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when you swallow your own spit by mistake. Then he whooped, like something was stuck. And he turned blue. So I did the Heimlich." Marge's eyes began to blink very fast, although her expression didn't change at all. "Grabbed him from behind, made a fist, and shoved up!" She jerked her clasped hands upward. The sudden movement made Quill jump. "He was shoutin' by then. Barking, like. Adela was shouting, too. Do-reen put her arm on my shoulders and said to do it again. So I did it again." She held her eyes wide open. A tear slid down her cheek. "I felt him go, you know. It's the damnedest thing. All of a sudden he was just ... meat. Like when you skin a deer. Dead meat underneath. Loose skin on the top."
Quill put her arm around Marge's chunky shoulders.
"Anyways, there it is. It musta been poison."
"What makes you think it was poison? I mean, it could have been a heart attack. Or he could have suffocated from choking on something, Marge."
The older woman shook her head. "Hadn't had a thing to eat. And I checked."
"You mean you looked in his throat?"
"Sure. They tell ya to stick your finger down there if the food or whatever isn't going to come out, and the poor slob was dying, for chrissakes, so yeah, I stuck my finger down there. Stuck my whole goddamn hand down there, didn't I? Nothing. Not a thing."
"Then it could have been a heart attack," Quill said. "He's awfully blue, Marge."
"Yeah." She got up and dusted her chinos with brisk slaps of her hand. "And if it was a heart attack, I didn't
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do much of a favor by thumping his chest like I did, now, did I?"
"You can't give someone a heart attack by administering the Hiemlich," Quill said sturdily, although she had no idea if this was true or not "That is absolutely true, Marge."
"What do you know about it?" The tears were running down her cheeks. Quill's own eyes smarted in sympathy.
"I know a lot about it I'm an artist, Marge. I've taken tons of anatomy courses. The sternum's in the way."
"The what?"
"The sternum." Quill got to her feet and thumped her chest. "This thick bone right here. Above your, um, bosom. A human being doesn't have enough force to whack a heart through the sternum."
Marge refused to wipe her cheeks dry. Quill took a Kleenex from her pocket and dabbed at her face. Marge submitted to this as if it wasn't happening at all.
"Isn't this a charming little scene," someone said in a sneering tone.
Quill spun around. "Trooper Harris," she said flatly. "How good to see you again."
"Captain," he said briefly. 'It's Captain Harris now, Miss Quilliam. And I see you're still collecting bodies."
Quill decided, quite irrationally, that she didn't like men with bullet heads and brush cuts. Harris had flat brown eyes and a mouth like a paper cut. She didn't
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like that about him either. "Where's my housekeeper?" she demanded.
"Detained for questioning, not that it's any of your business." His eyes wandered over her breasts and hips. "We're taking over that big room off the foyer for the investigation. The conference room. I want you in there. Now. And where's that ex-con you call your business manager? I want to talk to him, too."
Marge muttered, "Jerk."
Quill folded her arms over her chest to keep from smacking Harris on the ear. "Do you smoke cigars, Captain?"
"Do I what?"
"Studies show," Quill said, "that seventy-two percent of the people who smoke cigars do it because they know how annoying it is to other people. I think this is the secret to the universe. Some of the people in it exist to make other people miserable."
Harris shook his head, as if to get rid of flies.
"We don't try to understand Quill, you know, we just appreciate her for what she is." Howie Murchinson eased himself next to Quill and saluted Marge with a nod. Quill was very glad to see him. Hemlock Falls's best (and only) attomey-at-law was a genial man in his middle fifties. His hair was gray and thinning, and he carried a comfortable paunch. Howie was notorious for his baggy pants, ten-year-old loafers, and ancient sport coats; Meg maintained that he always looked like an unmade bed to disguise his ferocious intelligence. Do-reen—who'd had four husbands and a consequent distrust of the genus avocat—said he looked like a slob so you couldn't argue that his high fees supported a
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cushy lifestyle. Quill just liked him. She gave him a brilliant smile. Howie smiled back, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his ill-fitting chinos, and rocked back on his heels. "So, Harris. What happened here?"
"Second body in two days, counselor. Doesn't look good to me. Does it look good to you?"
Howie shrugged. "Accidents happen, Harris. Do you have any idea what killed Carmody?"
All of them looked toward the body. The forensics team had finished with the photos and erected a ten-foot barricade of yellow tape around the chair, where Mort still slumped, faceup to the sun. A lab tech had already bagged his hands and feet. The empty orange-juice glass was gone, and so was the collection of carafes, plates, and glasses from the buffet table. Marge made a muffled noise and stamped off in the direction of the Inn. Harris slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses, which made him look so much like a stereotypical bad cop Quill wanted to clout him again. "EMT just said he's dead. But we won't know for sure until the coroner gets here. And until he does, Carmody isn't even dead, officially."
Flies were beginning to collect around the body. A small breeze brought the odor of death. "Let's move inside, out of the heat," Howie suggested.
They went through the French doors to the bar. It was filled with as many people as it had been the day before. Nate had appeared from somewhere and was serving coffee and iced tea. Howie bent to her ear. "Where is John?"
Quill's temper flared. "He's in Syracuse. It's bad
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enough that Harris suspects him automatically every time some—"
"Easy, easy." He put his hand on her arm. "You're shaking, Quill. Sit down. Have you had anything to eat this morning?"
"I'm fine. And I don't want anyone to offer me anything to eat ever again!" Quill sat at a table on the edge of the group. Conversation was subdued. Adela was collapsed in a chair, chubby legs extended. The mayor fanned her anxiously with a napkin. Doreen worked behind the bar next to Nate. Quill could feel her glower. Harris walked over to a trooper standing by the arch to the hall. Both men moved aside when Everett Bland strolled in.
Quill groaned. "That's all we need!"
"Who is he?" Howie grinned. "Wait. Don't tell me. I've seen that artfully tanned face before. But where?"
"The Jerry Springer Show, probably," Quill said crossly. "It's Everett Bland. Strickland's lawyer. Or more accurately, the lawyer for Strickland's estate."
Bland took a cup of coffee from Doreen and came to their table. "You were right, Quill. The view from two-seventeen is spectacular."
"You're staying at the Inn?" Howie asked.
"And you are?" Bland raised his eyebrows.
"Murchinson."
"Mr. Murchinson represents us," Quill said. "Unless you can't, Howie."
"Why couldn't I?"
"Well, there's Max. Isn't that a conflict of interest?"
"Wouldn't want a conflict of interest, counselor,"
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Bland said. "Even in the hinterlands that's against the canon of ethics."
"Max is a dog," Howie said dryly. "Are you here for a specific purpose, Bland?"
"Might be. At the very least we've got a cause of action for two wrongful deaths. I always like a nice civil suit." His glance appraised the long mahogany bar, the slate floor, then came to rest on the acrylics on the wall.
"We don't have any money," Quill said. She suddenly was very tired. She wanted nothing more than to put her head down and go to sleep. And it wasn't even lu
nchtime yet.
"You're Quilliam, aren't you?" Bland said.
"You know who I am."
"He means are you that Quilliam." Howie gestured at the acrylics.
Quill didn't paint often now. Perhaps two canvases a year. She was out of the art loop and not anxious to get back in again, content to display her work at the Inn. She had a new canvas up there, painted while she and Meg had been running the Palate Restaurant, where, she recalled with a stab of longing, she had plenty of time to do anything she wanted. The Palate had been a cakewalk compared with this. She'd captured Doreen, in shadow, against the wrought-iron fence in the back of the Palate's garden. One of her hands lay in sunlight, strong, age-spotted, and somehow tender.
"Very nice piece," Bland said. "Very nice. You don't exhibit anymore, do you, Quill? Keep it up. The
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less the public sees of your work, the higher the value."
"That's it, Bland? You're trolling?" Howie kept his voice light. Quill had known him for a long time. He was very angry.
Bland raised one eyebrow in an offensive way. "Let's not get hasty, counselor." He turned to Quill. "We'll talk later. Right now, I need some exercise. There don't appear to be any workout facilities here. Could there be a jogging path nearby? I suppose a gym is too much to ask."
"See that blonde woman right there?" Quill pointed in Sherri Kerri's direction. She was talking animatedly to Esther and Miriam. "She runs a gym. There are," she added reluctantly, "guest passes at the front desk. Just ask Dina."
Bland pursed his lips and wandered off again.
"He knows Horvath," Quill said as soon as he was out of earshot. "Does that mean anything?"
"Bland knows your Finn?"
"My Finn. He's not my Finn. But yes, he knows Horvath."
"How did that happen?"
"I have no idea. I think they met in L.A."
"Hmm."
"Don't just say 'hmm,' Howie. What am I supposed to do now? Can we go forward with this deal, with two deaths in a row here? Of course we can't. Meg and I decided last night. We have to solve this murder. Strickland's, I mean. And if Carmody turns out to have been murdered as well—we've got to solve that one, too."
"You aren't an officer of the court, Quill. You aren't
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even a listed private detective. I'm afraid, as your lawyer, I'd have to advise you against any such activity." Howie looked sympathetic, but not very.
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do about it," Quill answered herself. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this. Of all of this. And then it will go away and I can run my Inn again."
"What about Max?" Howie said suddenly. "I can't believe that you've left him in Flick Peterson's doghouse all this time, Quill. Poor dog."
"It hasn't been 'all this time.' It's been exactly twenty-four hours." She looked at her watch. "Less than that, even. And I went to visit him last night. You know, Mr. Peterson likes him."
"Flick's a good guy," Howie agreed absently. "But still. Max must be missing you terribly, Quill."
Quill shoved herself away from the table and stood up. Howie made her feel horribly guilty. Poor Max! "The first thing I'm going to do is get my dog back." She sat down again. "Howie. How do I get my dog back?"
"It'll take a fair bit of time," he murmured. "You say Myles will be back next week?"
"What has Myles got to do with anything?"
"And John's back this afternoon. He should be able to ... well. It's going to take some doing to save your dog, Quill. Certainly all of today. Very probably all of this week. There has to be a hearing, and then the justice decides what to do with the dog."
"Can't I get him released on his own recognizance?"
Howie closed his eyes briefly. 'TV lawyer shows
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have a lot to answer for. No, Quill. Max is not a person."
"So he doesn't have his own recognizance?"
"Something like that. You may be able to get him released into your custody until the hearing. That depends on the justice."
"And you're the justice. So what do you decide?"
He shook his head. "Sorry, Quill. This isn't my bailiwick. You'll have to go into Ithaca to the Tompkins County courthouse and schedule a hearing."
"Why can't you decide what to do about Max?"
He gave a tired sigh. "Because our slick Mend from the big city is right. If there's going to be a civil action for wrongful death—and no matter what the outcome of the murder investigation is, Quill, there's going to be a civil suit involving the Inn—I don't want to prejudice the case by appearing for both you and Max."
"So there is a conflict of interest."
"Right. It's the first time in my career that it involves a dog, though."
"Who's the person to talk to in Tompkins County?"
"Bernie Bristol."
"Bernie Bristol? Bernie Bristol! He's the second stupidest person I ever met! He's the justice that took over that year the village went bananas and kicked Myles out of office!"
"Well, it'll help that he's the second stupidest person you ever met, won't it?"
"Won't Max need a lawyer?"
"Nope. Just bring in a few character witnesses, talk to the vet—no wait, he bit the vet—just find some nice solid citizens who will swear Max is more noble than
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Lassie and braver than Rin Tin Tin, and you'll be fine. There's no evidence of a dog bite, Quill. And the forensic evidence relating to Strickland's death is pretty clear. He was bashed on the head by someone or something, who or which couldn't possibly be a four-footed lop-eared ..." He paused and made an effort to control himself. "Dog," he finished.
"You don't like Max," Quill accused him.
"I like Max just fine."
"Will you appear on his behalf?"
Howie eyed her narrowly. "You know that dog and my dahlias. He dug them up, Quill. All two hundred and fifty of them. Just before the dahlia show."
"So? You'd put his life on the line for a few lousy dahlias?"
"No. Of course not. Sure, I'll show up and attest to his friendly, nonaggressive, dahlia-chewing behavior. Take it easy, Quill." He rubbed his upper lip in a thoughtful way. "It'll take you a while, though. How long will John be in Syracuse?"
"Just for the day. I tiiought I mentioned that."
"And when will Myles be back?"
"What could Myles have to do with—oh!" Quill went "phuut!" in exasperation. "You want to keep me from investigating this murder, don't you?"
"Do I? Just relax. First things first. Spend tomorrow collecting those items I suggested—"
"What were they again?"
"Let's see: a letter from Dave Kiddermeister, a copy of the autopsy report, a copy of the police report, some character witnesses."
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"That's a lot longer list than the first one," Quill said suspiciously.
"Better safe than sorry. Then Monday, hop on down to Ithaca and see Bernie. Ask him if Max can be released under your care, custody, and control."
"Wait." Quill pulled a pen from her pocket and scribbled frantically on a napkin. "Okay."
"And his veterinary records, so we can show he's legal for rabies."
"Are you sure I need all this?"
"Can't hurt."
"You want to keep me otherwise occupied so I won't investigate this murder. Or the other murder." She held up her hand. "Nope, nope. Don't bother to deny it... of course you do. Everyone always does. But... !" Quill turned and marched off.
"But what?" Howie called after her.
"It's not going to work!"
Character witnesses. The first thing to do would be to find a character witness. Quill wound her way through the crowd in the bar to her office door. She'd find Dina, who was probably in the kitchen, and get statements as to Max's affectionate, kindly nature. She scrabbled through her filing cabinets in search o
f a legal pad. There weren't any. There were several sketch pads, however, so she grabbed two, a pen, and went into the foyer. There was no one at the reception desk. The front door was closed. The main part of the Inn was silent. A hand-lettered sign posted at the foot of the main staircase in the foyer read dining room closed—Dina's writing, Quill thought.
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She went through the dining room and into the kitchen. Bjarne was at the sink rinsing brown rice. Quill greeted him and took a jug of sun tea from the SubZero. "No lunches today?"
"Captain Harris," Bjarne said gloomily. He was so tall, Quill had to crane her neck to look up at him. "No lunches and no dinners. I believe that Captain Harris was responding to concerns of Mr. Bland that Mr. Car-mody had ingested a substance that may have been contaminated." He placed the colander of rice in a large bowl and covered it.
"So the dining room is closed closed? I mean, no dinners, either?"
Bjarne shook his head. With his pale eyes and white-blonde hair, he always reminded Quill of a depressed Ingmar Bergman. Until Meg took Bjarne on in her kitchen, Quill had been convinced there was a genetic link between a cook's love of food and a certain joie de vivre. Bjarne disproved that assumption.
"Well,.it's probably for the best," Quill said. "We're not really open to the public anyhow, until the deal's signed, so you can take the day off, Bjarne."
He sighed heavily and shook his head. "I shall go to the mall," he said sorrowfully. "And what will you do, Quill?"
"You remember Max."
Bjarne's lip lifted, revealing a yellowing tooth. Quill didn't think this was a smile; more of a snarl. "You know he's in the pound? The place where Americans keep strayed pets. Actually, Max is in jail, Bjarne."
The chef smiled. "Ah."
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"I'm going to get him out."
"Ah."
There was a very different tone to this second "ah." Quill persevered. "I need statements from Max's friends. About what a..." Good dog wasn't the right phrase. "Worthy dog he is. To convince the authorities to let him out."
"And if you do not get these statements?"
Quill cocked her head to one side, considering. What would a ruthless executive like Rupert Murdoch have done? "I will cry and cry," she said. "I'll be really sad."
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