Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138)

by Bishop, Claudia

  The three women looked at him in silence. Quill was the first one to break it. “Have you and Mick known each other a long time, George? Is it McIntyre?”

  George chuckled. “Yep, that’s me! George McIntyre.” He held out his hand and solemnly shook hands with each of them in turn. “As for how long we’ve known each other? Coupla weeks. Linda took me on as a driver when she got this gig. Said she wasn’t planning to spend her time hoofing it around the sticks, and she was soaking you pretty good for the fee.”

  “And Mick?” Quill said politely. “How long have you known him?”

  “Oh, he’s worked for Linda much longer than me. Coupla months, at least. Anyway, he said he had a hot date this afternoon with cutie over here…” He grinned at Meg. “And that he’d catch up with me later.”

  “You could try Seneca Lake,” Meg said sweetly. “Last time I saw him, he was striking out for dry land.”

  George blinked. “That a fact. Well, now. The thing is, I was kind of countin’ on him meeting me here. I got a couple of days’ pay coming. I figure with Linda dead and all, the gig’s up. Ha-ha. Ha-ha. The gig’s up, get it?”

  The silence that greeted this remark would have hushed a more sensitive man.

  “Soooo.” George shuffled his feet uneasily. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” He got out of the booth, ducked his head at them, in a confused gesture of farewell, and shuffled off.

  Marge went “t’cha” and tapped a number into her cell phone. Quill heard a telephone ring at the front of the bar. “Bertie? How long has that character with the ponytail been soaking up my booze? Since when? He pay anything on account? Well, get some money from him and throw him out.” She snapped her phone shut. “Doesn’t look to me like the guy’s any part of this conspiracy. But you never know. He’s gonna stiff me on the bar tab, looks like, so I can have Davy pull him in. Make sure he sticks around.”

  “I don’t know that you have to arrest the poor guy,” Quill said doubtfully. “I tell you what. They were all booked into the Marriott, weren’t they? I’ll give Seth at the front desk a call. He can let us know if George is going to check out.” She turned to her sister. “As for you, Meggie.”

  “I’m fine. Just totally pissed off.”

  “As long as nobody’s hurt, least said, soonest mended.” Marge straightened up, much like a deer—or given her sturdiness, Quill thought, an elk—that scented a disturbance in the woods. “What’s going on up there?”

  The Croh Bar was equipped with four large windows that faced Main Street. The windows were always covered with wooden blinds, whose slats didn’t completely shut out the light from outside. Quill caught the red orange flash of emergency vehicle lights.

  She sat on the side of the booth that faced the front door. There was a slight commotion in the crowd around the bar. “Oh, dear. I hope nobody’s sick up there.”

  Marge shoved herself out of the booth. “Either that, or one of the underage Peterson kids got served. Damn. That new bartender of mine hasn’t got the sense God gave a goose. Lets that bozo George run a tab and now this.”

  Quill saw who was thrusting his way down the aisle and bit her lip. “I don’t think it’s that.”

  Anson Harker shoved his way through the press of bodies at the door. He was dressed in New York state trooper beige and carried his Stetson. There was a fellow trooper on his right. Davy Kiddermeister trailed unhappily in their wake.

  Harker’s reptilian gaze slid over Quill and came to rest on her sister.

  Quill had come up against Harker only four times in the last fifteen years, and each time she grew to loathe him a little more. Her marriage to Myles had stopped the “accidental” brushing of his hands against her breast, and the press of hips against her thighs, but the man carried his sliminess of character like a bad smell. He was a competent cop, which made things worse.

  “Margaret Quilliam?” he said.

  Meg glared at him. “You know who I am, Lieutenant. What’s up?”

  “I’d like you to tell me your whereabouts this afternoon.”

  Quill’s breath was short. She got out of the booth, grabbed Marge, and whispered, “Get Howie! Quick!”

  Meg shrugged. “I went to Buttermilk Falls with a friend of mine, and then on to Dresden.”

  “Would that friend be Michael Ryan Greer?”

  “Mickey Greer, yes. What of it?”

  “And where was Mr. Greer last when you saw him?”

  Meg grinned. “Taking an unexpected swim in Seneca Lake, why?”

  Howie, Miriam, and Justin Alvarez followed Marge back through the crowd to the booth.

  Harker snarled back at her. “About what time would that be?”

  “That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Justin Alvarez said. Justin was tall, taller than Myles, who was six-two in his stocking feet. He was slender and fit.

  “What’s enough, counselor?”

  “About four fifteen,” Meg said loudly. “That’s when I saw Greer last, the skunk.” The sweep of sunburn on her cheeks looked very bright against her pale skin. “What’s this all about?”

  “Margaret Quilliam, you are under arrest for the murder of Michael Greer. You have the right to remain silent…”

  18

  “So Mickey Greer was shot in the back of the head, just like his boss. I’ve never heard the like. And they had enough evidence to arrest Meg?” Althea Quince said at breakfast the next morning. “Do they think your sister murdered Linda Connelly, too? I’ve never heard of anything so absurd.”

  Quill shivered. She was exhausted and the morning was cool. She’d stayed with Meg until her sister had been led off to the county jail overnight, and had gotten back to the Inn at three in the morning. Jack had gotten her up at five and she’d joined Althea and Nolan for breakfast on the terrace at seven thirty. Meg’s arraignment was scheduled for two o’clock Monday afternoon at the Tompkins County Courthouse. Howie and Justin would be there, too, but they were already discussing retaining a law firm specializing in criminal defense. Howie had told her to be prepared to put up bail of a half a million dollars or more. Today was Saturday. She had two and a half days to do it. She’d already put a call in to their business manager, John Raintree, about raising the cash from a second mortgage on the Inn.

  It may have been her distress over Quill’s predicament and Meg’s arrest, but Althea showed her age this morning. Her colorful scarves—pink and gray—drooped dispiritedly in the light breeze. Even her purple red hair looked dim.

  “You’re cold, Quill. You shouldn’t be sitting out with us without a sweater. Nolan, darling, put your jacket around the poor thing. Or better yet, go up to my room and bring down that nice wool shawl of mine.”

  Nolan nodded gravely. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “And you have to eat, Quill. Here. Have some of this wonderful oatmeal. Now. What is it you wanted to see me about?”

  “You wanted to see me,” Quill reminded her gently. “You left a message with Dina last night. It was marked urgent.”

  There wasn’t much that she could do this morning about Meg, except wait and worry, so she had gone down to her office and made a stab at trying to conduct business as usual. She had a couple of fete committee meetings this morning, but her first task was always to return any phone calls from the day before. Althea’s message was on the top of the list.

  Althea blinked worriedly at her. “I did? Oh, my. In all this to-do over these awful murders, I’m afraid I…Oh! Of course!” She leaned forward and whispered urgently. “Carol Ann has stolen the laptop.”

  “The laptop,” Quill repeated. “Oh, good grief. The laptop. I forgot all about the laptop.”

  “Nolan came to pick me up yesterday after the meeting with the fete steering committee, remember? And I talked about sneaking it back into the dealership?” She veered off on a tangent with a pleased expression. “By the way—did you know that Adela Henry agreed to come back to manage the fete? Everyone is so relieved! In any event, I confessed my little pecc
adillo to Nolan…there you are, Nolan, dear. That was quick. Thank you so much for fetching the shawl. I was just telling Quill about my appropriation of that computer.” She took the shawl from her husband and draped it carefully around Quill’s shoulders. Quill snuggled gratefully into the warmth.

  “My wife the petty thief,” Nolan said with fond disapproval. “Or rather, not so petty. I take it the thing was a rather sophisticated piece of equipment. Quite expensive.”

  Althea waved her hand in a grand dismissive gesture. Her silver bangles clanked. “I don’t do things by halves, Nolan. Anyhow. Yesterday, Nolan and I agreed that we should go back to the car dealership and pretend to look at one of those new foreign imports, as if we were thinking about buying one, you see, and then Nolan was going to sneak into Brady’s office and leave the laptop under his desk. But when I went to get the thing out of my tote…” She glanced from side to side. There was no one else out on the patio. It was too cold. “It was gone! Gone! Now, I ask myself. Who could have taken the thing? Who would have the nerve to go into a person’s private tote without so much as a by-your-leave and steal a computer?”

  Quill cleared her throat and began to eat the oatmeal. It was very good, even if it was cold.

  “I thought back to our meeting, which was the very last time I could remember seeing it. Would the Reverend Shuttleworth do such a thing? Never. Would the mayor? Why would he even think about it? Who was the only person there other than you and I who even knew Brady was corresponding with Carol Ann?”

  “Carol Ann?” Quill asked hollowly.

  “Exactly. She stole that computer right out of my bag. What a guttersnipe.”

  “It does solve one problem, Althea,” Nolan said. “You’ve removed yourself from the suspicious eyes of the law.”

  “As if that mattered,” Althea said with magnificent indifference. “At any rate, I thought you should know about this, Quill. Although the machinations of the Citizens for Justice are small potatoes compared to what you’re facing at the moment. Your poor sister! Is there anything at all I can do?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” Quill’s brain had been moving sluggishly until she remembered the computer.

  Fact: Brady Beale had been a diver in the Navy before he’d taken over his uncle’s car dealership.

  Fact: Linda Connelly was really a Russian spy named Natalia Petroskova. Well, perhaps it wasn’t a fact, since the information had come from somebody Quill didn’t know very well…but she’d be willing to bet a substantial sum that it was true.

  Fact: Brady Beale was a member of the Foreign Imports Export Association, an organization with a recent trade show in Miami. He had photos of Sophie—who claimed to be a former spy—and Natalia/Linda, who may be a spy, too, on his computer.

  Fact: the Navy Depot in Dresden New York had been an underwater weapons testing site in World War II. And Brady Beale’s grandfather had worked there.

  Fact: Brady Beale’s laptop had surveillance photos of Linda Connelly/Natalia Petrovska.

  Fact: Linda Connelly had been found shot to death in Brady’s parking lot.

  Fact: Mickey Greer’s body had been found floating in the waters of Seneca Lake at the naval depot. He, too, had been shot to death.

  …And then there was Jeeter Swenson’s monster in the lake.

  “Quill? Are you all right, my dear?”

  Quill shook herself, and then drank an entire cup of coffee in one swallow. “I’m fine, Althea. Better than fine. Yes, there is something you can do for me, if you would. I have two meetings this morning, both on fete business. Could you take them for me?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  Quill grabbed a cloth napkin and scribbled the meeting times and places on it. “The first one is with the people planning the booth sites. Don’t let anyone change their booth location without checking with Adela first. The Crafty Ladies and the Craft Guild are both aiming for the same spot, and they can get mean. The second is with the firm putting up the temporary fence. You’ll have to walk the site with them to make sure they know where the fencing is to go this year. Adela should have the site map.”

  “Say no more. I’ve had a lot of experience with setting up food expos. This should be—not to make a bad pun—a piece of cake.”

  Quill gave her a quick hug, draped the borrowed shawl over her chair, and hurried into the Tavern Lounge.

  Jeeter Swenson sat at the bar, sipping coffee, chatting amiably with Nate. He raised his coffee cup in a shaky salute. “Mine innkeeper.” He began to struggle off his stool.

  “Please,” Quill said. “Don’t disturb yourself. I’ll sit with you a moment, shall I?” She settled next to him.

  His smile lit up his face. He turned to Nate and rapped authoritatively on the bar top. “Nate, my friend, a cup of coffee for my lady friend. And don’t spare the cream.”

  Nate wiggled his eyebrows at Quill and set a fresh cup of coffee in front of her.

  “Thank you for sending the Inn van to pick me up from the hospital,” he said. “That fella Mike said it was free of charge. You aren’t going to bill me for it, are you?”

  “All part of the service.”

  “This is a good Inn,” Jeeter said with satisfaction.

  “Thank you.” Quill thought a moment, and then said, “But you must miss your own home, some?”

  “My lake house. Lake mansion, more like, if what that young snip of a Realtor says is so. Can’t b’elive the price of real estate these days. That no-good son of mine, now he’d sure like to get his hands on it.”

  “So I understand. Perhaps it’s because the view of the lake is so wonderful?”

  “The view. I’ll tell you about the view. I don’t need much sleep anymore, you know. You know how old I am? Go on, Guess.”

  “Ninety-eight,” Quill said with a smile.

  “That’s right, Ninety-eight damn years old. Anyways, at ninety-eight you don’t sleep so much, and along of a moonlit night, you know what you can see in that lake?”

  “Something wonderful?”

  “Monsters! Just like that what d’ya call it. Loch Ness.”

  “Just like?” Quill hazarded. “Some people think the Loch Ness Monster is a relic of a dinosaur. With a long, snaky neck and a small head.”

  “Nah. This here’s more like a seal.”

  “A seal. With a small, round black head?”

  “And big googly eyes. Yes, ma’am.”

  Wet suit and swim goggles, Quill thought. I knew it.

  “Breathes like a monster, too,” Jeeter offered. He made a wheezy sound, taking deep breaths. “Like this: a-huh, a-huh.”

  Scuba tanks.

  Jeeter began to topple sideways. Quill caught him and righted him on the barstool. “Nate,” she said. “Give Mr. Swenson anything he asks for today. On the house.”

  “On the house!” Jeeter echoed. “Hee!”

  “Will do, Boss.” Nate looked concerned, although it was a little difficult to discern it through his big brown beard. “Sorry to hear about Meg. If there’s anything I can do…”

  Quill took a deep breath of her own. “I’m going to run upstairs for a minute and then I’m going to see Davy Kiddermeister, and then by God, I’m going to bring Meg home.”

  She ran up the stairs to her rooms on the third floor, too impatient to wait for the elevator. When she’d left to go downstairs at seven fifteen, Doreen had Jack dressed and ready for his day at preschool, so she let herself into an empty apartment.

  Housekeeping hadn’t been in yet. Both beds were unmade. Jack’s juice cup and the remains of his yogurt sat on the kitchen sink. Her tote was where she’d dropped it when she’d come in exhausted at three that morning, on the leather couch that faced the French windows to her little balcony.

  Quill grabbed her tote and plunged into it. The laptop was evidence that Brady Beale knew Linda Connelly in another time, in another place, and, if Sophie Kilcannon were to be believed, another, more horrible personality altogether as an assassin. She hop
ed the battery wasn’t dead, but if it was, she could run down to Walmart and buy another power cord. And that would be proof enough to begin a conversation with Davy and that awful Harker about much more sinister doings in the village than a guy making an unwanted pass at her sister.

  The laptop wasn’t there.

  Frantic, Quill dumped the contents of the tote on to the couch. Wallet, tissues, change purse, hairbrush, compact, note pad, pens, pencil.

  No laptop.

  Quill sat down and took three long, deep breaths. She’d had the laptop at the Croh Bar. She and Marge had shown the photos of Linda Connelly to Meg. Then George Whosis—McIntyre, that was his name—had shown up to hassle Meg. And sat right down next to Quill. He’d even pretended to bend down to scratch his leg.

  “Dammit!” Quill rarely swore.

  She grabbed her address book out of the heap of junk on the couch and found Seth Norman’s name under the “M”s for Marriott. She glanced at the time on her cell phone; after eight. He should be on duty by now.

  He was.

  She extracted Seth’s promise to let her know the minute George emerged from his room, and then grabbed her keys.

  Everything depended on Davy Kiddermeister now.

  ~

  “I just don’t think I can help you, Quill.”

  Quill sat in the visitor’s chair at Davy’s desk. She was so tired she wanted to cry. She was so mad she wanted to spit. The rational part of her brain, the part that knew she was being unreasonable because of her fear for her sister, was well and truly shoved aside. “I can’t believe this. You know where Meg is. She’s in jail, David. She’s alone and miserable and scared to death.”

  Davy attempted a smile. “Heck. I bet you five bucks she’s in the kitchen showing the deputies how to improve their meat loaf.”

  Quill bit her lip, to keep from screaming at him.