Murder Well-Done (13 page)
Authors: Claudia Bishop
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Detectives, #New York (N.Y.), #Women Sleuths, #Sisters, #Unknown, #Taverns (Inns)
"He called me dolly twice," Quill said loudly, feeling ignored. "Why is it, Meg, that women are just nicer than men?"
"Nicer? You think Nora Cahill's nicer? I mean, here Santini's her sworn enemy and she ends up in cahoots with him just like that. All for a good story."
"It's a lousy story," Quill said firmly. "Back to my point. Women are nicer than men. If you put one hundred women in a room with one hundred men, eighty , percent of the women would be nice versus... versus..." - she waved her hands in the air - "twenty percent of the men. Would be nice."
Meg and John exchanged looks. "So!" Meg said brightly. "The Santinis and the McIntoshes will all be gone and it'll all be over in three days. Unless it keeps on snowing. You mind if I switch the television on? I want to get the weather report."
"No you don't," Quill said indignantly. "You just want to see if Nora Cahill's plastered my face and my boots and my ugly coat allover the eleven o'clock news."
"I do not!" Meg made a deprecatory face. "Well, maybe a little. But I also want to be sure that the weather's not going to interfere with the food order getting here from New York in time. I grabbed Elaine after dinner and we finally reworked the buffet menu."
"Are we going to hire extra help?"
Meg, clicking though the channels of the small television set built over the Zero King refrigerator, nodded in an abstracted way. "Yeah, but I can't do much cooking - so it's a lot of fresh stuff: caviar, crab, shrimp. Dull, dull, dull!"
"And expensive," Quill said.
John agreed, then said, "There it is. The Syracuse channel."
Meg shrieked. "You're on! You're on!"
Quill stuck her fingers in her ears and hummed loudly, but try as she might, she couldn't keep her eyes shut. So she saw, although she didn't hear, a full color videotape of herself in her ugly down coat, hair every which way, a scowl on her face, sock Nora Cahill in the nose with her boot.
The station cut to a commercial. "I need a haircut," said Quill.
"You need a new coat," said Meg. "Don't turn it off! Her commentary's next."
"That's not Nora Cahill," said Quill.
"It sure isn't," said Meg. "It's some guy."
"She told me she was on vacation," said Quill, with hope. "Maybe she just forgot about the story. What kind of story is a small-town traffic ticket, anyhow?"
"... that news flash repeated," the male anchor said soberly into the camera. "The body of Syracuse television newswoman Nora Cahill was found under the traffic light of an intersection in the central New York village of Hemlock Falls. Sheriff Frank Dorset has refused to release details of the death pending investigation. No further details other than the report of the death are available at this time. KSGY-TV will be the first to bring you periodic updates on this tragic event. And now, for a look at the weather. The word is snow..."
"She was killed? Here?!" shrieked Meg. "Right here?!"
John reached up and switched the television off.
"You don't suppose..." said Quill. Her mind leaped to the last time she saw Nora, in angry conversation with Alphonse Santini. Except that it wasn't the last time she'd seen Nora. The last time, the very last time, struck her with the force of a fall on thick ice; she'd been wiping her cheeks free of the muddy spray from Quill's boots.
"Car accident," said John. "Had to be, in this weather."
"They would have said car accident," Meg insisted. "And that bozo Dorset refusing to release details? It doesn't sound good at all. Poor Nora! Maybe we should poke around a little bit, Quillie. You know, a lot of people must have had it in for that poor thing."
"No," said Quill. "No investigation. No murder inquiry. We are out of that business and into the Inn business. Full-time. This time I really mean it."
"Things have been so quiet lately," Meg complained.
"Quiet for you, maybe. I don't need to remind you that while you were peacefully chopping away in your kitchen I spent practically the entire morning in jail." Except, she thought, for the part where I tried to whack Nora with my boots.
"Three hours," Meg muttered. "Big deal."
"You try it! God, I feel awful. I mean, the last time I saw her, I tried to break her nose."
"Oh, Quill. You were really provoked. Anyone would have tried to - um..."
"Um, what? I feel like a jerk. I'm a swine. I don't know why I ever agreed to run this place. All I've seemed to do is create one huge mess after the other. It's not worth it."
"Of course it's worth it," Meg said stoutly. "We have a terrific business, great guests..."
"Oh, right, Claire the cranky bride, Elaine the water faucet, Vittorio the mysterious Scottish-Italian, and let's not forget his psychic mother. And who has to deal with all this craziness while you retreat to this chrome and stainless steel haven? Me, that's who! And poor John has to run around cleaning up after all the messes I create."
"Quill, you are hardly responsible for Alphonse Santini and his choice of prospective in-laws," said John. There was a faint grin behind his eyes.
"She's hysterical," said Meg. "And about time, too. I was wondering when all of this would hit her."
" `Three knocks,' " Quill repeated with what she felt to be justifiable bitterness. " 'Three knocks and then, blood, blood... ' "
Three knocks sounded at the back door. They tolled through the kitchen like the bell announcing the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Like Scrooge, Quill felt like flinging the covers over her head, but the only thing at hand was a dish towel. She clutched Meg. "Sassafras," Meg said, patting her arm, "or comfrey. Herbal teas'll help you get right to sleep."
"I'll get it." John walked unhurriedly to the back door and snapped on the outside light. There was a murmur of male voices, John's voice louder than the others, an argumentative note to it. The door slammed and he stepped back into the kitchen. His dark hair was sprinkled with snowflakes.
"Quill," he said, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him, "get upstairs and lock yourself in your room. No questions. Just do it. Meg, get Howie Murchison on the line as fast as you can."
The back door rattled. A cold eddy of outside air curled around Quill's feet.
"Move, Quill!"
"But, John, what in heaven's name is going on? Why should I lock myself in my room?"
"Sarah Quilliam?" Frank Dorset pulled the hood of his dark blue parka away from his face. Davy Kiddermeister shuffled behind. Their snow boots left muddy tracks on the floor.
"You know very well who she is," Meg said tartly. "Have you come to apologize? It's about bloody time."
"You're under arrest, Ms. Quilliam, as a material wit- ness to the murder of Nora Cahill. You have the right to representation by an attorney for your defense. If you do not have an attorney, the court will appoint one for you. You have the right to remain silent." He grinned, his teeth sharp and yellow. "And I sure as hell hope you do. Nothing worse than a yapping female behind bars."
The drive to the Tompkins County Sheriff's Department had taken about five minutes, Quill figured, which meant it must be about eleven-thirty. She wasn't sure. Deputy Dave had taken her watch. She was sitting under the halogen lights in the sheriff's office huddled in John's parka. She'd been too dazed to find her own coat, and she missed its comforting warmth. The room felt too small. The linoleum - which had been installed at some point in the dim and faraway sixties - was as cracked and peeling as it had been that morning, although there was a fresh smell of disinfectant. Metal filing cabinets lined one wall. There were two metal desks, of the type found in every state and federal office Quill had ever seen: battleship-gray, incredibly heavy, with tarnished strips of chrome along the desk top edge. She sat behind the larger one, in the black Naugahyde chair that still, she thought, held a faint scent of Myles McHale. Frank Dorset balanced one buttock on the edge of this desk and leaned into her face. She pushed her feet along the floor and edged back, hitting the green-painted wall. Dave Kiddermeister sat at the adjacent desk, holding a small tape recorder.
"You want to go over this again?" Dorset asked. His voice was calm. Silky.
Davy cleared his throat. "She might better wait for Mr. Murchison, Sheriff."
Dorset twisted his head over his shoulder, so that Quill couldn't see his face. "Your shift about up, Deputy?"
"Nossir." Quill could hear both embarrassment and determination in his tones. "I mean, yessir, it is, but I should prob'ly stay here. You might need a wit - "
Dorset interrupted like a knife shaving beef. "That wasn't a question."
"Sir?"
"I said get your ass out of here."
Quill, who recognized that she was too mad to be scared, said, "I'll be fine, Davy. Don't worry about a thing."
"Thing," Dorset repeated softly. "Not a thing." He said loudly, "Deputy!"
Quill jumped.
Davy shuffled reluctantly to his feet. "Leave the recorder, son."
Davy put the tape recorder near Quill's left hand, then shrugged himself into his anorak. "I'll be around, Sheriff. Just down the street at the Croh Bar."
Dorset grunted. The clock on the wall filled the silence with a soft and steady tick-tick-tick. She heard Davy close the outside door, then the crunch of his feet in the snow in the parking lot. His car door slammed. The engine turned over. He drove out of the lot and out of hearing.
Dorset leaned close. He smelled like peppermint toothpaste, sour sweat, and damp wool. "Ms. Quilliam? One more time. When did you last see Nora Cahill?"
"Right here. About twelve-fifteen this afternoon."
"She got back to the Inn around five-thirty this evening."
"Well, I didn't see her," said Quill.
"I can spit from one end of that place to the other. And you didn't see her? Not once? All evening?"
"It was a busy night, Sheriff. In case you hadn't noticed, we've got a full house."
"Huh."
He was so close she could see flecks of red on his canine teeth.
"Did you have pizza for dinner?"
His right hand came up, palm out. He shoved it into her left shoulder so hard that she spun and smacked her cheek against the wall. He grabbed the teal scarf at her throat, twisted it, and pulled her forward. "You listen," he hissed, "to me. You get that? You listen" - he whipped the scarf back and forth, pulling her from side to side - "to me! Are you listening?"
"Yes," Quill said calmly. "I'm listening."
He released the scarf with a swift, upward movement that jerked her chin backward. "I want you to sit there. Sit right there." He swung himself off the desk and turned his back. He whipped around so suddenly that she jumped. "You sitting? You sitting just nice and quiet, like?"
Quill nodded. It was an effort to keep her face still. She wanted to gasp for air. She took slow, shallow breaths through her nose. She felt as if she were suffocating.
"Good."
The tall metal cabinet was padlocked. Dorset pulled his ring of keys from his belt and opened it, and took out a small, hand-held videocassette viewer from the top shelf. He began to hum in a high nasal whine, an insinuating, minor-keyed tune that Quill had never heard before. He set the viewer on the desk, then scrabbled inside the cabinet for a tape. He turned, shoved the cassette into the viewer, and plugged the cord into an outlet on the wall. He swayed a little as he moved, humming.
Quill took a long, quiet breath. He whipped his head around. "You sitting? Nice and calm, like? You little, little thing." He leaned across the desk, shoving his face against her cheek. He whispered, "Watch. This." Holding his head against her, he reached out and turned the viewer on.
The tape was black-and-white. Flickering. Grainy. The tape from the hidden camera. The LED flashed the date and 09:15,09:16,09:17. P.M. P.M. P.M.
The remote switched on, triggered by the approach of a car headed west on main. The car slowed, stopped, the headlights casting a dim field across the snowy street. Someone opened the driver's door and got out. Nora Cahill, her sharp nose prominent for a moment, bent down in front of the headlights to knock the snow from her boots.
A second figure emerged from the darkness. Tall. Slender. Wearing a long down coat and a round fur hat.
My God, thought Quill. She knew that coat. And that hat. And she hadn't been able to find them half an hour ago.
There was a pause in the tape. Quill strained her eyes. The other person, the one who was not Nora - the one, thought Quill, who is not me! Not me! - pulled an envelope from the depths of the coat and handed it to Nora. She thumbed through the contents.
"Money," Quill said involuntarily. "Money."
"Yowser," Dorset said in his soft silky voice.
The tape jumped, flickered, and resumed its steady whirr. Nora stuffed the money in her purse, tossed the envelope to the ground, and turned.
The dark figure stirred. Swung. And struck.
Nora fell, faceup, the headlights illuminating her face. Her lips moved. Silently. Quill shuddered and closed her eyes. She heard a click. The tape stopped. She opened her eyes to see Nora, frozen in time, her hand lifted in a last gesture, the fingers splayed out like claws, mouth open, eyes open.
"Dead," said Dorset.
"How?" asked Quill.
"You should know."
Quill shook her head.
Dorset pulled at her coat. John's coat. "When did you last see Nora Cahill?"
"This is ridiculous," said Quill. "Look. The time on the monitor. 9:23 p.m. I was at the Inn this evening."
"You got somebody besides your sister's gonna swear where you were between five after nine and nine-thirty? 'Cause that's all the time it'd take to hop down the road and off that broad. Maybe less. Haven't found a witness yet could swear to a time frame that tight in court. We blow this tape up, we're gonna see your cute little face right there."
"You will not," snapped Quill. "And somebody stole my coat. They must have."
He leaned close again, and blew out once, twice, against her cheek. Quill felt her stomach roil. "Just. Tell. Me," he coaxed. "Just me." He sat up suddenly, like a dog that hears the approach of an intruder. He laid his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it painfully tight. Quill heard a car door slam, then the sound of two - no, three people outside. There was a banging on the door, and then Howie, Meg, and John came in, the three of them abreast, like the cavalry in the kind of movies they didn't make anymore.
"Hi, guys," said Quill, dismayed to hear the quiver in her voice.
Howie glanced briefly at her, then turned his attention to Dorset. Meg, for once completely silent, came to the chair and stood to her right; John took up a position on the left. Meg reached down and squeezed Quill's hand hard.
"Nicer? You think Nora Cahill's nicer? I mean, here Santini's her sworn enemy and she ends up in cahoots with him just like that. All for a good story."
"It's a lousy story," Quill said firmly. "Back to my point. Women are nicer than men. If you put one hundred women in a room with one hundred men, eighty , percent of the women would be nice versus... versus..." - she waved her hands in the air - "twenty percent of the men. Would be nice."
Meg and John exchanged looks. "So!" Meg said brightly. "The Santinis and the McIntoshes will all be gone and it'll all be over in three days. Unless it keeps on snowing. You mind if I switch the television on? I want to get the weather report."
"No you don't," Quill said indignantly. "You just want to see if Nora Cahill's plastered my face and my boots and my ugly coat allover the eleven o'clock news."
"I do not!" Meg made a deprecatory face. "Well, maybe a little. But I also want to be sure that the weather's not going to interfere with the food order getting here from New York in time. I grabbed Elaine after dinner and we finally reworked the buffet menu."
"Are we going to hire extra help?"
Meg, clicking though the channels of the small television set built over the Zero King refrigerator, nodded in an abstracted way. "Yeah, but I can't do much cooking - so it's a lot of fresh stuff: caviar, crab, shrimp. Dull, dull, dull!"
"And expensive," Quill said.
John agreed, then said, "There it is. The Syracuse channel."
Meg shrieked. "You're on! You're on!"
Quill stuck her fingers in her ears and hummed loudly, but try as she might, she couldn't keep her eyes shut. So she saw, although she didn't hear, a full color videotape of herself in her ugly down coat, hair every which way, a scowl on her face, sock Nora Cahill in the nose with her boot.
The station cut to a commercial. "I need a haircut," said Quill.
"You need a new coat," said Meg. "Don't turn it off! Her commentary's next."
"That's not Nora Cahill," said Quill.
"It sure isn't," said Meg. "It's some guy."
"She told me she was on vacation," said Quill, with hope. "Maybe she just forgot about the story. What kind of story is a small-town traffic ticket, anyhow?"
"... that news flash repeated," the male anchor said soberly into the camera. "The body of Syracuse television newswoman Nora Cahill was found under the traffic light of an intersection in the central New York village of Hemlock Falls. Sheriff Frank Dorset has refused to release details of the death pending investigation. No further details other than the report of the death are available at this time. KSGY-TV will be the first to bring you periodic updates on this tragic event. And now, for a look at the weather. The word is snow..."
"She was killed? Here?!" shrieked Meg. "Right here?!"
John reached up and switched the television off.
"You don't suppose..." said Quill. Her mind leaped to the last time she saw Nora, in angry conversation with Alphonse Santini. Except that it wasn't the last time she'd seen Nora. The last time, the very last time, struck her with the force of a fall on thick ice; she'd been wiping her cheeks free of the muddy spray from Quill's boots.
"Car accident," said John. "Had to be, in this weather."
"They would have said car accident," Meg insisted. "And that bozo Dorset refusing to release details? It doesn't sound good at all. Poor Nora! Maybe we should poke around a little bit, Quillie. You know, a lot of people must have had it in for that poor thing."
"No," said Quill. "No investigation. No murder inquiry. We are out of that business and into the Inn business. Full-time. This time I really mean it."
"Things have been so quiet lately," Meg complained.
"Quiet for you, maybe. I don't need to remind you that while you were peacefully chopping away in your kitchen I spent practically the entire morning in jail." Except, she thought, for the part where I tried to whack Nora with my boots.
"Three hours," Meg muttered. "Big deal."
"You try it! God, I feel awful. I mean, the last time I saw her, I tried to break her nose."
"Oh, Quill. You were really provoked. Anyone would have tried to - um..."
"Um, what? I feel like a jerk. I'm a swine. I don't know why I ever agreed to run this place. All I've seemed to do is create one huge mess after the other. It's not worth it."
"Of course it's worth it," Meg said stoutly. "We have a terrific business, great guests..."
"Oh, right, Claire the cranky bride, Elaine the water faucet, Vittorio the mysterious Scottish-Italian, and let's not forget his psychic mother. And who has to deal with all this craziness while you retreat to this chrome and stainless steel haven? Me, that's who! And poor John has to run around cleaning up after all the messes I create."
"Quill, you are hardly responsible for Alphonse Santini and his choice of prospective in-laws," said John. There was a faint grin behind his eyes.
"She's hysterical," said Meg. "And about time, too. I was wondering when all of this would hit her."
" `Three knocks,' " Quill repeated with what she felt to be justifiable bitterness. " 'Three knocks and then, blood, blood... ' "
Three knocks sounded at the back door. They tolled through the kitchen like the bell announcing the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Like Scrooge, Quill felt like flinging the covers over her head, but the only thing at hand was a dish towel. She clutched Meg. "Sassafras," Meg said, patting her arm, "or comfrey. Herbal teas'll help you get right to sleep."
"I'll get it." John walked unhurriedly to the back door and snapped on the outside light. There was a murmur of male voices, John's voice louder than the others, an argumentative note to it. The door slammed and he stepped back into the kitchen. His dark hair was sprinkled with snowflakes.
"Quill," he said, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him, "get upstairs and lock yourself in your room. No questions. Just do it. Meg, get Howie Murchison on the line as fast as you can."
The back door rattled. A cold eddy of outside air curled around Quill's feet.
"Move, Quill!"
"But, John, what in heaven's name is going on? Why should I lock myself in my room?"
"Sarah Quilliam?" Frank Dorset pulled the hood of his dark blue parka away from his face. Davy Kiddermeister shuffled behind. Their snow boots left muddy tracks on the floor.
"You know very well who she is," Meg said tartly. "Have you come to apologize? It's about bloody time."
"You're under arrest, Ms. Quilliam, as a material wit- ness to the murder of Nora Cahill. You have the right to representation by an attorney for your defense. If you do not have an attorney, the court will appoint one for you. You have the right to remain silent." He grinned, his teeth sharp and yellow. "And I sure as hell hope you do. Nothing worse than a yapping female behind bars."
The drive to the Tompkins County Sheriff's Department had taken about five minutes, Quill figured, which meant it must be about eleven-thirty. She wasn't sure. Deputy Dave had taken her watch. She was sitting under the halogen lights in the sheriff's office huddled in John's parka. She'd been too dazed to find her own coat, and she missed its comforting warmth. The room felt too small. The linoleum - which had been installed at some point in the dim and faraway sixties - was as cracked and peeling as it had been that morning, although there was a fresh smell of disinfectant. Metal filing cabinets lined one wall. There were two metal desks, of the type found in every state and federal office Quill had ever seen: battleship-gray, incredibly heavy, with tarnished strips of chrome along the desk top edge. She sat behind the larger one, in the black Naugahyde chair that still, she thought, held a faint scent of Myles McHale. Frank Dorset balanced one buttock on the edge of this desk and leaned into her face. She pushed her feet along the floor and edged back, hitting the green-painted wall. Dave Kiddermeister sat at the adjacent desk, holding a small tape recorder.
"You want to go over this again?" Dorset asked. His voice was calm. Silky.
Davy cleared his throat. "She might better wait for Mr. Murchison, Sheriff."
Dorset twisted his head over his shoulder, so that Quill couldn't see his face. "Your shift about up, Deputy?"
"Nossir." Quill could hear both embarrassment and determination in his tones. "I mean, yessir, it is, but I should prob'ly stay here. You might need a wit - "
Dorset interrupted like a knife shaving beef. "That wasn't a question."
"Sir?"
"I said get your ass out of here."
Quill, who recognized that she was too mad to be scared, said, "I'll be fine, Davy. Don't worry about a thing."
"Thing," Dorset repeated softly. "Not a thing." He said loudly, "Deputy!"
Quill jumped.
Davy shuffled reluctantly to his feet. "Leave the recorder, son."
Davy put the tape recorder near Quill's left hand, then shrugged himself into his anorak. "I'll be around, Sheriff. Just down the street at the Croh Bar."
Dorset grunted. The clock on the wall filled the silence with a soft and steady tick-tick-tick. She heard Davy close the outside door, then the crunch of his feet in the snow in the parking lot. His car door slammed. The engine turned over. He drove out of the lot and out of hearing.
Dorset leaned close. He smelled like peppermint toothpaste, sour sweat, and damp wool. "Ms. Quilliam? One more time. When did you last see Nora Cahill?"
"Right here. About twelve-fifteen this afternoon."
"She got back to the Inn around five-thirty this evening."
"Well, I didn't see her," said Quill.
"I can spit from one end of that place to the other. And you didn't see her? Not once? All evening?"
"It was a busy night, Sheriff. In case you hadn't noticed, we've got a full house."
"Huh."
He was so close she could see flecks of red on his canine teeth.
"Did you have pizza for dinner?"
His right hand came up, palm out. He shoved it into her left shoulder so hard that she spun and smacked her cheek against the wall. He grabbed the teal scarf at her throat, twisted it, and pulled her forward. "You listen," he hissed, "to me. You get that? You listen" - he whipped the scarf back and forth, pulling her from side to side - "to me! Are you listening?"
"Yes," Quill said calmly. "I'm listening."
He released the scarf with a swift, upward movement that jerked her chin backward. "I want you to sit there. Sit right there." He swung himself off the desk and turned his back. He whipped around so suddenly that she jumped. "You sitting? You sitting just nice and quiet, like?"
Quill nodded. It was an effort to keep her face still. She wanted to gasp for air. She took slow, shallow breaths through her nose. She felt as if she were suffocating.
"Good."
The tall metal cabinet was padlocked. Dorset pulled his ring of keys from his belt and opened it, and took out a small, hand-held videocassette viewer from the top shelf. He began to hum in a high nasal whine, an insinuating, minor-keyed tune that Quill had never heard before. He set the viewer on the desk, then scrabbled inside the cabinet for a tape. He turned, shoved the cassette into the viewer, and plugged the cord into an outlet on the wall. He swayed a little as he moved, humming.
Quill took a long, quiet breath. He whipped his head around. "You sitting? Nice and calm, like? You little, little thing." He leaned across the desk, shoving his face against her cheek. He whispered, "Watch. This." Holding his head against her, he reached out and turned the viewer on.
The tape was black-and-white. Flickering. Grainy. The tape from the hidden camera. The LED flashed the date and 09:15,09:16,09:17. P.M. P.M. P.M.
The remote switched on, triggered by the approach of a car headed west on main. The car slowed, stopped, the headlights casting a dim field across the snowy street. Someone opened the driver's door and got out. Nora Cahill, her sharp nose prominent for a moment, bent down in front of the headlights to knock the snow from her boots.
A second figure emerged from the darkness. Tall. Slender. Wearing a long down coat and a round fur hat.
My God, thought Quill. She knew that coat. And that hat. And she hadn't been able to find them half an hour ago.
There was a pause in the tape. Quill strained her eyes. The other person, the one who was not Nora - the one, thought Quill, who is not me! Not me! - pulled an envelope from the depths of the coat and handed it to Nora. She thumbed through the contents.
"Money," Quill said involuntarily. "Money."
"Yowser," Dorset said in his soft silky voice.
The tape jumped, flickered, and resumed its steady whirr. Nora stuffed the money in her purse, tossed the envelope to the ground, and turned.
The dark figure stirred. Swung. And struck.
Nora fell, faceup, the headlights illuminating her face. Her lips moved. Silently. Quill shuddered and closed her eyes. She heard a click. The tape stopped. She opened her eyes to see Nora, frozen in time, her hand lifted in a last gesture, the fingers splayed out like claws, mouth open, eyes open.
"Dead," said Dorset.
"How?" asked Quill.
"You should know."
Quill shook her head.
Dorset pulled at her coat. John's coat. "When did you last see Nora Cahill?"
"This is ridiculous," said Quill. "Look. The time on the monitor. 9:23 p.m. I was at the Inn this evening."
"You got somebody besides your sister's gonna swear where you were between five after nine and nine-thirty? 'Cause that's all the time it'd take to hop down the road and off that broad. Maybe less. Haven't found a witness yet could swear to a time frame that tight in court. We blow this tape up, we're gonna see your cute little face right there."
"You will not," snapped Quill. "And somebody stole my coat. They must have."
He leaned close again, and blew out once, twice, against her cheek. Quill felt her stomach roil. "Just. Tell. Me," he coaxed. "Just me." He sat up suddenly, like a dog that hears the approach of an intruder. He laid his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it painfully tight. Quill heard a car door slam, then the sound of two - no, three people outside. There was a banging on the door, and then Howie, Meg, and John came in, the three of them abreast, like the cavalry in the kind of movies they didn't make anymore.
"Hi, guys," said Quill, dismayed to hear the quiver in her voice.
Howie glanced briefly at her, then turned his attention to Dorset. Meg, for once completely silent, came to the chair and stood to her right; John took up a position on the left. Meg reached down and squeezed Quill's hand hard.
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