Ground to a Halt

by Claudia Bishop

  “Ha!” Marge’s voice was sudden and loud, “How’s

  about those rhinos?”

  “Rhinos?” Quill said a little wildly, “Rhinoceros?”

  Then crossly, “If you poke me one more time, Marge

  Schmidt . . .”

  “Hel-loo-oh,” Pamela caroled. She waved gaily at

  them from the passenger side of Harland’s Cadillac

  Seville. “See you tonight at the Croh Bar, Marge? (Slow

  down a little, Harland, honey—that’s it.) It’s startin’ to

  be one of my favorite places. That and the Inn at Hemlock Falls. Coeee!”

  Harland, perhaps catching sight of the look on

  Marge’s face, sped up suddenly and squealed around

  the corner and out of sight.

  “Oh, the Rhinos,” Quill said in sudden enlightenment, “the Rochester hockey team.”

  “Soccer,” Marge corrected her, huskily.

  Quill dug into her purse and handed Marge a

  Kleenex. “Men can be such jerks. I’ll tell you what,

  Marge. That good old Southern girl act is going to get

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  pretty old pretty fast. And can you see Harland putting

  up with that Pekinese dog for very long? The guys at the

  Elks catch Harland with a lap dog and they’ll laugh him

  out of the order. He’d hate that.”

  “They might,” Marge said.

  “There’s no ‘might’ about it. That’s for sure. Now,

  what is it that you wanted to tell me? I picked up some

  pretty good information myself. Although Pamela was

  too dumb to notice it. Which is to say, have you noticed

  that men don’t really form lasting relationships with

  dumb women? The smart men, that is. Smart men want

  a smart woman to talk to.”

  “You might be right,” Marge said. She dabbed ferociously at her nose with the tissue.

  “I am quite right about these things,” Quill said

  firmly. Then feeling a change of subject was in order,

  she asked, “So what have you learned about the case?”

  “I didn’t learn anything yet. But we have an appointment.” They had arrived at the door to the Croh Bar.

  Marge gestured Quill inside.

  Midmorning at the bar was usually very quiet. The

  breakfast crowd had left to go about its business, and the

  lunch crowd hadn’t yet started trickling in. But to

  Quill’s surprise, Rudy Baranga sat at the counter, nursing a beer.

  “ ’Lo, there, ladies.” Rudy tipped his cigar at them in

  a jaunty salute.

  Marge gave him a not-too-friendly jab in the arm.

  “Right on time, Baranga.”

  “Would of come here for lunch anyway. Had such a

  good time here last night, I came back for a little more.”

  His button-black eyes slid toward Quill. “No offense,

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  cookie, but that place of yours is a little high-hat for me.

  And the company’s not so hot, either. You and your

  baby sis excepted, of course.”

  “Of course,” Quill murmured.

  “So I’ll give you lunch after you spill what you have

  to spill,” Marge grunted. “Follow me, Rudy.” Without

  looking to see if he would (he did), Marge stomped

  down the aisle to her usual booth in the back. Quill

  brought up the rear.

  “Sit,” Marge said.

  They sat.

  “Rudy here has an idea who might of killed Kittleburger,” Marge said with her arms folded. Her face was expressionless.

  “Really?” Quill said. “Have you told the police?”

  “The cops and I . . .” Rudy sucked air through his

  teeth. “We don’t get along so good.”

  “Oh.” Quill debated with herself for a moment. “And

  why is that?”

  “Yeah,” Marge echoed. “Why is that, Rudy?”

  He smirked and held up his hand, as if taking an oath.

  Marge tapped the tabletop with one finger. Slowly.

  “Rudy’s a meat wholesaler.”

  “Yes,” Quill said. “You supply Pet Pro.”

  “There’s a coupla other things he does for Pet Pro,”

  Marge said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve met Rudy. Is it?”

  Rudy chuckled. “No, ma’am.”

  “We crossed swords, like the saying says. A coupla

  months ago. Kittleburger took an interest in one of the

  businesses I got down in Pennsylvania.”

  “Feed lot,” Rudy said. “Goats.”

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  “Goats?” Quill said. She was bewildered.

  “It’s a place where they sell goats to the slaughter

  houses in New York City. Now,” Marge said in great exasperation, “don’t look like that at me, Quill. This is a very nice place.”

  “On account of it’s halal,” Rudy interjected.

  “Halal? The Muslim way of slaughtering livestock?”

  Halal was indeed humane (if there was anything at all

  humane about a slaughterhouse. Quill had her doubts).

  Halal forbids the raising of animals on concrete. Animals are not to be uncomfortably confined. Any artificial supplement of any kind is forbidden. And the butcher asks the animal’s forgiveness before its throat is

  quickly and painlessly sliced. That much she knew

  about halal.

  “So you own this . . . place, Marge?”

  “Yup. And Rudy here came to talk to me about selling it. To Kittleburger.”

  “And you didn’t want to sell?”

  “Nope. But Kittleburger figured to persuade me.

  Through Rudy, here.” Marge’s glare could have melted a

  good-sized igloo in ten seconds flat. Now,” Marge raised

  her right hand in a STOP! “We aren’t here to talk about how

  I convinced Rudy to convince Kittleburger to back off.”

  “We aren’t?” Quill said. She would dearly love to

  know.

  “No. We’re here because Rudy figures he owes me

  one. Right?”

  Rudy ducked his head. “I do, Ms. Schmidt. I do.”

  “And so he says he’s going to let us in on who did it.”

  Marge explored a molar with the tip of her tongue. “I’m

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  bound to say that I trust Rudy about as far as I can throw

  him.” She leaned forward and grabbed him by his nice

  white tie. “Come to think of it, I can pitch a little squirt

  like you into the next county. So let’s just say I don’t

  trust him one damn inch.” She released his tie. Rudy sat

  back and smoothed it lovingly against his maroon dress

  shirt. “So cough it up.”

  Rudy looked from side to side, in classic crook style.

  There was no one in the Croh Bar except the three of

  them and Betty Hall, who was polishing pilsner glasses

  up front. He leaned across the table and whispered,

  “Robin Finnegan.”

  “Victoria Finnegan’s husband?”

  “The one that got the old heave-ho from the bar association,” Rudy said.

  “He says he was out hiking at the time the Kittleburger murder occurred,” Quill said doubtfully. “And he also says he has an alibi. Six Cornell University co-eds.”

  “They can account for all that time he was in the

  gorge? Do they know exactly where he was at nine

  forty-five?”

  “And he offed Kittleburger because . . .” Marge

  made a “g
imme” gesture with both hands. “I’m waiting

  on motive, here.”

  “Kittleburger’s the one that got him kicked out of the

  law business, isn’t he?” Rudy said.

  “Kittleburger was responsible for Robin Finnegan’s

  losing his license to practice law?” Quill tugged at the

  curl over her left ear. “Well. I suppose that’s a motive.”

  “He and his wife had it pretty cushy, from all accounts.” Rudy examined his cigar with a thoughtful air.

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  “Then there was some problem with the money he was

  supposed to be holding for somebody?”

  “A trust account for a client, yeah,” Marge said.

  “And?”

  “And the K turned him in to the cops. Bang goes the

  fancy boat in West Palm Beach. Bang goes the Porsche.

  And Bang! Bang! Bang! goes our Robbie’s career. And

  Mrs. Robbie’s, too.”

  “Victoria lost her job over something Robin did?”

  Quill said indignantly, “That is absolutely not fair.”

  “Yeah, well, that white shoe firm the both of them

  worked for didn’t want either one of them around anymore. The K’s one of their bigger customers, see.”

  “Clients, bonehead,” Marge said. “Not customers.”

  “Right, clients. And what the K said goes. So they

  both got canned. Finnegan got probation and Mrs.

  Finnegan got a job with Mr. K at a salary that wouldn’t

  keep a dog very happy, much less a highflier like our

  Vicki.” Rudy leaned back with an air of satisfaction.

  “So there’s your murderer.”

  “What about Lila Longstreet?” Quill said.

  “Hah?”

  “The two murders are linked, Rudy.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I say so,” Quill said crossly. “And actually, Simon

  Provost agrees with me.”

  “What kind of motive would Finnegan have to kill

  Lila?” Marge demanded.

  Rudy shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “You’re just guessing that he did it,” Marge said in

  disgust. “You’re a sneak, Baranga.”

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  “That I ain’t,” Rudy said. “Take a look at this.” He

  stuck two fingers in the breast pocket of his sports jacket

  and withdrew a piece of paper encased in a plastic baggie.

  “Look, he has a note,” Marge said. “Let me see that.”

  Quill read over her shoulder:

  “My Room. 9:30. Keep It Quiet.”

  “This is Kittleburger’s handwriting. No question.”

  He snatched the note back. “And the fingerprints are

  preserved, so no touching. Guess where this baby was

  found? Finnegan’s trouser pocket, that’s where.”

  “Who in the world found it there?” Quill said.

  Rudy grinned unattractively, “Searchee la fam.”

  Quill had to process this. Then she said, “You don’t

  mean Victoria did? His wife?”

  “Wouldn’t feel too bad if that one was put away,

  would she? Then again, maybe she would.”

  “So what do you want us to do about it?” Marge’s

  jaw was at a belligerent angle.

  “I figure you’re upstanding citizens of this town,”

  Rudy said. “You tell the cops you found this note. With

  the fingerprints of Robin on it, no less, and Kittleburger’s handwriting and there you are. What you call strong circumstantial evidence.”

  “Why does this sound like a frame?” Quill said.

  “Because it stinks,” Marge said flatly. “Listen, bud.

  How did you get ahold of this note?”

  “Well, now. If I told you that, I’d have to tell you a

  lie. Let’s just say Miss Vicky’s going to be some kind of

  pissed off when she goes to look for it and it’s missing.”

  Marge leaned over and stuck her face close to his. “I

  asked you and I want an answer.”

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  “Okay. Okay. You aren’t going to believe it. But I got

  a phone call.”

  “A phone call,” Quill said. “From whom?”

  “Beats me.”

  Quill rubbed her forehead. She was getting another

  headache. “Why didn’t this anonymous caller call the

  cops?”

  “Huh!” Rudy said. “ ’Cause those bastards trace

  phone calls, don’t they? I’m telling you, it’s getting

  harder and harder to get a little good work done these

  days.” He fell silent, perhaps mourning the increased

  technological capability of the police force. “Well,

  what’s past is past. So what’s the deal here, Margie?”

  “Don’t call me Margie. Let’s say we take this to the

  cops. The cops ask us where we got it. We say we got it

  from you. They come after you, anyway.” Marge made a

  sound like “pshaw!”

  “And I say, ‘what the hell?’ ” Rudy smirked. “It’s

  your word against mine, ladies. And without what they

  call corroborating evidence, the whole thing’s up the

  pipe.” He tucked the cigar into his shirt pocket. “Now, if

  you excuse me, I’ve gotta see a man about a horse.” He

  shoved himself away from the table and ambled toward

  the door. Before Quill could think of a reason to call

  him back, he was gone.

  Marge turned the plastic baggie over in her fingers.

  “So what do we do with this?”

  “Give it to the police,” Quill said instantly. “There’s

  nothing else we can do. But this is just plain weird.”

  “Yeah, well. I say it’s baloney.” She took the note,

  ripped it up, and dropped it in the ashtray. “That shark’s

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  trying to frame her husband. I’m not havin’ a thing to do

  with it.”

  “Yikes.” Quill looked at the torn-up pieces of paper

  in dismay.

  Marge shoved herself away from the table and stood

  up. “Right now, we’re going to put you into one heck of

  a disguise.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “I’m not so sure I like this,” Quill said an hour and a

  half later. There was a full-length mirror on the back

  door to the back room of Marge’s office. She stared at

  herself in dismay.

  “Whatever,” said the chubby kid. The chubby kid

  was Marge’s resident computer technical support genius. He was tall, with a round, cherubic face and bright blue eyes. He had the longest eyelashes Quill had ever

  seen. He wore a t-shirt that snarled: “If It’s Too Loud

  You’re Too Damn Old.” He sat in a swivel chair in front

  of a bank of brand-new computer equipment. The

  equipment lined one wall, almost filling the room.

  Empty potato chip bags littered the floor, crushed candy

  wrappers were strewn across the consoles, and three Big

  Gulp Styrofoam cups stood at attention around the

  chubby kid’s swivel chair.

  “That’d outfit scare the heck out of my mother, god

  bless her,” Marge said admiringly.

  “Isn’t she the Triple X World Wide Wrestling fan?”

  Quill asked.

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  Marge nodded. “Never misses a match, if she can

  help it. Got to hand it to you, Qu
ill. No one would guess

  that you’re how old? Thirty-six? I got all this from one

  trip to Wal-Mart,” she added. “Didn’t spend more than

  thirty bucks. Fact.”

  The reflection from the mirror would have scared

  Quill’s own mother to death. She wore a glitter-ridden

  t-shirt cropped to just above her belly button. And she

  really didn’t want to know—so she didn’t ask—the

  provenance of the grungy black jeans she wore slung

  low on her hips. Marge had plastered a rose tattoo on

  her left bicep and a black circle tattoo on her right

  cheek. She swore the ink was temporary. Quill didn’t

  trust the smirk on Marge’s face as she said it.

  Quill bent forward and carefully rimmed her eyes

  with kohl-black eyeliner.

  “Now this.” Marge thrust a tangled mass of hair at

  her. A bleached blonde mass of hair gelled into spikes.

  “No,” Quill said. “I hate wigs. They give me a

  headache.”

  “You’ve got to wear it,” Marge said flatly. “Anybody’d identify your own hair a mile off. That red is definitely different from any other hair in Tompkins

  County. More like carrots than tomatoes,” she added ruminatively. “Never seen anything like it.”

  Quill sighed, tucked her hair up with hairpins, and

  tugged the repellent wig over her head. She stared

  glumly into the mirror. “It looks like I’ve got a dead rat

  on my head.”

  “Cool,” said the chubby kid, whose name was actually Devon. “Like, very cool.” He shoved one sneakered foot against the floor and then pushed the swivel

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  chair around in a circle as he popped Doritos into his

  mouth.

  The stranger in the mirror could have been any one

  of a hundred teenage girls slouching through the Galleria Mall on Saturday night. Marge handed her a tube of purple lip gloss. “In for a penny.”

  Quill sighed and applied it with a liberal hand.

  “Now, that’s a disguise,” Marge said admiringly.

  “No disguise is going to disguise the fact that I have

  no idea what I’m doing,” Quill said. “How am I supposed to fake being a computer consultant?”

  Devon snorted contemptuously. “The cops don’t

  know any more than you do. I’m just going to sit you in

  front of a terminal and pull up an ordinary word processing document. Then you just key in a series of ones and zeros. Like this.” He swung around to his own screen,

  tapped at the keyboard and a blank screen came up. Then

  he banged away at the keys: 10010100010. “See? Just