Dread on Arrival (28 page)

“I’m sorry, Miriam. Myles says this happens sometimes—that you just can’t crack a case. This appears to be one of them.”

“All I can say is, you picked a fine time to stop being a detective.”

Myles left early, before the sky had begun to lighten, and Quill spent the rest of that morning moving clothes and toys back into her rooms at the Inn. It didn’t take long; by now, she had the routine down cold. She fed Jack, built a Lego tower with him so he could knock it down, and turned him over to Doreen for his nap. She was in the kitchen by two in the afternoon.

“Hey, Sister,” Meg said. She stood on one leg in front of the prep sink. Her left heel was propped against her right knee. Her socks were dark blue with embroidered pumpkins. She was absorbed in making out a food order and there was nobody else there. It was clear she was relishing the quiet. “Anything you’re longing to eat? I’m trying to work up a harvest menu that doesn’t include squash.”

“I like squash. Squash is also very locovore.”

“Squash is boring. Squash is dull. Squash offers no competitive challenge whatsoever.” She looked up. “Clare’s having a Celebrate Squash night at Bonne Goutè. Can you believe it?”

So the murder-induced truce with Clare was over.

Quill settled into the rocking chair. Mike had removed the autumn flowers from the grate in the fireplace, in readiness for a wood fire when the nice November weather—as it inevitably would—turned colder. “I don’t know. What about something on a spit? Over a wood fire?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Go play with Jack or something.”

“He’s down for his nap.” Quill set the rocker going with a push of her toe.

“Are you just going to sit there, fidgeting and driving me crazy?”

“I’m not fidgeting.”

Meg looked up from her paperwork. Her gray eyes softened. “Myles get off all right?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Same place as before. I just hope it’s not …”

“It’s
not
Libya.”

“How did you know I was going to say Libya? I might have said Pakistan. Or Duluth.”

“There’s no revolution in Duluth that I’m aware of. You know what would make a great food festival? I know. Potatoes.”

“Potatoes?”

“I can go nuts with potatoes.” Meg picked up her pencil and started to scribble.

“Davy thinks Jukka Angstrom killed Edmund Tree,” Quill said abruptly.

“I know he does. I thought Jukka was going to sue the sheriff’s department for harassment before it was all over.”

“Myles does, too.”

Meg lifted her head at that. “He does?”

“He didn’t actually
say
so,” Quill admitted, “but we were at Marge’s yesterday for lunch and he was
about
to say so. I think. Davy’s sure that there was something we missed, a valuable painting that Jukka and Edmund were both after, maybe. He can’t get the court to monitor Jukka’s bank accounts, but I bet Marge would be able to figure something out.”

“It’s pretty awful, having a case go unsolved like that. I don’t know what else we can do.”

“It was an odd one that’s for sure. Nothing was as it seemed, did you notice that? All of the motives that looked so solid at the beginning just sort of melted away. Like the trompe l’oeil painting. Everybody fooled the detective’s eye.”

“The detective being you, of course.” Meg scribbled furiously for a moment, then said, “Elizabeth says everyone in town was expecting us to solve the case. They are mega disappointed. I told her I was too busy hassling over the wedding that didn’t come off to play Sherlock but even if I had, we wouldn’t have been able to solve it. It’s not solvable.”

Quill let this aspersion on her detecting ability pass. She might even deserve it. “Everything has a solution, Meggie. We just haven’t seen it, yet.”

The swinging doors bumped open with a bang, and Dina came in. She held her laptop in both hands. “Hey, Meg. Hey, Quill. I hoped I’d find both you guys here. Look at this.”

She set the laptop on the prep table and bent over it. “Somebody was blogging on the
Huffington Post
about the Edmund Tree murder, and it led me to this news item. Look! It’s his half sister, Devora Watson. The one from California. She showed up to claim that twenty million dollars.”

“I read about her,” Meg said. “They ran a picture of her in the
New York Times
. Very hippie-dippy.”

Dina sighed. “I read about it, too. She lives near Big Sur in this remote little cabin and weaves her own caftans, or whatever. If I had twenty million dollars, I sure wouldn’t wear homemade caftans. Or if I did, they’d be out of priceless cashmere wool. Look. Here she is. Gosh, do you suppose she’ll use some of that twenty million to fix her hair?”

Quill looked over Dina’s shoulder. The website was running a news clip. A small, shy woman dressed in Birkenstocks, wool socks, and an awkwardly wrapped turban huddled between two sleek looking guys in three-piece suits. She was pudgy, with the sort of overweight that comes from too much fatty food. Her blond hair spilled over her shoulders. It looked in need of a wash. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles was askew over her nose. Her eyes were brown and frightened. She clutched a wool shawl around her shoulders.

“She’s practically in tears,” Dina said indignantly. “Those lawyers must be bullying her.” She took a breath and leaned into the screen. “You go, Devora!”

Quill stared at the video clip. Her own voice sounded strange in her ears. “Can you rerun that?”

“Sure.” Dina tapped the screen. Devora reappeared, walking into the courtroom.

“Can you stop it?”

“Sure.” Dina tapped the screen. “How come?”

“That’s not Devora Watson. That’s Rose Ellen Whitman.”

19

∼Potato and Leek Dumplings∼

2 leeks cut into thin slices1 pound russet potatoes, peeled and cut into quarters3 small eggsSalt and pepper to tasteBlanch leeks for ten minutes in boiling salted water. Pat leeks dry. Puree in food processor. Boil potatoes for fifteen minutes in reheated leek water. Drain the potatoes. Mash all ingredients into a thick dough. Form the dough into egg-sized dumplings. Cook dumplings in boiling salted water for fifteen minutes. Serve as a side dish with a meat entree. “You are out of your flipping mind,” Meg said. “That is a short, dumpy woman with a terrible complexion. Rose Ellen Whitman looked like Audrey Hepburn.”

Quill breathed so hard she was dizzy. “Rose Ellen wore three-inch heels. All the time. She didn’t eat a thing. Take away the heels. She’d be about that height. And if anybody started eating five thousand calories a day at Burger King, you’d have zits and a potbelly, too.”

Quill whirled the laptop around on the tabletop. Dina had frozen the photo in place. Devora Watson had a scattering of pimples at the side of her mouth. “She killed Edmund for the twenty million dollars. She did it.”

“I think you should sit down and have a nice cold shot of vodka,” Meg said.

“But they were engaged.” Dina took her spectacles off and put them on again. “They couldn’t be engaged if she was his sister.”

“Sure they could. Although Rose Ellen exhibited some sense. At least she didn’t sleep with him. That we know of. Wow.” Quill wanted to slap her forehead, but didn’t. “How could I be so stupid? Cui bono. Who benefits? The sister does. Good grief. Myles is going to be astounded.”

Meg squinted at the monitor. “I don’t see it. And no jury’s going to see it, either. Really, Quill. You’ve been under a lot of stress, lately. Sit down and let me get you something soothing. If you don’t want vodka, I’ll make some nice chamomile tea.”

“I have
not
been under any stress and I do not need a restorative. Look, do I tell you how to cook?”

“Of course you don’t tell me how to cook.”

“Then don’t tell me you don’t see what I see. I see things you don’t. I paint because I see bone structure, skeletons, and the way things are put together. I am telling you, as an artist, as a person whose job it is to see the skull beneath the skin, as a person whose eye cannot be fooled for long, that Devora Watson is Rose Ellen Whitman.”

They stood together and stared at the monitor. Devora Watson stared at the lawyer bending over her, frozen in time.

“Oh. My. God,” Dina said. “I think I see it, too. I’d better get Davy.”

“Hang on a minute,” Quill ordered. “Let’s think this through.” She clutched at her hair, which made it fall down, so she scooped it up and rebundled it on the top of her head with her elastic band.

“This will be so good for Davy,” Dina said. “He had to close out the basement and attic burglaries because of you-know-who. And just yesterday he put the Tree case into the cold case files. This is going to help his career a lot.”

“If Quill’s right,” Meg said. “Personally, I’ve never heard of anything as crazy in my life.”

Dina’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Let’s call the lawyers and tell them she’s really Rose Ellen Whitman. Then Davy can reopen the case and she’ll go to jail. And Davy’s career will be saved. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? I mean a person can’t just turn into another person, just like that.”

“Maybe they can,” Quill said. “This could be a lot harder to prove than we think.”

“It could be hard to prove because she
isn’t
Rose Ellen,” Meg said stubbornly.

Dina waved her hand. “DNA. DNA would prove who she is.”

Meg scowled. “It’d prove she’s his sister. How is it going to prove she’s Rose Ellen? Rose Ellen doesn’t exist.”

“Of course she does,” Dina exclaimed. “My gosh, her pictures have been all over
Vanity Fair
. She knows thousands of people. She’s got friends everywhere. She’s in the newspapers. DNA again. Trace evidence.” Dina clapped her hand over her mouth for a long second. “Wait. I think I see where you’re going. You mean there may be no evidence proving Rose Ellen is a real actual person with a blood type, a genetic code, and a dental chart?”

“Exactly.”

“Wow.” Dina sank down on one of the stools at the prep table. “She like, totally wiped out the antique shop. It’s been repainted and steam cleaned. The apartment, too, I’ll bet.”

“Her fingerprints are on file with Davy, aren’t they?” Meg asked. “She lived in Hemlock Falls for three months—she must have seen a doctor or a dentist during that time.” She looked at the monitor again. “You guys are nuts.”

“Fingerprints,” Dina said. “Of course. I’ll call Davy right now. Good grief, Quill. This is just amazing. Oh! Wait! I left my cell phone at the front desk.”

Meg pointed at the phone on the wall by the sauté pans. “That one’s free.”

“I don’t know his number. It’s on speed dial. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

Quill spoke up. She was beginning to doubt herself. “Dina?”

“Yes, Quill?”

“Don’t tell him just yet. Just ask him if he’s got her fingerprints on file.”

“But this is huge! How can I keep it to myself?”

“It’d be good if you could, just for a bit.” Quill bit at a fingernail.

“If Quill’s wrong, Davy’s going to look the fool,” Meg said tactlessly. “He’s concerned about his record his first year as sheriff. We all are. Just in case Quill turns out to be mistaken you’d better just ask him about the fingerprints. I know you’re excited, but don’t blow it.”

“Good point. Okay. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

Quill stood at the back window and looked out at the gardens.

Mike had tied up the rosebushes and covered them with burlap. The winter parsnips had been harvested and so had the potatoes. Here and there amid the dead and dying leaves were a few bright yellow and green gourds.

“You really think this woman posed as Rose Ellen Whitman?” Meg asked.

“I know she did.” Saying it aloud helped. Quill walked over and looked at the computer monitor.

She was sure.

“Okay. I believe you, you know, about what you see that the rest of us don’t. Of course Davy’s got fingerprints on file, so I guess we’ll know for sure pretty soon.”

“I’m sure already.”

Dina walked back into the kitchen, her cell phone at her ear. “No, D, no special reason. And don’t worry about it. We were just hashing things over in the kitchen, you know, things are a little slow this week, and the case came up and Quill wondered about fingerprints. Sure. Right. Of course they won’t care. Love you, D. Bye.” She flipped the phone shut and tucked it in her shirt pocket. “It’s good news and bad news. The good news is that one of the deputies—Neville Peterson, Davy said, went up to Rose Ellen’s apartment and got her fingerprints. All ten. The bad news is, paint solvent got spilled on it somehow, and the prints were ruined. All ten. By the time Davy sent Neville back to get a new set, she was out of here, back in New York, and he followed up with her to get them done there, but she like, disappeared. The NYPD still has a request on file to get them. It just got lost in the shuffle.”

“Hm,” Meg said. “If you ask me, that’s pretty suspicious.”

“This,” Quill said, “is a very clever woman.”

“I know one thing she left that she had her hands on,” Dina said. “That painting. The one of the fountain with the bunch of grapes. You put it in the Provencal suite, didn’t you?”