"Sadness is part of life," Bjarne said.
"To a Finn, maybe," Quill said tartly. "I'll tell you what I'll do, Bjarne Bjarnson, if you don't write a nice note for Max. I'll put you in charge of the snack bar Horvath's bugging us to install. I've already got a name for it: the Elvis Presley Snack and Food Bar. You'll fry stuff in batter, Bjarne. Mushrooms. Chicken wings. Pickles. I'll make sure that snack bar has every single thing on its menu that Elvis Presley ate. Including the Crisco sandwiches."
"That's disgusting."
"And a dead dog is pitiful. I'll have no mercy. I warn you."
Bjarne held out his hand. He took the sketch pad and the pen. He wrote briefly, signed it, then returned it. She read:
Do not kill Max the dog.
My happiness depends upon it.
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"Thanks, Bjame," Quill said.
By nightfall, she had most of the documents Howie had suggested she obtain. The vet turned Max's medical records over after extracting her promise to switch vets. Davey Kiddermeister wrote an impassioned note that had only two misspellings. He turned over a copy of the police report and a note from forensics that indicated some of the cloth extracted from Max's teeth had come from a trooper's trousers. Quill hoped they were Harris's. The autopsy report was inconclusive; they were awaiting further tests.
She drove home to the Inn well after dark, coming up the long driveway to a darkened building and an empty parking lot.
There was no one there at all. It felt abandoned. Dina had gone back to Cornell, Doreen home to her husband, Meg was in New York, Myles in Seattle, and Max was in jail. The scriptwriters and Bland must have gone out for dinner.
She walked restlessly from room to room, then went outside into the gardens and paused for a long while on the flagstone terrace. The carriage house was visible from where she stood. A light was on in the office on the second floor. John was a dark shape against his computer screen. What had he found out about Bland and Strickland in Syracuse?
The air was soft and humid. The scent of late-blooming lilies drifted by. The sound of water over the Falls was a lulling rush. Quill lifted her hair off the nape of her neck. Sunday tomorrow. With the kitchen
L
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closed, she could sleep in. Doreen would be in to supervise the room cleaning.
She could spend Sunday morning as she liked. Where she liked. In John's bed, if she chose.
Quill turned and went up to bed alone.
CHAPTER 10
Sunday, Quill went to visit Max. She returned to a morning quiet on the surface, but rife with tensions. "It's why I don't like lakes," she explained to John over coffee on the terrace.
He laughed. "Okay, I'll bite on that one. Why don't you like lakes?"
"I like to look at lakes, of course, unless they're polluted, but you never know what's under the calm water."
"Lake monsters," John suggested.
"And watery booby traps." Quill looked out over the lawn. Yellow police tape still surrounded the table where Mort Carmody had died. Quill scraped her sandal across the stone. "This spot has a morbid fascination for me," she said glumly. She couldn't take her eyes off the chair where Mort had died.
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"Do you think so? It's beautiful, Quill. You can't let Mort's death spoil it for you."
Quill tugged at her hair. "No news on why he died or how. Davey said the coroner's office is backed up. There was a terrible accident on the thruway. But it doesn't seem likely to me, John, that there would be two fatal accidents in a twenty-four-hour period. Especially when the two men worked closely together."
"It's possible, but not probable," he agreed. "If we assume that both are murder victims—we have to look at the big three."
"Means, motive, and opportunity. Something I picked up from Mort the day before yesterday led me to suspect a motive for Strickland's death. Sneezer was on the block."
"There were plans to cancel the show? That happens all the time in television, Quill, doesn't it? It'd be a motive if Mort needed the money and had no hope of other employment, I suppose. But it's weak."
"It is weak." Quill sipped her coffee happily, then set it on the arm of her chair. "I'm glad we agree. Mort didn't seem to have the necessary ..."
"Emotional instability to kill." »
"Exactly! Exactly/" She sat up in excitement. John grabbed her coffee cup and set it on the flagstones.
"I found out very little of substance about Strickland and Bland." John stretched his long legs out and put his hands behind his head. "Bland makes the news a lot, but the stories were all about the cases he's handled. Primarily civil suits, squabbles over land use, contractual issues with actors, negotiations with the Screenwriters Guild. That sort of thing. Strickland
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seems to have been a wunderkind. He made his mark on the industry early on."
"Mark? Wound is more like it." Just then Benny Gil-pin shuffled through the French doors onto the terrace and slumped into the chair opposite Quill. "That is, if you're talking about Slick Strickland."
"Looks like you had a rough night," John said in a neutral tone.
"Eddie and I went down to that little bar off Main— what's its name? The Croh Bar. They were having a big going-out-of-business bash." Benny's eyes were bloodshot. Bits of scrambled egg were stuck in his gray beard. He yawned. "The broad that bought the place?"
"Marge Schmidt," Quill said.
"Yeah. She and her partner showed up about midnight. They made breakfast for us about four o'clock. We closed the place. Damn good food, too. Mort would have loved it." His lower lip protruded. "Poor Mort."
"You miss him," Quill said dryly. "Had you worked together long?"
"Four seasons with the duck."
Quill presumed this was the Sneezer show.
"He wasn't a member of the club," John said.
Benny's eyes shifted away, then darted back to appraise John. "You mean AA." John nodded. Quill kept silent. John had had his struggles there, and he had won. "No. No." Benny's tone was defensive. "It wasn't that big a problem for him. Or me, either. We both could handle it."
John nodded noncomittally. "Any financial problems?"
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"Mort? Hell, yeah. Poor slob was always meeting broads in bars and marrying them. Hazard in the script-writing business. Chicks think you can give them a leg up in the industry, you know?"
More like a hazard in the drinking business, Quill thought. And chicks? She hadn't heard that term for a hundred years, at least. But she said instead, "Could Mort have murdered Neil?"
"Did he want to? Hell, yeah. There was a long line of people who wanted to murder Neil, from his ex-wives to the art department. Little shit had his fingers everywhere. But did he?" Benny squinted against the sunlight. "Jesus, my head hurts. Nah, Mort didn't have the balls to murder anybody. Even Slick. Although come to think of it, he did leave the bar after Neil went out for that walk. Headed in the same direction. But you must have seen him, Quill. You were out there, too."
"I fell asleep," Quill said apologetically. "I didn't see anyone. What about Mort? Did anyone have a reason to murder him?"
"Mort? Mort had a heart attack!" Benny's eyes widened in alarm.
"Did he have a bad heart?"
"How should I know? He smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, could happen to any of us." Benny combed his beard, his fingers nervous. "Jesus. Mort. Murdered. No way."
Quill reached for her coffee cup to give herself time to assess this reaction. Carmody's death hadn't upset Benny; the idea that it might have been murder did.
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The coffee was cold. "I'll take some of that," Benny said a little desperately.
"I'll get some fresh from the kitchen."
"I'll come in with you, if you don't mind. This sun's a bastard."
John came with them. In the
dining room, they found an unshaven Eddie Schwartz sitting at one of the empty tables, his eyes glassy. "I've been sitting here and sitting here," he said plaintively. "Where's the waitress?"
"Didn't you see the sign, bonehead? The kitchen's still closed." Benny sat down next to him with a thud. "Eddie, boy. They think Mort was murdered."
"Murdered?" Eddie's mouth dropped open. "No shit?"
"We don't know..." Quill began. John closed his hand over hers in warning.
"I told him!" Eddie said. "That idiot, I warned him."
"Warned him about what?" Quill asked, her voice casual.
"We've got to blow this pop stand, Ben. I'm serious. We stick around here, we're going to get whacked, too."
"Who's going to whack you?" Quill demanded.
Benny hunched his shoulders. "Neil must have killed him."
"Neil was dead," John said.
Eddie thumped his hands on the table in excitement. "That's right, Benny! Neil was dead! See, Mort had something on Neil, and he was bound to get a little cash out of it, and I thought... but no. It doesn't make any sense."
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"I'll get some coffee," Quill said. "You two just sit right there." She went into the kitchen and reemerged moments later with fresh orange juice, croissants, and hot coffee. Both men gulped the coffee. Quill sat down next to John and said firmly, "Blackmail."
"I wouldn't call it blackmail, exactly." Eddie bit into the croissant sullenly. "Gray mail, maybe."
"And why was Mr. Strickland a candidate for gray mail?" Quill looked at each of them in turn. "You might as well tell us. Somebody murdered Mort. And the odds are good that the same person dispatched poor Mr. Strickland. If you knew what Mort knew, it sounds to me as if you two might be next."
"Oh, God," Eddie whimpered.
"This dining room's closed." A voice interrupted nastily. "Why are you serving in here?"
Quill turned around. Captain Harris walked into the dining room. He had on his mirrored sunglasses and his blues. Quill hoped he was very hot in them. "Coffee?" she offered sweetly.
"Coffee's good," Ed said nervously. "Captain, is it true Mort was murdered?"
"Carmody? Who told you that?"
Both men looked at Quill.
Harris spat lightly. "She know something the ME doesn't? Or the coroner's office? Or his own doctor? Cause of death was a massive coronary. Brought on by the heat and the poor bastard's smoking habit. Plus, the son of a bitch was drunk. At ten-thirty in the morning."
Benny laughed. Quill knew the laugh was one of relief. Harris smiled thinly, acknowledging the good-
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old-boy joviality. "Yeah. Hard-living guy, Carmody. Anyway, you can open up this place again, Raintree. As long as everyone stays healthy, you can stay open."
"What about Strickland?" Quill asked. "Was his death natural, too?"
"Wound on the head killed him. It's consistent with a fall. We clear up the matter of the dog and the case is closed." He smirked in an insufferable way.
"My dog didn't do it," Quill said. She got up and left, her temper close to the boiling point. If Harris had delayed just five minutes, she could have gotten to the bottom of this. And dammit, it wasn't Max's fault.
Quill woke Monday morning unsure about how to dress to request a dog hearing, so she opted for "demure professional." Demure professional was hard when it was hot, but she put on panty hose, dug up a white blouse, and pulled on a challis skirt. She tried the French braids. They looked terrific, and she reminded herself not to tug at her hair, no matter how exasperating Bernie Bristol turned out to be. Then she dug through her bureau for cute photos of Max.
There weren't any cute photos of Max. There were photos of Max swimming in which the water running out of his jaws made him look like a rabid wolf. Do-reen had snapped a picture of Max being called for a bath. From the dog's expression, it was easy to infer a lot of very bad things about Quill, his owner. Quill selected the one of Max asleep on his back. All four paws were in the air, and his tongue was sticking out.
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That, Quill decided ruefully, was as cute as Max ever got.
By the time she came back downstairs, Dina had returned to her post at the reception desk and the Inn was blessedly humming along its Monday-morning routine. "Where is everyone?" Quill asked. "And sorry, did you have a good weekend?"
Dina punched the save key on her laptop. "Yes, I had a great weekend and I don't know where everyone is. The script seminar's today, so Bjarne's fussing around in the kitchen and John's out with the food broker and Doreen's in the middle of firing another housemaid and—"
"Stop," Quill said.
"I can't stop. I have one more thing to tell you. Meg called in a few seconds ago and I told her what happened and she's coming right back home."
"La Strazza won't like that," Quill said doubtfully.
"She said to tell you 'sisters forever.' "
"She did?" Quill was very pleased to hear this. "Well, if she calls again, you tell her back, 'Sisters forever!' "
"Got it. When will you be back?"
Quill glanced at her watch. It was after eight-thirty. County offices opened at nine. "Noonish, I think. It takes about twenty minutes to get to the courthouse. I'm going to try and spring Max. With any luck, we'll all be together for dinner—Meg, John, Doreen, and me."
"Just like old times," Dina said. "Does this mean I can have the day off?"
"You want the day off?"
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"Thing is, Dave Kiddermeister wants to go out."
"Oh." Quill paused. "I don't suppose—"
"I know, I know. I dumped him last month, but he's so cute when he blushes, Quill..."
"It's not that. It's just that with Myles away, we don't really have the kind of access to information he would be perfectly willing for us to have if he were here."
Dina's eyebrows drew together. "I think I can translate that. You want me to pump Dave for any information he might have about the murder."
"Murders," Quill corrected her. "Harris is wrong. I don't care how the autopsy report reads. It's just too much of a coincidence, and Harris is too promotion happy for me to buy the accidental-causes bit. He wants those cases solved so that he'll look good."
"But Mort Carmody just keeled over in the heat, Quill. It's all over town that he had a heart attack, and I don't like pumping Dave for information."
"Of course he had a bad heart. The man was a chainsmoking drunk. God knows his liver couldn't have been in very good shape, either. But it wasn't that hot. He was sitting down, not exerting himself at all. And kaboom? I don't think so. And I don't like the word pump, Dina. I wouldn't," she added with a virtuous air, "want you to try to obtain information that wasn't available to the general public."
"Sure you would," Dina said sourly. "Okay, fine. Go ahead. But when my love life is totally wrecked because poor Dave thinks I've been using him like some sort of Mata Hari, it'll be all your fault!"
"I'm leaving now, Dina. This is me, leaving." She
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slung her poise over her shoulder and walked out.
The Oldsmobile started on the first attempt, which was a good omen. When they were preparing their financial statements for the bank and Quill had tried to list the 1989 vehicle as an asset, even Doreen laughed herself into fits. But Quill liked the shabby old car; the scent was familiar, the velour seats were worn in just the right way, and she knew exactly when the gas tank needed to be filled even though the gauge didn't work. She and the car knew each other so well, it practically drove itself.
And it was a beautiful day for a drive. Quill settled into the driver's seat This would be a respite, this drive to save her dog. She'd have time to think, to sort out the confusion of the past few days. She pulled a pen and notepad from her purse and laid them on the seat beside her. In a rather cheerful frame of mind, she pulled onto Route 15
for the short drive to Ithaca. She drove with her left hand and wrote with her right:
1. Rescue Max.
2. Neil Strickland: murder or accident? If mur-
der, find killer.
3. Mort Carmody: murder or natural causes? If
murder, find killer.
4. What was Mort's blackmail scheme? Did it
involve Everett Bland? Question Ed and Benny.
5. Myles: tell him good-bye. As soon as he gets
home. No chickening out
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6. Find out when and where Bland agreed to represent Strickland's estate.
Six impossible things before breakfast. Where had that line come from? Quill frowned at the list.
There was a horrend6us crunch. The Olds lurched and stalled. Quill pitched forward, then back, her seat belt cutting into her throat. Startled, she looked wildly around, then into the rearview mirror. A huge red van seemed to be trying to park in her backseat.
Rear-ended, dammit.
Quill unbuckled her belt and got out of the car, leaving her door ajar. Even in tourist season, there was very little traffic on 15; it was one of the reasons she liked the road. Aside from the van attached to her rear bumper, there wasn't another vehicle in sight.
She hesitated a moment, waiting for the other driver to emerge. The van was a Dodge Caravan; for some reason, Quill remembered that this was the most popular minivan this year, driven by everyone from hotshot teenagers to little old ladies. The windows were darkly tinted, and she couldn't see into the driver's side, or through the windshield. She saw the front license plate, though. mvp 232. Peterson Motors.
There wasn't much damage to the Olds at all; the rear bumper was shoved forward a bit. And there didn't appear to be much damage to the van, either. The engine was running and the windshield was intact. It was unlikely that the driver had been knocked unconscious by the impact; it had been noisy, but slight.
Quill craned her neck and called, "Hello? Hello? Are you all right in there?"
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The van went into reverse and backed off the Olds, which settled to the macadam with a jangling thump. Quill made out a dim shape at the wheel; whoever it was was tall, or sitting on several volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary.
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