Dread on Arrival (25 page)

“Let me get this straight.” Meg stretched herself out on Quill’s office sofa and stared at the tin ceiling. “Carol Ann doesn’t meet the residency requirements to run for mayor. Marge is blackmailing her into staying out of our kitchens by threatening to torpedo her campaign.”

“Right.”

“You found out Marge doesn’t meet the residency requirements, either. If you tell on Marge, you have to tell on Carol Ann.”

“It’s only fair.”

“And then Carol Ann’s inspecting our kitchens?”

“Maybe she’ll flunk the state exam.”

“Carol Ann studies to go to the
hairdresser
!”

“It wouldn’t be fair, Meg.”

Meg sat straight up and shouted: “Are you crazy? Let them both duke it out!’

“If I don’t tell Davy about Marge being the B and A burglar, what if he arrests someone else for the burglaries?”

Meg kept on shouting. “What if he does? Whoever it is didn’t do it!”

“Meg, innocent people get convicted of crimes they didn’t commit all the time!”

“Once in a while, maybe!” She was still shouting. “I’d hardly call it routine!”

Dina opened the office door and peeked in. “We can hear you in reception.”

“Who cares!” Meg roared.

Dina pushed her spectacles up her nose with her forefinger. “I don’t, since you do it all the time. But it might disturb the guests. Which might be a good thing, now that I think about it. That Melanie Myers hasn’t been out of her room since Edmund Tree died right in front of us, and housekeeping’s starting to worry. Maybe all this shouting will get her out in the hallway to see if the Inn’s on fire or something.”

“You think I should check on her?” Quill asked.

“You’d better,” Meg said. She got to her feet and tucked her T-shirt into her sweatpants. She wore clogs on the days she was in the kitchen. Quill looked at the color of her socks; volcano red. She should have waited to tell Meg about Marge and the mayor’s race. Meg’s socks were a reliable indicator of her mood. “If you don’t go up and see if she’s still alive, I suppose I’d better.”

“Oh my God.” Dina’s face was pale. “I didn’t even think of that. You don’t suppose she’d actually …”

“No,” Meg said flatly. “That girl is way too self-involved to do anything silly. Besides, she’s ordered room service five times since the hoorah at Bonne Goutè, and potential suicides don’t eat pasta, eggs, beef Quilliam, and every variety of dessert we make, all within a thirty-six-hour period.”

“Oh my god,” Dina said. “She’s eating herself to death.”

“She’s fine,” Meg said. “I think.”

Quill wasn’t so sure, either. “How long has she been in her room, Dina?”

“Doreen says the do not disturb sign hasn’t gone down once, and housekeeping hasn’t been in at all. They knock and she shrieks ‘go away.’”

“I’ll go on up right now. Dina, make sure we can get her home phone number if we need it. And see if you can track down Jukka Angstrom. He seems to know her pretty well. If she won’t let me in, she might respond to him.”

“Should I call the hospital? See if Dr. Bishop’s on call?”

“Not yet. Make sure you’ve got the number handy, though.” She patted her pockets. “I’ll need a house key, in case she won’t open up.”

“Right here.” Dina held it out.

Quill took the key and went out and up the stairs. She was anxious. And remorseful. She should have checked on the poor girl sooner than this. Melanie’s over-involvement had been obvious to everyone. She remembered Rose Ellen’s malicious dig at the girl:
Edmund’s little
dog.

She’d never forgive herself if Melanie had given in to her grief and harmed herself.

Melanie was registered in room 226, a room Quill particularly liked. The color scheme was deep rose, celery, cream, and hunter green. There was a fine Adams-style mantel over the small brick fireplace. All the even-numbered rooms overlooked the Gorge and the waterfall. But 226 was a corner unit, and the balcony wrapped around the side of the building, so that there was a view of the rose gardens, too.

The do not disturb sign dangled from the doorknob. Quill put her ear to the door panel, knocked loudly, and called, “Melanie?”

No answer.

Quill knocked again, and then grabbed the doorknob. “Melanie? It’s Sarah McHale. I’m going to come into your room now. I want to see that you’re all right.”

Somebody stirred behind the door. Then, Melanie’s voice, angry and hoarse: “Go away!”

“I’m sorry, but I have to come in. We’re concerned about you. Are you ready? I’m putting the key in the lock.”

She opened the door to the scent of fresh air. The French doors to the balcony were open. Quill felt a stab of fear—the girl wouldn’t have flung herself over the side, would she? She hurried in, and then stopped. Melanie was on the bed, the duvet pulled up around her shoulders. The red dress she had worn the night of the murder was flung onto the bureau. Wadded Kleenex littered the floor. A service tray piled with dirty dishes sat on the small round table near the balcony. The air near the bed smelled of shampoo.

“Leave me alone!”

Quill went into the bathroom. Used towels littered the floor. She took a washcloth from the wicker basket on the sink, rinsed it in cool water and wrung it out. She went back into the bedroom, drew the occasional chair up to the bed and sat down.

“Are you deaf? I said leave me alone!”

“I can’t do that, Melanie. I’m very concerned about you.” Quill drew the duvet down around the girl’s shoulders. Melanie’s face was clean. Her hair was combed. She wore a long T-shirt with a unicorn on it. Quill patted her cheeks with the washcloth.

“I know you feel terrible about Edmund’s death.”

Melanie closed her eyes. “She did it,” she hissed. “That bitch. She knew he wanted me. He was going to marry me, not her. She knew it. She couldn’t stand it. If she couldn’t have him, she wasn’t going to let anyone else have him.”

Quill wiped her face, then took Melanie’s hands one at a time, and ran the cloth over her closed fists.

Rose Ellen’s wedding rings were on her third finger, left hand.

Quill unfolded her fingers gently one by one. Melanie stared down at her palm. “He bought them for me, you know.”

“Here, let me help you sit up.”

Quill put her arm around her shoulders and eased her up against the headboard.

“The thing is, they don’t fit.” Melanie tugged at the rings. “They’re too tight.”

“Rose Ellen’s fingers are pretty small.”

Melanie stared at her. “He didn’t buy them for her. He bought them for me. Edmund was always forgetting things like my ring size. I’m his assistant. I had to do things like that for him.”

“Did you order the rings for him?’

“No.” Her eyes shifted away from Quill’s steady gaze. “They were supposed to be a surprise for me, I think.”

“How did you find out about the surprise?”

“We were all at dinner. Rose Ellen started talking about rings, rings, rings to Jukka Angstrom, and she was whining that Edmund wouldn’t give them to her to wear so she could show them off. He was just stringing her along. He meant to give them to me the whole time. So I got up to go to the bathroom, only I went to his room and took the rings. So she wouldn’t get them. The cuff links, too. As a keepsake until we were together.”

“Why did you go down the fire escape?”

She darted a glance at Quill. “Who says I went down the fire escape?”

“I heard you.”

She shrugged. “Edmund hated not having the elevators come right away when he wanted them so he kept propping them open on the second floor. He insisted that I always use the stairs. There was somebody on the inside stairs when I left, so I ran up one floor and got stuck when the people below kept on coming up. The fire escape was the best way out.”

Quill studied the clean hair, the fresh T-shirt, and remembered what Meg had said about Melanie’s frequent use of the room service menu. “You know that Edmund was murdered, don’t you?”

The big blue eyes welled over. Melanie wailed, “Yes. She did it! She slaughtered him.”

“Actually,” Quill said coolly, “the police suspect you.”

Melanie froze with her mouth open. Then she shoved herself upright. “What!”

“It’s a pretty familiar motive,” Quill continued, “and you know small-town policemen. Wealthy girl from the city. Crush on her boss. Boss falls in love with somebody else. She poisons him. How did you express it? ‘If she couldn’t have him, no one else could.’”

“Who, me? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“If they find your fingerprints on the bottle, the jig’s up.”

“What bottle? What are you talking about?”

“Did Rose Ellen give you anything to hold when you were up on the second floor of her shop? She’s pretty clever and I wouldn’t put it past her to try and set you up.”

“I’ve only been in the shop once, I swear to God. And that bi—”

“Rose Ellen,” Quill said a little sternly.

“Fine, Rose Ellen, then, never even gave me a cup of tea, much less a bottle of poison.” Melanie jumped out of bed and paced around the floor. “Oh God, oh God, let me think. What did I touch when I was in there? I picked up some of the Depression glass. Is that it? Was the poison in a Depression glass? Because she must have, like, wrapped it in tissue paper or something. But I didn’t kill him, Mrs. McHale. I swear to God I didn’t.”

Quill looked at her for a while. Then she said, “Give me the rings.” Melanie scowled, but dropped them into Quill’s palm.

“Thank you. Now, tell me about Edmund Tree.”

Melanie stopped pacing and started biting her fingernails. “It’s older guys, you know? They’re so much smoother. They make things so much easier.”

“Things like intimacy?”

“Well that, sure.” She looked down at her generous breasts with a terrifying combination of world-weariness, innocence, and an unpleasant glee. “These puppies get all the guys going. Have since I was twelve years old. But it’s the other stuff. Nice cars. Great restaurants. Cool clothes. Edmund was locked into all the good clubs. I mean, with that kind of money, who wouldn’t be? He got me the job on the show because he could take me out, get me stuff, and it was all in the budget.”

Quill resisted the temptation to put her head in her hands and howl.

“He liked it, that I was so jealous of Rose Ellen,” she said with another flash of that too-adult cynicism. “So I kind of played it up. Then he’d take me somewhere really cool, just to piss her off, or he’d have the show budget spring for something extra nice. You wouldn’t believe the wheels he got for me back in New York. I suppose I’ll have to give the car up now.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder with a flick of her hand. “All the stuff belongs to the show. I guess that’s over, now that he’s dead. I could say the clothes and car are part of my salary. They were. He told me they were part of my salary.”

“The Bryants are taking his place,” Quill said dryly. “You’ll have to talk to them.”

“That Skipper?” Melanie made a face. “Yuck. Well. Whatever. Are they still around?”

“Everyone’s still around. They will be until the police are finished with the interrogations. You’ll be able to leave after Sheriff Kiddermeister has talked to you.”

Her eyes flashed white with alarm. “I had nothing to do with the murder. I swear to God!”

Quill got up, went into the bathroom, and tossed the washcloth into the sink. When she came out again, Melanie clutched her hand. “I’d better get myself a lawyer. I’ve gotta call my parents. God! This is like, so ironic. I mean, the man was basically my meal ticket. Why would I want to kill him?”

Quill wanted to say what she thought: that Melanie had nothing to do with it. Instead, she slipped the rings into her skirt pocket and pointed toward the phone on the nightstand. “Give your mom and dad a call.”

Melanie stared at her, unseeing. “Okay, so, like, my mom’s off with her boyfriend for that Hawaii thing. Dad’s … where? The Hamptons maybe. You know what? I’ll call the lawyer myself.”

“You do that,” Quill said and left.

17

∼Madeleines∼
Makes 24 cookies

2 large eggs2⁄3 cup sugar1 cup flour5 ounces salted butter, choppedGrated rind of lemon½ teaspoon vanilla¼ cup powdered sugar, for toppingMadeleine pan, or any cookie pan with 3-inch moldsBeat eggs, sugar, and flour together. Melt butter. Blend all ingredients. Grease the molds. Put one tablespoon batter in each mold. Bake at 375 degrees in a preheated oven for about fifteen minutes. Quill went down the one flight to the first floor in the elevator, mainly because Edmund Tree hadn’t propped it open for his own personal use, and it took longer than walking down the stairs. She resisted the impulse to punch the up button, which would take her to her own rooms and a much needed break with her beloved, innocent son. She could use some of Doreen’s decent, straightforward view of life, too.

Instead, she found herself on the main floor, facing Davy Kiddermeister, Dina, and Jukka Angstrom. She stepped off the elevator.

“You didn’t call,” Dina said. “And the more I thought about it, the more freaked out I got, so I called Davy and I found Mr. Angstrom in the Tavern Bar. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. Well, she’s not fine, exactly, since she thinks she’s going to be arrested at any moment for murdering her meal ticket, but she’s okay.” She met Angstrom’s eyes. The corners of his lips lifted in a cynical smile. “I apologize for that remark,” she said. “She’s only what, twenty-two, twenty-three?” She took a deep breath. “A confused kid, basically.”