"Nate did say the two of them came into the bar first about twenty after," Davey admitted. "But that was two hours before Strickland bought it. Doc Bishop says Strickland wasn't more than half an hour dead when you found him. And Doreen said Max finished his bath around five. Which would have given him plenty of time to run out and kill—hey!"
Quill shoved her chair back. She was so mad, the room was beginning to sway before her eyes.
"Where're you going?" Davey said anxiously. "Quill!"
Several more deep breaths didn't do a thing to quell
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her tearing rage. She marched over to the bar and grabbed the nearest figure. There was a shout of protest. The red mist in her brain cleared; she had Ed Schwartz by the ponytail. She shook him so hard, his head rolled. "I want my dog back!"
'Take it easy, lady!" Ed got off the stool. Quill kept her grip on his hair.
John rose and gently peeled her fingers away. "I was just about to go to work on getting Max back, Quill. Why don't we make the call from your office?"
He drew her around the bar and out into the hall, which led to her office and the lobby out front She shook her hand free of his and leaned against the wall. "Sorry," she said after a moment
"It's been a long day." John stood quietly, his arms folded.
Quill looked at him sheepishly. "Guess I flipped my cork. But, John, they can't put my dog down."
"Well, they can. But they won't do it without a court order, and that will take a few days. I'll give Flick Peterson a call right now. Just keep cool, buddy."
Quill followed him to the office, her palms sweaty and her heart beat erratic. She bit her thumb nervously during John's call to the dog warden, which consisted mainly of "Right. Okay. I'll check." He hung up, and before he could say anything, she said, "I've got a plan."
"We don't need a plan."
"Yes, we do."
"Why do I think it involves kidnapping your dog and sending him to Great-Aunt Matilda?"
Quill laughed a little. "Not Great-Aunt Matilda. But
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Meg and I do have a Cousin Madeline, although she's not a blood relation, she's a cousin by choice, and she does love dogs. So I'm not going to flip out over this, John. If worse comes to worst, I'll just take Max to her."
"Where does Madeline live?"
"San Diego."
John's expression didn't change. "I've got a contingency plan. It doesn't involve turning Max into a fugitive. Want to hear it?"
"Sure."
"We wait and find out what happened. We don't shoot from the hip."
"I'd like to shoot those scriptwriters in the hip," Quill muttered. "Or any other handy spot."
John glanced at the clock on her desk. "It's after seven. Go into the kitchen and get something to eat."
"I'm going to get Max out of the slam, John." She brushed her hair back with both hands, straightened her shoulders, and took three determined strides down the hall before she stopped and turned back. "Where is the pound?"
"Out on Route 15. In Flick Peterson's backyard."
"Rick Peterson's backyard? That place is a dump! The front yard's filled with dead appliances and rusty bedsprings. God knows what the backyard's like!"
"Flick's the animal control officer," John said patiently.
Quill braced herself for an argument. "Max can't stay there, John. I won't leave him there overnight. I'll dognap him if I have to."
"We don't have much choice, Quill. But we can
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probably bring him some food. Why don't we do that?"
"Why don't I find those bozo scriptwriters and give them a piece of my mind!" Quill said indignantly. "That poor dog never hurt anyone in his whole life!"
One of John's eyebrows went up, just a little. "You really think Flick's fed Max? My guess is, since he wasn't prepared for another animal, he'll wait until morning to feed him."
"I know what you're doing, John," she said ominously.
"And?"
"And you're right." She waved her arms. "I can't fight the whole system. I won't try and fight the system. But those scriptwriters are going to be sorry they did this! I'll find out who murdered Strickland if it's the last thing I do! That will get Max out of the doghouse, won't it?'
"If it doesn't put us in it," he said. "Visit your dog, Quill. We'll sort this out later, when the facts are all in."
CHAPTER 5
"Dangerous dog," Flick Peterson said. He used his tongue to flick the toothpick in his mouth from the right side to the left. Then he scratched under his armpit. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled dolefully. Quill knew that howl.
Quill glared at him. "Max is not a dangerous dog." She swept her gaze around Flick's living room cum office. Flick was a collector. Old newspapers lay in waist-high stacks in the corners. Green plastic garbage bags of indeterminate stuff were shoved in a pile against one wall. An assortment of gutted televisions, fiberboard end tables, and boxes of glass jars littered the dusty wood floor. "But I'm going to get pretty dangerous if you don't let me see him!"
Max howled again.
Flick grinned and winked at John. "Minit I seen that
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red hair, I shoulda known she was a spunky one."
Quill's eyes narrowed. She drew in a deep breath. Rick held one hand up in a placating way. He was deeply, cheerfully grimy in a dark blue cotton work shirt and pants. "Now don't get your knickers in a twist, Mrs. Quillam."
"It's Miss. And it's Quilliam. With an i." "Callin' this here dog a dangerous dog ain't up to me. Nosir, it's up to the state of New York. Section 121 of the Agricultural and Marketing Code. We call it the Aggie-Maggie code. Cute, huh? Anyhow, what it says is, any dog what bites—" "Max didn't bite anybody!"
"Well, no, I can't say that anyone's accused him of bitin'. And I met a lot of bitin' dogs in my time, and I would have to say in a court of law that that there dog's a pretty friendly dog, and not one of what you call your chronic biters—" "Mr. Peterson..."
"—but I can't say, Mrs. Quillam, that that there dog isn't a murderer. Nosir. I can't say that. That, ma'am, is for a judge to decide." He flicked the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
Quill subsided in defeat. "Can I at least see him?" "Well, now, I don't usually allow that. Upsets the animal something fierce."
Quill held up the plastic bag of kibbles she'd brought. "He hasn't had his dinner yet, Mr. Peterson." Max's howls changed in depth and intensity. "And he'll stop that howling if he eats."
Hick bit the toothpick. "He howl like that at home?" "Well, no. That is to say, just when he's hungry."
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"A-huh." Flick got to his feet with a groan and fished a large bunch of keys from his pocket. "Howlers," he informed them as he led the way through his indescribably filthy kitchen and out the screen door. "Now, your howler ain't generally a biter."
The backyard was a bit of a shock. The grass was clipped short, and there wasn't a weed in sight. A neat row of chain-link cages formed a U around the perimeter. Each cage held a good six inches of clean wood shavings, a stainless-steel bowl of water, and an animal.
Max stopped howling the minute John and Quill stepped into the yard, and began to bark. This set off a chorus of yips, howls, barks, mews, and growls from the other creatures. Quill resisted the impulse to stick her fingers in her ears.
"Hush now," Flick said. Max was in the center cage at the back of the yard. Quill and John followed Flick. He paused briefly at each cage as he headed toward Max, dispensing what looked like fried liver bits (to a raccoon, a dog fox, and a J^abrador retriever) and carrots (to a rabbit and a miniature horse).
Max flung himself against the wire cage. Quill knelt in front of it
"Hang on a bit, Maxie," Flick said. "You're a lucky dog, you howler, you. You got a pretty lady come see you." He fumbled with the lock to the cage door and edged the door
back. Max stuck his head anxiously through the small opening. "Here now," Flick said. He took Max's collar and, with surprisingly gentle fingers, smoothed the dog's floppy ears around his head. "You
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are an ugly one!" he said admiringly. "Here you go. Here's your ma."
Quill realized her mouth was open. She closed it. "Thank you, Mr. Peterson," she said. Then, noting Max's neatly brushed coat and clean paws, "You've been taking wonderful care of him."
Max jumped up, placed a forepaw on either shoulder, and frantically licked her face.
"Down, Max," she said. She grabbed his paws with both hands and shoved back. Max, panting heavily, looked at her beseechingly. "Oh, dear. You've got something in your back teeth. Mr. Peterson?"
"Huh! Thought I got all of that out." The dog warden took Max's muzzle in one hand and poked his finger quickly down the dog's throat. Max coughed and dropped to all four paws. Quill knelt down and emptied the paper bag of kibbles on the ground.
"Were you eating grass, you foolish dog?" she asked him.
"Not grass," Flick said. "Somebody's ass, more like." He took a plastic evidence bag from his back pocket and delicately inserted his hand in it. "Shirt cloth." He held the bag up for Quill's inspection. "Blue denim cloth. It's a kind a cotton," he explained kindly. "Comes from a man's shirt, most like."
Quill cleared her throat. "You found more of this cloth in his jaws?"
"Well now. That I did. Boys that brung him in said they brung him straight from the scene of the crime. Statics brought the dog in," Rick continued. "Had to catch him with the pole collar. Dog wouldn't let no one near him." He scratched under the other armpit and
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gazed thoughtfully at the raccoon in the next cage over, which was hissing at Max. "Max didn't mind me pet-tin' him, though. It's when I found them other pieces. Had to turn the first bit of cloth over to them right away. It's evidence, like."
"Don't you find it suspicious that Flick conveniently found another shred of shirt while we just happened to be there to witness it?" Quill bent forward and tucked the empty kibble bag in the glove compartment of the car. She'd have to remember to bring more to Max tomorrow.
John kept his eyes on the road, but she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. "Yes."
"And the only person in a denim shirt is Mort Car-mody. Who supposedly was drunk in his room at the relevant times. And whose testimony, so to speak, put Max in the slam. We have a suspect, John."
"We don't have a murder, yet. Shouldn't we wait for the autopsy?"
"Okay, okay!" She slumped back in the seat. "What do we do now? Will Howie Murchison represent Max? Will there be a trial?"
"Howie's town justice," John said. "And we're looking at a violation, Quill. It's not even a misdemeanor. The town justice rules on violations. But I guess we can present a defense."
"Character witnesses," Quill said. "We can get character witnesses."
"Harland Peterson, for example?" John said with a slight smile. Max had made significant inroads on Harland's chicken population.
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"Esther West?"
"Ditto for Esther's Dumpster in back of the shop on Main Street."
"Marge Schmidt, perhaps? Or maybe Miriam Don-caster?"
John shook his head.
"The veterinarian, then," Quill said, remembering Miriam's outraged phone call after the episode of Max and the drying laundry. "He can swear to the fact that Max isn't vicious."
John didn't reply to this. Which was just as well, since the local vet had refused to treat the dog anymore after Max shoved over the drug cabinet and destroyed several hundred dollars' worth of Ace Promazine, Be-tadyne, and Butazoladin. Twice.
"He hasn't done anything to the vet in Syracuse," Quill said after a moment. "And there's tons of canine experts at the Cornell Veterinary School. We could hire them to come in and defend Max."
"Max hasn't been to the vet in Syracuse yet," John said. "And what would experts from Cornell have to say about a—let's be charitable and call him a crossbreed. Experts can testify generally about propensities in breeds, Quill. But not about a—"
"Don't call him a mutt." Quill folded her arms and stared out the window. John turned smoothly into the drive leading up the hill to the Inn. The long day was drawing to a close. Orange and yellow streaked the western sky, framing the sprawling old building in brilliant color. A departing state trooper's car passed them on the left. John pulled into the circular drive and came to a stop in front of the oak door. He touched her arm.
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Til put the car away. I want you to get something to eat and then turn in. It's been a tough day."
Quill smiled at him. "Thanks for coming with me."
"We'll manage through this, Quill." He shifted slightly in the seat, and his scent came to Quill, a faint spicy odor of the outdoors.
She withdrew. She could feel it, and she knew he felt it, too, although neither of them moved. She said nothing, but got out of the car and went into the foyer.
To her surprise, Dina was sitting behind the reception desk. Quill greeted her with a wave. "Thought you'd be home by now."
Dina shook her head and yawned. "Nope. Doreen had to go home to give Stoke the scoop on the murder, Meg and Andy went off to Syracuse for dinner because Meg said she was too rattled to cook, and nobody knew where you and John were, so I stuck around to wait for the new guest."
Quill frowned. "What new guest? We're not open yet, except for those guys from L.A."
"This is another guy from L.A. Mr. Strickland's lawyer. I guess Benny Gilpin called him as soon as they found the corpse and he hopped on the next plane to the East Coast."
Quill looked at her watch. "It's eight-thirty. When's he due?'
"Eleven o'clock. I don't mind staying late, Quill, honestly." She tapped her laptop. "I'm working on the thesis, and I'm on-line to the Cornell Library, so I might as well do it here rather than at the dorm."
"You'd better stay over, then. There must be a room that's set up."
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"Two, as a matter of fact. One for me, and one for this lawyer." Dina rubbed her nose, then glanced sideways at Quill. "Where were you and John?"
"I went to try and get Max out of dog jail. No soap."
"Poor Max," Dina said, although to Quill's mind, she didn't sound all that regretful. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. The dog warden is really weird, but he seems to like animals."
"Good. Good," Dina said thoughtfully.
"Good what?" Quill demanded. "Is there anything else wrong?"
"I thought maybe you and John might be talking to Howie."
"Max needs character witnesses," Quill said. "Not a lawyer. Although if he does, I'll get one."
"A lawyer for Max? I was thinking that we'd need a lawyer for us."
Quill was pretty sure that she didn't want to know what was coming next. "For us?" she said hollowly. "You don't mean..."
Dina nodded. "You have to expect it these days. The L.A. lawyer's secretary? When she called to make the reservations? She said to label the bills with a case file number, which she gave me, and Estate of Neil Strickland v. Quilliam et al."
Quill put both hands on top of her head and pulled her hair as hard as she could. "Fine," she said shortly. "Justine!"
There was a brief silence.
"Can I do anything?" Dina asked timidly. "Can I get you something to eat?"
"Why does everyone want to feed me? I'm going up
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to my room," Quill said with as much dignity as she could muster, "and I am going to take a hot bath and drink a martini."
"You don't drink martinis."
"I'm starting a career of drinking martinis." Quill slung her purse over her shoulder and started to go upstairs. She glanced through the archway to the dining room, a habit hard to break after nine years of managing the Inn. The tables were empty, of
course; they wouldn't officially open until Labor Day. She'd been looking forward to seeing the dining room filled with the quiet chatter of satisfied guests, scenting the garlicky butter smell of escargots Quilliam, hearing the unmistakable pop as a good bottle of red wine was opened.
And now someone else wanted to take the Inn away from them.
She straightened her back and marched upstairs. She was going to see, hear, and smell all those future customers no matter what happened.
She opened the door to her rooms with a hearty shove. The last bit of the sunset flared at the French windows on the far side of her living room. At first, she didn't see him sitting in the reading chair.
"Myles!"
"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." He had a notebook computer in his lap. He closed it and stood up. She couldn't see his face against the color flooding the room. "I was just reviewing some of the statements Davey took at the scene. I was planning on waiting downstairs, but the tavern bar's full of scriptwriters and Dina's in the foyer."
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"And she talks and talks and talks. Well," Quill said uncertainly. She snapped on the lights. The last of the sunset faded. Myles looked tired in the lamplight. Deep circles shadowed his eyes. "As a matter of fact, I was going to give you a call. Have you had anything to eat yet?"
'Tm fine," he said.
"Well, I'm not I'm starving. I haven't had a thing since lunch." Aware that she was chattering, she moved brightly into her kitchen and opened the refrigerator drawer under the counter. "What about an omelette?"
"You go ahead."
"I've a bit of Gruyere, too. And a little brioche." She broke five eggs into a stainless-steel bowl and took out the whisk.
Myles hesitated. This was so uncharacteristic that Quill whisked too hard and splashed half of the egg mixture into the sink. She dumped the bowl out and started all over again. "Glass of wine?" she asked.
"Fine." Myles settled onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter. Quill felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. She poured them both a glass of Vou-vray then turned the gas flame on under the omelette pan. "So have you found but who did it?" She kept her voice light
"Andy won't be sure until he gets the autopsy report. But it looks as if Strickland hit his head on a flagstone."
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