A Carol for a Corpse (24 page)

Charley wasn’t hard to find. He sat on a barstool at the darkest end of the bar. He had a highball glass in front of him. As Marge and Quill walked in, he rapped the glass on the counter. The sound brought Betty Hall bustling in from the kitchen in the back. She was as gaunt as Marge was round, and as silent as Marge was loquacious. She was also the best diner-style cook in the whole of New York, or so Meg claimed. She raised her hand in greeting and poured Charley a good three inches from the bottle of bar Scotch. He didn’t look up. Quill was certain he hadn’t even registered their presence.

Betty screwed the cap back on the Scotch and replaced it beneath the bar. “I got my chili on for the lunch special,” she said to Quill. “You want a cup?”

“Are you having some, Marge?”

“I’ve been up since five,” Marge said. “And it’s been a long time since breakfast. You bring us a coupla bowls, Bet.”

Quill lingered a moment by the front door, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. “I’ve got a plan,” she whispered. “We’ll sit on either side of him, and then I’ll sort of ease into asking Charley how well he knew Kingsfield, what a loss this will be to the real estate community, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Mm-hm.” Marge stamped to the end of the bar, hoisted herself onto the barstool to Charlie’s right, and said, “Hey, Charley. I understand you got in way over your head with Zeke Kingsfield.” She tapped his glass of Scotch. “Doesn’t seem to me to be the best way to settle the problems you’ve got.”

Charley lifted his head and regarded her with a listless eye. “Suits me down to the ground.”

Quill took a seat on Charlie’s other side.

“How are you, Quill?”

“Fine, thank you. And how is, is . . .” For a moment, Quill couldn’t recall his wife’s name. “Linda?” she said triumphantly.

“Put a lid on it, Quill,” Marge said. “So how much are you in for, Comstock?”

“Me, personally? Four hundred grand. I pledged my 401k.”

Marge said, unsympathetically, “That was stupid.”

“No kidding.”

“What about the rest of the investors?”

“Zeke brought in a group from New York. King’s Key. They owned forty-nine percent.” Charley lifted the glass to his mouth. Marge took it out of his hand and placed it out of reach.

“King’s Key filed for bankruptcy under Chapter Seven yesterday afternoon,” Marge said. “You’re six kinds of an idiot, Charley. So tell me what happened after you discovered the folks at Gorgeous Gorges cashed their checks and there was nothing left in the BFD account except a bankrupt partner and you.”

“I didn’t believe it when Mark told me,” Charley said with heat. “I mean, Zeke Kingsfield! Who would have thought it? Bastard left me holding the bag.”

“It’s not like he hasn’t done it before,” Marge said. “All you had to do was Google him. The newspapers are filled with stories like yours. They just don’t make the headlines. So, did you decide to knock him off? Get a little of your own back?”

“Me?”

To Quill’s ear, Charley sounded genuinely astounded.

“You,” Marge said flatly. “I want to know where you were yesterday from five thirty until seven this morning.”

Betty Hall emerged from the kitchen with three bowls of chili balanced on one arm. She set the bowls, three spoons, and a pile of napkins in front of them. Quill discovered that her breakfast of yogurt and berries had left her feeling famished. “Try some of this, Charley,” she said kindly. “You’ll feel better.”

“Kingsfield fell off a cliff,” Charley said. “What are you talking about, me knocking him off?”

“This is the way I see it,” Marge said. “You’re in a world of hurt right now, pally. And you owe me a tidy sum of money for my agency. So you can expect a little bit of slack from me these next few months while you figure out how you’re going to get back on your feet. Or you can lie to me about where you’ve been for the past eighteen hours. If you do that, I’ll come down on you like a load of bricks.”

Charley swallowed a spoonful of chili. “A big transfer of funds was supposed to come into the BFD account yesterday morning. Mark gave me a call about one o’clock. The money hadn’t shown up, and by this time,” he said bitterly, “every piece of trailer trash in Gorgeous Gorges had cashed their ten-thousand-dollar checks and the BFD account was headed toward a negative balance.”

“All the funds were covered though, weren’t they?” Quill asked.

“Yeah. Unless there are a couple of checks out there I haven’t heard about. Anyhow, Mark wanted to know when we could expect the transfer. I called Zeke on his cell phone. He spun me some bullshit and hung up on me. Then Mark called me back.” He eyed Marge with dislike. “I guess you’d been poking your nose in, Marge Schmidt. Asking questions. Getting everybody all churned up. Mark really started bearing down on me. Who were these guys with King’s Key, blah blah blah. He found out about the bankruptcy filing around seven thirty, I guess. I was at choir practice. You saw me there. I went straight from choir practice to the bank. Mark had called this guy the OCC had recommended, what’s his name? McWhirter. Anyhow, McWhirter’s had some experience with Kingsfield before.” Charley pushed the bowl of chili away. “He said it was no use crying over spilt milk. That I had to take steps to keep the trailer park people from coming after me and that I’d better get a lawyer. Once that jerkola Frazier figured out that I could be on the hook for the money, he started spouting off, too. It was one helluva mess.”

“Will Frazier was with you?” Quill said.

“Yeah. Mark told McWhirter he should be hearing about all of this from the git-go. So McWhirter showed up with him.” Charley shook his head. He half rose from the barstool and reached for his drink. Neither Marge nor Quill made an effort to stop him.

“And what time did the three of you get to the bank?”

“About eight fifteen. We broke up around one. Frazier dropped McWhirter off at the Inn. Me? I stopped in here until Betty kicked me out about two. She called the wife and the wife came and got me. Didn’t figure I was fit to drive home.”

Marge glowered at him. Then she glowered at Quill. “I can’t believe this. Last night we had no motives and three suspects. Today we’ve got three motives and no suspects. What the hell?”

Quill started to laugh. “You have to admit, we’re pretty lousy detectives, Marge. Oh, dear.” She used a cocktail napkin to dry her eyes. “We have got to find that wire. Otherwise you’re right. We’re in the soup.”

“We haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of finding that wire,” Marge grumbled. “Hang on. Is that your cell phone ringing?”

Quill patted her skirt pocket, extracted her cell phone, and squinted at the teeny little screen. “It’s Dina. Maybe she has some good news for us!” She flipped the phone open and put it to her ear. She closed it and put it back in her pocket without a word.

“What?” Marge demanded.

“It’s Meg. She’s been arrested.”

Marge was temporarily stumped. “Arrested? Who arrested her?”

“Davy. Dina said he had to.” Quill took two large swallows of chili and got off the barstool. “I’ve got to go bail her out. You want to come with me? Davy took her straight to the courthouse.”

“It’s Thursday,” Marge said. “Howie’s sitting in Justice Court. But what the heck did she get arrested for?”

Quill put five dollars on the counter for her chili. “She’s claiming, Dina says, that it’s a trumped-up charge.”

“I want a lawyer,” Meg demanded. “This is a totally trumped-up charge.” She stood defiantly in front of the judge’s bench in the small—but highly functional—village courthouse. Other than Howie Murchison, who was sitting on the bench, the room held four other people. Dina looked a little flustered. Davy Kiddermeister accompanied Meg. He was in full uniform with his sheriff’s hat in his hand.

The fourth was a triumphant Carol Ann Spinoza.

Quill took a seat in the guest gallery, which was immediately behind the action.

She herself was not unfamiliar with the venue. It was a beautiful old room. The ceilings soared to the height of a diminutive cathedral. The walls were wainscoted in hickory. The finish on the wainscoting and the wide-planked oak floor had seen better days. The prosecutor’s table on the right exactly matched the pine defense table on the right. The jury box was reminiscent of the choir pews in the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God, except that the seat covers were worn green corduroy instead of worn red velvet.

Howie Murchison was dressed in the unadorned black robe that had been the town justice’s attire for more than 200 years. He looked down from the bench at Quill’s sister. Howie was a kindly man in his midfifties, with a comfortable paunch, balding gray hair, and steel-rimmed spectacles that had a tendency to slip down his nose.

“You’re certainly entitled to a lawyer, Meg,” he said, “and the court will appoint one for you if you are unable to afford one yourself, as you know already from watching all those episodes of
Law and Order
. But let’s see if we can’t set the legal window dressing aside for a moment and see if we can settle this ex parte.”

“That’s outside the system, bozo,” Meg said to Carol Ann. “Sure, that’s fine with me.”

“Does this mean she can get out of going to jail?” Carol Ann asked suspiciously.

“We can pursue that course if it’s necessary,” Howie said. He smacked the gavel on its rest and announced, “Court is adjourned.” He took off his robe, moved from the bench to the witness stand, and said, “Now what seems to be the problem?”

“Vandalism and malicious mischief,” Davy said.

Carol Ann shrieked triumphantly. “All this time it’s been her! This person has been slaughtering Christmas lawn ornaments all over town. And I caught her red-handed!”

“Is this true, Meg?” Howie asked.

“Nope,” Meg said. “It’s a big, fat lie. And I want to countersue this person”—she jerked her thumb at Carol Ann— “for malicious mischief to my reputation.”

Howie took his glasses off, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and put his glasses back on again. “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning.”

“There have been several complaints about the destruction of inflatable lawn ornaments in the past three days,” Davy said. “Mrs. Elmer Henry. Mr. Francis Findlay. And the principal of Hemlock Falls High School, Norm Pasquale. And Ms. Spinoza, here. All of these complainants have suffered losses in the amount of . . .” Davy paged through his notebook. “Approximately two hundred and twenty dollars each, give or take some change.”

“Shot right through the heart, all of them!” Carol Ann said. “My Santa and his reindeer had died in a blaze of disgusting orange paint. And she’s responsible!” She pointed her finger straight at Meg. Meg folded her arms underneath her slight bosom and said, “Baloney.”

“What evidence do you have that Ms. Quilliam’s behind this, Ms. Spinoza?”

“That!” Carol Anne shrieked. She grabbed the evidence bag from Davy and held Meg’s paintball pistol up to view.

“That,” Meg said, “was obtained illegally. Without a search warrant.”

Howie sighed deeply.

Carol Ann scowled shrewishly. “I was up at the Inn this morning to inspect that very dangerous fence where poor Mr. Kingsfield met his death . . .”

“. . . You’re adding fence inspection to your general all-around nosiness, Carol Ann?” Meg said sweetly.

“And I stopped into the kitchen and there it was. Right in plain sight. I’ve been looking all over town for the paintball gun. And it was just like that story by Edgar Allan Poe. Right out there in plain sight.”

“ ‘The Purloined Letter’?” Howie said with interest. “Hm.”

Quill sat upright, as if stung. She grabbed Marge’s arm.

“Ow! What the heck, Quill?”

“The wire!” she whispered. “The wire, Marge! It’s right in the shed!”

“I can’t believe that
you
believed that little stinkpot Carol Ann,” Meg fumed. “And I can’t believe you paid her off.”

“Did you shoot those Santa Clauses?” Quill demanded. She, Marge, Dina, and Meg had all piled into Quill’s Honda the minute after Howie had the vandalism charges dismissed. Quill gunned the little car up the hill, fishtailing a little in the slush.

“Of course I did. In any other civilized country there’d be a fine for
owning
the ugly things. In this country I have to pay for getting rid of them. Not to mention the community service. Phooey.”

“I always thought they were kind of cute,” Dina said. “I like the ones with the big huge ball and the skaters. I wonder how they get it to snow inside.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “I believe that they’re actually banned in Canada.”

“Count yourself lucky Carol Ann didn’t press charges,” Marge said. “You’d find yourself with a nice little criminal record.”

Quill pulled the Honda to a stop in front of the Inn’s toolshed. “And we didn’t pay her off. We made restitution.” She and the others got out of the car. Quill looked down the driveway for Davy’s squad car. “He said he’d be right up. What do you suppose is keeping him?”

“Carol Ann,” Dina said darkly, “that cradle robber. You should have seen the way she was sucking up to him at the police station.”

“Here he is.” Marge stepped back as Davy came up the drive. He had one of the uniforms with him, Norm Pasquale’s oldest son, Tony. Davy rolled down the driver’s window and considered the toolshed.

“Took your time,” Marge said. “And you’re takin’ your time now.”

Davy looked up at her. “You think the wire that was stretched across the ski trail’s in here?”

“It has to be,” Quill said. “How much time did the murderer have to dispose of it before Mike found the body? Zeke went out to ski as soon as it got light, around seven. Lydia tried to raise him on the cell phone at seven thirty. Mike found him fifteen minutes later. It takes twenty to forty minutes to reach that point in the ski trail from the Inn. Your men have searched the grounds and the woods. And Davy, the thing is large. Dina calculated the size. It’s a hard thing to get rid of.”