Marinade for Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  "Are you okay?"

  The van shot forward. Quill leaped back, falling through the open car door onto the driver's seat. Her right heel caught on the door frame; her left leg slid forward. She shut her eyes and recoiled. There was a slap of wind A huge dull pressure on her left foot. And the van was gone, speeding down the road.

  Quill struggled to sit up. Her left foot was numb. She looked at it, bewildered. Her sandal was torn. Blood oozed from her toes.

  "Yikes," she muttered. Clutching the door frame, she eased herself upright The foot took her weight despite that curious numbness. She wriggled her toes carefully. There was a definite glitch between the intent and the result. Her toes wriggled in slo-mo, like an instant replay of a bad call in football. She limped around the Olds and checked the rear end. A nice dent, with a scrape of red paint, but mat was all. She sniffed the air. No scent of gas or oil. She returned to the driver's door and bent over to look at the undercarriage. Her head swam and her vision darkened. She bent over, trying to control the urge to throw up. The sound of a car coming from behind sent a jolt of fear through her. The car stopped. Quill fumbled for b.er purse. There was a nail file in there. Or maybe her keys. She'd read somewhere that you could defend yourself with keys.

  "Quill? Miss Qulliam?" She knew that voice: Ev-

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  erett Bland. Firm hands held her shoulders. Quill caught a whiff of expensive aftershave. "Can you stand up?"

  Quill backed out of the car and straightened up in the sunlight. "I just need a second. Thanks." The sick feeling in her stomach ebbed, and her vision cleared.

  "Are you all right?" Eland's face wore an expression of professional concern: shrewd, a little remote, detached. His cell phone stuck out of his suit-coat pocket. For some reason, the very normality of his appearance reassured Quill, as nothing else would have.

  "I think so."

  "Your foot's bleeding."

  Quill looked at it and her head swam again. "It sure is."

  "Sit down for a moment." He eased her into the driver's seat. "What happened?"

  "I'm not sure. I was rear-ended by a red van." She stopped, concentrating. She'd seen a red van not long ago, in other circumstances.

  "Miss Quilliam?"

  "Yes. Sorry. I was woolgathering. I think it was a Dodge Caravan. We both stopped. I got out, intending to talk to the driver, and he ran over my foot."

  "He?"

  "You know, Mr. Bland, I'm not sure. The windows were the tinted kind, and I couldn't see who was driving."

  "And I don't suppose you had a chance to get a look at the license plates."

  Quill nodded her head. Bland whipped but his cell

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  phone. "We'll call the state police. You ought to report this."

  "No, I'd prefer not to."

  One eyebrow went up. "Why not?"

  "There's very little damage to the Oldsmobile. And an accident report would just be a nuisance. I don't have time to go through all the rigmarole. And the chances of the van being found are pretty remote, wouldn't you say?"

  He shrugged.

  "Besides, Harris is in charge of Tompkins County now that Myles McHale is out of town, and I just..." She hesitated. "I just don't want to deal with him right now."

  "Fine by me." He looked at her foot. The bleeding had stopped. It hurt like the devil, and the toes were puffing up. "I suppose we should get you to an ER. They do have emergency rooms in the hinterlands, don't they?"

  "Of course they do," Quill said crossly. "Cornell University is about ten minutes from here, Mr. Bland. We are not exactly hillbillies, you know."

  "Couldn't prove it by me." He grinned, his teeth very white in his tanned face. "No smog, no civilization."

  "Funny," Quill said. "I'll be fine. Nothing's broken; it's just scraped and bruised. And you can't set broken toes anyhow. They'd clean it up and sock my insurance company with a huge bill."

  "Hey," he said, "that's what the system's for."

  "I'm fine, really, It was just a bump. I appreciate your stopping, though. Where are you headed?"

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  "Just out for a drive. Thought I might meet a few people."

  Quill eyed him. "Are you filing another stay-of-business order or whatever it is?"

  "No. I've got clerks to do that. Just wanted to get the lay of the land."

  I'll bet, Quill thought darkly. Find out who's bribable, that's what he's doing. Aloud she said, "There won't be too many people around this early, Mr. Bland."

  "Thank you for the warning."

  "You're welcome," Quill said stiffly. She settled cautiously back into the driver's seat and snapped on her seat belt.

  Bland stuck his head inside. His breath smelled of peppermints and his face of suntan lotion. "You're certain you're capable of driving?"

  Quill turned on the ignition and revved the accelerator.

  "I see that you are." He backed off and showed her a piece of paper in his hand. "You might not want to leave without this. It is your list, isn't it? Must have fallen onto the pavement when you got out of the car." Quill reached for it. Bland backed up a little more. "You interest me, Miss Quilliam. Most people write lists reminding themselves to pick up the dry cleaning, two gallons of milk, and six cartons of yogurt." He dropped it into her lap. "I'd take better care of myself if I were you, Miss Quilliam. I truly would."

  "You didn't mean that to sound threatening," Quill said.

  He smiled and closed the door. "I'll follow you into

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  Ithaca, just to see if you're going to do the ladylike thing and faint. You should take steps to avoid any more accidents, Miss Quilliam."

  Quill jerked the Olds into drive and accelerated. She watched Bland in the rearview mirror. He was driving a white Taurus, the same rental car he'd registered when he'd checked in to the Inn. Quill kept to a careful speed. Her foot throbbed, but it was bearable. Her heart was beating at a normal pace, and her sudden fear was gone. "What I am," she muttered to herself, "is damn mad. And that van, Mr. Bland, was no accident." She remembered where she'd seen it now. Outside Sherri Kerri's gym the day she'd been kissing her boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 11

  As she had hoped, Monday morning was a quiet day at the Tompkins County courthouse. It was notoriously difficult to park in Ithaca, even during the summer months when the university town was relatively free of undergrads. Quill parked in the horrendously expensive municipal lot and limped her way down the street to the main entrance of the court house. Normally she liked Ithaca. The town was built on a series of drumlins and, as in the village of Hemlock Falls, the streets were steep and hilly, giving the town a European air. But today the climb to the county buildings was painful. And it was hot. By the time she reached the stone steps and the huge front doors, she was sweaty, her French braids were in hot coils over her shoulders, and her injured toes were pounding like the kettledrums at the end of the 1812 Overture.

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  It wasn't air-conditioned inside. Quill fanned herself with her list and scanned the directional board on the wall. The clerk of justice court was on the second floor. She took the elevator up, knocked briefly on the frosted glass of the door, and went in.

  A waist-high counter separated the entrance from the secretarial area. In the back, Quill saw a half-open office door labeled ithaca town justice in brass letters and a melamine sign below it that read the honorable bernard bristol. The secretarial area was empty of human beings, except for a wispy, gray-haired woman sitting at a computer console. She looked up as Quill came in. She was thin to the point of emaciation. Her wire-rimmed glasses distorted faded blue eyes. She was wearing a pink fuzzy sweater and a print dress.

  "May I help you?" She had a high, nervous voice.

  "Yes," Quill said. "At least I hope so. I'm Sarah Quilliam."

  "Who?"

  "Sarah Quilliam!" Quill said, very loudly. "I'm here
about my dog."

  "The animal shelter is two miles outside of town."

  "No, I mean yes, he's in an animal shelter, and I want him to come home. Desperately. But Judge Bristol has to agree to let him out first."

  The half-open door to Judge Bristol's office slammed shut.

  "His Honor is in chambers," the wispy woman said primly.

  "Miss ... urn... could I ask your name?"

  "Mildred," she said reluctantly.

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  "Mildred. Could you ask him to come out of chambers, please?"

  "One moment." Carefully, Mildred tapped the save key on her computer. Then she looked at Quill. She hit the shut-down key and waited until the screen went dark. Then she took her purse from underneath her desk, combed her hair, applied a layer of bright red lipstick to her mouth, and coughed delicately into a Kleenex. Finally she got up and tapped at Bernie Bristol's door, like a mouse scratching.

  Quill's foot hurt. She sat down on the sagging Nau-gahyde couch thoughtfully provided for visitors to the Ithaca town justice. This provision, she decided, must have occurred around 1952. She looked at her foot. More blood was oozing from the toe of her damaged sandal. She took a tissue out of her purse and dabbed futilely at it. She was going to lose her toenail, that was certain.

  "Ahem," Mildred said.

  Quill looked up expectantly.

  "His Honor would like to know if you are that Sarah Quilliam from Hemlock Falls."

  Quill had been afraid of this. Her last meeting with Judge Bristol had gone badly. So badly, in fact, that she'd ended up in the slam for a few days. The fact that this occurred because ex-U.S. Senator Alphonse Santini had bribed him to do it didn't argue Judge Bristol's ability to overlook her felony record. Mr. Bristol was a very stupid man. Quill sighed heavily. "Yes. I am that Sarah Quilliam. Please tell Mr. Bristol all is forgiven. Especially if he can help me out now."

  Mildred pursed her lips in a disapproving way. She

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  disappeared inside the justice's office again. Quill dabbed at her neck with the tissue. The cool spell in August was definitely over and done with. It had to be well over ninety in this building.

  "The judge will see you in a moment," Mildred said, returning.

  Quill got up.

  "Wait!" Mildred commanded. She picked up the phone, tapped in two digits, and waited patiently. "Now," she said into the phone. "His office." Then she hung up.

  Quill blinked at her. "Now?"

  "One moment, please."

  Quill sank back in the couch and opened her purse. She had a copy of the original complaint against Max, sworn out by Benny. And a handwritten letter from Dave Kiddermeister indicating that Max had not heretofore shown aggressive tendencies. There was Max's rabies certificate, his health records, and the preliminary autopsy report stating that while Neil Strickland's cause of death was under investigation, it was not the result of a dog bite.

  And of course, the only picture of Max she had that showed him in a somewhat positive light.

  Quill looked at the picture and smiled a little. Aggressive dogs didn't sleep on their backs with their vulnerable underbellies exposed.

  The glass front door opened and shut again. A security guard walked in. He had a good start on a potbelly and was in sore need of some dandruff shampoo. He glanced at Quill and away again. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and hitched up his pants. A .38 was

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  bolstered at his back. Quill hoped the safety was on.

  Mildred squeaked, "His Honor will see you now."

  "Thank you." Quill got up and limped to the counter. Mildred opened the gate for her, and she walked in, the security guard right behind her. He followed her all the way to Bristol's office, then wedged himself in a corner.

  "Miss Quilliam," Justice Bristol said.

  "Your honor," Quill said. She smiled. Bernie Bristol drove her nuts. He seemed blissfully unaware that his status as justice—an office open to any civic-minded citizen who chose to run for it—was not the same as the justice of the state supreme court. Or the Supreme Court of the United States, for that matter. Bernie was a retired engineer from Xerox who grasped, dimly, that there was a difference between judges and justices, but not much. He was short, perhaps five-six, with a pointy sort of head and an expression eerily similar to the nodding toy dogs often found on the dashboards of '65 Impalas. "Sorry to bother you so early in the morning."

  "Extended office hours were my idea," he said. "The courts of the land should be open to any citizen in need, at any time."

  "His Honor is one of the most dedicated people I know," Mildred said proudly.

  "Dedicated to justice, I hope," Quill said brightly. 'This shouldn't take too long, Mr. Bris—I mean Your Honor. And justice must be done," she said firmly. She dabbed at her neck again. "May I sit down?"

  "How much are you bleeding?" asked Mildred severely.

  "It's just my toe," Quill said, somewhat apologeti-

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  cally. "I stubbed it. Shouldn't be wearing sandals on pavement, I guess."

  "It's all over your neck," Mildred said. "I guess she can sit down, Your Honor, but blood's one of the hardest things to get out of carpet. Moreover"—she swung a gimlet gaze in Quill's direction—"I don't believe a word about you stubbing your toe. I believe she assaulted someone, Your Honor."

  The security guard hitched at his belt in a meaningful way.

  Quill counted to ten, then said carefully, "I'm just here about a very small matter, sir. Since you've been in Hemlock Falls, I've acquired a dog."

  "A dog?" Bernie looked confused.

  "A poor stray dog." Quill looked sidelong at Mildred. "He was just skin and bones when I found him, sir, and you wouldn't believe how grateful he was for the slightest kindness shown him. He was just the sweetest thing you can imagine. Why, if I don't let him curl up at the foot of my bed at night, he cries in the most affecting way."

  Mildred wasn't buying this. Bernie, on the other hand, looked a little wistful. "My wife won't let me have a dog," he said to no one in particular. "What's his name?"

  "Max," Quill said. "And I miss him very much. Well, you know that we run an inn, my sister and I. And we had some guests come from L.A. a few days ago. Slick, oily, city folk."

  Mildred shook her head. 'Tsk-tsk-tsk."

  "And one of them was a TV producer. I think," Quill added mendaciously, "he directed one of those Jerry

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  Springer-type shows where they get those poor people on and torment them into beating each other up."

  "I seen it," the security guard said. "I seen that one. Terrible. Just terrible."

  "It is indeed," Mildred said.

  "This guy, Neil Strickland, attacked Max with my umbrella."

  "Huh!" said the security guard. "It just goes to show. Killed the poor dog, did he?"

  "Oh, no. But Max defended himself. He jumped on the guy and made him drop the umbrella."

  "Bit him something awful, I guess," said the guard. "Lotta blood and that?"

  "Max didn't touch him," Quill said impressively. "I have the autopsy report right here."

  "Max killed the guy?" Bernie Bristol asked.

  "No-no-no-no! The guy died from something else. Something else entirely. And at a different time entirely. But poor Max got caught up in the whole thing." Quill waved her hand vaguely. "And his friends—the guy's friends, I mean—took their revenge out on Max. Here! Would you like to see his picture? You couldn't ask for a nicer dog than Maxie." She proffered the photo of the sleeping Max to Benny. The guard peered over her shoulder. "That dog's dead," he said.

  "No, he's not dead. He sleeps like that."

  The guard shook his head. "I know a dead dog when I see one. I don't know no dogs that sleep on their backs with their bellies turned up. Ain't natural."

  "It is when you're as inoffensive and gentle as Max is." Quill shoved the pic
ture back in her purse. "And of course, there was more stupid trouble. The lawyers

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  got involved. And you know how they can mess things up." She glanced hastily at Bernie. She'd been right. Bemie didn't like lawyers much. She figured lawyers didn't like Bernie much, either. "So. All I need from you, sir, is an order to let poor Max out of the pound until his hearing comes up."

  "Dangerous-dog hearing," Mildred said, confirming Quill's impression that Mildred really ran this office. "Form 62.la. Requires just your signature, Your Honor." She leveled that fierce gaze at Quill again. "Do you have any documents attesting to his character?"

  "As a matter of fact I do," Quill said a little smugly. "From one of our deputies, no less."

  "Not the one you're sleeping with," Mildred said tartly. She permitted herself a small smile. "Oh, yes. I've heard about you, Miss Quilliam."

  Quill hoped her grin didn't look as ferocious as it felt. "Not that one. A totally disinterested party." She gave them Davey's statement, then the rabies certificate, and finally the health records from the vet.

  "I don't see why we can't do this, Mildred," Bernie Bristol said. "Is there a reason why we can't do this?"

  Mildred pinched her upper lip between her thumb and forefinger. "Only problem I can see is if he kills someone else."

  "He didn't kill anyone!" Quill said.

  "Well, if he attacks someone else, then, because you admitted yourself, Miss Quilliam, that the dog did lunge at Mr. Strickland."

  "He lunged at the umbrella. I believe," Quill added thoughtfully, "that someone must have beaten Max with an umbrella when he was a puppy."

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  "Aw," said the guard.

  "Aw, indeed."

  "Your Honor undoubtedly wishes to remand the poor doggie to Miss Quilliam's custody under certain circumstances," Mildred said.

  "Yeah?" Bemie said.

  "And those circumstances would be?" Quill asked brightly.

  "Confined to the Inn and its grounds. No access to the guests. Leashed at all times when not under your direct supervision."

  "For how long?" Quill asked.

  "Until the dangerous-dog hearing." Mildred reached, across Bernie's desk, took the gavel, and whacked it smartly on the desktop. "We'll schedule that as soon as the results of Neil Strickland's autopsy are complete."