“Okay. Okay. So I won’t go traipsing off to Syracuse. Hand me that pot of mint.”
Quill slipped out the back door. Max sat patiently at
the head of the herb garden. As soon as he saw her, he
got up and danced toward her, tail wagging frantically,
ears flattened in joy. “Well, you’re glad to see me, at
least.”
Max barked.
“You think I’ve lost my Watson to a slightly chubby
chef?”
Max barked again.
“She’s not only my Watson, you know. She’s my
sister.”
Mac crouched and whined sorrowfully.
“Well, I feel quite sorrowful, too.” Quill felt a sudden
rush of tears. Which was ridiculous. Her sister wasn’t
going anywhere. And she was fully committed to solving this case. “Would you like to go for a ride? Go-fora-ride, Max?”
Max would. Quill drove the short distance to the vil
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lage marveling at the beauty of the autumn. The air was
crisp. The scent of dried leaves was exhilarating. The
village itself seem to drowse benevolently in the sunshine. She’d have to be a true bozo to be sad in the middle of all this glory.
Quill was brought up short when she drove past
Bozzel! Advertising! “That Corrine,” or somebody, had
hung a large red CLOSED sign on the front door. So the
mayor and Esther hadn’t been engaging in wild surmise
after all.
The silver Porsche parked outside Marge’s office on
Main was evidence that Devon was in. And Quill noticed that a third sign now dangled from the Schmidt Realty, Schmidt Casualty and Surety Company signs:
SCHMIDT COMPUTER CONSULTANTS. Quill parked, remembered that Marge was indifferent to large animals in her office space, and invited Max to come with her. Marge’s
assistant, Ruthie, greeted her with a cheery wave, and
offered Max a cookie.
“I’m looking for Devon,” Quill said. “I’m hoping
that Marge won’t mind if he does a small job for me.”
Ruthie was a prototypical, nice, middle-aged Hemlockian. Her short brown hair was neatly styled. She wore a spic-and-span pantsuit from West’s Best Dress Shoppe
in a properly autumnal brown. Her spectacles were encased in the pair of frames she’d purchased twenty years ago. And she was dead set on following the rules. “I’m
afraid you’ll have to fill out a request form, Quill.”
“Um.” Quill rubbed her nose reflectively. “It’s not
exactly the sort of request I can put into so many
words.”
“Hm.” Ruthie looked at her disapprovingly over her
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spectacles. “You aren’t trying that Internet dating anymore, are you? You’re a married woman now.”
“No, no, no. Nothing like that,” Quill said hastily.
“This has more to do with Mr. Kittleburger’s unfortunate demise.”
“Ah, hm,” Ruthie said, for variation. “Then you’ll
have to fill out a time and materials form.”
“Just let the lady in, Ruthie,” Devon said from the
back doorway. “I’ll take care of Mrs. Schmidt.” He’d
changed shirts. This one had a Munch-like reproduction of a screaming face with the legend: “Entropy Is Winning.”
Quill followed him into the familiar crammed space.
Devon craned his neck to look out the open doorway.
Then he whispered, “So. Did yesterday’s gig help the
case at all?”
“We need a little more information,” Quill admitted.
“On two different people, come to think of it. I need to
take a look at this person’s financial records. All I’ve got
is an American Express credit card number. Can you do
that?”
He took the slip of paper. Meg had included Lila’s
full name, home address, and email and phone numbers. “Maybe. Should be a piece of cake. But you never know. AmEx has got pretty tight security nowadays. No
chance you have her social security number?”
Quill shook her head.
“Well, we’ll see. Where the heck is Karnack Corners, Iowa? Well, that’ll help. Can’t be that many Lila Ann Longstreets around there. Next?”
“Is there any way you can help me find Harvey
Bozzel?”
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“Who?”
Quill explained.
“Do you have an email address for him?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s Harvey@harveybozzel
.com.”
“Did you email him?”
Quill bit her lip. “Um. No. I didn’t try that.”
in the corner of the room. “Be my guest. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can run on this perp for you.”
“She’s not a . . . never mind.”
Quill sat down at the computer, went online, and
brought up her own email system.
Send to: Harvey@harveybozzel.com
Subject: Help!
Message: Harvey, where are you? Please call. It’s
urgent. Warm regards, Sarah Quilliam
She hit the “send” button, and then scrolled through
her own messages. One from Myles that made her smile.
She hit the “save” button. One from Golden Pillars Travel
agency, inquiring about reservations over Thanksgiving.
And one from harvey@harveybozzel.com.
She opened the email.
Send to: Quill@HemlockFalls.com
Subject: Why should I?
Message: Leave me alone!
There was an Instant Messaging function. Quill hit
it. Harvey was online, the bozo. She input:
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Harvey, please. This is urgent. What happened with
Rudy Baranga?
There was a long pause. Behind her, Quill heard Devon,
merrily tapping away. Finally, it seemed reluctantly,
there was a reply:
None of your business.
Did he threaten you?
No answer.
Harvey, do you know anything about the murders?
This time the answer was swift:
I know somebody offed Lila Longstreet. Was there
another murder?
Harvey, if you know ANYTHING about what
happened to Lila, you MUST come back and help us.
Quill sat back and thought for a long moment.
It’s your civic duty!
I don’t know anything, I swear to god!
Harvey, Quill recalled wryly, was good at panic.
Then why did you leave town? When are you coming
back? We miss you!
Another long pause. Then:
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When he’s in jail.
And Harvey signed off.
“It’s Rudy Baranga.”
“Huh?”
Quill hadn’t realized that she’d spoken aloud. “Devon,
how do I find a person’s business address in Syracuse?”
“Google him. Or try People Finder. D’uh.”
People Finder was better than the phone book. Quill
found Rudy’s home address, business address, and various phone numbers. Then she Googled him. She wished she hadn’t. Rudy had made the news more than once.
Assault with a meat hook. Illegal transportation of animals for slaughter. Various fines issued by the USDA for sanitation infractions. Rudy and the law were no
stranger to one another.
What in the world could she accomplish by accosting this man?
On the other hand, he’d seemed quite approachable
in the Tavern Lounge. At the slightest hint of belligerent
behavior, she could back off and run home like the prudent coward she was.
Max wandered into the room and shoved his nose
into her hand. “Maybe I should take you with me, Max.
Can you guard, Maxie? Guard?”
Max rolled over and presented his tummy for a rub.
Quill obliged. She also decided to leave him at home.
“I think I may have to go to Syracuse this afternoon.”
She got up and looked over Devon’s shoulder. “How are
we doing?”
“Not too bad.” The pride in Devon’s voice was noticeable. “This Lila Longstreet was loaded. Look here.”
“Holy crow.” Quill leaned forward and peered into
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the screen. “There’s five hundred thousand dollars in
that account.”
“That’s right.”
“And it was deposited when?”
“Monday morning.”
“The morning she checked out of the Inn.” Quill sat
down, thinking hard. “Can you tell where the money
came from?”
“That’ll take a while.”
“Okay. Could you try to find out?” Quill got up and
slung her purse over her shoulder. “In the meantime,
I’m off to Syracuse. And Devon? This is where I’m
headed.” She scribbled the warehouse address on a
piece of paper and said flippantly, “If I’m not back by
six tonight, call out the National Guard.”
“Seriously? I thought you guys have backup.”
“We do, we do. But just in case my backup’s shopping, or whatever, let my sister know where I am, okay?”
“Your backup’s your sister?”
“Ask yourself,” Quill said mysteriously, “is she really my sister?”
Max, perhaps sensing that the next car ride was going to terminate at home, where he would be stuck inside all day, took off down Main Street as soon as Quill opened the outside door. She called after him, gave it
up, and got in the Honda for the hour-long drive to
Syracuse.
Rudy’s plant and its warehouses were in a northern
suburb off Interstate 80, a location that provided easy access for trucks. Quill found it quickly enough. The main warehouse was visible from the interstate. The building
was huge. Faded red letters marched across the long wall
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facing the road: BARANGA’S WHOLESALE MEATS. Quill
pulled into the graveled yard and parked at the south end
of the building near the main-door, marked OFFICE. The
yard itself was empty, except for the back half of a semi–
tractor trailer sitting near a pair of huge overhead doors.
Weeds grew around the tires.
Quill knocked briskly on the door, and then rattled
the handle. Locked. She trudged around the building to
a pair of east-facing overhead doors. A large sign to the
left of the doors read: HONK TO ENTER. There was a main
door, here, as well. Quill turned the handle. It opened
into a dark concrete corridor that seemed to run the
length of the entire building. The air was artificially
cold, and there was a faint smell of congealed blood. The
only illumination was from the Plexiglas soffits under
the eaves.
The north end of the corridor, she realized, probably
ended at the office. The door to her left must lead to the
open warehouse space. The door directly ahead of her
led where? It was unlocked. She opened it and peered
into total darkness. She fumbled on the wall to her right,
found a switch, and flicked it on. The overhead lights
were fluorescent. They sputtered briefly, and then shone
a steady light on a series of huge coolers. He traded in
offal, Rudy had said. Which was probably in those same
coolers. Yuck.
The bellow of a huge air horn nearly shocked her out
of her shoes. She jumped back into the corridor. She
cracked the door to the warehouse space and peered out.
The overhead doors began to rise with a slow, ominous
rumble, like a portcullis rising at the entrance to a castle. Daylight flooded into an enormous room at least two
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hundred feet long. She saw the tail end of a huge tractor
trailer, and heard voices. Rudy leaped out of the passenger side of the cab and stomped into the space. “Move it up,” he shouted. “Move it up!” His back to Quill, he directed the semi backward until it was completely inside.
It was a tricky operation, moving a vehicle that massive
into a space that barely accommodated it, and Quill
waited until the vehicle had rumbled to a complete stop
to let Rudy know she was there.
Rudy stomped to the cab just as Quill emerged from
the door, and shouted to the driver, “You sure nobody
saw ya?”
The response was an indistinct mumble.
“You better be goddam sure,” Rudy said. “I get any
visitors from the Feds, you’re gonna be communing
with the fish in Lake Ontario. Hahahaha.”
Quill drew back into the hall and let the door ease
shut. There was a confused stomping and muttering,
then the door handle turned. Quill whipped into the
space with the offal-filled freezers, and left the door
open a crack. There were three men in the hall, Rudy,
the driver, and a familiar gray ponytail. The voice was
unmistakable.
Millard Barnstaple.
Quill suppressed a shout of surprise.
“You think I should pay you for this job until I make
sure you got out of Manhattan without anyone tracking
you down?” Rudy said jovially.
“You did promise to pay, Mr. B,” a voice said
humbly. Not Millard, then. The driver.
“Here you go. And here’s a little extra for your trou
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ble. Next shipment won’t be ready to go until I hear
from Pest Control sometime next week.”
“Monday night, like this week?”
“His wife thinks he’s bowling,” Rudy chuckled. “I’ll
give ya a call, Miguel, ’kay? Now, you go get those babies unloaded. And I don’t want to see your face again until I ask to see it. Hahahaha.”
A door opened and shut.
“You sure you can trust him?” Millard. A very nervous Millard.
“I got his green card, Bumbottle. He ain’t saying spit
without I tell him to. So, you got some cash for me?”
“Well, yes. In a way.”
“In a way?” Rudy’s voice was deceptively mild. “It’d
better be my way.”
“This deal with Kittleburger’s all screwed up.”
“ ’Cause he’s dead, you mean.”
“Right, brainiac. Because he’s dead. I forked over
the last five hundred grand to Kittleburger Monday. The
sale was supposed to be final Tuesday. Then we get
these murders. Not,” he added humorously, “that some
of us will miss old Lila all that much . . .”
“We had a sort of a thing going,” Rudy said.
Quill bit back an exclamation. She wondered if
&n
bsp; Lila’d ever had time to actually work.
“So you speak of her with a little respect. You got
me?” Rudy blew his nose loudly. “Get on with on why
you don’t have any money.”
“But now both of the people that could have given us
control of Pet Pro have gone to meet their maker, so to
speak . . .”
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“Ain’t any ‘so to speak’ about it,” Rudy said glumly.
“So, you’re telling me what?”
“You can process this load, but I can’t accept delivery. I don’t have anywhere to put it. The Pet Pro sale’s up in the air. Lila and Max always told me where to
store it at Pet Pro. And they’re both dead. All I need is a
little time until we figure out who owns what, here.”
There was a definite whine in Millard’s voice.
“The way I see it, you place the order for these babies with me, I deliver, you accept. It’s no skin off my nose where you put ’em. You got room at Vegan Vittles.
Put ’em there.”
“I can’t do that!” Millard said, “As you damn well
know.”
“Scared of little wifey?”
“I just . . . need some time. This is not a load you can
just store anywhere. Kittleburger knew that. There has
to be a certain amount of . . . discretion.”
“Yeah, well, whoever offed Kittleburger didn’t do us
no favors, that’s for sure. Discretion. I say screw discretion and give me my check.”
“You don’t want this to get public anymore than I
do,” Millard said, sounding, for the first time, as though
he actually had some backbone. “You scared the bejesus out of that little fairy in Hemlock Falls ’cause you thought he was on to this. So don’t you tell me to screw
discretion.”
There was a prolonged silence, broken only by the
sound of Rudy rasping his hand over his jaw. “Shit,”
Rudy said finally. “Okay. Look. I got some space in the
coolers in this room here. Not much. The last delivery
was larger than I thought it’d be and there’s an over
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flow. So I’ll stuff what I can in there. If I can’t get all
those little bastards in there, though, I’m dumping ’em
into the lake. But you’re payin’ me for the whole load,
Bumbottle.”
“I’ll pay you when you can tell me how much I’m actually going to get.”
The discussion veered into an acrimonious debate
over price. Quill, completely baffled, pulled out the
small penlight she kept in her purse and fumbled quietly