A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) (25 page)

"The same as the others?" Sympathetic tears choked Quill's throat. "She's—you smell of smoke."

Robin's nails sunk into Quill's arm. "You said you'd save us! You said you'd save us!"

"Oh, Andy," Meg said, helplessly. "Can't we do something?"

"I think it'd be a good idea to check them into the hospital for the next few days." Andy's face was sober.

"And then I think we should try and get hold of some relatives and send them home. This has gone way too far."

"What if Mr. Vinge calls, and we're not here?" Freddie sobbed. "After everything that's happened, we're going to lose this, too?"

"Mr. Vinge's already called," Andy said grimly. "Three times too often. What do you think, Myles? We've got plenty of space."

"You'll put a guard on the door," Myles said to Davy. "And, Andy, by all means, call the families. It will be easier on them if the families are here. But if they want to stay, I'd encourage it. Just for easier access to what they know."

"I'll call your daughter, Freddie." Quill clasped her hand. "Do you have her number? Her address?" Freddie sniffed hard, then wrote a Washington number on one of the napkins. The writing was shaky.

Andy shook his head. "What a night. All right, I've got room in the Jeep if I clear out the back. I'll drive them over myself." He left at a jog.

"Here," Marge said to Doreen. "I'll take young Freddie. You grab on to Robin, Doreen. Meg, you wanna pack up the stuff from their rooms? Quill? Do sumthin' about that damn dog, will ya?"

Quill curled her fingers in Max's fur. He licked her hand eagerly. He was trembling, but under her hand, he stopped his frantic barking. Marge hoisted Freddie out of her chair by the back of her neck and swiveled her head, her fierce gaze taking in the assembled group one
by one. "I'm damn pooped, myself. Everybody go home
and get some sleep. We're not goin' to solve anything tonight." Her sharp little eyes rested on Myles. "That right, Sher'f?"

Myles nodded.

" 'Kay, then." Then, as pragmatic as ever, "Quill, you got some time tomorrow, we still got business to talk over. No time to do it tonight, I guess."

Quill held Max by the ruff. She was so tired, the room
was a blur. A terrible vision was in her mind: Mary
Lennox, bound and burning. Ironic that her way of death should recall her 16th-century namesake. "Lunchtime,"
she found herself saying. "But, Marge …"

"You wanna come to my place, I'll have Betty make
something tasty." Marge's bellicose look softened. "Sounds hard, but we gotta get movin' if we're gonna save your place." She jerked her chin at Doreen. "Let's get rolling, folks."

Meg silently led them out of the room. Dina sank into
Meg's chair with a sigh and covered her face with her hands.

"You coming back to the scene, Myles?" Davy's
khaki shirt was grass-stained. Twigs snarled his fair hair.

"No. Just call me when you've confirmed the stran
gulation."

"Yessir." He touched one finger to his hat. "Quill?
See you sometime tomorrow. Sorry we missed that din
ner. I was looking forward to it. Dina, I'll have one of the boys drop you off at the dorm."

"I brought my car, David. I can get myself home."
Her bright brown eyes were dull; the circles under them
were almost purple.

"Doreen has a few Stranded Traveler's kits in the housekeeping closet, Dina," Quill said. "Why don't you pick one and use one of the rooms tonight. I've got clothes you can borrow in the morning."

"Okay. Thanks, Quill." She took a deep breath. "Anything I can do for you before I turn in?"

"Just get some sleep. I've got to call Freddie's daughter."

"I'll walk you up," Davy said. "I probably won't see you for a couple of days. Dee."

She put her hand on his chest and looked up at him. "Just catch this guy, David. I've never seen anything more horrible in my life. She was
burned
to death. The smell was awful. Awful. I'll never forget it, never." Her voice rose, almost out of control. "He's a monster. Only a monster could do that to that poor woman."

Quill watched them leave. Max squirmed impatiently
under her hand, and she let him go. He licked her hand, then settled back onto the floor with a grunt. Myles sat down next to her, and she put her hand over his. "You're exhausted, poor darling. Did you get anything to eat?"

"Marge sent Betty Hall out with sandwiches and coffee. Her turn, Betty said, since the Inn fed the volunteers
twice before."

"Where did you find her?"

"The overpass on 96 near the Syracuse exit. Motorist used his cell phone and called to report a fire in the ditch."

"It wasn't …" She shook her head with a rueful sigh. "It seems stupid to call him X."

"No. The phone's registered to a restaurant supply company in Rochester. Guy's a salesman for them. Just passing through on his regular route."

"Not Jason Carmichael?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"He sold us the Aga. Nice guy."

Quill's head ached from too much wine that evening,
and too little sleep the night before. She rubbed her face vigorously. It helped a little. "I asked Freddie and Robin
for the correspondence with Mr. Vinge. Mary's the secretary of their little company, so it's at her place. We can get the police in Trenton to pick it up, can't we? She was a little nervous about having strangers in her home, so she was going to call a friend of theirs to
collect it. Neither of those poor women—I keep thinking
of them as the survivors, Myles!—is going to be in any
shape to take care of that in the morning, so I'll do it. Do you know anyone in the Trenton P.D.?"

"Yes," he said after a moment, "I do. Or I did. I'll be damned."

"You seem surprised."

"Hadn't thought of him in years. I don't even know if he's still there."

"It might make Robin feel better if a friend of yours
took care of it. You made quite an impression on them
today."

He closed his eyes. "This shouldn't have happened."

"Freddie and Robin will be safe enough now at the hospital. How can you blame yourself? If anyone should
feel responsible, I should. I left them alone all day. Dina's right. This murderer's a monster. Did she tell you, by the way, that I haven't seen Paul Pfieffer since the meeting at Summerhill this afternoon? Doreen checked his room three times this evening—he's disappeared."

"He bought a round-trip ticket to Albany by phone
this morning." Myles looked at his watch. "I mean yesterday morning, departing at four and returning to the
Syracuse airport about eleven. The Albany P.D. put a
plainclothesman on him. He got into Albany at five, had
dinner with a lobbyist and state senator for our district
here, then he returned on his scheduled ticket. My guess
is that he's upstairs and asleep right now."

"I left the Summerhills at quarter to three. He was still there."

"And it's an hour from the winery to the Syracuse airport. Pretty good alibi. Quill."

"No kidding. All right, what about—"

"Hey." His voice was gentle. "We're both all in. Let's go to sleep and we'll take this on in the morning."

"I need to call Freddie's daughter, first. You go ahead. I'll meet you upstairs."

They walked together to the foyer, and she left him to go to her office. Max walked toward Myles, looked back at Quill, sat down, scratched himself vigorously, then decided to accompany his mistress.

In her office. Quill sat down at her desk and smoothed the napkin on her desk. No names, just a phone number
with the 301 area code. Maryland, then. She should be able to get here quickly, even if she had to drive.

Quill dialed the number. The phone rang for a long time, then a blurry female voice answered, "Yes!?"

Quill introduced herself, and asked if this was Freddie
Patch's daughter.

The blurriness disappeared. "Yes. It is. Who is this again?"

"Sarah Quilliam. I'm afraid there's been another death. It's not Freddie," she said hastily. "But she's frightened. We checked her into our local hospital— she's not ill, it's just a lot more comfortable for them— and the local sheriff's department has put a guard on the room. And we're working on finding the man who's doing this. But she could really use your help."

"I'm sorry," said the voice distantly. "You said she's under police protection?"

"Yes. Twenty-four hours a day. And, of course, the hospital is a very secure place."

"Then she's fine, isn't she? Thank you for calling. Miss Quilliam."

The dial tone rang in Quill's ear. "I don't believe it," she said to the dog. "I do not believe this." Max whined. Quill sat back and stared at the ceiling. "Pfieffer's out of it. Max. But you know what? I never did follow up on Mr. Thorne Smith." She turned her computer on and went online.

She banged into her rooms a few minutes later, her face pink with excitement. Myles was sitting on her
couch, a drink in one hand, watching the spring moon.
"Thorne Smith." she said, "is the name of some bone-head mystery writer who—"

"Wrote the Topper stories," Myles said. "Yes. I should have remembered. My friend in the Trenton P.D.—"

"But, Myles! It's Mr. Vinge! It has to be!"

"The guy I knew at the Trenton P.D.? I don't think so."

"What?! What are you talking about?! "

"Name then was Henry T. Smith. My friend in Tren
ton."

Quill's fatigue slowed her up. Once it hit her, she was wide awake. "What? Oh, no, Myles. Not another un
dercover officer! I can't stand it!"

"What do you mean, not another? There was only one in all the years you've operated the Inn."

"And you never said a word about it until I'd made a complete and utter fool of myself thinking the officer was a suspect in those murders."

"The Hank Smith I knew favored blue jeans, tattoos, and souped up Chevys. Your description of this Thorne Smith didn't fit the Hank I knew." He smiled at a memory. "I had Davy put a man on him today; didn't see him myself until he showed up to help with the search."

"Did he recognize you, too?"

"Didn't see me. Didn't want him to."

"And?"

Myles shrugged. "If he'd discovered the body, I
would have had my suspicions. Wouldn't be the first cop
to go bad, won't be the last. But he didn't. We got that call from the helpful motorist, instead. So I'm not sure why Hank's here, or what he wants. It could be coincidence, but I don't like coincidence in murder cases. I'll talk to him tomorrow. I want to call Trenton first. For all I know, he went to night school, shed the black leather jacket and the name Hank for good, and went into investment banking."

"But you think we're back to X, Myles."

"I do."

"You never believed the killer is someone we've met."

"Real-life cases don't work like that, Quill."

"You just assume the killer's unknown and that the motive is established after hard evidence has led to an arrest."

"Real police work is like that. Quill."

"What do you mean, 'real' police work? I'd like to
remind you that my so-called amateur methods have led to the successful conclusion of several cases in the past.
Unless you think I was lucky."

He rose and stretched. "Let's get to bed. The jet lag's catching up with me."

"You do think it was luck."

"Not now. Quill. I want to sleep. I have to spend some time in D.C. tomorrow and the day after."

"But you just—" She gritted her teeth and made her
self shut up. Who, she asked herself fiercely, demanded
space to handle these crises herself? You did. Do not whine.

"You weren't," Myles said. "You were about to, but you didn't say it."

She raised her eyebrows innocently. He leaned over and embraced her, his chin in her hair. "I'll call you with the answers from Trenton. Start a file on this case, Quill; it always helps to write things down. Davy's agreed to make all the reports available to us. I asked him to send them over tomorrow morning, as soon as the body's been taken to Syracuse. While I'm gone?" He shook her gently. "Do not go into dark warehouses,
shut-down factories, or the east side of Syracuse looking
for clues. Do not talk to anyone you suspect alone." He slid his hand firmly over her mouth, released it, and kissed the top of her head. "Not for your personal safety, although of course I worry about that. But be
cause a lone operator interferes with the evidence to such a degree that you'll never convict. How many cases can
you think of in the past year where the evidence has been absolutely clear, and the killer's walking around free?"

Quill knew this was true.

"If you're going to do this, you're going to handle it like a real pro. It's not a jobette."

"A jobette?"

"Work you do on a whim or caprice. A well-crafted
investigation's crucial to conviction—and you don't do good work based on intuition and guesses. You do it
through observation of detail. Examination of anomalies.
Comparisons between behaviors. My advice? Wait for
the file from Trenton. Collect the items of evidence from Davy. Wait until I get back, and we can establish a clear
path to the solution." He yawned suddenly. "Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?"