Ground to a Halt

by Claudia Bishop

that owed a lot to exercise equipment. And where Rudy

  exhibited a rather cheerful menace, Kittleburger’s presence was both powerful and malign. His black eyes swept the crowd. “Am I missing something, here?” His

  voice was mild, but there was an iron-willed edge underneath. “Olivia, I thought we were reconvening the meeting at two.” He looked at his watch, a diamond encrusted Rolex, and gave her a mocking smile. “It’s after two. Quite a bit after two. When I didn’t hear from you,

  I decided to come and see where the hell you all were.

  And here you all are. On television, no less. Are you announcing our parting of the ways?” The last part of this sentence was delivered with unmistakable malice.

  “Great cut line,” Angela Stoner breathed. “Stop

  tape.”

  Kittleburger looked at Rudy and gave him a nod.

  Rudy slid off the bar stool, hitched up his pants, and

  made a beeline for the Steadicam.

  “Wait!” Olivia said dramatically. Her interjection

  was so abrupt that everyone in the room turned to look

  at her. She pressed the palms of both hands to her eyes.

  “There is something behind the curtain. Wait! I feel it

  coming through.”

  “Oh, stuff it, Olivia,” Victoria said. “The camera’s off.”

  “And I want to get through the rest of our agenda,”

  Kittleburger said. He used his voice like a whip. “With

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  59

  Lila gone, I’ve got to get back to Iowa. So let’s move

  it. Now.”

  Harker, who had watched Kittleburger with his arms

  folded and his face a mask, raised his voice. “You’ll need

  to be available for police questioning, Mr. Kittleburger.”

  Kittleburger lifted one heavy eyebrow. “I gave my

  statement this morning. To your captain. You need any

  more information than that, you check with him. Barn-

  staple? Victoria? Get your asses in line.”

  “Y’all can meet down at my place,” Pamela said

  breathlessly. “Y’all know the conference room isn’t

  available this afternoon. I’m givin’ a report to the

  Chamber on the puppy sh . . .”

  Kittleburger glanced briefly at Pamela. “Shut up.”

  He turned on his heel and walked out. Pamela subsided

  in a flutter of charm bracelets. Harker, his face a dull

  red, leaned against the bar in a posture of assumed indifference.

  “Well, I’m out of here,” Angela said. “I’ve got a

  deadline to meet.”

  “I want all of you are out of here except this witness,” Harker said. He straightened up and swaggered toward Quill.

  “He can’t do that,” Meg said indignantly. “Can he?”

  Victoria shrugged. Angela and the TV crew went out

  the door. Olivia stalked off, presumably after Kittleburger. Pamela looked from the TV crew to Olivia and trotted after Olivia, both dogs at her heels. The rest of

  the people in the room, with the exception of Nate,

  Meg, and Quill herself, drifted out after them.

  Meg squared her shoulders. She narrowed her eyes at

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  Harker. “Nate and I are staying right here. And so is my

  sister. You heard Victoria Finnegan. Quill’s not involved.”

  Harker gave Quill his reptilian half-smile. “Your

  lawyer friend? She’s wrong. I can pull in any witness I

  like for questioning. You’re coming back to the barracks

  with me.”

  “Then I’m coming, too, Harker,” Meg said belligerently.

  Harker hiked a shoulder indifferently. “Follow along

  if you like. Only people on official business come along

  with me in the cruiser.”

  Harker made Quill feel her skin was crawling with

  spiders. He had always been careful not to say anything

  out of line, even more careful not to touch her; it was his

  sly and insinuating delivery that gave her the creeps.

  That and the implicit threat that if he ever found her

  alone . . . she shivered, inwardly. She hated the fact that

  by some cosmic accident, Harker had fixed on her for

  his unpleasant fantasies.

  “There is absolutely no reason why I can’t accompany

  Mrs. McHale in your squad car,” Meg said stubbornly.

  “Cruiser,” Harker corrected, “and . . . who did you

  say?”

  Meg raised one eyebrow. “You didn’t know, did you?

  That my sister married Myles McHale two months ago?

  The one guy in the world who can get your ears knotted

  down around your socks . . .”

  “Meg.” Quill put a hand on her sister’s arm. She

  hadn’t taken the time this morning to check out the

  color of Meg’s own socks, a reliable indicator of her sister’s erratic temper. She checked them out now. They were a fiery orange. Not a good omen. “Let’s not blow

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  this out of proportion. I’ll be glad to give you another

  statement, Lieutenant. I’d appreciate it if we could do it

  here, though. I have a Chamber of Commerce meeting

  scheduled in about two minutes.”

  Harker scowled. “You’re coming down to the barracks,

  with me. Your cooperation in this is a matter of law.”

  “She’s already given the police a statement!” Meg

  shook Quill’s hand off irritably and glared at Harker.

  With her hair sticking up, she looked like Medusa’s

  younger, cuter sister.

  “Is that right,” Harker said flatly. But he looked uncertain.

  “So she’s cooperated just fine. You can use the statement Quill gave Davy Kiddermeister, Harker. She doesn’t need to be interviewed again. Just like,” she

  added with a hint of malice, “Mr. Kittleburger. You

  wouldn’t want it to look like you were playing favorites,

  would you? So your little trip here to harass my sister

  was wasted.” She glared at him. “And please don’t let

  the door catch you on your way out.”

  “Fine.” Harker blinked slowly, like a snake in the

  sun. “For now.” He smiled, slowly. “But I’ll be back.

  And that’s a promise.”

  Meg watched Harker and his troopers saunter out the

  terrace door with her hands on her hips and her chin

  stuck out at a stubborn angle.

  Quill eyed her sister narrowly. “Thanks. I guess. But

  don’t you think you annoyed him just a little bit more

  than you needed to?”

  “I’m your sister. I’ll defend you to the death.” She

  put her arm around Quill’s waist and gave her a quick

  hug. “You’re by yourself again tonight, right? Why

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  don’t I bring over some dinner around eight? And we

  can get comfortable with a few glasses of wine. In the

  meantime,” she nodded toward the foyer, where Elmer

  Henry stood with Carol Anne Spinoza and two other

  Chamber of Commerce members, waiting for Quill to

  let them into the conference room, “our mayor awaits.”

  Quill looked at the group without enthusiasm. The

  mayor didn’t drive her as buggy as Carol Ann Spinoza

  did, but she didn’t relish the idea of spending the next

  hour or two in the company of either one. Carol Ann

  was town assessor in those years when the pro-Carol

  facti
on (those villagers vulnerable to blackmail) outnumbered the anti-Carol faction (everybody else). This was a pro-Carol year, primarily because she’d hired a

  detective to follow the Kiwanis Club on its annual

  overnight trip to Toronto, and she was able to blackmail

  practically every guy over forty in town.

  Elmer was far less annoying than Carol, but he did

  have a tendency to maneuver Quill into situations she’d

  rather be well out of.

  On the other hand, Miriam Doncaster, the town librarian, and Howie Murchison, village attorney, were two of her favorite people in Hemlock Falls.

  She greeted them all with a smile.

  “Conference room’s locked,” Elmer said. Elmer and

  his formidable wife Adela had emigrated from one of

  the Carolinas—Quill could never remember if it was

  North or South—so many years ago that they almost

  qualified as true Hemlockians in the eyes of old guard.

  Elmer’s Southern accent had long since disappeared

  into the nasal vowels of upstate New York, although it

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  reappeared under stress. He was a little taller than short,

  somewhat tubby, and prone to attacks of perspiration.

  “It is?” Quill felt in her pocket for the keys. “Housekeeping started cleaning up in there and didn’t have time to finish. We may have to work through a bit of a

  mess.”

  “Ew,” Carol Ann said. Everybody ignored this. Carol

  Ann’s bouncy blond ponytail and pristine tennis shoes

  hid the soul of a germ-obsessed fascist.

  “Sorry,” Quill said blithely.

  “I’m sure it’s just fine,” Miriam Doncaster said.

  Miriam had maintained a sort of middle-aged glamour

  into her fifties that was much envied by her peers. She

  blinked her big blue eyes at Quill and said in a low tone,

  “I hear you had a heck of a morning.”

  Quill rolled her eyes.

  “Is this Lila Longstreet the same bottle blonde that

  showed up at the Croh Bar last night?”

  Quill held up her hand in a “wait a second” gesture.

  Everyone followed Quill down the hall to the conference room, where eight or nine other Chamber members milled outside the locked door. Pamela milled among them, the dog in her arms.

  “Are we gonna find another body in there?” somebody called from the back of the crowd.

  Quill’s answering smile was a bit strained. She

  opened the door, made a quick inspection of the repairs

  she’d ordered, and then stepped back so that everyone

  could file past and take a seat at the long conference

  table that dominated the room. Miriam put herself at the

  end of the line and said, “Well?”

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  Claudia Bishop

  Quill said, “Did the Lila Longstreet that showed up

  at the Croh Bar have green eye shadow, long glittery

  nails, a silicone-enhanced bosom, and . . .”

  Miriam’s eyes rested on Howie Murchison. “An eye

  for other people’s partners? Yep. That’s the one.”

  “Then that’s the one I found in the cooler at Hogg’s,”

  Quill said.

  “Ugh. And she wasn’t ground up into sausage?”

  Quill rolled her eyes in exasperation.

  “I should have known better,” Miriam said.

  “Y’all hush, now.” Elmer banged the gavel on the

  long mahogany table. Esther West (West’s Best Dress

  Shoppe) placed the gavel rest in front of the mayor

  with a disapproving click of her tongue.

  “I call this Chamber meetin’ to order,” the mayor

  said. “Rev’rund? You want to lead us in prayer?”

  The Very Reverend Dookie Shuttleworth rose and

  blessed the people, the village, the county, and the state

  of New York.

  Quill settled next to Miriam and drew her sketchpad

  from her pocket. It wasn’t the one with last month’s

  meeting notes on it. “Nuts.”

  Miriam raised an eyebrow.

  “I left last month’s notes somewhere.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can never read what you

  wrote anyhow.”

  This was true. Quill had an idiosyncratic shorthand

  that no one could read but herself. And if too long a

  time elapsed between the note-taking and use of the

  notes, she couldn’t decipher them, either.

  Elmer rapped the gavel, “Quill? You got last month’s

  notes?”

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  65

  Miriam raised her hand. “I move that we suspend the

  reading of the previous month’s agenda.”

  “So moved,” said Harland Peterson.

  Quill gave him a grateful glance. The big farmer

  grinned back at her.

  Elmer sighed. “S’okay. Well, last month’s business is

  more ideas for Chamber fundraisers. Life’s getting

  more expensive, people, and our funds are in low water.

  Esther, you were going to give us some ideas on that.”

  Esther, who believed that the best advertising for her

  store merchandise was to wear it herself, was dressed in

  an autumn-hued print with a Peter Pan collar and a

  string of pumpkin-colored beads. She wore matching

  button earrings. She smoothed her spit curls, and then

  waved a manila envelope in the air. “I have here the actual votes on the fundraiser. I did a mailing to all of the Chamber members two weeks ago and we had a sixty-two percent return.”

  Quill frowned and scribbled on her sketchpad. There

  were twenty-four members of the Hemlock Falls Chamber of Commerce, including the newest recruit, Pamela, of Pamela’s Pampered Puppy Palace. She looked at the

  figure she’d calculated (14.88), raised her hand, then

  lowered it when nobody else seem to wonder who

  counted as less than ninety percent of a person.

  Esther withdrew a number-ten envelope from the

  larger one. “I have here the results of these votes.” She

  opened the envelope, read the contents, frowned, and

  then balled the paper up.

  “Las Vegas Night at the Resort?” someone asked

  hopefully.

  Esther cleared her throat.

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  “Well, what the heck,” Elmer said crossly. “You want

  me to read it?”

  “It’s Las Vegas Night?” Esther said, making it into a

  question.

  The mayor grabbed the ball of paper, smoothed it out,

  and said, “It is not. It’s the sausage breakfast. What the

  heck’s the matter with that?”

  Profound silence greeted him.

  He scratched his ear in puzzlement. “Y’all don’t

  want the sausage breakfast? Then how come you voted

  for the sausage breakfast?”

  “Where you bin all day, Elmer?” Harland Peterson

  said.

  “Syracuse. With the wife. Why?”

  “It’s not even true,” Quill said. “I found the body. I

  should know. She was perfectly . . . intact.”

  “Except for her head,” Esther said helpfully.

  “Whose head?” Elmer demanded. “Whose body?

  God bless America, Quill. You don’t mean to say you

  found another body?”

  “It wasn’t just me,” Quill said indignantly. “As a matter of fact . . .” She bit her lip. She couldn’t believe that she was about
to tell a roomful of parents that a six-yearold had seen the body first. “Bernie Hamm was with me,” she concluded.

  “And they say she was ground up in the sausage that

  Bernie and Thelma make,” Esther added in hushed

  tones. “I always thought there was something funny

  about that sausage. When I asked Thelma for the recipe

  last year, it just wasn’t the same as the stuff they sell. I

  swear to heaven she left out a couple ingredients and it

  looks like I was right.”

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  67

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Esther,” Miriam exploded.

  “You stop that right now. Lila Longstreet was done in

  with a blunt instrument and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I don’t b’lieve this,” Elmer muttered. “Quill, you

  and Meg found who done it, yet?”

  Quill admitted they had not.

  “Well, get on it, why don’t you?” Elmer whacked the

  gavel on the rest this time. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s move

  on, folks. Everybody in favor of Las Vegas Night as our

  second fundraiser this fall?”

  Dookie raised his hand. “Yes,” he said mildly. “As

  long as there is no gambling.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Miriam shouted. “Sorry,

  Dookie, but we’re going to be here all day if we start on

  that. I move we have a bake sale as a fundraiser.”

  “Second,” Marge Schmidt said.

  “So moved,” Elmer said. “Next order of business is

  current business. Which is the Chamber-sponsored

  Pampered Puppy Palace Dog and Puppy Show. Ms.

  Durbin? You want to let the folks in on your committee’s plans, here?”

  Pamela rose in a flutter of charm bracelets, perfume,

  and exuberance. Pookie the Peke glared at them all

  from the security of his tote, which Pamela had placed

  on the table. “Thank you, Mayor. And thank y’all for

  welcoming me and my little business to this lovely,

  lovely village. And thank you especially for your sponsorship of what I hope will be a lovely, lovely show.”

  “Here, here,” Harland Peterson said. He clapped his

  big hands together. Everyone else applauded politely

  except, Quill noticed, Marge Schmidt. Marge, dressed

  as usual in chinos and a bowling jacket with her name

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  Claudia Bishop

  embroidered over the pocket, had abandoned the sequined tee for her usual cotton Henley. She looked at Pamela with marked distaste. The eyeliner Quill had noticed earlier in the morning had smeared even more, giving her the look of a belligerent raccoon.