Marinade for Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  "Suits me," said the guard.

  "And you, Miss Quilliam?" Mildred demanded.

  "Thank you," Quill said. "Thank you very much."

  "Then the doggie's free. Unless, of course, he does something else." Mildred looked at Quill over her wire-rimmed glasses. "I trust that there will be no further incidents of any kind?'

  "Never," Quill said. "I absolutely promise."

  If her toes hadn't been so sore, Quill would have skipped out of the county courthouse. As it was, she hobbled out of the elevator, with Max's release order folded carefully in the pocket of her challis skirt.

  "Ah, Miss Quilliam. Decide to notify the sheriff's office after all?" Everett Bland rounded the corner and stopped in front of the elevator. Quill looked past him;

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  an arrow pointed down the hall under a sign that read

  DEEDS AND ESTATES.

  "Mr. Bland," Quill said. He wasn't sweating in the heat, Quill noticed crossly. "Checking on the assessed value of my inn, by any chance?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Look, I don't know why you're wasting your time with us, Mr. Bland. You've got a reputation for dealing with the high rollers, the money guys"—she waved her hands—"the moguls? Why are you—" She stopped in mid-flow. She could almost hear Meg's voice in her head: Well, duh!

  Who else but Bland could be behind the deaths?.

  Mort knew he wasn't Strickland's lawyer when Strickland had been alive. What else had Mort known before he had been shut up for good?

  "Sorry." She smiled. "It's the heat. There's a saying out here in the hinterlands, Mr. Bland. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. So I'm not going to ask you a thing about why you're looking into our financial worth. Would you"—she batted her eyelashes—"like to take me to lunch?"

  "Here?"

  "Oh, Ithaca has a lot of wonderful little restaurants. We'll go to Tapas."

  "It's a little early for me, Miss Quilliam. And I need to make a stop at the university first. And I have a plane to catch at three o'clock. I've got to make a short trip to Chicago."

  "We'll miss you," she said.

  "You won't miss me for long. I'll be back tomorrow evening."

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  "I'll be happy to take you to Cornell. Ithaca can be a bit confusing."

  Bland nodded thoughtfully. "All right. Then we'll go to Tapas?"

  "Yes," Quill said recklessly. "And I'll buy."

  The day was a waste. Bland picked up some maps from Cornell, told some very amusing stories at lunch, and Quill was no further along in her investigation than she had been at the very beginning.

  Bland dropped her off at the municipal parking lot. She went back to the Olds, paid the exorbitant parking fee, and swung back onto Route 15 to go home with a sense of satisfaction tempered by annoyance. She could cross off item one on her list—Max—and go on to the second.

  What had Neil Strickland done? And why was it worth two deaths?

  Route 15 held a small amount of Monday-afternoon tourist traffic. The Finger Lakes had been a significant tourist attraction since the mid-nineteenth century. And with the flourishing boutique winery trade, more and more people were coming from out of state to spend the summer months in upstate New York. The miles wore on. Quill's foot throbbed. The air conditioning in the Olds was iffy at best, and the hotter she became, the more certain she was that the red minivan was out to get her.

  Most of the tourists on the road drove vans.

  None of the vans she saw, though, were red, late model, or had dented front fenders with scrapings of black paint. Quill swerved to avoid a little old couple

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  driving their Taurus at thirty miles an hour. She narrowly missed an Escort coming in the opposite direction. She pulled back into the northbound lane short of breath, her heart pounding. She was behaving like an idiot. The red van had rear-ended her by accident. What had she been doing at the time she'd been hit?

  Writing her investigation list. Quill glanced at the passenger seat, reached over to the spot where the list had lain, pretending to hold a pencil.

  A car horn nearly blasted her out of her seat. A Trans Am whizzed by her window, the horn sounded again, and an irate male voice shouted, "Fer chrissakes, lady! Watch where'n the hell you're going!"

  Quill raised her hand in timid apology. Perhaps she had inadvertently braked when she was writing her list? Or drifted over the shoulder? And maybe Everett Bland's appearance had been totally accidental; Route 15 was the main road to Ithaca, and you had to have lived in Tompkins County for a long time to be able to navigate the back roads to Ithaca and not get lost. "Well, the jury's out," she muttered aloud. Then a little guiltily, she fished her list out of her purse and read the second item. Results of autopsy report on Neil Strickland. Surely Andy Bishop would have a better idea of how Strickland died. Quill knew he wasn't with Meg in New York. If she stopped to see him, she could get her toes cleaned up before Doreen saw her foot and pitched one of her notorious hissy fits.

  Andy had a small office for private patients attached to the Hemlock Falls Clinic. Quill pulled into the parking lot and noted with relief that his Jeep Cherokee

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  was still there. She limped into his waiting room and greeted Nadine Peterson with a grimace.

  The receptionist raised her eyebrows. "My God, what happened to you?"

  "It's just my foot," Quill explained. "My toes got run over."

  "By what?"

  Quill waved rather vaguely. "Andy's still here?"

  "He's just finishing up with his last patient." Na-dine's eyes flew to the wall clock. It was after five. "I thought I was going to get home on time tonight, but I guess not."

  "I'm sorry, Nadine."

  Nadine, a busty bottle blonde, had been widowed several years before, and her husband, Gil the car dealer, hadn't left her much money. She'd packed up and gone to Syracuse for a while, then returned to Hemlock Falls, where, she claimed, life was a lot less of a hassle than in the big city. "No help for it, I guess," she said cheerfully. "And it's not like I have a date tonight or anything. Besides, I might be laid off soon, anyway. Might as well get the time in."

  "You mean, because Andy's moving to New York?" Quill said. She hadn't thought about the effect of Andy's move to New York on Hemlock Falls. "Is someone coming in to take over the practice?"

  "Oh, yeah." Nadine's weary blue eyes got a little brighter. "Haven't you heard? Andy got a great offer from a group out of Buffalo. We're going to have six doctors at least."

  "Six? How can we support six doctors?"

  "Well, they don't all have the same specialty, of

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  course. There's a GYN, and a pediatrician, a cardiologist, like that."

  "My goodness." Quill eased herself down onto a chair. "You'll be able to work for them, I'm sure."

  "We'll see. You know, you look terrible," Nadine said frankly. She snapped her gum. "You sure it's just your foot that's banged up? Looks like someone tried to cut your throat."

  Quill brushed at the dried blood on her neck. "Must have come from the Kleenex."

  "Well, don't just sit there, honey. Get into the examining room and I'll get Dr. Bishop."

  "Okay. Nadine?"

  "Yeah."

  "Who took over Gil's dealership after... um ..."

  "One of his cousins. Frankie. Why?"

  "Does he still rent cars to tourists?"

  "Sure does. Makes a good buck, I think, although he sure doesn't give any of it to me. Now, get on in there, Quill, before your foot falls off entirely."

  Quill limped meekly into the small room where Andy, at one time or another, had examined most of Hemlock Falls. She hoisted herself onto the examining table and looked at her foot.

  "Wow!" Andy entered with his usual air of quiet competence. "The game's clearly afoot, Watson. Glad it wasn't a head."


  "Very funny."

  He pulled up the rolling stool and sat in front of her. Gently he removed her sandal. Quill looked down at his neatly parted blond hair. He was short, not much taller than Meg, and weighed perhaps forty pounds

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  more than her sister—who'd never topped a hundred pounds in her life. Quill liked him a lot, but found him colorless compared with Myles and John. She suspected that her volatile sister loved him for his calmness and reticence.

  "So how did this happen?" He bent her toes back and forth. "Wiggle them, please."

  Andy had less tolerance for Quill's investigative activities than Myles did; he became even grimmer and quieter when they involved Meg. But she didn't know for certain that the red rninivan had intended to push her off the road (or worse). As a matter of fact, the more she thought about it, the less certain she was that the car crash was intentional. "I went to Ithaca this morning to see about springing Max from the pound. I got into a fender bender, and when I got out of the Olds to look at the damage, the guy took off. But not before he ran over my foot."

  "You're kidding!"

  "The car's fine. I'm fine."

  "At least one toe's broken. But we'll take an Xray, just to be certain." He got up. "You're pretty sure this had nothing to do with the—ah—events at the Inn the past few days?"

  "I don't see how it could," Quill said honestly. Which was true. She didn't see much of anything yet about this case. If it was a case.

  Andy beckoned. She hopped off the table and followed him into the small shielded area holding the radiology equipment. She flexed her foot according to instructions and waited until he'd shoved the frame

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  into the developer before she asked about Neil Strickland's autopsy results.

  "It's very strange," Andy responded. "I talked with the Tompkins County coroner. She's seen a spinal injury like it once before, when she was a resident at Bellevue. They brought in a boxer who'd sustained a concussion as a result of an upper cut." He demonstrated in an absentminded way. His right fist thrust up and stopped under an imaginary chin. "This guy Strickland's spine was broken clear through at C-l and C-2. He was healthy, young, his bones were strong. She couldn't imagine a human being packing enough of a wallop to take his head off. Which is literally what happened."

  "Ugh."

  "Anyway, it's the fracture that killed him. Severed the spinal cord, shoved the top vertebra into the medulla, and bingo. He must have dropped like a stone. The cut on the posterior part of the skull was sustained when Strickland fell backward after he was killed."

  "So Max didn't do it."

  "Max is in the clear." The timer beeped on the developer and Andy withdrew the film and held it up to the ceiling light. "Now, you, Meg's sister, have a nice fracture of the first, second, and third metatarsals. Ouch. I wouldn't normally cast a toe fracture, but in your case, I'm going to make an exception. It's a walking cast for you, my girl."

  "Casts are hot. And itchy."

  "It's either that or stay off your feet for three weeks."

  "Okay," Quill said reluctantly.

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  "You wait right here. I'm going to send Nadine home, then come in and do it myself."

  "You are a peach."

  "Meg's train isn't due in until six-thirty. So I've got time to kill. Can you hobble back to the examining room? I'll be back in a few minutes."

  Quill resettled herself on the examining table and contemplated her toes. The last time she had broken a bone, she was thirteen. She and Meg were taking horseback-riding lessons, and she'd pitched over a fence when the gelding she was riding refused to jump. The cast on her arm had driven her crazy.

  Andy returned with a stainless-steel bucket and a roll of plastic stuff. She was grateful to discover that cast technology seemed to have advanced a lot in twenty-three years; the procedure was quick and the cast light. Andy made Quill sit with her foot elevated for twenty minutes while the stuff dried, then she took a few experimental steps. "I can walk with this! Thanks!"

  "Just don't go running any marathons. And no chasing crooks either, okay?"

  "I'm glad you and Meg finally set a date."

  He smiled a little. "Are you?"

  "Well, sure. She deserves to be happy."

  "And how happy do you think she's going to be living with me in New York? Away from here?" Andy's face, inexpressive to begin with, became even more remote. He disposed of the extra bandages and rinsed the stainless-steel bucket in the lab sink.

  "Things change," Quill said, with regret. "I never want them to. I want to be thirty-six forever, with the Inn full of paying guests with good credit and Meg

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  singing her horrible out-of-key songs in the kitchen. But that doesn't say anything about what Meg wants. She wouldn't move to New York with you if she didn't want to, Andy."

  "I hope not."

  "What do you mean?"

  He shook his head and sighed. "I don't know. Just a feeling I have. It's not like her to pass up a chance to cook at La Strazza. The Times is supposed to show tonight, you know. They bugged out of the Saturday review."

  "Nerves?" Quill suggested.

  He grinned openly at that. "You know Meg's nerves. She throws things when she's anxious. She doesn't calmly hop a train back home."

  'True. Well, if you don't know, Andy, I surely don't. We've been on the outs recently."

  He tugged at one ear. "As a matter of fact, so have we. I'm meeting her train tonight, but she said she wanted to have dinner with you. So, Quill. If Meg says anything to you. Anything at all about our—relationship—or about the move, will you ask her to talk to me? Will you tell her that there isn't anything she can't talk over with me?"

  "Of course I will, Andy. But she knows that. Meg's about as open as anyone can get."

  He shook his head slightly. "I don't know. Just... tell her I care about her. And I want her to talk to me. Anytime."

  "Sure. But I know things will be fine."

  Quill, her limp refined to a hobble, had one more stop to make before she could retrieve her dog.

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  The same brave little pennants she recalled from years gone by still fluttered in the breeze at the Peterson dealership. Quill pulled into the lot and parked, eyeing the glass-fronted doors thoughtfully. Which of the numerous Peterson clan was Frankie? She flipped through her mental Rolodex and couldn't come up with a face. A tattoo was what came up, and she recognized it on the brawny forearm lying on the open car window: hearts, with the word mother entwined.

  "If it isn't Miss Sarah Quilliam."

  "Hello, Frank." Quill got out of the car. Like all the Peterson clan, Frankie was blond. His hair was thinning and his white short-sleeved dress shirt clung to his chest in the heat.

  "You come to trade the Olds in finally?"

  "I like the Olds!" Quill protested.

  "That model year has a lot of trouble with the transmission. You should be looking at a nice sporty mini-van, all the work you have to do at the Inn."

  "It's not about mini vans that I've come, Frank. Can we go inside for a minute?"

  "Sure thing. I've got some coffee." He eyed her sideways as she limped to the showroom door. "What happened to you?"

  "A mini van happened to me. I was out on Route 15 and this guy rear-ended me, then ran over my foot. He didn't stop. I got his license plate number, though. He bought the car from you."

  The showroom was blissfully cool. Quill sank into a chair and produced her list. "The plate number's right here. It was a late model Dodge Caravan. Cherry red."

  "Huh." Frank read the list, his lips moving. "You investigating again, Quill? Thought the sheriff put the

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  kibosh on that last time. Or is it John that you're going out with ..."

  Quill grabbed the paper back, reminding herself that Hemlock Falls was a small
town. "MVP 232," she said firmly. "You can ignore the other stuff on my list. It's ... um ... creative brainstorming. I'm writing a screenplay."

  "Hey! I heard about that! Harvey Bozzel was in here earlier today talking all about it. Seems these guys from Los Angeles are up here scouting talent for TV."

  "Mm," Quill said.

  "You know, I have a pretty good idea for a TV show myself. Have you ever seen a show where the detective runs a car dealership? You think it might me something these L.A. guys would be interested in?"

  "Well, I'm not sure."

  Frankie shook his head. "I've been thinking about it a lot since Harvey was in here. I even wrote down some ideas for a couple scripts. I'd show them to you, but no offense, Quill, you never know who's going to steal a great idea. No offense."

  "None taken," Quill said charitably. "About this van, Frank."

  "Sure, sure. Sorry you got hurt." He shook his head again and went "tch-tch." "People these days." He walked over to a row of filing cabinets and pulled the top drawer open with a flourish. "Things have been kinda slow, lately. I haven't sold a red minivan, but I've rented one. As a matter of fact, I rented a passel of 'em. Not all red, of course. Here we go. Donovan Engineering. Rented pretty near all my stock last week."

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  "Donovan Engineering? Is that a local firm?"

  "The credit card was out of San Diego."

  "Do you have an address? And the name of the driver of the red minivan?"

  "Uh." Frankie wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably. "Can't say as I have a complete driver's list. I mean, the guy wanted to rent six vehicles, Quill, and I wasn't about to nail him to the wall with all that paperwork."

  "Then the company address."

  Rather sheepishly, Frank handed her the address. Quill wrote it down. The name on the credit card was Simon Cranshaw. "Never heard of him," she muttered. "Nuts." She got up. "Thanks, Frank."

  "No problem. You come in anytime you want to trade that Olds in, Quill. But you look a little—frazzled. You ought to go home and put that foot up."

  "Have to get my dog first, Frank. And then I've got to make a few phone calls."