Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138) (17 page)

“Did you check up at the Inn?” somebody called out. “He’s there more than he is here.”

“I think he prefers Meg’s cooking,” Nadine Peterson said, a little maliciously.

“He’s not at the Inn,” Clare said. “He’s not at the Croh Bar, and he’s not anywhere down by the river that I could see.”

“He’s kind of hard to miss,” somebody from the back said. “That’s one whopping big cat.”

This was true. Bismarck was a Maine coon cat, and an outsized member of that hefty breed. Quill was willing to bet he weighed forty pounds at least.

“And he don’t blend into the shrubbery, neither. That cat is
orange
.”

“Marmalade,” Dolly Jean corrected. She really had an infuriating air of being right all the time. It was worse when she was.

“Well, let’s hope he ain’t in a
jam
,” the wit snapped back. A roar of laughter greeted this sally.

Clare touched Quill’s shoulder and said in an undertone, “I know it’s silly, but I’m really worried. You know how he likes to walk down the middle of the street.”

“Everybody in town watches out for him. On the other hand…you don’t think…” Involuntarily, Quill’s gaze went to the windows.

“The bulldozers!” Clare turned perfectly white. “No! Oh, no!”

~

“Is Bismarck dead?” Jack asked with rather ghoulish expectancy.

It was late afternoon. The lowering sun turned his bronze hair to rose-colored fire. Quill, Clare, and most of the participants in the Furry Friends pet show had been searching for Bismarck for hours, with no success.

Quill tightened her arms around Jack and buried her nose in his neck. He smelled like soap and little boy. They sat in the Inn’s gazebo, overlooking the gorge.

Below them, Doreen, Meg, Elizabeth Chou, and Kathleen Kiddermeister searched along the pebbled shores of the stream. Max the dog padded along behind them, his nose to the ground.

“Bismarck isn’t dead, darling. He just went off on an adventure and forgot what time it is.”

“Cats can’t tell time.”

“You’re right. Not like humans do. But Max knows when dinnertime is, doesn’t he?”

Jack nodded yes.

“And when it’s time for you to get up in the morning.”

“He
does
!” Jack said with delight.

“Bismarck tells time like that, too.”

Jack digested this. “He wasn’t where the bulldozers were.”

“No.”

“And he wasn’t in his basket at Auntie Clare’s.”

“Not there, either.”

“And he wasn’t here! So where is he?”

“I don’t know, darling.”

“Maybe he’s lost.”

“That’s possible,” Quill admitted. “But if he is, he’ll be found. Look at all the people looking for him. Everybody in town is helping out.”

“Everybody in town,” Jack repeated, in satisfaction.

Quill wasn’t sure what to do if, in fact, poor Bismarck wasn’t found, or worse yet, was found horribly flattened by some roadside. Five was too young to talk about death, wasn’t it? Too young to lose a pet.

“Bismarck!” With a shout of joy, Jack jumped out of her lap and scrambled down the gazebo steps to the lawn. Bismarck, his orange fur matted with some oily substance, blinked his great yellow eyes at them. You could have heard his purr in Syracuse. Jack picked the cat up by the middle, staggered a few feet, dropped him, and then raced to the lip of the Gorge.

“No farther!” Quill shouted. “Stop!”

Jack screeched to a halt and shouted down the slope to
the river: “Auntie Meg! Gramma! Bismarck remembered what time it was. He’s here! He’s here!”

Marveling, Quill left the gazebo and knelt by the cat. His fur was sticky with black goo. She tickled him under the chin, and then petted him. She raised the palm of her hand to her nose and sniffed. “Motor oil?” she said aloud.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Startled, she looked up to see Davy Kiddermeister standing a few feet away. His hands were covered with motor oil. She dug into the pocket of her skirt, and handed him two of the wipes she carried with her at all times, now that she was a mother.

“Thanks.” Davy cleaned his hands, and then shoved the wipes in his pocket.

Quill scrambled to her feet. “I’m so glad you found him, Davy! Where was he? I swear that cat has used up all of his nine lives, as well as some of mine.”

“He was over at Peterson Automotive, in the trunk of Linda Connelly’s car.”

“In the trunk of her
car
? Good grief! How did he end up there?”

“I don’t know yet, Quill. Just like I don’t know why he was with the body of Linda Connelly.”

“Linda Connelly was shot in the back of the head,” Quill said. “It was a horrible way to die. They haven’t found the gun.” She shuddered. “Good Lord, Myles. I thought I’d never have to deal with murder again.”

Myles rubbed his hand across his mouth. The computer transmission was spotty. His face kept fragmenting. “I don’t need to remind you…”

“…That I’m not investigating this murder. The sheriff’s department is. Right. You’re right.”

He was on a ship somewhere; the walls in back of him were an institutional gray and the space was compact. She hoped it wasn’t a submarine.

“But I’m dealing with the consequences of murder. Everyone’s in shock. The arrangements for the fete are in total disarray, and there’s talk of canceling it, although with all the out-of-town dealers coming in, I don’t see how that can happen.” Quill stopped herself. “I’m babbling. One thing at a time. Jack’s fine. I’m fine. Poor Linda Connelly is not so fine.”

“Who found the body?”

“Brady Beale. No, that’s not strictly accurate. One of
Brady Beale’s mechanics was walking by Linda’s car. Did I tell you it was parked with the other Lexuses Brady has for sale in his parking lot? There was even a price sticker on the window, so she could have gone undiscovered for
days
. Anyway, Bismarck howled, poor thing. Would he have been running out of oxygen? That’s a horrible thought, so I won’t think about it. We think he jumped into the car in the parking lot at Bonne Goute when Linda delivered the cat food. There was some spilled in the bottom of the trunk. He’s fine now, poor kitty. Doreen had some stuff that got the grease off him quicker than quick. Clare’s so scared she lost him for good, I think she’s going to put a harness on him and attach him to her wrist with a lock. Anyhow, this mechanic got the trunk popped, and out popped Bismarck.”

“They called Kiddermeister?”

“The state police, actually. So the awful Lieutenant Harker’s back in the picture for the time being. Anyhow, the scene-of-the-crime people took the body away to do all the forensics. Andy Bishop talked to the coroner, and the preliminary cause of death is the gunshot wound. The time of death is between one o’clock, when I saw her last, and six o’clock, when the mechanic heard Bismarck crying. Closer than that, we don’t know.”

“There’s no ‘we’ in this scenario, Quill.”

“I know, Myles. I know.”

“What about the goons?”

“The goons?” Quill blinked at him. “You mean George McIntyre and Mickey Greer? They’d been swimming, of all things. Linda gave them the afternoon off. She said they’d been working pretty hard lately and they deserved
it. She said she was headed toward Syracuse. But she went back to Peterson’s instead. What in the world for?”

“Could you do me a favor?”

“Of course, Myles. Anything.”

“You are not, and I repeat not, to get involved in this thing any further than this. Because you love me. Because I love you. Because we both love Jack.”

Quill nodded.

“But I’d like to know a little more about the goons.”

“They aren’t goons, Myles. They seem like perfectly decent guys.”

“I just need their names. Is it Mickey Michael Greer? And it’s George McIntyre with no middle name? Do you think you can find out for me?”

“Sure. If I can’t, Marge certainly can. Elmer should have had Presentations sign an employment contract, and the names might be on there. I’ll start with that.”

“Maybe on the website, too.” Myles bent forward to take a note. “Listen, dear heart. I might not be able to use this communications channel for the next couple of days. We’ll keep in touch by e-mail. All right?”

So she wouldn’t see him or hear him for how long? Too long. However long it was, it was too long.

She told him she loved him. She didn’t tell him she missed him.

She went to bed and dreamed she was lost in a vast subterranean room that had mysteriously appeared underneath the Inn.

She woke to the scent of peanut butter. She had slept hard and she woke hard, as if fighting through a swirl of gauzy drapes.

“Mommy!”

She shot out of bed, stumbled over a furry body (Max) and grabbed a solidly warm one (Jack). She righted herself and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. The soft light of an August dawn flooded her bedroom.

“I’m so glad you’re awake, too!” Jack said sunnily. His smile was angelic. It was also smeared with peanut butter. “I brought you breakfast!” He thrust his fist out.

She cradled it in the palm of her hand and coaxed his fingers open. “Peanut butter. Thank you so much! But you remember what we learned about peanut butter?”

Jack wrinkled his forehead in thought, and then shook his head.

“We put it in a dish.” She hoisted him onto her hip, and then caught sight of her bedside alarm. “Jack! It’s five thirty in the morning.”

He sighed happily and snuggled his cheek under her chin. “Isn’t it nice?”

The early start to her morning meant that Doreen would be grouchy for the rest of the day—she was no fan of early hours, either, but it also meant that she was at her office desk before seven.

“Which,” she said aloud to the empty room when she got to her desk, “is a good thing.” She’d plow through the stack of messages and mail that Dina had left for her and seize the day by the neck and shake it.

The pink While You Were Out slips were on the top of the pile, with Dina’s neat notes attached. She’d return the calls from the hospital first.

Jeeter Swenson wanted to come back to the Inn. She
was glad the old man was feeling better. Mike the groundskeeper could pick him up.

Adela was scheduled for discharge. Quill frowned at that one, and read Dina’s note.
Pls pick her up since she is not speaking to that man
. She’d assign Mike to that duty, too.

There were a total of twenty-six messages about the fete. Dina had separated them into three piles labeled A, B, and C. There were a number of sticky notes attached to the piles, and a longer note that read:

There was a smiley face at the end of the note.

Another committee? Worse yet, the committee that managed all the other committees?

There was a hissing sound in the office. Startled, Quill realized she was making it.

She called Elmer’s cell. He didn’t pick up. Quill didn’t bother to sound pleasant. She wasn’t feeling pleasant. “My office, Mayor. Nine o’clock. Be here.” She called Dookie, who always answered his phone no matter what the hour, and he said, of course, he would be there and so would Mrs. Shuttleworth and they both felt Quill would make a fine fete director.

As for Althea Quince, Quill was pretty sure she’d find
her where she was every morning; on the terrace off the Tavern Lounge.

Quill stacked the pink slips up and scrawled a note to Dina:
RE: All inquiries: fete director to be announced soon. P.S. I’m not doing it!!!!

She set those aside.

There was a stack of mail, too.

Quill sat and looked at it. There was a time, in the past, when it was agony to go through the mail, mostly because of the unpaid invoices she had to juggle. That wasn’t true anymore. The Inn was doing well thanks to the thousands of tourists who’d discovered the glories of upstate New York.

The top letter was an enthusiastic “thank you!” from a party of four guests who had loved their stay and wanted to come back in September. The letter after that was an offer to feature the Inn in a cable TV special about best travel destinations. The letter under that was from a law firm in Syracuse called Beasley and Caldecott:

A copy of a summons and complaint was attached. It was undated, which meant, Quill knew, that Porter Swenson wanted to rattle her cage, as opposed to actually haul her into court. And it was Porter behind it, not poor Jeeter himself, and since in her opinion and in the opinion of everyone else who had ever met him, Jeeter was of perfectly sound mind, she wasn’t all that worried. But she’d have to see Howie Murchison, who handled all the legal affairs of the Inn, and sooner would be better than later.