Quill jumped in her chair. "I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me, Doreen!"
"Then I wouldn't hear much, would I?" The housekeeper sniffed disapprovingly and took the last chair at the table. Quill poured her a cup of coffee, and she waved it away. "Got things to do this morning. Chamber meetin' at ten, and you got a train to catch, Meg."
Meg looked at her watch, muttered, and got up to leave. "We've got to find out about Strickland and get this whole affair cleared up. Everything's stalled until then—I've already talked to Andrew about putting off the ceremony another week. I'll call home tonight. With any luck, I'll have those background checks on Strickland for you."
"I'll have the timetable ready."
Doreen watched Meg leave with a disapproving stare then turned her beady eye on Quill. "What background check? What timetable? For where them three scriptwriters were at when Strickland was killed? You two back in the detective business?"
"We can't let them pin this murder on Max, Doreen," Quill said a little defensively. "And last night Meg and I decided to handle Strickland's death in a professional way. I'm going to find out from the Three Stooges when and where they were at the time the
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corpse ended up at the foot of the Gorge."
"Sheriff can do any background checks you want."
Quill sipped her coffee, which was cold. "Meg's got a contact at the restaurant."
Doreen nodded. "A-huh. So who's this pal of Meg's?"
Quill grinned. "Well, it's the busboy. But he's a terrific computer hacker, and Meg says he can get into the L.A. police files like that." She snapped her fingers. "If Strickland got so much as a jaywalking ticket in the past ten years, Meg says this kid will find out. And Myles isn't on this investigation, Doreen. He left last night for a conference in Seattle. Captain Harris is going to be taking this case over."
Doreen snorted. "That bozo. I remember him from the cattle case."
A smile lit John's face. Suddenly he was young. "Are we keeping case files now, Doreen?"
Doreen sat up in the chair. Her hair all but bristled with excitement. "You know," she said in a low, confidential tone, "that ain't such a bad idea. Writin' up them files. That Rex Stout musta made a mint. "And they put that Nero Wolfe on TV. That's where the money is. TV scripts!"
"No!" John and Quill said simultaneously.
Quill, remembering Doreen's forays into Amway, fundamentalist religion, and various other enthusiasms, shuddered at the thought of Doreen Muxworthy-Stoker, mystery writer. "Why not gardening? Or cross-stitch?"
"Huh." Doreen, her multitude of housekeeping chores forgotten, smacked her lips in excitement. "You
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know, the thing is, your basic mystery detective has to do something. To keep it interesting, like."
"Do something?" Quill shook her head, as if to clear cobwebs. "Do what? Detectives are usually part of the police. Or the FBI."
"Not the interesting ones. The interesting ones eat, maybe. Like that there Nero Wolfe. Or raise dogs or cats. Or run a catering service. Now, I wonder..."
"While you're wondering, why don't you supervise the setup for the Chamber of Commerce brunch," Quill suggested. 'They'll be here in two hours, and please let Bjarne know they'll be three extra. In the meantime I'm going to find the scriptwriters. I've got some questions for them."
"You watch yourself," Doreen said. "It's gotta be one a them. Nobody from Hemlock Falls had any reason to whack Strickland."
Quill found the three easily enough. They were sitting outside on the flagstone terrace near the Tavern Lounge. They were drinking orange juice. Someone, probably Bjarne, had filled the buffet table against the wall with fruit, pastries, and juice. Quill caught the distinctive scent of gin.
"It's the beautiful redhead," Mort Carmody said. He shoved an empty wrought-iron chair with his toe. "Have a seat."
Quill sat down. Mort, she decided, was the one with the gin. He had a cigarette and a large cup of coffee in addition to his juice. Ed bit his nails and ignored his glass. Benny scraped at the remains of Meg's blintzes.
"I bet you wonder why I'm drinking gin at eight-thirty in the morning." Mort leaned over the glass-
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topped table. His eyes were brown, with yellow veins streaking the whites. "I'll just bet you are."
"Why are you?" Quill asked pleasantly. Guilty conscience? she wanted to add. Sleepless nights? Do you keep hearing the shrieks of your victim as he tumbled over the edge of Hemlock Gorge?
"I keep hearing the shrieks," Mort said. Tears filled his eyes.
"Ahem," Quill said. She had frequently thought it would be a good idea to carry a concealed tape recorder. One just never knew. "Would you like to talk about it?" she asked kindly.
"I am going to be talking about it!" Mort said. His face flushed. "And talking and talking and talking about it. I won't get a chance to shut up about it."
"Shut up now, why don't you?" Ed Schwartz had been wearing his sunglasses on the top of his head. He shoved them down over his eyes and said in a bored way, "Have another gin. Save the loquacity for the meeting."
"You know, Mort." Quill resisted the temptation to put a sympathetic hand on his. He looked sweaty. "We can arrange for a lawyer. There's quite a few in Syracuse."
"Lawyers are the worst," Benny said. "Every goddamn one of 'em thinks he can write a screenplay. Jesus Christ. As if we don't have enough trouble with that damn Finn and that big-assed broad with the hat."
Quill counted to ten. She decided that (a) she disliked Benny, Mort, and Ed almost as much as she had disliked their dead producer, and (b) Mort was not confessing to the murder of Neil Strickland, but to
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something else. "What's going on? Guys." She added the noun in a friendlier tone. Rule Two of the innkeeper's code was don't annoy the guests unless absolutely necessary. (Rule One was don't belt the guests; it had been Rule Five up to the time they'd hired Doreen.)
"Well, there was quite a crowd here after they found Neil's body," Mort said. He sucked deeply on his cigarette. "Whole village must have been here."
"Murders are interesting," Quill said feebly. "And there's not a lot going on at the moment in town."
"Big woman with a hat? Garden-club type? She's the mayor, I think."
"Married to the mayor," Quill said. "Adela Henry. What about her?"
"Asked Mort here to make a presentation to the Chamber of Commerce meeting this morning. And before we knew it, we'd agreed to a little writers' workshop sort of thing. This afternoon. In your conference room."
"Turns out Mrs. Mayor has an idea for a TV show," Ed said mournfully.
"Everybody has an idea for a TV show," Benny added. "If not an actual treatment." He looked a little nervously at Quill. "You don't, do you?"
Quill shook her head. So that's what was behind Doreen's latest enthusiasm.
"Thing is, Mrs. Mayor said she'd pay us the going rate." Ed's watery blue eyes were hopeful. "Might be a business in it, Benny. And God knows we all could use the money if Sneezer's canceled—"
"Shut up, you moron!" Mort hissed.
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"If the cartoon show is canceled?" Quill asked innocently. "Is that likely to happen?"
"Absolutely not!" Benny said firmly. "We're in the top fifty of kids' shows."
"If there were forty-nine others out there, you'd be right," Mort snarled. He threw his cigarette on the flagstones and lit another. "What the hell, it was all Neil's fault. He had the taste of a goat. Now that Neil's gone, you watch. We'll get Sneezer back in the top ten."
Benny glared at him. "Have another gin, jerk. And after that, go e-mail that clot Harris with your motive."
"Surely you guys aren't under suspicion!" Quill widened her eyes. "Did you say something about Captain Harris? Does he think you wanted to kill Mr. Strickland?"
"Anybody who knew Neil wanted to kill him," Ed said succinct
ly. "And yeah, some state trooper put the screws to us yesterday morning when we went to give depositions. Seems to think we're the most likely suspects."
Quill shook her head sympathetically. "You can account for your whereabouts during the relevant times, can't you?"
Benny brushed cheese-blintz filling from his chinos and ignored her question. "We saw how that dog went for him the first time—at your instigation, I might add. We practically saw that damn dog attack him the second time. But that didn't seem to get through Captain Harris's thick skull."
"You saw Max?" Quill crossed one leg over the other. She grabbed her bare ankle and pinched it so she wouldn't lose her temper. "When was that?"
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"Everyone saw Max," Ed Schwartz said glumly. "That skinny broad with the frizzy gray hair? Looks like a rooster? Gave the dog a bath, I guess, and he tore through the bar like a banshee, with the skin—"
"Her name is Mrs. Stoker," Quill snapped. "And she's a friend of mine."
"Friend of yours? Sorry. Anyway, Mrs. Stoker was chasing him and she chased him right out the back doors and onto the lawn. He skedaddled over the lip of the Gorge and disappeared."
"You can't see the lip of the Gorge from the Tavern Bar," Quill said.
Eddie wriggled his shoulders. "Mort and I were kinda cheering for the dog, if you know what I mean. We got up and opened the French doors for him. That lady had a broom!"
"What time was this?"
Mort and Ed exchanged bewildered looks. "Damned if I know." Mort drew heavily on his third cigarette, then tossed it onto the flagstone floor. "Some while after Neil left."
"Nate'd know, probably," Benny said. "Good bar-keep, that Nate."
Quill cocked her head. "You know—it's Benny, isn't it? You look familiar."
He smiled self-deprecatingly. "You might have seen me on one of the afternoon talk shows. I do a bit of interview work now and then."
"I don't watch afternoon talk shows," Quill said. "No, I've seen you in Hemlock Falls, I'm almost sure of it."
"Well, yeah. I stayed here a couple of years ago.
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You might not remember, you had a wedding here— it was the week that Senator Alphonse Santini was killed."
"Yes," Quill said hastily. "That was quite a week. I was tied up. I'm pretty bad on names, but I don't forget faces." She drew a breath to ask the next question: had Benny been a wedding guest? Because if he had, he was going to shoot to the top of her suspect list. Practically everyone associated with that dismal wedding had been connected to organized crime. Now, there was a lead. "So is that why the four of you decided to come here? At your suggestion?"
"Seemed like a good, quiet place to work," Benny said. "But no, the idea came from Neil's lawyer."
"Everett Bland?"
"Everett Bland? You're kidding, right? Neil's potatoes were way too small for someone like Bland. Nah, his lawyer is with some big firm on the Strip. Dewey, Cheetam and Howe." Mort's laugh turned into a phlegmy cough.
So they hadn't met Bland. And this was odd. Maybe even a clue. Quill took another deep breath. "Do you know the law firm's real name?"
"Hel-lo-oo!" a voice caroled invitingly. Adela Henry stumped around the corner of the building and onto the terrace. Doreen and Marge Schmidt trudged behind her. "There you all are!" Adela beamed. She was wearing a gauzy white hat with a wide brim and a bright teal pantsuit. Doreen had exchanged her print dress for jeans, a black turtleneck, and a tweed jacket. Quill instantly recognized this as Doreen's writer's uniform. Both Doreen and Adela were carrying manila enve-
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lopes. Only Marge looked reassuringly normal, in khaki pants and a baggy T-shirt. And she wasn't carrying anything suspiciously manuscriptlike.
"This writing workshop is so exciting," Adela said. "We're all gathered and waiting, gentlemen."
Mort emptied his gin and orange with a single swallow. Ed looked at his feet. Benny muttered, "Jesus!" Then: "You have the registration fees collected?"
"Right here." Adela was nothing if not efficient. She handed over a thick envelope. "Some of the students didn't have enough cash on them, so I took checks. I know you said no checks, but it's Saturday, and most people have to go to Syracuse to get that amount because the bank's closed and the ATM only lets you take out two hundred dollars at a time."
Benny ignored her. He fanned through the contents of the envelope. Then he got up and shook hands with each woman in turn. "Benny Gilpin," he said. "Delighted to meet you all."
"It can't be ten o'clock already," Quill said, knowing very well it was nine-fifteen. "And I thought that the workshop was set for this afternoon? Doreen, why don't you take Marge and Adela into the dining room for some coffee until it's time for the Chamber meeting? Meg baked this morning." Adela clutched her manila envelope. "Crullers," Quill added.
Adela swallowed. Doreen made shooing motions. "You go on, Adela. I got a lot to talk to Benny about."
"I'm sure you do," Adela said stiffly, "but I hardly think that Mr. Gilpin and his confreres are going to be interested in your idea for a TV series." She raised her eyebrows. "Her detective is a housekeeper for a twenty-seven-room inn in upstate New York. Quite un-
140 Claudia Bishop
creative, don't you think?" She smiled at Benny, who took two involuntary steps backward into the patio table. "Now, my little idea should have a much broader appeal than Doreen's."
Mort sidled behind Ed; they both stepped nervously off the terrace and onto the lawn. Benny scratched his ear casually and positioned himself behind Mort. The three men looked like cooped chickens with a fox on the loose.
Quill gave in to her better nature and intervened. "It might be better to wait until the official start of the workshop, Adela. I'm going to have to insist that we follow, um ... protocol." Adela was big on protocol.
"She don't want to wait," Doreen scoffed. "She wants to get her horn in ahead of everyone. She always does. You're pushy, Adela. You always have been."
"Everyone else?" Mort asked in a hollow way. "How many others are there?"
"Not mor'n seven or eight," Doreen said. "I know Harvey Bozzel's draggin' around an idea he's had for more years than he's been an adman. And the Reverend Shuttle worth's got a plan for a TV show about a kids' choir, and Esther's detective runs a dress shop. And Freddie Bellini came up with somethin' like Calling Hours."
"Freddie's our funeral director," Quill explained to the scriptwriters. "I expect his detective's a mortician."
"Ay-uh," Doreen said. "Get a lot of plot ideas outta that. What with enough bodies and all."
"Are all the script ideas for mystery shows?" Quill asked.
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"Heck no," Doreen said. "Harvey's got some damn-fool notion of a show called Adman! Main guy in it is an advertising guy who's actually an alien." She scowled ferociously. "Now, there's those what think something like that's gonna fly, but I think it's stupid. You gonna have an alien as a main character, you want the alien to be somethin' more interesting than an adman. An FBI agent, maybe, where they get into more interesting situations than selling Campbell's soup."
"Been done," Marge grunted. "Got a show already where the alien's an FBI man."
"That FBI man is not an alien," Doreen said in the patient tones one uses to tell a three-year-old not to eat dirt. "That FBI man is an FBI man. He chases aliens."
"I think if you have a show with an alien," Adela said, "that the character of the alien should be a physician. A show with that would have legs."
"Legs?" Doreen was clearly bewildered.
"Legs," Adela repeated, with an infuriatingly wise air. "That show £7? would boost its rating enormously if they had an alien on staff."
"Emergency Room Alien?" Mort muttered. "Have to be. No. Maybe Emergency Alien." His mournful donkey expression brightened. "Long as it's not Emergency Alien Room, you might have something there, Mrs. er—um�
�"
"Dell Henry," Adela said briskly. "I was figuring how my name should look in the credits and I think Dell Henry has punch."
"You want a punch, Adela," Doreen said in a threatening way. "I'd be glad to oblige you."
"Stop," Quill said. "Right now."
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There was a startled silence.
"We are all going to the Chamber of Commerce meeting," Quill said firmly. "And we're going to sit through it as we always do, and afterward you can sit down and squabble to your hearts' content over these ideas, but not nowl"
"For goodness' sake." Adela frowned thoughtfully. "Of course, you can sit down and talk to these gentlemen anytime you want to, Sarah Quilliam, anytime of the day or night," she added with unmistakable malice. "I surely don't think you would begrudge us a little time to talk to these gentlemen off-line."
"Any time of the day or night, baby!" Mort leered hopefully at her.
Quill wheeled around, slammed through the French doors to the Tavern Bar, and from there down the hall past their small conference room into the front foyer. Dina sat behind the reception desk, reading. She looked up as Quill stomped in. "Anything wrong?"
Quill tugged furiously at her hair. It was supposed to be hot today, and she'd pinned it up. The heavy coils fell over her shoulders, scattering pins and clips. She swept it back up and jammed a couple of pins back into it.
Dina narrowed her eyes. "It's lopsided," she said briskly.
"It's always lopsided. I'm going to cut it off."
"Sit down and I'll fix it for you. I want to talk to you anyhow, and there's always so many people around it's impossible."
Quill sighed and went past the receptionist desk into her office. Dina followed her and carefully closed the
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door. Quill pulled a brush out of the top drawer of her desk and sat down. Dina unpinned her hair and brushed it out with brisk, competent strokes. "Shall I do French braids? I've practiced a lot on my sisters."
"Sure," Quill said. "Whatever you want. Just don't tell me you're going to quit."
"Quit? I don't want to quit. Being around here is better than TV. Although I could use a raise, now that you mention it."
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