three days.
There was a scratching at the door, and Max nosed in,
looking hopeful. “Where were you when I needed you?”
He grinned at her, tongue lolling.
“Does it bother you in the least that I narrowly escaped being ground up into pet food?”
Max whined and cocked his head.
“You do understand practically everything I say,”
Quill marveled. “Which reminds me. We’re going to enter the Best Canine Vocabulary class in this dog and puppy show tomorrow. So we’d better get over there and
sign you up.”
The Hemlock Falls High School had started out as a
fine cobblestone building in the mid-nineteenth century,
grown to a sprawling complex of not-so-fine brick
buildings at the height of the baby boom in the sixties,
and shrunk again to three buildings as the resident pop
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ulation of upstate New York fled south to more tax-
friendly climes. It lay about two miles southwest of the
Inn, adjacent to Peterson Park. It was a brisk afternoon.
Quill decided to blow the fatigue out of her system by
walking to the pet show instead of taking the Honda.
This entailed putting Max on a leash, which, when he
was in an agreeable mood, gave Quill the pleasant sense
of being in a Ralph Lauren ad in which well-dressed,
carefree women walked their handsome golden retrievers in a beautiful autumnal setting. Although agreeable, Max was in a mood to investigate everything in his path,
so their progress was slow. By the time dog and mistress
reached the athletic field, Quill had strolled herself into
a serene and untroubled frame of mind.
The Hemlock Falls High School football team was
called the “Hounds of Heck.” The team logo was an orange mastiff on a red background. A large pink flag, announcing Pamela’s Pampered Puppy Palace’s First Annual Dog and Puppy Show, had replaced the banner
that normally flew over the field during the football season. The show ring was marked off by the kind of fiberglass stakes used in fencing sheep; instead of the usual electrified tape, pink ribbons were strung between the
posts. A fair portion of the twenty-four members of the
Chamber of Commerce milled about the field, most
with dogs at their sides. Esther West paraded proudly
with her handsome standard-bred poodle, Fabio. Marge
and her partner Betty Hall strolled with Betty’s English
bulldog, Cousin Itt. Adela Henry, the mayor’s wife,
glided like a frigate under full sail, their apricot
Airedale mincing along with her. Adela’s apricot
pantsuit matched the dog’s coat perfectly.
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Quill viewed all of this with a sense of pleasure.
“You aren’t serious about entering that dog in this
show?” a sticky-sweet voice said in her ear.
Quill recoiled, much as she did when she unexpectedly ran across a snake in her path. “Hello, Carol Ann,”
she said warily. She cast around for a topic of conversation that would preclude Carol Ann’s opinions on tax rates, felonious activities at the Inn, or the Quilliams’
love life. “Quite a few people here today. I’m surprised
at the turnout. The show doesn’t start till tomorrow.”
Carol Ann pouted prettily. It was always hard for
newcomers to Hemlock Falls to believe that her blonde
hair, baby blue eyes, and bouncy ponytail disguised a
twenty-first-century Attila the Hun. “The high school
isn’t zoned for this.”
“A dog show?”
“School-related activities only,” she said. “You tell
me how a dog show is related to school activities. It
isn’t. I was going to bring that up at the town council
meeting yesterday.”
“And did you?”
Carol Ann’s white-blonde eyebrows drew together in
a scowl. “Somebody forgot to tell me that the meeting’d
been switched to the Elks club. I think it was Cletus
Richardson.”
And there goes his house assessment to sky high levels, Quill thought. “Are you going to sign your dog up for a class?”
“I don’t have a dog,” Carol Ann said flatly. “Worms.
Fleas. Dog hair. It’s disgusting.”
“Then you’re here because . . .”
“I’m here because I want to find out who is going to
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clean this mess up after all these animals leave.” She
tilted her head. “And why are you here? Somebody told
me you were dead.”
“I’m not,” Quill said, startled. “Who told you I was
dead?”
Carol Ann pointed. “Olivia Oberlie. She was prophesizing like anything a few minutes ago.”
Olivia was holding court in front of the bleachers. Her
white hair was swept up in an elaborate french twist. She
wore a turquoise caftan and a baroque necklace, heavily
worked in gold. A large knot of people surrounded her.
Priscilla Barnstaple, dressed in khaki trousers and a twin
set, stood with both Finnegans. Robin looked bored. Victoria was bent over Priscilla, talking earnestly. Pamela stood a little distance from them, her eyes fixed worshipfully on Olivia. Harland Peterson stood behind Pamela.
His eyes, Quill was glad to see, were not fixed on Pamela
with any kind of expression other than acute discomfort.
He had Pookie the Peke on a rhinestone leash.
Quill wound her way through the crowd, pulling a reluctant Max.
“Thank god!” Olivia boomed. “Have I said it before?
I will say it again! Character is destiny. Destiny is character! She was not doomed to die!” She swept through the crowd like Moses commanding the sea to part. “I
had such visions.” She clutched Quill by the back of the
neck and drew her head down to her bosom, which was
scented with gardenia. Quill sneezed. Olivia released
her with a dramatic sigh. “So your sister was in time.
Thank god!” she repeated.
“Olivia saw it all,” Pamela said in great excitement.
“She said Rudy Baranga had put you in mortal peril.
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And she called on your sister and told her to find you
right away!”
“She did find me right away.” Quill turned to Olivia.
“Thank you.”
Olivia smiled that I-see-all-that-you-are smile.
“There was no need to come here to thank me,” she said
huskily. “No need.”
“Actually, I came here to sign Max up for the dog
with the best vocabulary class,” Quill said. “I talked to
Meg. She said that you actually saw the rats?”
“I gave Meg a most urgent message.” Olivia passed
her hand over her brow. “When I am in a trance, however, I frequently don’t know what I actually said.
Pamela, my dear. You were there. Did I mention rats?”
“You did,” Pamela breathed. “Thousands of rats, you
said. And Rudy’s warehouse.”
Quill stood stock still. Pamela’s Puppy Palace was
right between Harvey Bozzel’s advertising agency and
Marge Schmidt’s office.
“Quill? You’re starin’ at me.” Pamela gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Do I have some spinach in my teeth, or what?” She turned to Harland and posture
d
prettily. “You see anything, darlin’?”
“I have no memory of rats,” Olivia boomed. “None
at all.”
“Rats,” Quill said, “are notorious for gnawing holes
in all kinds of places. In the walls between two offices,
for example.” She held Pamela’s eyes with hers.
“Is that right?” Pamela said feebly. “Well. Ah. Harland, I think we ought to be trottin’ along now.”
“Why don’t you trot right over here and talk to me
for a moment?” Quill said.
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Pamela looked at her reproachfully. “She saved your
life. Quill, from all accounts.”
“I do appreciate it. But . . .”
“But nothing,” Pamela said airily. “If a person happens to overhear certain conversations by accident, there’s no law against that, is there?”
“Depends on what that person has to gain by it.”
Quill was suddenly weary. “Money, perhaps.”
“My puppies have to eat,” Pamela said unhappily.
She cringed. Quill hated it when people cringed. No
self-respecting human being should ever have a need to
cringe. “And Harland, I really think we need to be
goin’, now.”
“Hang on a second, Pammie.” Harland, clearly
oblivious to the undercurrents of this conversation,
cleared his throat in a marked way. His big leathery face
was red. “We heard that you went to see Baranga at that
warehouse of his and that he laid hands on you.” The
red deepened to puce. “If I’d had any idea. Well, you
can bet if they catch the bastard, they’d better not let me
get too close. We shouldn’t have let you go over there
all by yourself.”
“I was menaced,” Quill said cheerfully. “Not actually
battered. And Harvey’s back, so everything turned out
just fine.” She didn’t look at Pamela. Pamela had eavesdropped on her conversation with Devon, that was clear.
But what about the rats? Had the woman overheard
Rudy and Harvey discussing the delivery of the rats?
Had she let that drop into a “good gossip” with Harvey?
And she’d obviously known where Quill was going;
she must have listened in on that conversation, too.
At least one of the questions peripheral to this case
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had been answered. Olivia paid for her information. But
was it just from Pamela? Or did she find sources in
other members of the IAPFP?
“Did you ever find out just how come Harvey beat
feet out of town?” Harland asked. “I stopped by his
house on my way over here, and his mouth was shut
tighter than a clam at Christmas.”
Quill snapped out of her reverie. It was more than
likely that Harvey’s woes were all due to Pamela’s unruly tongue. A word to Harland would give him a disgust of Pamela that might even break up the relationship.
And that would suit poor Marge just fine.
Pamela licked her lips nervously, and then buried her
head in the Peke’s fur.
“You know Harvey,” Quill said kindly. “He’s a jittery
soul. And Rudy’s a pretty scary-looking guy. He may
have made Harvey nervous just by looking at him crosswise. Whatever the reason, it’s over now.”
“It surely is,” Pamela said with a loud, nervous
laugh. “And I surely need some tea, Harland. Or maybe
something a little stronger?”
“Can we leave that dog in the car?” Harland asked
glumly.
“Pookie? Pookie would be so sad!” Pamela linked
her arm with Harland’s and drew him toward the parking lot, leaving the rest of them behind. “I’m so glad that Millard and Rudy didn’t grind you up into rat food,
Quill!”
There was a ripple of agreement from the remaining
crowd. Quill glanced at Priscilla Barnstaple. She’d
turned an indifferent ear to the conversation and was
checking items off on a clipboard. She didn’t look like a
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woman whose husband was on the lam from a contaminated pet food scheme. But she hadn’t liked Millard much, either, from what Quill had seen of their interactions. And if Pamela’s insinuations were true, she didn’t much like men altogether. “I’m glad I wasn’t ground up,
too,” she said cheerfully. “But thank you, everyone, for
your concern.”
Olivia had been standing dreamily alone, swaying
slightly in the still air. “Ah,” she said. “They’re here.”
She nodded toward the school parking lot. A van marked
MIND DOESN’T MATTER, O. O. PRODUCTIONS braked to a
stop. The “O’s” had little eyes in the middle. Several
technician-looking types spilled out onto the asphalt.
Olivia waved majestically and moved toward them. The
crowd followed her like a flock of geese correcting
course in midair.
Quill put her hand out and touched Priscilla lightly
on the shoulder as she passed by. “Can I speak with you
a moment?”
Priscilla cast a contemptuous eye over Max, who was
chasing a flea behind his ear with his hind leg. “If it’s
about entering that dog in a class for tomorrow’s show, I
wouldn’t recommend it.”
Quill’s attention was momentarily diverted. “He understands practically everything I say,” she protested. “I think he’d do very well in the vocabulary class.”
Priscilla shook her head. “This is such a crock.” She
looked up at Quill. She was a plain woman, whose
weathered skin showed the effect of too much sun and
too little care. Her graying hair was skinned back in a
tight knot behind her head. Her nails, Quill noted, were
well cared for, and the half boots that she wore were
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old, but polished and of excellent quality. “Have you
ever attended a real dog show?”
“By a real dog show you mean an AKC show?”
“Professional shows aren’t just limited to the AKC,
although they, of course, are the better known. This amateur stuff . . .” she made a movement of disgust.
“Are you judging this show, then?”
“No.” She clipped her pencil to the clipboard with
an air of finality. “Not me, not anymore. Olivia’s judging that idiot ‘Dog Votes for Dog’ thing. And there’s a costume class, if you can believe it. She’s judging that,
too. The ordinary classes are being judged by that guy
over there.” She nodded in the direction of the bleachers. An elderly man and his daughter stood talking to Elmer and Adela. He was of slightly less than medium
height, wiry and fit despite his age. His daughter,
whose proportions were queenly, was taller than he,
with a wild corona of mahogany hair that exactly
matched the coat of the collie at her side. “That’s
Austin McKenzie.”
“I know of him,” Quill said in mild surprise. “He’s a
vet from Summersville. And that’s not his daughter,
that’s his wife. Madeline? Isn’t that her name?”
Priscilla nodded, a little wistfully. “And doesn’t he
think she’s hung the moon. He’s primarily a large animal practice, but somebody talked him into coming over
and judging this damn thing. Olivia, probably. Although I’ve forgotten more about dogs than McKenzie will ever know.”
Quill took this with a gain of salt. The McKenzies’
collie was magnificent. He sat at his mistress’ side in a
perfect sit. At a sign from McKenzie himself, he
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promptly dropped to a truly noble-looking down.
Priscilla sighed. “Never mind.”
“You care about dog shows?”
“I care about good dogs, yes. If it hadn’t been for
Kittleburger I’d still . . . forget it.” She looked resentfully at Quill. “Is there something you wanted?”
Quill bit her lip. “What did you hear about what happened this afternoon?”
“To you, you mean?” She shrugged, “Just that you
went chasing after Rudy because of some contretemps
over this local ad man. Rudy lose his temper with you?”
A mean smile crossed her face. “Not one of nature’s
gentlemen, our Rudy.”
“Rudy,” Quill said bluntly, “was involved in a scheme
to provide an illegal product to Pet Pro and Vegan Vittles.
Rudy thought Harvey Bozzel, our local ad man, as you
call him, was on to it. When I went to Rudy’s warehouse
this afternoon, I discovered the scheme by accident.”
“Illegal product? To my company? And to Pet Pro?
What sort of illegal product?”
“Rats.”
“Rats?” Priscilla’s stare was disbelieving. “Are you
crazy?”
“Nope. Rudy got the carcasses from the Pest Control
people in New York City, ground them up into sort of a
mouse meal, I’d guess you call it, and sold the meal to
Maxwell Kittleburger. And to you.”
“Rat meat?” She gave a sudden shout of laughter.
“You have to be kidding. And Rudy sold this stuff to Vegan Vittles?” Her face darkened. “You mean to Millard.
Millard was involved in this?”
“I’m afraid so.”
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Priscilla went very still. “Well,” she said after a long
moment. “And you know this because Millard was at
the warehouse this afternoon, too?”
“Yes. He was.”
“Rudy seems to have escaped to parts unknown, as
they say. I’m to take it that Millard went with him?”
“I’m sorry, Priscilla.”
A cool breeze had sprung up as the twilight drew in.
Priscilla hugged her cardigan closer to her thin chest.
“Vegan Vittles was my father’s favorite project,” she said,
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