Fete Worse Than Death (9781101595138) (26 page)

“On the house!” Jeeter echoed. “Hee!”

“Will do, Boss.” Nate looked concerned, although it was a little difficult to discern it through his big brown beard. “Sorry to hear about Meg. If there’s anything I can do…”

Quill took a deep breath of her own. “I’m going to run upstairs for a minute and then I’m going to see Davy Kiddermeister, and then by God, I’m going to bring Meg home.”

She ran up the stairs to her rooms on the third floor, too impatient to wait for the elevator. When she’d left to go downstairs at seven fifteen, Doreen had Jack dressed and
ready for his day at preschool, so she let herself into an empty apartment.

Housekeeping hadn’t been in yet. Both beds were unmade. Jack’s juice cup and the remains of his yogurt sat on the kitchen sink. Her tote was where she’d dropped it when she’d come in exhausted at three that morning, on the leather couch that faced the French windows to her little balcony.

Quill grabbed her tote and plunged into it. The laptop was evidence that Brady Beale knew Linda Connelly in another time, in another place, and, if Sophie Kilcannon were to be believed, another, more horrible personality altogether as an assassin. She hoped the battery wasn’t dead, but if it was, she could run down to Walmart and buy another power cord. And that would be proof enough to begin a conversation with Davy and that awful Harker about much more sinister doings in the village than a guy making an unwanted pass at her sister.

The laptop wasn’t there.

Frantic, Quill dumped the contents of the tote on to the couch. Wallet, tissues, change purse, hairbrush, compact, note pad, pens, pencil.

No laptop.

Quill sat down and took three long, deep breaths. She’d had the laptop at the Croh Bar. She and Marge had shown the photos of Linda Connelly to Meg. Then George Whosis—McIntyre, that was his name—had shown up to hassle Meg. And sat right down next to Quill. He’d even pretended to bend down to scratch his leg.

“Dammit!” Quill rarely swore.

She grabbed her address book out of the heap of junk
on the couch and found Seth Norman’s name under the “M”s for Marriott. She glanced at the time on her cell phone; after eight. He should be on duty by now.

He was.

She extracted Seth’s promise to let her know the minute George emerged from his room, and then grabbed her keys.

Everything depended on Davy Kiddermeister now.

~

“I just don’t think I can help you, Quill.”

Quill sat in the visitor’s chair at Davy’s desk. She was so tired she wanted to cry. She was so mad she wanted to spit. The rational part of her brain, the part that knew she was being unreasonable because of her fear for her sister, was well and truly shoved aside. “I can’t believe this. You know where Meg is. She’s in jail, David. She’s alone and miserable and scared to death.”

Davy attempted a smile. “Heck. I bet you five bucks she’s in the kitchen showing the deputies how to improve their meat loaf.”

Quill bit her lip, to keep from screaming at him.

“Okay, so you say you have good information that this Linda Connelly’s a what?”

“A Russian agent.”

“And you won’t tell me who told you this.”

“I’d be happy to tell you. But that person will deny that person said it.” She pointed at his landline. “Call Marge. She’ll verify what I said. She was there.”

“You know as well as I do that at the moment, this is just unsubstantiated hearsay.” He held his hand up at her
sharp intake of breath. “It’s unsubstantiated if this person denies this person says it.” He rubbed his cheeks with both hands. “Can’t you give me a hint? I can go lean on the person. Say I’m acting on information received.”

Quill thought of Sophie’s incredible athleticism. She’d have Davy for lunch. She shook her head. “Will you go with me to talk to Brady Beale?”

“In what capacity? We’re not the Gestapo, here.”

“He killed both of them. Linda, or Natalia or whatever her name is. And Mickey Greer, too. Goodness knows if that’s
his
real name. And if Brady Beale didn’t do it, McIntyre did.” Quill shoved her hands through her hair. She felt frantic. “What about the laptop that George McIntyre stole from me? Can’t you go and arrest him for taking it out of my purse?”

“The one you stole from Brady Beale?”

“I didn’t…never mind. Yes, the one I stole from Brady Beale.”

Davy rubbed both hands over his face. “Brady rescinded the theft report after Marge demanded receipts for the supposed forty thousand dollars’ worth of tools. There’s no way I can even show up at McIntyre’s hotel room pretending I’m acting on information received about a theft when there’s no reported theft. What did you expect to find on it, anyway?”

“We thought Carol Ann was planning something more than usually malevolent. We also thought Brady might be behind the theft of the fete funds and it turns out we were probably right. But we need that laptop to prove it.”

“Carol Ann seems pretty harmless, compared to this bunch. Assuming what you’re telling me is true.” For a
minute, he looked totally overwhelmed. “You let Myles know about this?”

“I sent an emergency message, last night. I can’t tell you how it works exactly, because I don’t know myself. The message will get to him, but it’ll take a while. It’ll be at least twenty-four hours before I can talk to him and only because I used the code word for extreme emergency. I probably wrecked some huge mission.”

“If this woman was a spy, or something, the state investigation should turn it up.”

Quill said, “Ha.”

“Okay. So maybe we need the Feds.”

“Maybe? Maybe? Of course we need the Feds.”

“But,” Davy said patiently, “I need more to go on than somebody told you she was a Russian agent. And what’s a Russian agent doing in Hemlock Falls anyway? Did this person tell you anything about that?”

“I told you. I think it has something to do with the naval underwater weapons research center.”

“And I told you. The navy doesn’t do weapons testing there anymore.”

Quill kicked the metal desk. “Dammit, David.”

Davy looked shocked, whether at her language or her abuse of his desk, she didn’t know.

“You know the rules. Bring me something, anything other than guesses and hearsay, and cockamamie theories and I’ll go the mile for you, Quill, I really will. Look, I’ll go up to the Marriott and talk to McIntyre, okay? I’ll think of something. But I’ll tell you right now, the staties have already talked to him. He couldn’t have killed Michael Greer—he was in Marge’s bar almost the entire afternoon.
We’ve got six solid citizens that will testify to that, not to mention an unpaid bar bill. As far as Linda Connelly—you know she was killed sometime between four and six that afternoon. Michael Greer swore up and down that he and McIntyre were diving in Seneca Lake all that afternoon.”

“Both of them could have killed Linda Connelly?” Quill said hopefully. “And then lied about where they were? And then McIntyre killed Greer to keep him quiet? Somehow.”

“You’re really reaching, here. McIntyre’s not our killer, Quill. Unless he can be in two places at once.”

Quill bit her lip and stared at him without really seeing him. “I don’t want my sister in that jail another minute. You want something? I’ll bring you something. Just wait.”

I’ll bring you Sophie Kilcannon.

Quill drove up to Bonne Goute. It was Saturday. The academy would be in full swing with classes, wine tastings, and tours.

The public parking lot in front was jammed with cars, vans, and buses. Quill drove around to the back, parked, and let herself into the kitchen. Raleigh Brewster was at the twelve-burner stove, sautéing shallots. She looked up with a friendly smile. “Hello, Quill.”

“Where’s Clare?”

“In the classroom. Teaching a busload of retired teachers how to make an omelet.”

“You can do eggs, right?”

“Do eggs? Of course I can…”

Quill grabbed her. “I need you to take over that class. I’ve got to talk to Clare.”

Raleigh was in her mid-forties. She had two teenaged daughters, and was one of the calmest people Quill knew. She set the sauté pan aside. “Is everything okay?” Her pleasant face was concerned. “You look like you could use a nice cup of tea. Let me fix you something.”

“I need you now, Raleigh.”

“It’s Meg, is it? We heard about it. It’s a horrible, awful mistake.”

Quill nodded, suddenly tearful. Raleigh turned off the stove. “Okay. I’ll get Clare and I’ll take over the class for her.”

Quill led the way through the kitchen and into the large foyer. The classrooms were the first thing visitors saw when then walked through the huge oak double doors at the entrance. The walls facing the foyer were glass; behind them, Quill saw Clare at the Viking stove in the center of the room. She was surrounded by a group of late-middle-aged men and women.

Quill realized she was holding Raleigh’s hand. “Could you tell Clare to meet me in her office?”

“Sure.”

Clare had taken over Bernard LeVasque’s sumptuous office when Madame had named her director. The floors were wide-planked cherry. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Peterson Park. An elaborate cherry credenza in one corner was fitted with a bronze bar sink and a small refrigerator. The conference table was cherry, too, inlaid with fine bronze filament. The chairs around the table were executive style, in soft leather.

Quill sat down at the table, closed her eyes, and thought of the waterfall at the gorge and the cool green space that surrounded it.

“Quill?” Clare came into the room.

She opened her eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Clare sat down next to her. “I left a call
for you. We’ve heard all kinds of wild rumors. Is it true about Meg?”

“That she’s been arrested for Mickey Greer’s murder? Yes. Did she do it? No.”

“Of course she didn’t do it. I’ve talked to Madame, and you’re probably going to need a bunch of cash to post bail. We can swing maybe fifty thousand if you need it.”

For a moment, Quill was overwhelmed. “Thank you,” she managed. “But I think we have it covered.”

“Good,” Clare said. “Because Madame wanted everything short of your firstborn son to guarantee it.”

Quill laughed. Suddenly she felt much better.

“You look…” Clare hesitated.

“Fraught, probably. I didn’t get much sleep, and Davy Kiddermeister is driving me crazy and I kind of lost it for a minute.” She made herself smile. “But I’ve got it back, I think.”

“Good. What can I do to help?”

“Tell me everything you know about Sophie Kilcannon.”

She was clearly taken aback. “Sophie? Sophie has something to do with all this?”

“I’ll know better after I talk with her. Why did you recruit her? Meg says she is a decent chef, but not a stellar one. Sophie herself can’t quite believe she’s here. You’ve got a national reputation. You could have any young genius chef you wanted.”

“You’re darn right we could,” Clare said crossly. “I told Madame it was a mistake, but I got overruled. Put it down to Madame’s well-known propensity to pinch pennies. That woman. Honest to God, Quill, I could tell you
stories…anyhow. Now’s not the time. The short answer to your question is we got bribed.”

“Bribed?”

“Sophie’s father approached us at the Miami Food Fair in November.”

“Sophie’s father?”

“Nice guy. A little eccentric. I got the impression that he’d inherited his millions…didn’t seem to have too much on the ball but he sure had cash to splash around. Anyway, he didn’t like Sophie’s career choices, haring all over the oceans with a bunch of creeps, is how he put it. He offered a permanent scholarship fund to us if we took Sophie on for a year. I was totally against it. I mean, no offense to Sophie, she’s a nice girl. A beautiful girl, and everyone loves her, but the girl just doesn’t cut it in the kitchen. She’s a decent chef. Maybe even a good chef. But not a brilliant one. Madame took one look at the slug of money Mr. Kilcannon waved in her face and it was all over.”

Quill, perhaps because she’d been watching too many TV shows about elaborate international terrorist plots, said, “What did he look like?”

“Who?”

“Sophie’s father. “

“Ummm.” Clare spread her hands in a bewildered gesture. “Gosh, Quill. I don’t really remember. Oh! Wait! He had a ponytail. I remember that. What did I say? You look weird.”

Quill took out her sketch pad and her charcoal pencil. Her hand moved swiftly over the sheet. She held the pad up. “Was it this guy?”

Clare took the pad and stared earnestly at it. “No. He didn’t have a bandana around his head. And he was much better dressed. And no earring.”

Quill took the pad back, erased the earring, the bandana, and substituted a shirt and tie for the T-shirt. She made the ponytail neater.

“Yeah. That’s the guy. Do you know him?”

Quill had stopped wondering years ago at the inability of most people to focus on the basics of visuals rather than the externals. It was one of the biggest reasons why prosecutors never depended on eyewitness accounts if they could help it. “You know him, too. It’s George McIntyre.”

“George…you mean that driver for Linda Connelly? Oh, my God. So it is!”