Quill looked up and caught her breath in dismay. “Oh, dear. Mr. McWhirter.”
Albert McWhirter stood behind Doreen with his briefcase in his hand and a frown on his face. Fred Sims was with him. Sims lounged against the kitchen counter, a toothpick dangling from his lower lip. “And Mr. Sims?” She made an attempt to get up and sat down again. “This is a very awkward time, as you can see. Could I possibly persuade you to see me tomorrow? And Mr. Sims? I’m afraid these are my private quarters. If you need some assistance, I’d appreciate it if we could take care of it downstairs.”
“That’s my grandson,” Mr. McWhirter said. “That’s my grandson you’re holding. And I want to know where my daughter is.”
Quill stared at him.
“May we sit down?” He glanced at Fred Sims. “This gentleman is a private detective. He found Melissa for me. He discovered she was working here, for you, and reported back to me in Syracuse.”
“Which is why you were so insistent that the bank send you out here and nobody else.” Quill took a deep breath. “Yes, please do sit down.”
“I’ll make some coffee,” Doreen said. “Or tea. Whatever.”
“Nice digs up here.” Fred Sims rolled the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and sat gingerly at the edge of Quill’s Eames chair. It was where Myles always sat. Quill suppressed the urge to tell Sims to move.
“May I?” McWhirter gestured toward the other end of the couch.
“Of course.”
“Gah,” Caleb said. “Gah!”
Quill kissed his cheek. “Gah. I couldn’t agree more.” She settled the baby more firmly in her lap. “Now, gentlemen. If you would tell me what’s going on?”
It was, Quill told Myles later, a sad and familiar story. McWhirter and his wife divorced. McWhirter had custody of his daughter, Ashley. She rebelled against the discipline— and, Quill suspected—coldness of her home environment and, at the age of sixteen, found herself pregnant.
“Sixteen!” Quill said, in dismay. “She told us she was twenty! Or rather, she told Jinny Peterson. I don’t understand how she qualified for the unemployment program.”
“The real Melissa Smith’s a student at Cornell,” Sims said. “The likeliest scenario, see, is that Ashley hooked up with her in one of the local hangouts in Ithaca and got a look at her Social Security card. Once you got that magic number, the rest is easy. Of course, that’s also how I was able to track her down.”
“The mortgage on her trailer,” Quill said suddenly. “You helped her with that, didn’t you, Mr. McWhirter?” Caleb squealed and gnawed at his lamb. She smoothed the hair on his head with her cupped hand. “That explains how GoodJobs! got into the mortgage business.”
McWhirter’s sallow complexion flushed deep red. “She had to have a place to live. And Ms. Peterson felt that if I confronted Ashley, she’d run and God knows if I’d find her again.”
“So there it is, Ms. Quilliam,” Sims said briskly. “The cat’s out of the bag. So if you could just tell us where we can find Ashley, we’ll take the baby with us and be on our way.”
“Could somebody please give me a hand with these?” Meg shouted from the front door.
Quill got to her feet.
“You sit right there, missy,” Doreen ordered. “And as for you two,”—she glared at Sims and McWhirter—“you touch that baby and I’ll give you a clout you won’t forget.”
Meg tumbled into the room, plastic bags dangling from each hand, and a baby car seat slung over her back. She pulled up, shot a glance at McWhirter and Sims, and said rudely, “What are you two doing here?”
Caleb began to shriek. Max started to bark. Meg set the packages down one after the other and dropped the car seat near the French doors to the balcony. This left little place to stand in Quill’s small living room. Sims backed up and tripped over the pine chest Quill used as a coffee table. McWhirter backed into the tiny hallway.
“Stop!” Quill ordered. “Stop it right this minute. Meg? Please take Max out into the hallway and send him downstairs. Doreen? Please take Caleb and do not, I repeat do not, let anyone else have him but Meg or me. Albert? You and Fred follow me downstairs. We’re going to settle this in my office.”
Quill stamped downstairs battling a combination of worry and rage. By the time McWhirter and Sims reached her office, she had dialed 411, asked for Jinny Peterson’s home phone number, and stayed on the line while the call went through. She gestured furiously at the two men to sit.
Jinny answered on the third ring.
“Jinny? It’s Sarah Quilliam here. I have Albert McWhirter in my office. He claims that he’s Melissa Smith’s father. Is that true?”
“Oh, dear,” Jinny said uncertainly. “I was afraid this might happen. Has he confronted her? I told him that would be a very bad idea.”
“He’ll have to tell you that himself. I’m putting you on speakerphone,” Quill said. “He’s here in my office with this Sims person.” She addressed McWhirter, “Jinny wants to know if you’ve spoken to Melissa, Ashley, whomever.” She punched the speaker button.
Jinny’s voice flooded the small office in a tinny echo. “Mr. McWhirter? Are you there?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, Ms. Peterson. And I have to assure you that I haven’t seen or spoken to Ashley since I arrived here.”
Quill thought about this. Every time McWhirter had come into Meg’s kitchen, Melissa had disappeared. “But she knew he was here, Jinny,” she said. “And it looks as if she’s gone.”
“Gone?” The dismay in Jinny’s voice was clear.
“Gone,” Quill said firmly. “Have you heard from her?”
“I spoke with her yesterday. She was tremendously excited about this business with Kingsfield. She wanted to know if she should give part of the money to the job bank.”
“And you haven’t heard from her at all today?”
“No. I haven’t. You say she’s gone?” Anxiety replaced the dismay. “What about Caleb?”
“Caleb’s here with me.” Quill paused to think. “Look. If you hear from her, will you let me know right away?”
“Of course I will. Quill, this is awful. Do you think something’s happened to her?”
“My guess is that once she realized her father was here, she decided to leave Hemlock Falls for good. And then this business with Kingsfield came up and she had to stick around to collect the money. Now that the deal appears to be in jeopardy, I think she just lost it and ran.” Quill ran one hand through her hair. “But that’s what John Raintree used to call a WAG. A wild-assed guess. If I hear anything, I’ll call you. And you’ll call me, right?”
“Right!”
Quill hung the phone up. She folded her hands in front of her and made a determined effort to relax. The two men stared at her. “Okay,” she said finally, when she felt calmer. “I don’t know where Melissa is. She’s not here. Mike Santelli went out to Gorgeous Gorges as soon as I read the note she left me, and she isn’t at the trailer park, either. He talked to Will Frazier—he’s the manager of the park—and Will said Melissa left the park about eleven o’clock this morning. She stowed suitcases and a duffle bag in the back of her car and strapped the baby in the front seat. That’s the last he saw of her. She arrived here for work just after twelve noon. The kitchen staff didn’t think twice about the fact that the baby was with her; she’s brought Caleb to work before.” Quill took a breath. She blinked back tears. “Excuse me. I don’t know why . . . it’s been a long day.” She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her skirt and blew her nose. “At any rate, Caleb was asleep in his basket by the fireplace, and no one noticed that Melissa had gone until he woke up and started fussing. Peter Hairston took his bottle to him and found this note attached to his blanket with a safety pin.” Quill took the note out of her other pocket and handed it to McWhirter. “I don’t know where Caleb’s mother is. And until I do know, you aren’t getting your hands on this baby. Melissa—Ashley— left her to me.”
There was a prolonged sile
nce. Finally, Sims said, “She has a car? Miss McWhirter?”
“She went right down to Peterson’s used car lot and bought an old Escort, the day she received the ten-thousand-dollar check from Kingsfield,” Quill said. “She was quite proud of the car. And of course, it gave her the chance to leave.”
McWhirter sat absolutely upright. His back didn’t touch the couch. His hands were on his knees. There was a terrible grief in his eyes. Quill’s heart ached for him.
“Albert,” she said softly, “I think we should call the police.”
“No! No.” He shook his head. “She would hate that. She hates me. She doesn’t believe me.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps it’s time for the two of you to sit down together and have an open discussion about what’s happened here. You’ve gone to enormous lengths to see that she’s safe and that her child—your grandson—is safe. All without expecting anything from her. She may not believe what you say, Albert. But she certainly can see what you’ve done for her.”
“There’s no need to call in the police,” McWhirter said. “She’s not a criminal.” He nodded stiffly at Fred Sims. “I’d like to authorize you to go ahead and see if you can find her.”
Sims got to his feet. He tucked his toothpick carefully into his pocket. “If she’s got a car, now, it’s gonna be rough. I have to agree with Miss Quilliam, here. It’d be smart to get the cops in on this. They can put out an APB for her.”
“But she hasn’t committed any crime!” McWhirter cried. “The police will refuse to get involved.”
“I think I can call in a few favors,” Quill said quietly. “And if I can’t, well, she has committed a crime, technically. She’s abandoned her child. If we have to, we can fall back on that.” She put her head in her hands. “I’ll make the calls. And if you two will excuse me, I’d like to be alone for a while.”
Quill was still awake at midnight. Caleb was peacefully asleep in the portable crib Meg had dragged home from Kmart. Max was curled protectively beside him.
She’d discovered that babies use more than one or two diapers a day. She’d also discovered that they’d need more bibs. Caleb thought it a huge joke to decorate his snuggies, the kitchen floor, and Quill herself with his creamed spinach.
She’d also found out that he fit into her arms as if he’d been born for that specific purpose.
Her phone rang, finally, at a quarter after twelve.
“Myles,” she said. “Oh, Myles. Thank goodness. The most amazing thing has happened.”
CHAPTER 11
“I’ve never been all that fond of babies,” Lydia said. She picked up the napkin Quill had used to wipe breakfast applesauce off Caleb’s chin with her thumb and forefinger. She dropped it fastidiously to one side. She was wearing a black turtleneck and elegant black slacks. The color may have a concession to her new and sudden widowhood. Quill wasn’t sure. “Particularly not before breakfast.”
“That’s a shame,” Quill said. “Babies are great!” She put Caleb over her left shoulder and patted his back with such expertise that she was amazed at herself. “And this is a particularly good baby, you know. He slept almost the whole night through.” Babies weren’t a usual part of the guest list at the Inn, having, Meg had pointed out, little use for gourmet food and even less for their excellent wine list.
“Is he going to spend the rest of the morning with us?” Lydia asked with a pained look. “If so, I’m going to move to another table.”
“Nope, Doreen’s coming to take him for the morning. As a matter of fact, here she is now.” Doreen walked through the archway into the dining room. Her usual work uniform was a pink version of the black and white uniforms the wait staff wore. Today she had on a warm fleece hoodie, gray sweat-pants, and a neat green blouse. Quill waved Caleb’s lamb at her. She grinned and waved back, calling, “There’s my boy,” as she came up to the table.
“Morning, Lydia,” she said. Then to Caleb, “Morning, you.” She swept him out of Quill’s arms and onto her own shoulder.
“Gah!” Caleb said. His little fists grabbed onto Doreen’s fleece. Then he spit up the rest of his applesauce.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Lydia grimaced. “It’s all over your jacket.”
“That’s babies for ya,” Doreen said with an even bigger grin. “It’s why I’ve got my grandma suit on ’stead of the uniform.” She bent and picked up the diaper bag Quill had carefully packed. “You put everything I told you in here?”
“And a little bit more than that,” Quill confessed. “Meg must have bought out the entire infant’s section at Kmart.”
“You sure you don’t want him to spend the night with me and Stoke? We’re all set up for my grandkids.”
“No, no.”
Lydia drummed her fingers impatiently on the tabletop. Quill bowed to the inevitable and kissed Caleb good-bye.
Kathleen set plates of yogurt and berries in front of them, and Lydia picked restlessly at hers. “I never could picture you as a mother, Quill. Or myself, either, for that matter.”
“You and Zeke decided not to have children?”
“You have got to be kidding. He and his second wife, that nitwit supermodel, you remember her. April?”
“April what?”
“Just April.”
Quill made a noncommittal face. She didn’t read fashion magazines and never had time to watch the news.
Lydia swallowed a spoonful of raspberries. “They had the Brat from Hell. You must have heard about her. Lexington. Her name is Lexington. Anyway, one spoiled rotten child of Zeke’s is—was—enough to inflict on the world.”
“You really ought to try and eat something,” Quill said gently. “Are you getting any sleep at all?”
Lydia patted her face with her fingertips. “Have I got circles underneath my eyes? I’ve got sleeping pills. Everyone’s got sleeping pills. But they didn’t seem to work very well last night at all.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“And there’s no time for a nap today. I’ve got the first set of lawyers coming in. There’s a lot to see to.”
Quill wasn’t sure how to phrase her next question, but Lydia saved her the trouble. “Zeke wasn’t worth as much as people thought he was. And he set up a trust for the brat, so at most, I’ll clear maybe five, ten million. We’ll have to see. But he had a whacking big life insurance policy. And it has a double indemnity clause for accidental death. So that’s twenty million for me right there. Although of course we’ll have to see how the lawsuit against the Inn at Hemlock Falls, Inc., goes. There could be more.”
“ ‘I used to be nice,’ ” Quill said wryly.
“Eh? What? You’re nice enough now, Quill.”
“That’s what you said to me the day before yesterday. When you checked in.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “If you think whining is going to talk me out of a civil suit, you can think again. If it weren’t for that damned cross-country ski trail, Zeke would be alive today.”
Quill finished her raspberries and started on the yogurt. She was famished. “Did I sound as if I were whining? I wasn’t. I was making an observation. And you didn’t use to be all that nice,” she added reflectively. “But you certainly weren’t as mercenary as you are now.”
A slight flush streaked Lydia’s cheekbones.
“And you’re smart. The changes you’ve made in L’Aperitif are good ones. The magazine was getting stale. The same articles about the same out-of-the-way boutique restaurants in Kuala Lumpur were recycled once a year. You’ve stopped all that. You brought a fresh look to the magazine. And— dancing elves notwithstanding—the ideas for Good Taste are wonderful. I’ve talked to Ajit and LaToya about the scripts.”
“Do you think so?” Lydia looked away. She looked pleased. And to Quill’s amaze, there was a shine of tears in her eyes. “The magazine means a lot to me. What you’ve just said means a lot, too.” She clasped Quill’s hands with her own, and then let them go. “We had some great times in high scho
ol together. Didn’t we? I thought it might be just like old times when I came up here to shoot the show. Of course, with all this fuss about Zeke, that’s not going to happen.” She sighed. “So, no cozy glasses of wine and looking at the yearbook for us, Quill. At least, not until the funeral arrangements have been taken care of.”
Quill resisted the impulse to bang her head against the table in frustration. There didn’t seem to be any way to get Lydia off her planet. “So you’ll remain editor of L’Aperitif. And the show itself is going to go on.”
“And the line of foodstuffs, too. We’ll be spending quite a lot of time together after all this is settled. I’m so glad neither of those things were affected by Zeke’s death. I’m sure you are, too.”
Kathleen came back to the table with a fresh pot of hot water for Lydia’s tea and a basket of fresh brioche from the kitchen. “Dina says there’s a couple of calls for you, Quill. And she’s got something to tell you.”
“Thanks, Kathleen, I’ll be with her in a minute.” Quill was sitting with her back to the archway to the foyer. She looked over her shoulder. “Is she having any trouble keeping the reporters out?”
“Not so far. Mike’s out there with a whacking big snow shovel and he says he’ll stay out there as long as I keep the coffee coming.”
“I told Dina to let me know right away if there was any news about Melissa. I take it the police haven’t found her yet?”
“Nope. But it’s early days yet. Davy’s not a quitter, Quill. He’ll keep at it.”
“Kathleen’s younger brother is our sheriff,” Quill said to Lydia. “Thank you, Kathleen. Please tell Dina I’ll be with her in a minute.”
“Exciting times you have here,” Lydia murmured. “Babies dropped on doorsteps. Missing pot girls.”
“Murders,” Quill added bluntly.
Lydia suddenly looked very tired. “You aren’t beating that dead horse again, are you? It was an accident. Give it a rest.”
“I’m truly sorry, Lydia. But there’s every reason to suppose that Zeke’s death wasn’t an accident. And if he was murdered, wouldn’t capturing the murderer mean more to you than . . .” Quill stopped herself from finishing the sentence.
A Carol for a Corpse Page 17