking in this heat. Bring me something, too, if you would. Howie Murchison ate most of my lunch.”

  Mickey followed her out of the kitchen. The dining room was almost empty.

  “Looks like business isn’t too hot,” Mickey said.

  “It’s a weekday in late summer and a lot of families are home getting their kids ready for school next week,” Quill said. “In a week or two, when people start coming into town for the fete, we’ll have a line all the way down to Main Street. Why don’t we sit here?” She indicated the small table for four that was her habitual spot.

  Mickey sat with his back to the wall
. He glanced around the room once, but Quill had the feeling that he could make his way through it blindfolded if he had to.

  “Is there any progress on the investigation?”

  He turned his palms up in a “who knows?” gesture. “Not enough to satisfy me. George, either. You know anything about this state trooper? Name’s Harker.”

  “Yes,” Quill said with feeling. “I do. None of it good, I’m afraid.” Then because even a justified criticism of a resident of Tompkins County seemed disloyal, she added, “But his resources are excellent.”

  Elizabeth pushed her way out the kitchen doors with her hip. She carried a tray with a half carafe of red wine, a plate of spring salad, a plate of country pâté with cornichons, mustard, pearl onions, and cheese, and a basket of Meg’s sourdough bread. She arranged all of this carefully in front of Mickey Greer, shook out his napkin, and stood there with a sappy smile on her face.

  Quill cleared her throat. “Maybe you could bring me a spring salad, Elizabeth?”

  “Oh! Sure! Whatever.”

  Quill waited until Elizabeth bounced back with her salad and bounced away again. Mickey Greer attacked his lunch in a methodical way, a man who saw food as fuel and not much else. “How long have you worked for Presentations?”

  “Four months, give or take.”

  “What did you do before that?”

  He smiled. “This and that. I was in the navy for a while. I mustered on out with pretty good retirement benefits.”

  Quill was good at determining ages. Mickey Greer was in his early forties, no older than that.

  “You must have joined up at a pretty young age.”

  The look he gave her was opaque. “Right out of high school. Why all the questions? You think I had something to do with Linda’s murder?”

  Quill felt just like an interrogator on NCIS. “I don’t know. Did you?” The tough-guy effect was probably marred by the fact she was blushing, but she pressed on. “Where were you and George yesterday?”

  “We went down to Seneca Lake for a swim.” He swallowed the last of the pâté and bit into a roll. “Linda told us to take the afternoon off, so we did.” Then, in a genuinely appreciative tone, he said, “It’s beautiful country around here.”

  “Do you know what her plans were? Why did she go back to the car dealership? Did she and Brady Beale know each other before she got to Hemlock Falls?”

  Mickey shoved his plate to one side and tipped his chair against the back wall. “Okay, Ms. McHale. You want to play detective? It’s fine by me. As far as I know, she went back to Peterson Automotive because what’s his name, Brady, wanted more space for his exhibit. She had to shove a couple of other booths around to accommodate him. There’s a lot of back and forth with these things.”

  This was true. As a matter of fact, “back and forth” was an understatement. Booth placement was a hotly contended issue at the fete. “Did she actually talk to Brady?”

  He shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “What time did you and George get back?”

  “Aaahh. Let’s see. We ate at some diner in Geneva. An Italian place.”

  “Nona Maria’s?”

  “That’s it. We must have left there about seven? I’ve got a credit card receipt if you’d like to take a look.” He looked beyond her shoulder. “There’s your sister. Thanks for the food.”

  Quill turned in her chair and watched Mickey saunter across the room. Meg wore shorts. Very short shorts. Meg had excellent legs, and her Uggs hiking boots somehow served to make them look even better. Quill bit back the first comment she wanted to make (too snide) and the second (too maternal). In the end, she just waved and watched her sister leave with one of the scariest guys she’d ever met.

  15

  “…And that includes that idiot from the winery case five years ago,” she said to Marge half an hour later.

  “I remember that one,” Marge said nostalgically. “That’s the first time you and I ever did a B and E together.”

  “B and…? Breaking and entering. Yes. Well. We’re probably breaking more laws by hacking into Brady’s computer.”

  “And why are we doing this again?”

  They sat in Marge’s office on Main Street. Outside, a group of ladies from the Fireman’s Auxiliary were filling the sidewalk planters with bright red geraniums and English ivy. Members from the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God attached hanging planters filled with purple petunias and asparagus fern from the wrought-iron lampposts. In two weeks, at the start of the fete, the old village would be looking its very best.

  “Because Althea Quince took it and she was going to hack it, too.”

  “What’d she expect to find?”

  “Initially, I think she expected e-mails from Carol Ann to Brady, planning more mischief. Then, I think she suspected Brady of being involved in the theft of the fete funds.”

  “No flies on that lady,” Marge grunted. “Althea, I mean. Okay. Let’s see here.” She flipped open the laptop. “You do know that if this is password protected, we’re going to have a problem.”

  “I thought maybe your computer guy can handle it.”

  “She can. It can take a while though.” Marge tapped the power button and the laptop began to boot up. “Brady’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier so maybe we might get lucky.”

  The screen pulsed with light. The little box requiring user name and password identification glowed at them.

  Marge input ‘Brady’ and then ‘1234’ with an air of resignation. “Doubt this’ll work. Nope. Shoot. I’ll give Caitlyn a call, ask her to come in and pick it up.”

  “Hang on a second.” Quill pulled the laptop in front of her. She examined the case, turned the computer over, and carefully peeled off a piece of tape from the underside. She set the laptop back in front of Marge. “Try this.” She read off a string of letters and numbers and Marge typed them in.

  “We’re in!” Marge said as the laptop chimed “Welcome.” “I told you Brady’s not going to win any awards for smart.”

  “This tape with his password on it has been peeled off from somewhere else. I’ll bet Althea found it under a desk drawer or something. We need so many passwords to function these days, I do it, too. Write them down and put them somewhere in my office.”

  “You’re not going to win any awards for smart, either.” Marge went straight to the site history and began to scroll down. “‘Hot Chicks in Cool Coops,’” she read aloud. “‘Wild, Wet Women.’” She made a face. “Jeez. And I buy cars from this guy? I’m going to switch over to his e-mail account. What do you think? Should I try ‘old’ or ‘sent’? I’ll try sent. Aha. Ah-ha!” She started to chuckle.

  Quill couldn’t see the screen from her position across the desk. “What? Did you find something?”

  “E-mails from Carol Ann to Brady and back again. Hoo. Carol Ann sure has it in for you!” Marge scowled suddenly. “And for me. The little witch. But if you ask me…” Marge tapped rapidly, scrolling through the e-mails. “That whole protest crud is pretty well pooped out. Take a look for yourself. Carol Ann sent this after the steering committee meeting this morning.”

  From: carolann@spinoza.com

  To: bpeter@petersonmotors.com

  Re: village disgrace

  So the money’s disappeared into somebody’s pocket (you can bet I know who!!!!) and as usual the Quilliam/Schmidt faction has shown once again who runs this town. I don’t know why you won’t march on opening day. We could rip this town wide open!!! But if you’re going to be a poopyhead, there’s not a darn thing I can do about it. You will be sorry!!!! It’s not over till it’s over!!!!

  “Bluff and bluster,” Marge said. “You can set Althea’s mind at rest about any funny business at the fete.”

  “What do you suppose she meant, ‘it’s not over till it’s over’?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? Brady runs with the grumblers and malcontents and if he’s not able to get his people out to demonstrate, Carol Ann will be o
ut there all on her lonesome.”

  “And she thinks she knows who has the money?”

  Marge’s face darkened. “Me.”

  “You?”

  “Grabbed me by the collar after the meeting”—Marge cracked her knuckles and smiled in a sinister way—“or tried to. Anyhow, yeah. She thinks I took the money in cahoots with Adela. She’s just grabbing at straws. That’s her style and always has been.” She bent over the laptop again.

  “Maybe we should return this to Brady,” Quill said. “He’s got all his business accounts on there.”

  “Along with the wholesale price of a pickup truck Harland wants to buy. Give me a second while I look for it.”

  “Marge, I don’t think that’s quite fair of you.”

  She raised one hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then with a very different tone in her voice. “What the hell is this?”

  Quill bent sideways to look at the screen.

  “That’s the new girl at Bonne Goute, isn’t it? Sophie something.”

  “Yes,” Quill said soberly. “Yes, it is. Sophie Kilcannon.”

  There were dozens of pictures of the tall blonde. About half of them were on the beach somewhere, with Sophie in a very brief bikini. The others had been taken with a long-distance lens. Sophie in her apartment at Bonne Goute, reading in her living room. Sophie getting ready to shower. Sophie getting out of a Ford Escort that had seen better days. It was clear she had no idea someone was taking pictures of her.

  Quill rubbed her arms. “This is creepy. And bad. Really bad.”

  “You got any idea where that beach is?” Marge scrolled back to the photos of Sophie on the beach. She was smiling, her blond hair caught up in a billed cap, her sunglasses in one hand.

  “The days are long gone where I could wear a bathing suit like that,” Quill said wistfully.

  “I never could wear a suit like that.” Marge rapped the desk. “Focus, please. Those big buildings behind the beach. That look at all familiar to you?”

  “Miami, maybe?” Quill hazarded. “Didn’t Clare say she recruited Sophie from Miami? It looks like somewhere in the US, at least. It’s not tropical enough to be Hawaii and it’s too tropical for the west coast.”