Murder Well-Done (17 page)

"Pretended to give Dorset the cash..." added Meg.
"And whammo! Cut his throat. Shoved him into my cell. Wiped the knife and tossed it in after Dorset's body..."
"And tried to pin the second murder on you."
"Holy crow," said Betty.
"You two are damn good," grunted Marge. "So how do we go around proving this?"
"We need hard evidence," said Quill. "Something factual, like DNA or hair samples that will link Santini to the scene of the crime. We have to find my coat and that videotape. And, we have to get an eyewitness to place Santini at or near the sheriff's office around five o'clock this morning."
"If the fella's smart enough to stay in the Senate for three terms, he's smart enough to bum that stuff," said Marge. "Or bury it."
"It's a lot harder than you think to dispose of things like that," said Quill. "Where is he going to burn it? Our fireplaces? We can sift through the ashes and find fibers, bits of plastic from the tape - whatever."
"I'll do that," said Betty. "He don't know me from a hole in the ground, and I worked cleaning house in high school before I learned to cook. I'll walk around here with a bucket and look like I'm cleaning fireplaces. I'll get a sample from each one in the place."
"Label them and put them in Baggies," Meg advised. "And as soon as you find something suspicious, call Sheriff McHale. Otherwise, we'll contaminate the chain of evidence."
"I'll tell Doreen what you're doing," Quill offered. "And, although Meg and I have a strict rule about invading the privacy of our guests, this is an emergency. Santini's in the Adams suite, room 224. And his bachelor party's tonight in the dining room, so he's going to be occupied with that from eight o'clock on. If there's anything hidden in his room, tonight's the best time to search for it. What I'm afraid of is that he's buried the stuff, or thrown it into the Gorge."
"It stopped snowing late last night," said Meg. "Andy could ski the parts of the park that lead from here to the Municipal Building and look for turned up dirt."
"Likeliest spot's the Gorge," said Marge. "I could take Miriam and Esther and we could hike down there."
"Why don't you three look in the park instead of Andy," said Betty. "We want this to be a victory for wimmin."
"It counts if we tell the men what to do," said Marge. "My goodness, partner, what would we do without Mark Anthony Jefferson at the bank buyin' and sellin' every time I tell him to? I'd be worth squat if I didn't work with male bankers."
"Good point," Meg said seriously. "So it's all right if I ask Andy to go ahead and search?"
"Long as Doc Bishop reports back to you," Marge said generously. "Be my guest."
"There's one last thing," said Quill. "The witness to Santini's presence near the sheriff's office."
"He sharin' a room with that lemon-faced fianc‚e?" asked Marge. "Course, she'd probably alibi him, anyhow."
"No," said Meg. "Claire's in the Pilgrim suite on the ground floor. Santini's in the Adams suite on two. Claire's father didn't think Tutti would approve if the two of them shared a room, so they aren't."
"So he's by himself. That helps some." Marge sniffed. "Witnesses, huh? Who'd likely be out in a gol-danged blizzard in the middle of central New York in December that might have seen him?"
Quill made a diffident noise and offered, "S. O. A. P."
"Hot damn," said Betty.
Marge swung her head like a turret on a tank. Her eyes gleamed. "Speak of the devil, here comes one a them now."
Mayor Elmer Henry bustled into the dining room, accompanied by the swish-swish-swish of his Gore-Tex ski pants. He caught sight of the four women as soon as he entered, waved weakly, and veered toward the table like a boat in a low wind.
" 'Lo, ladies," he said stiffly.
"You look a little pooped, Elmer," said Marge. "Little frostbit, too. Have a good time in the woods last night?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about. Quill? I'd like to speak to you about our meeting this evening."
"Of course, Mayor. Would you like to go to my office?"
"Sure. Ladies? Good to... um, 'bye."
Quill let him go ahead. She turned and nodded violently to Meg, who mouthed' 'Find out about last night," waved to Marge, and had to trot to get ahead of the mayor before he stamped into her office.
"No, I won't sit down. This won't take but a minute or so." He took a couple of deep breaths, whether because he was hot in his snowsuit or out of breath from racing away from the twin terror of Marge and Betty, Quill wasn't sure.
"John told you we've set you up on the terrace?"
"What? Oh. Yeah."
"We're bringing in some of the heating pots from Richardson's apple farm. Your members should be a lot warmer than they were, um, last night."
Elmer had soft brown eyes, rather like a cow's, Quill thought, or the more amiable breed of dog. He fixed them on her and asked earnestly if she was all right.
"Oh. You mean about this business with Dorset. Yes, Mayor. I'm fine."
"Talked to McHale just now. Seemed to think I..." Elmer flushed. "Quill, you gotta believe me when I tell you I had no idea what these fellas were up to."
"You mean Frank Dorset and Bernie Bristol?"
"And that scum Santini." He shook his head. "And to think that a United States senator... well, by God, I lever would have thought it, or I wouldn't have done it."
"Done it? Done what?"
"Authorized the purchase of that dang hidden camera. Cost the town plenty."
"How much is plenty?"
"Pretty near fifty thousand dollars - "
"Fifty thousand!" gasped Quill. "Good grief." Where'd the money come from?"
"Discretionary budget," he said gloomily. "Pret' near emptied it for the next year. Means no town celebration this summer, that's for certain. And here," he said indignantly, "and here this Santini is tellin' me how much money the village is going to make from this and how we'll have money comin' out our ears and look-it. The traffic fines all come from the townspeople anyhow. I did some figuring and it comes out even worse. I'd be a sight more popular if I'd just gone ahead and raised property taxes. And now, after this - ah - unfortunate Incident last night... Well. I'm sorry, Quill. If I'd ever :bought this would happen in a million years, I never would have done it. You can," he said hopefully, "yell it me if you like. I cert'nly deserve it."
"The town's going to do a lot more yelling when they find out how much you paid for that camera," said Quill, who was, in fact, awed at the amount. "Wow."
Elmer nodded miserably. "They're talking special election anyways, you know. The women. On account of what happened to you. If they find out I spent that money, I'll be out on my ass - sorry, but you know. Just like what's her name from England. Thatcher, that's it."
"Oh?" asked Quill, not sure if the mayor was allying himself with Labor or the Conservatives in that debate.
"Word of this gets out, I ain't going to have a friend left in this world."
"I won't tell anyone, Mayor. I mean, the episode's over, as far as I'm concerned."
"Myles thought as you might not need to mention any more than you had to, if I came and told you I was sorry," he said ingenuously.
Quill, who had been experiencing warmer than charitable feelings about the six-foot-tall, baritone-voiced sheriff since his sudden reappearance in her life that morning, set her teeth. "He did, did he?"
"Knows you pretty well, I expect."
Quill reflected on this and had to laugh a little. Myles certainly seemed to know her better than she knew herself. She realized she didn't mind that as much as she used to. `I suppose he does."
"You glad he's back?"
She smiled.
"My," he said. "I can see that you are. I am, too. I'd sure like things to be the way they were before the November election. Myles backing office and Howie, too."
"A lot of people would have preferred a different result from the general election, Elmer. If there's nothing else, I'd better talk to Meg about any preparations for your meeting. You're sure you don't' want Meg to cook anything?"
"The guys are cooking a whole steer in the woods," Elmer said proudly. "On a huge spit. Mr. Blight himself had the idea. You met him yet?"
"Not yet."
"He's amazing. Just amazing. He's gonna join us at the sayance this afternoon with Mrs. McIntosh. There's going to be a whole pile of us there. All the McIntoshes, Santini, and, of course, Mr. Blight. I thought maybe I'd get a chance to ask about the special election, you know, in case these spirits of Tutti's really know anything. I'd be happy to ask anything you want to know on your behalf."
"The senator will be there? Then you sure can," Quill said flippantly. "Ask them who was in the woods last night. Ask them who murdered Nora Cahill and Frank Dorset. Tell them," she said, inspired, "that you know for a fact the murderer was seen."
"You're kiddin'," said the mayor. "Who seen `im?"
"Just tell them that several of us in town know," said Quill. "Tell them the word is getting around."
"You're up to something."
Quill reached over and patted his hand. For the first time in three days she was the pattor instead of the pattee and she was glad of it. "What we both know, Mayor, won't hurt either one of us. As long as it reaches - or in your case - doesn't reach, the right people."
The mayor sighed. "Or the wrong ones. You watch it, Quill. You don't want this person comin' after you."
-8-
"What do you mean you can't tell me what the mayor wanted?" Meg stood in the middle of her full team of sous-chefs, looking like a pony among Percherons. "And you're going where?"
"Don't yell, Meg."
The Finns found this funny. The Canadian and the kid from Texas smiled at the Finns. The Frenchwoman - Lisette - frowned and went, "Pssstah!"
"If Meg doesn't yell, it's a day without sunshine," Bjarne explained.
"Orange juice. A day without orange juice is a day without sunshine," Lisette said. "They are confused in their English. Plus, they are watching too much television."
"That's what's confusing me, Quill, your English. I mean, I'm not hearing this. You're off to Syracuse again, when we have two huge parties - no, three, counting H. O. W. tonight. A rehearsal dinner tomorrow and a wedding on Saturday? And it's because of what the mayor said that you can't tell me?" Meg picked up a wooden spoon and threw it across the room. It bounced off a copper saut‚ pot and clattered to the floor.
"So I think we may be looking at kickbacks. I can't tell you any more than that."
"Kickback?" Her eyes widened. "You don't think the mayor is involved in anything illegal?"
"Of course not. I think he's a dupe."
"Adela'd agree with you there."
"My guess is that Nora was on track with the story, and I want tot go to Syracuse to talk to her editors at the news station."
"Won't it keep?" Meg wailed.
"If I don't go now, when would be a better time? Tomorrow, with Claire and Elaine and Tutti getting more and more frantic about the wedding? At least tonight they'll all be at the shower Meredith is holding for Claire in the lounge. Saturday, the day of the wedding, not to mention Christmas Eve when all those editors at the station will want to go home? Sunday, which is Christmas Day? Besides, if I wait much longer, the station will have cleared out her desk, and unless they've reassigned the story, what evidence there is may be destroyed or sent home to her parents or whatever."
"Look." Meg set the sherry bottles down with care, primarily, Quill thought, so that she could gesticulate without disturbing the sediment. She thrust her hands through her hair, tugged at it, and said with exaggerated patience, "Tell Myles. Have him go to Syracuse."
"I can't." Quill bit her lip. "I would really like to, but I can't."
"Why?!"
"Because I told the mayor I'd keep his secret."
Meg went, "Tuh!"
"Meg, I gave my word!"
"Then take Myles with you. Just don't tell him what they mayor told you."
"That's hairsplitting, Meg."
"You're right." Meg picked the bottles up and carried them tenderly out of the storeroom into the kitchen. "Myles swallowed his pride and came back here for you. Not because he heard you were in trouble. Not because he thought you'd welcome him with open arms. But because he loves you. Can't you at least call him and tell him where you're going?"
"It's not even noon. It's an hour round-trip to Syracuse and back. And it won't take me too long to talk to the editors. I'll be back before four."
"You are driving? In this weather?" Bjarne walked to the windows overlooking the herb garden. "You see this sky?"
"Blue," Quill said promptly.
"Those wispy clouds at the edges? Like mushy potatoes with too much cream? Very bad. Very, very bad. In a few hours, perhaps, there will be snow."
"Perhaps? Or for sure?" Quill hated driving in snowstorms.
Bjarne shrugged.
"I'll be back in less than four hours, Bjarne. Will it hold off until then?"
"It may not or it may."
"Great," said Meg. "I just hope the heck we get those food deliveries." She gave Quill a fierce hug. "Go do your thing. If Myles calls, do you have a message?"
"We're meeting for dinner at six. He won't call."
"Take my ski parka. And my hiking boots. And my hat."
"And make sure the gas tank's filled, ya-ta-ta, ya-ta-ta."
She went upstairs to her room and dressed for the drive, in a long sweater, ski pants, and long underwear. She rummaged through her bureau drawer for her "Investigations" notebook, unused since her last foray into murder, and slipped it into her shoulder bag. She went back downstairs, and walked through the busy kitchen to the coatrack. The sleeves of Meg's parka were too short, but otherwise it was a comfortable fit. Quill added her own scarf and pulled out a pair of snow boots from the wooden box piled with odds and ends. She left by the back door to get her OIds from the garage.
The air outside was very cool and humid. A thin stream of water ran from the eaves, where the direct rays of the sun had melted the snow built up in the gutters. Mike the groundskeeper had shoveled the paths free, and she could see the Inn pickup truck, plow blade glinting in the sunlight, clearing the driveway to the road below their hill. The OIds would start easily in this weather. It always did. It was past time to get a new car, thought Quill, just like it was past time to get a new coat, but she was reluctant to give the OIds up. It was heavy, with front-wheel drive that gave her a lot of confidence in icy weather. It had also had its transmission replaced three times in its seventy-five-thousand-mile life, but the mechanic had assured her that this last install would last the life of the car. Quill skidded down the walkway to the outbuilding where they garaged their cars and maintenance equipment. She tugged on the latch of the overhead door, and it slid open, the bright day outside flooding the inside so that, for a moment, she saw the figure standing by the Oldsmobile as a blur of scarlet and tangled hair.