“And that dishy sheriff is going to give you these facts?”
Meg shrugged. “Most of this is a matter of record somewhere, isn’t it? The facts are the facts, and most of them are available to anyone who wants to look for them. And Myles has always cooperated. Especially with Quill.”
Quill cleared her throat and folded her napkin carefully. “If we’re going to do this—and I’m not at all sure we should get involved, Meg—”
“Me, either,” said Georgia frankly. “It’s beginning to sound like a lot of work.”
“But if we decide to do it, I think we should recruit Kathleen. She and Davy are pretty close. If she can get him over here for one of your meals, Meg, we can ply him with wine and get a data dump. Myles will go into Louisa’s background with a fine-tooth comb, //”there’s a link in her past to anyone who was at the site this afternoon, Myles’ll find it. Davy is his assistant—and he’ll be able to keep us up-to-date.”
“Myles doesn’t tell Davy everything,” said Meg. “It’s far far better if you and Myles—”
“Meg! I know exactly what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work. If Myles and I... I’ll get to it, in my own good time. If we decide to get mixed up in Louisa Con-way’s murder, I want to handle this ourselves. I already have a list of people here in Hemlock Falls who seem worried over Hedrick’s behavior. And we have a number of suspicions about the DeMarco Construction company. Why isn’t anyone from the Falls working at the site? Why don’t we ever see any of the workers in town for lunch, or to do a little drinking at the Croh Bar? We don’t need Myles as much as we need to do a little legwork.”
“Legwork,” said Georgia dubiously. “There’s that term again. Easy Rawlins does a lot of legwork. Spenser, too. Not to mention Travis McGee. Those guys all work out. We’re not talking about a lot of exercise, are we? Can we just get the suspects here one by one and question them until they confess? Legwork sounds—tiring.”
“Pooh!” said Meg airily. “It’s a piece of cake.”
“Meg’s forgetting some of the more strenuous aspects of detective work, Georgia.”
Meg grinned. “You mean like climbing into second-story windows and rolling under wire fences at two in the morning and that sort of legwork?”
“Yes,” said Quill. “Not to mention being held at gunpoint, swallowing drugged drinks, and being attacked by guard dogs.”
Meg patted Quill on the shoulder. “We survived all of that just fine. Not to worry. This one should be a piece of cake. Hedrick has plans to run articles exposing some scandal about the mini-mall, right? And Louisa funded the Trumpet! We’ve got a whole raft of possible motives if we look at this from the most obvious angle. That somebody wanted to stop Hedrick from publishing his lousy rag. It seems pretty likely to me that the murderer is right here in Hemlock Falls and has some connection to the opening of the mini-mall. So let’s parcel out some assignments, here. Georgia, what if you volunteered to do something with the mall opening—you know, work on the Jell-O Architecture committee, or something. You’re new in town, just sort of passing through, and nobody’s going to get suspicious if you chatter away asking obvious questions. Quill’s already got a plan to swipe the little red book. And once we get it, it’s bound to be loaded with significant clues. Quill can handle the liaison work with the sheriff, starting tomorrow to find out about Louisa’s nefarious past, and I—”
“Yes,” said Quill. “And just what are you going to be doing while Georgia and I run around collecting clues?”
Meg waved her fork triumphantly in the air. “I will do the deduction! And another miscreant is brought to justice!”
“I,” said Quill, quoting the notorious New Yorker cartoon of the little boy being enticed to eat his vegetables, “say it’s spinach. And I say the hell with it.”
Meg patted her sister affectionately on the knee. “Pooh! You’re going to love it. The Snoop Sisters plus one ride again.”
“Hmm,” said Georgia. “It’s beginning to sound like spinach to me, too.”
“So?” Meg demanded “What’s it going to be? I’ll be busy tomorrow with the party arrangements. I think you should just sort of drop on by the sheriffs department, just in a casual way, you know, and Georgia and I—”
“No and no and no. No sheriffs department. No visits, casual or otherwise. Excuse me, Georgia, I hear the phone.” Quill rose and stepped into her rooms. The air was cool and a little musty after the freshness of the Falls.
“Quill.”
There would come a time, Quill thought, when the sound of Myles’s voice wouldn’t catch her under the heart.
“How’s the detective biz?” she asked lightly.
“We’ve got one of your guests here for questioning, and he doesn’t speak English. Is there anyone traveling with him that does?”
“Not my Japanese guest! Myles, the man’s the retired head of one of the largest multinational corporations in the world.”
“That may be,” said Myles dryly. “But he’s got a rap sheet as long as your arm.”
CHAPTER 7
“Thank God it’s the chauffeur and not Mr. Sakura,” said Quill in the darkness of her Oldsmobile. She signaled a left-hand turn and drew onto Main Street. They were on their way to the police station to rescue Mr. Motoyama. It was just after nine, and the last bits of daylight trailed on the horizon like the luminous wake of a ship. “If Myles arrested a billionaire industrialist for murder, we’d never hear the end of it. The media’ d have a field day.”
“It’s bad enough that it’s the chauffeur. Can’t you see the Trumpet! headlines?” Meg pulled at her hair. “ ‘Foreign Terrorist Checks In at Murder Inn. Sisters Sign In Killer!’ And, in a discreet subheadline: ‘Did He Register His Gun?!’ “
“Sshush! Mr. Sakura understands more English than you think.”
“Pooh!” Meg turned her head and raised her voice, “You okay, Mr. Sakura?”
A crisp, rather frigid voice behind them responded,
“We’ll straighten this out in no time,” Quill assured him. A glance at the rearview mirror made her add hastily, “Mr. Motoyama should be out in time for the party tomorrow night. I hope you both will come.”
“Motoyama,” said Mr. Sakura, firmly.
Meg settled back into her seat. “I can’t believe Myles fell for this racist crap.”
Quill was so startled she braked. “What the heck are you talking about?”
“It’s pretty clear, isn’t it?” asked Meg darkly. “Innocent foreigner in a small town lynched by paranoid citizens. The poor man doesn’t even speak English. And there he is— alone, scared, petrified that the gaijin will string him up by his—”
Quill stepped on the accelerator with a jerk. “All Myles said is that he’s pulled Motoyama ... Mr. Motoyama ... whatever... for questioning. He may have been a witness to something, Meg.”
“Doreen heard through the grapevine that Mr. Motoyama attacked Louisa at the mini-mall project with a broom handle and chased her into the woods. On such evidence are the Billy Budds of this world strung up on the yard-arm.”
Quill, still stung at the wholly gratuitous insult to Myles, didn’t answer.
“Louisa Conway wasn’t killed with a broom handle, she was killed with a hammer,” Meg continued, apparently unconscious of Quill’s irritation. “Myles must have known that, but no, he attacks the most defenseless person around. An elderly citizen of a foreign country, eking out his poverty-stricken existence behind the wheel.”
“That bozo O’Doyle, the well-known volunteer fireman and forensics expert, was the one who said it was a hammer. And I’ll thank you very much not to impugn the reputation of one of the most honorable men I know.”
Meg glanced at her out of the corner of her eye and hummed a fragment of “As Long As He Needs Me,” which made Quill crosser than ever.
“It won’t work, you know.”
“What?” said Meg innocently.
“You know what. Trying to make me defend Myles. We’ve
arrived, Mr. Sakura.” Quill pulled into the municipal building parking lot, put the car into park, and turned off the ignition.
“Porice?”
“Yes. This is the police station.”
“Sakura Kenji comes soon?”
“Yes. I spoke with him. Cornell University is less than twenty minutes from here. He’ll be here very soon.”
Mr. Sakura grunted doubtfully.
“So.” Meg sighed “The great art critic arrives. Not that you’ll want to talk about your work. Your former work, I should say. Now. About our true calling as detectives. Will you ask questions, and me take notes? Or vice versa? This is a great opportunity to pursue inquiries.”
“Let’s just forget the whole thing.” Quill pushed the car door with barely enough force to keep it open. “I’m tired. I want to go home. And you’re just thinking of ways to get me alone with Myles. I don’t want to be alone with My-les.”
“Heck, no. This little trip to the station house is right up your chivalric alley. Here we are, the Sisters, rushing off in the night to save—”
“Cut it out! I hate it when your imagination runs riot. Half the time you’re in some twilight movie world.”
“And which half would that be!?” demanded Meg with a grin. “Not the cooking half. Admit it’s not the cooking half. I’m very realistic about that.”
“Not the cooking half. You’re very real world about cooking.”
“You’d be bored without my imaginative contributions to our daily grind.” Meg got out of the car with a Clint Eastwood slouch and whistled the opening bars of the theme from A Fistful of Dollars. Quill got out, slammed the driver’s door shut, and opened the rear door for Mr. Sakura.
The parking lot was nearly deserted, except for a black-and-white police cruiser and Myles’s Jeep Cherokee. Their footsteps echoed on the asphalt as Quill led the way to the station.
Quill, while not intimately familiar with the workings of multinational corporations, was braced for at least a hedge of lawyers, if not a planeloadful, appearing instantaneously like so many crew members beamed down from the starship Enterprise, The sheriffs office contained only Myles, his pinkly eager deputy Dave Kiddermeister, and a short, elderly Japanese with a fierce scowl: Mr. Motoyama himself.
The latter rose as they entered, prostrated himself on the floor before his employer and groveled. Mr. Sakura responded with a flood of furious, highly guttural Japanese and short, angry chopping motions of both hands.
“Good heavens,” murmured Meg. “It’s a good thing he doesn’t have a sword.”
Mr. Sakura finished his tirade. Motoyama rose and bowed. Mr. Sakura bowed back, and with an abrupt change of manner, turned to Quill and asked, “Porice chief?”
“Yes. Mr. Sakura, may I present Myles McHale?”
“Konnichiwa,” said Mr. Sakura. “My aporogies for this ...” He hesitated. “This benighted ‘eathen.”
Myles looked a little startled.
“Kipling,” said a voice behind Quill. “My father is very fond of Kipling’s poetry, and is, in fact, learning English by memorizing selected poems.”
Quill turned to the tall Japanese who had come in unnoticed behind them. “Ken Sakura. I’ve been an admirer of your paintings for a long time. I’m delighted to meet you, although I’d hoped it’d be under less stressful circumstances.”
“Wow,” said Meg, under her breath, either in response to Sakura Kenji’s eloquence or his looks, or perhaps, thought Quill, both at once. He was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever seen. Like many Northern Japanese, he had a compact, graceful swimmer’s body. He dressed as most Cornell University professors did in summertime: blue work shirt rolled past his muscled forearms, chinos, and Docksiders.
“I can assure you, Ms. Quilliam,” Sakura Kenji continued, “that my father’s taste in the plastic arts is much less idiosyncratic than his taste in poetry. I told him, for example, that he would find your own work had the quality known to us as shibui.”
Quill, out-of-proportion pleased, recognized the accolade for what it was with a violent blush, then made an effort to maintain her dignity with a skeptical frown.
“Except for the fondness for Kipling, his artistic taste is impeccable. I believe Kipling’s chauvinism, his imperialism, his conviction that a selected race of men is destined to rule others, make the poet attractive to those of my father’s generation.” He smiled affectionately at his father, then took Quill’s hand and held it a fraction longer than necessary.
“Well,” said Quill helplessly. “Um. I’m delighted you came over to help with the translation effort. I’m sure this will be cleared up immediately. Sheriff McHale is just... is just...”
“Pursuing inquiries?”
“That’s right,” Myles interrupted equably. “You may be aware, Professor Sakura, of the events that took place here yesterday.”
“So Miss Quilliam informed me when she called.”
“Were you also aware of Mr. Motoyama’s criminal record?” Myles leaned forward and read: “Three battery convictions, one assault, one vehicular intent to harm? All occurring on the same date?”
Ken Sakura’s classic brow creased. He turned to his father. The conversation was rapid: courteous on the son’s side; deprecatory on his father’s.
“Sheriff McHale, there does appear to have been a prior incident.” Ken hesitated. “My father says it was of no consequence,”
“Concerning?”
“Arising from Motoyama’s war experiences. He’s still somewhat resentful over the outcome.”
“The war?” said Quill, bewildered. “Which war?”
“The war, Miss Quilliam. For Japanese of my father’s generation, there is only one war.”
“World War Two!” shrieked Meg. “Pooh! That was fifty years ago.”
“My father is seventy-eight, Miss Quilliam, and Motoyama some years older. Motoyama associates certain English words with his experiences in an internment camp in the Pacific. The battery charges you refer to on his rap sheet, Sheriff, were brought by an elderly veteran of your Pacific campaign. The assault charges were made by a confederate of his who got in the way of the corncobs when the veteran ducked.”
“Certain English words?” demanded Meg. “What kind of words? You mean racial slurs? Mr. Motoyama threw corncobs at somebody because of racial slurs?”
Quill, with misgiving, recalled Hedrick’s offensive characterization of John Raintree. Attitudes like that ran in the family. “And there weren’t any corncobs handy yesterday,” she said aloud, “but there were plenty of hammers.”
Meg gave her a glance which somehow seemed to be approving and conspiratorial all at once. “So, Myles, Mr. Motoyama got in a fight with Louisa Conway? Over ... um ... certain English words?”
Myles, his attention caught by something beyond the office walls, didn’t respond.
Dave Kiddermeister offered, a little diffidently, “It was Jell-0.”
Mr. Motoyama stiffened, drew himself erect, and made a noise indicative of extreme displeasure.
Receiving no sign from his boss, Dave continued in a slightly more self-assured way, “And the fight wasn’t with the deceased, it was with Mrs. Mayor.”
“Adela Henry?” said Quill. “Mr. Motoyama got into a fight with Adela Henry over Jell-O?” The repetition of this (apparently) racially offensive word prompted another growl from Motoyama. Quill felt herself blush and said, “Gomen na-sai, Mr. Motoyama,” which earned a reproving glare from Mr. Sakura.
Meg was scribbling notes on the back of a recipe card drawn from her pocket. “What was Mrs. Henry doing there?”
“Well, you know she’s president of the ladies auxiliary,” said Dave. “The auxiliary went to the mini-mall site with Harvey Bozzell to check out the location of the tent for the opening-day festivities. The ladies auxiliary’s got this Jell-O architecture contest going—”
“Jell-O architecture?” said Ken Sakura.
“Yes. You know, buildings made out of Jell-O. Model buildings
. Best buildings gets a cash money prize that’s been put up by the Chamber, and the ladies auxiliary wanted to be sure ol’ Harvey put the tent out of the sun, because it’s August and bound to be hot and they don’t want the exhibits to melt before the judging. They were thinking air-conditioning.”
“Buildings out of Jell-O?” said Meg, her professional interest temporarily aroused. “Air-conditioning won’t help much. You’d have to add sand to the gelatin, or something.”
“Anyhow, this bird Motoyama starts hollering and Mrs. Mayor hollers back and Motoyama grabs a broom handle and starts waving it around in what Mrs. Mayor calls a threatening manner—”
“Broom handle?” asked Quill, bemused. “But what does this have to do with Louisa Conway?”
“Tae kwon do,” said Meg, with an annoyingly superior air, “turns broom handles into lethal weapons. No, never mind, that’s a Korean martial arts discipline. But I’m Sure there’s some Japanese equivalent. Why did you arrest Mr. Motoyama, Myles? Did Louisa Conway get into this argument over the Jell-O and start calling him names?”
“He hasn’t been arrested for Louisa Conway’s murder,” said Myles. “Adela Henry swore out a complaint of battery against him.” He turned his head suddenly, his attention drawn to the front door.
Ken Sakura leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his gaze direct and warm. Quill wanted to go home. “So this is really none of our business, Meg, now that Ken’s here.” She looked past Ken Sakura’s left ear. “I really think it’s time we were going.”
“It is too our business, Quill. Anything that affects the reputation of the Inn is our business. Myles, please pay attention to me. It is just typical of this town to accuse a non-English-speaking person of a different race of—”
“Quiet,” said Myles. Meg stiffened in indignation. Myles rose from behind his desk, his eyes intent. In the silence Quill became aware of a low murmuring outside; the scrape and shuffle of many feet.
A Pinch of Poison Page 10