Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138) (14 page)

The tip of Max’s tail waved. Quill wasn’t sure how old he was; well over ten at least. Their vet, Dr. McKenzie, thought there might be some retriever in his ancestry, and maybe some standard poodle. Whatever his background, Max’s coat was a shambly mix of ochres, gray, off-white, and black.

He whuffed a little, which meant he was serious about going out. Doreen’s room was right next to hers, and Doreen would be up like a shot if Jack called out, so Quill collected Max’s leash and resigned herself to twenty minutes outside before she could get to sleep.

Her rooms were at the west end of the building and it was a short trip down the fire escape to the gardens in back. Max poked around the rosebushes, then, being a modest dog, disappeared around the front corner of the Inn. Quill leaned back against the fire escape and looked up at the sky. The moon was huge and soft, a gigantic plum of a moon nested in wispy silver clouds. The air was soft, peaceful, and quiet until Max barked and howled like a banshee when he discovered Jeeter Swenson’s body on the lip of Hemlock Gorge.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” Andy Bishop tucked the business end of his stethoscope into the top pocket of his lab coat and shook his head, marveling. “Mr. Swenson’s a vigorous old bird. No evidence of a concussion. He has a surprisingly thick skull for his age, and no evidence of a seizure or a heart attack. He may have tripped and fallen and hit his head as he fell. There’s a nasty contusion on his right temple.”

Quill and Meg sat close together on the couch in the Family Room at the Village Hospital and Clinic. It was three o’clock in the morning, and Jeeter Swenson wasn’t dead.

Quill let out a long sigh.

Meg yawned heartily and poked her sister in the side. “Good. Now we can go home.”

“Can we see him?” Quill asked.

“Sure. Just don’t make it too long. I gave him a little clonazepam, just to help him settle down. He’ll be falling asleep pretty quickly.”

Meg got to her feet, grumbling a little. Andy’s eyes drifted over her rather wistfully. There had been a time, not
long in the past, when Quill was sure her volatile sister would make a match of it with the attractive Dr. Bishop, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. “We won’t be long, Andy. Meg and I are dead on our feet.” She paused on the way to the patient rooms down the hall. “Did you call his relatives?”

Andy rubbed his hands over his face. “Yep. I talked to the son, what’s his name.”

“Porter Swenson.”

“Yeah.” Andy’s grin was cynical. “Didn’t seem all that relieved that his dad was going to be okay. Said he’d be by sometime tomorrow. Watch yourself with that guy, Quill. He started asking me all kinds of questions about security at the Inn. You don’t want to find yourself in the middle of a lawsuit.”

Quill nodded.

Hospital rooms diminish everybody, and Jeeter was no exception. He looked smaller, paler, and infinitely fragile. A neat bandage circled his head. He lay back against the propped-up frame of the hospital bed, eyes closed, his skin a grayish yellow. An IV drip was attached to one skinny arm. Meg caught Quill by the elbow and whispered, “Maybe we ought to let the poor guy sleep.”

Jeeter’s eyes popped open. Quill was glad to see that the malicious sparkle was still there. “It’s mine host,” he rasped. He cleared his throat with an effort. “Hostess, I should say. The hostess with the most-ess.”

“We just stopped by to make sure you’re all right,” Quill said quietly. “We’ll be back to see you in the morning.”

“Hell, I’ll be out of here by morning.” He cackled.
“Nothing wrong with me that a good slug of Scotch wouldn’t cure. Doc says he’ll be happy to prescribe it once I’m back in my room.” He patted the bed. “Take a load off, honey.”

Quill sat at the very edge of the mattress. Meg wandered around the room, which was small, spotless, and smelled like Pine-Sol. “Meg and I are really glad you aren’t hurt.”

“Me, too. Gonna make it to a hundred and seventeen, you know. Can’t let a little thing like a fall set me back.”

“You fell?”

His eyes clouded. He worked his lips. “I must’ve, I guess.”

“Were you out for a walk last night?”

He yawned. “I was out to meet somebody. On account of the note.”

Meg and Quill looked at each other. “The note?” Meg said. “What note?”

“From those guys. You know, the guys against the conspiracy.”

“The Citizens for Justice?” Quill said, astonished. “You got a note from Carol Ann Spinoza?”

“She the one who smells like shampoo? Nah. Not her.” Jeeter’s eyes began to close and he fought it. “Nope. Nope. Nope. The other…” His eyes closed and his mouth dropped open. Quill’s heart turned over. Asleep, he looked as vulnerable as her own child.

Meg drew the thin blanket up over his chest. “We’d better let him rest,” she whispered. “And we’d better find that note.”

~

“If there’s a note, it’s either at the bottom of the river or in the old guy’s pockets,” Doreen said over coffee and brioche at ten o’clock the next morning. “I figgered you two might of missed something last night when you searched his room, so I got housekeeping to go over it with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing.”

“We should have looked at his laptop,” Meg said.

The three of them sat in the dining room at the table nearest the kitchen doors. Outside, it was another fine August day. Quill almost never tired of the sight of the water cascading over the falls; today she watched the plumes of green water without really seeing them. She shook her head. “The laptop would have been a real invasion of his right to privacy. I’m okay with checking out his room. I mean, housekeeping is in there every day to clean. But I’m not okay with taking it further.”

Doreen scratched her head. Her hair was iron gray and made an exuberant cloud around her head as she charged through her day. Her eyes were black and birdy and she looked like an inquisitive chicken when she cocked her head at Quill. “What exactly did this note say, anyways?”

Meg shrugged. “Meet me outside by the waterfall at midnight, or something like it, I guess.”

“Was he attacked, like?”

“Davy thinks so.” Quill took another sip of coffee, which was very good. “Davy went over to question him this morning and he talked to the admitting physician, too. There’s no evidence of a physical assault. Jeeter’s being cagey. Says he must have ‘gotten dizzy-like’ which is no
surprise for a healthy ninety-eight-year-old. But there are grass stains on the knees of Jeeter’s chinos and a mud smear on his back. Davey thinks he was pushed to his knees and hit his head on a rock. The question is why?”

Meg spread her hands wide in a “haven’t got a clue” gesture.

Doreen said, “T’cha.” Then, ominously, “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Secret notes. Late-night meetings. Adela Henry accused of thievin’. Vigilante groups meetin’ all over the place. I tell you what I’m going to do and that’s make sure young Jack isn’t alone for a minute.”

“Jack’s never alone for a minute,” Meg said. “When you aren’t with him, Quill is, and when Quill isn’t, I am.”

“Yeah, well, that goes in spades until this all here is cleared up.” Doreen stood up and brushed the crumbs from her capri pants. “That Dina’s watching him now, and she doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose. So I’m off. You tell me when you’re through detecting. Until then, I don’t want to hear a word about it.”

She marched off through the foyer that led to reception.

Meg sighed. “I can relate to that. What do you think?”

“I think,” Quill said darkly, “that none of this stuff started bubbling up until Althea Quince and her husband took the Long-Term Let and moved to Hemlock Falls for three months.”

Meg pointed her chin at the foyer. “And the lady herself enters, stage right. You can ask her, ‘why?’”

Quill turned around in her chair. Althea and her husband were poised at the main entrance to the dining room.

The dominant color in today’s scarves was grape. She must have spent part of the morning at the Hemlock Hall
of Beauty; her hair was a vivid, purple-y red that made an alarming frame for the amethyst necklace, bracelets, and earrings. Nolan Quince stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder. Nolan had a dusty look to him: grayish hair that had once been blond, pale gray eyes that held an intelligent twinkle, indoor skin that hadn’t seen much of the sun.

“You two look pretty cozy over there,” Althea Quince said in a cheery voice. “We could use some company. Mind if we join you?”

Quill murmured “of course” and signaled Kathleen for two more setups at the table. Althea settled herself with a rustle and a scent of Chanel No. 5. Nolan held her chair for her, and then sat down quietly beside her.

“We had a wonderful breakfast this morning, just wonderful,” Althea boomed. “French toast filled with this marvelous cheesy sort of thing.” She patted Meg’s hand. “Your reputation is well deserved, my dear.”

“Thank you,” Meg said.

“Which isn’t to say that I’m not just a little peckish at the moment. Marvelous word that, ‘peckish.’ The inference is that I eat like a bird, which, of course, isn’t true.” She patted her substantial frame.

“Birds eat several times their own weight during the day,” Nolan observed. “So I think the simile is quite apt, my dear.” He looked up at Kathleen. “We’ll both have a little cheese, and perhaps some fruit.”

Althea lowered her voice several decibels. “We heard about poor Mr. Swenson. Is he going to be all right?”

Quill nodded. “Thank goodness.”

“The question I have,” Althea said, “is this. What in
the world was that poor man doing out on the edge of the gorge at one o’clock in the morning?” Her eyes, a pale but penetrating blue, swept the table. “Trying to escape that dreadful son? I don’t mean to be more intrusive than is seemly, dear Quill…”

A warm, skeptical chuckle escaped Nolan.

“…Nolan knows me too well,” Althea said with a fond smile. “I am always intrusive. But what I have decided is this: perhaps we should take some measures to look out for Mr. Swenson. Quietly, to be sure, so that he doesn’t feel oppressed by our attentions.” She grinned companionably at them.

“I am a little worried about him,” Quill said. “But I don’t see how…”

“We’ll put him on a fete committee, of course,” Althea said. “Nothing strenuous. Do you think the Crafty Ladies might welcome a new member? They’re sponsoring one of those booths where you shoot at things.”

“Decoys,” Nolan said. Kathleen placed a plate of fruit and cheese in front of him and another in front of his wife. Nolan paused to look over the grapes. “Quite nice decoys, as a matter of fact. Ducks, geese, elk, and whatnot. I believe they are all made by the Crafty Ladies themselves.”

“Perfect,” Althea said. She scooped up a cheese made of ewe’s milk and popped it in her mouth. “Yum! Anyhow, I ran into that Dolly Jean whosis yesterday at a meeting and she and Jeeter were getting along like a house afire. When I heard what had happened to him this morning, the idea came to me just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “If you think he’s up to it, I can give Dolly Jean a call.
Those ladies spend all their waking hours in meetings. He won’t have an unprotected minute.”

There was only one meeting Quill knew of where Dolly Jean, Althea, and Jeeter had all been in attendance. “The meeting out at Peterson Automotive?”

“The very one.” Althea picked up a clutch of grapes. She nudged her husband. “That Carol Ann Spinoza is a piece of work. Spite, malice, all wrapped up in one squeaky-clean package. Amazing.” She put three grapes into her mouth at once and said thickly, “But I’ll be damned if I think she’s the one behind the theft of the funds. Too law and order, although sometimes those zealots are the worst offenders. I mean, think of all the shenanigans some padres get up to. What do you think, Quill. Should I keep it up?”

Quill felt as if she were in a force-ten gale, losing everything she was wearing minute by minute. “Keep it up?”

“The undercover work, of course.” Althea finished the last of her cheese and grabbed the remaining slices on her husband’s plate. “Adela didn’t take that money. Somebody did. You’ve got a bent for detection. So do I. So I thought I’d help.”

“Thank you,” Quill said, feebly.

“You don’t mind my butting in, do you? This is a lovely village, and Nolan and I are having a lovely summer, but there are just so many novels I can read by the waterfall. I’m going to go nuts if I don’t have something interesting to do. And most detectives can use a sidekick. I’m a great sidekick, aren’t I, Nolan?”

Nolan kissed her on the cheek. “The very best, my dear.” He leaned back in his chair. “But Quill may need
some assurances from you before she can commit to using your help…”

“Of course!” Althea said. Then, with an air of mild uncertainty, she asked, “What sort of assurances?”

Nolan’s face was as bland as ever, but Quill had the distinct impression he was amused. “Our innkeeper suspects that you may have something to do with the embezzlement.”

“Me!”

Quill felt herself turn bright red.

Althea looked insulted. Then she looked thoughtful. Then she grinned. “I can see that, I guess. If the situation were reversed, I suppose I’d have my suspicions, too. The stranger from out of town. Nobody knows a thing about her. But I’m just a mom, Quill, and a grandmother, too. I can show you pictures. Honestly. I didn’t embezzle a thing. Never have. Never will.”