"We know that someone took them. Because Laura had the results, she told me so."
"And if they are there . . ."
"Maybe CarolAnn didn't find them. That," Quill said impatiently, "is not the point. The point is the proof, Meg."
Meg squeezed her eyes shut and muttered under her breath.
"Open up, Meggie. If CarolAnn caught us at the clinic tonight, what do you think she'd do?"
"If she's the murderer, bash our heads in with a tire iron."
"Brady will be with us. Concealed in another room. We get a confession out of her . . ."
"Wait, wait, wait. You're planning on letting her know
we're going to the clinic? How? I mean, I'm all for drag
ging confessions out of the killer, which is the done thing
in my favorite mystery stories, but I'm not about to walk into the proverbial basement. Gothic romances are NOT my thing."
"I told you. Brady will be there." Quill thumbed through the thin Nynex phone book for Hemlock Falls, found CarolAnn's number, and picked up the phone.
"Wait a minute, Quill. What if Brady did it?"
"Then we have CarolAnn to protect us," Quill said flippantly. "I'd match her against a crazed killer any day."
"You have a point," Meg said. "Okay, go ahead."
Quill tapped in the number. After three rings, CarolAnn's distinctively sweet tones said, "Hel-lo?"
Quill dropped her voice to a whisper. "I saw what you did. I know what you want. I'm going back there to get it. You didn't get them all."
"Hello? HELLO?!"
Quill hung up. Meg fell backwards in a fit of nervous giggles.
"What's going on?" John walked through the open door. He, too, had changed out of his evening kit and into his standard chinos and polo shirt. "Quite a night, Meg. Congratulations."
"Thank you," she said demurely.
"Andy called. Sent his love. Said he was sorry he couldn't make it. Asked you to call him at the hospital as soon as you could."
"Got it. I'll be back in a bit, Quill."
She banged in to her room. After a moment, they heard
her murmuring lovingly into the phone. John eased him
self into the rocking chair. Quill, suddenly conscious that
she was sitting on her bed in a half-dressed condition, tucked in her T-shirt and tied her sneakers.
"Quite a night." John put his hands behind his head. "I'd like to do a business proposal, Quill. Set up shares in a partnership to market this beef. I think there's a set of customers out there that are going to buy it at a premium price."
"A partnership?"
"Among you, Marge, Harland, and a few other wealthy investors. It should give us the capital to get started, set up a web site, contact distributors to get the beef where people can find it."
"But we don't have any money," Quill said.
"You have the Palate. As of tonight, this is the only retail establishment where it's available. That's worth money in the bank, Quill."
"That's great. Does this mean we can sell it and buy the Inn back?"
He smiled. "We'd be selling the recipes, Meg's marinade, the fact that right now this is the only place to get a Texas longhorn beef meal prepared by a gourmet. I doubt that the new owners would allow the Inn to serve the same meals. You'd be barred from serving longhorn beef for a period of time. A noncompetition clause increases the value of the Palate to a buyer. Do you understand?"
"Of course. And I don't mind not selling the beef. I don't like to think of eating those cows." She tucked her feet under her. "John, you've been a godsend."
He waved his hand dismissively. "All in the day's work of a consultant."
"Is it? Will you invest in this, too?"
"I'll be auditing the books. I can't." He grinned. "But I would if I could."
"So, you'll be going back to Long Island?"
His glance took in her tennis shoes, the dark T-shirt, the jeans. His smile broadened. "You don't need me to solve this case. Not with Brady at hand. So, yes, I'll probably be traveling back to Long Island."
Quill bit her lip. "It's a great job. And I'll bet that nurse misses you."
"I'm rethinking the job. And the nurse and I are good friends."
"You're going to quit?"
"I'm a businessman, Quill. I've always wanted to be in business for myself. I've made enough contacts in the bank job to establish a private list of clients."
"You mean you're going into the consulting business?"
"I'm giving it serious consideration." He got up, drew aside the drape, and looked out onto Main Street. "As a consultant, I can live just about anywhere. There's a bit of traveling involved, of course, but with a fax machine, e-mail, and a phone, I can set up anywhere."
"Well," Quill said. She took a breath. "Well."
"Hey!" Meg came into the room. "Andy says 'hi' and where can he buy the beef? He says if Michael Debakey eats it, he wants to eat it, too."
"I'll talk to Harland in the morning," John said. "And I'm bushed. I'm going to bed." He looked at them sternly. "You two be careful."
"At what?" Meg said innocently.
"Just be careful. And tell Brady—thanks for the tip." He left quietly, closing the door behind him.
"Who would have thought that Brady would be a blabbermouth?" Meg said with some indignation.
"It's a guy thing," Quill said with a wise air. "You ready?"
"Ready, Watson."
The who was Holmes and who was Watson argument hadn't been settled by the time they picked Brady up at the Croh Bar, and continued all the way down Route 15 to the clinic.
"Hush up," Meg said as they bounced down the gravel road.
"Why?" Quill asked reasonably. "There's no one there at this time of night. And, Brady," she twisted around so she could see him in the backseat, "you're supposed to be there, anyway, right? To feed the animals."
He didn't respond right away. "Right," he said finally. Then, "I brought my pistol."
"Oh, God," Meg muttered.
"We've told you we're pretty sure CarolAnn Spinoza's behind this," Quill said. "You aren't going to shoot her?"
"Don't think I could shoot a woman," Brady admitted. "Even if she . . . well, I just can't believe she'd kill Laura. That's all."
Quill pulled the Olds to a stop in front of the clinic.
The outdoor halogen lights were on, flooding the gravel
yard. The perimeter around the buildings was dark. There
was a hint of rain in the midnight air, and the moon had a gauzy veil over it.
"Do you think we should hide the Olds?" Meg asked anxiously.
"No. We told her we'd be at the clinic. Or rather I told her I'd be at the clinic. Why would I hide the car?"
"Because if she sees the car, she'll think it's a trap," Meg said.
"That's reasonable enough."
"Pull it into the shed." Brady pointed with his thumb. "Where do you all want me to be?"
"There's an examining room just off her office," Quill said. "Why don't you hide in there, and Meg, too, while I go through the desk until she comes. Then we'll have two witnesses to her confession."
"We should have brought a tape recorder," Meg said. "Some detectives we are."
"Laura's got one so she can keep records," Brady said. "I'll take that into the closet with me." He shook his head. "I think you ought to let me take care of the rough stuff."
"She expects to see me there," Quill pointed out. "This will work, guys, trust me."
She pulled the Olds out of sight against the wall of the shed. Now that they were close to trapping CarolAnn,
Meg's high spirits were gone. She looked pale in the light
from the outdoor lamps.
Brady had a key to the office. They came in after him. He found Laura's tape recorder in the bottom drawer of her desk, and checked it to make sure the batteries were live and that a tape was in place. Quill found a flashlight under the tape recorder and took it out. Brady and Meg disappeared through the door to the examining room.
Quill—out of some sense that it was more fitting to conduct a search at night in the dark, switched the office lights off, turned the flashlight on, and began to search methodically through Laura's files. Despite the chaos on
her desk and couch, her files were in excellent order. She listed her patients by customer name, and Quill thumbed
through the manila folders looking for Rossiter, then Longhorn Cattle, and finally, Calhoun.
No health certificates. The stack of data in the Rossiter
file was thick, and the contents a dense collection of data related to genetic testing, back fat, and composition and disposition of fat throughout the Longhorn carcass. Quill came to a letter from the research lab from Cornell University, and, more out of a sense of relief that she could understand the language, read it quickly. Then she read it again. More slowly.
Laura Crest DVM
Paradise Veterinary Practice
Box 36, Route 15
Hemlock Falls, N.Y.
Dear Laura,
It is with a great deal of interest that I report the results of the DNA testing of the Rossiter Texas longhorn carcasses. This is not, as you surmised from your visual examination, one hundred percent pure Texas Longhorn, but a Longhorn-Angus cross. The attached lab results will verify that the cattle are crossbreds.
While final reports on the fat composition are yet
to be collated, it is clear that the cholesterol and fat index of these cattle are closer to those of the Angus, rather than the leaner longhom, which clearly invalidates any claims of health benefits in human consumption. Please call me at your earliest con
venience. If beef from these carcasses is being mar
keted as one hundred percent Texas longhorn, it is clearly a case of consumer fraud and a matter for criminal investigation.
Very truly yours,
N.D. Phillipone, DVM
N.B. Glad to hear that Brady is back in your life.
—
Neville.
Quill read the letter a third time. She sat down in Laura's chair. So it wasn't the health certificates
CarolAnn was looking for. It was this. Evidence that Ros
siter and Calhoun were selling—could she call it adulterated beef? It seemed a pretty strong term for it, but the U.S. Attorney's office might not think so.
And what would have led CarolAnn to believe there was fraud, anyway? She'd never even looked at the beef
up close, refusing to eat it at the menu tasting, demanding a vegetarian meal tonight. Quill frowned. Her lovely little case was collapsing around her. And CarolAnn was prob
ably at home right now, calling the folks at the local rubber room to come and take her, Quill, away. Well. Since CarolAnn clearly wasn't coming—and the cops she'd probably called would—it didn't matter whether her search was in the dark or not. She reached up and flipped on the overhead lights.
Her breath stopped in her throat. "Colonel! You scared
the dickens out of me."
"Hand me the letter," he said.
"This letter?"
"I've talked to Neville Phillipone. I know what's in
it. I told him he received the wrong carcasses by mistake.
He's going to redo his tests. Withdraw his allegations."
Quill handed it to him. His hat was off. He was breathing shallowly. His face was distorted with some emotion Quill couldn't name.
The rage in his voice was-unmistakable. It was rage that transfigured his face. "Pollution," he said. "Pollution. My purebred line. My bull."
And the penny dropped.
"You killed Royal, didn't you?"
He blinked at her, bewildered. "Ma'am?"
"You killed Royal because he was out crossing the cattle with Angus. Because of the taste. He didn't think people would eat leaner meat. So he modified the cows, didn't he?"
"Royal was a man driven by money," he agreed. "Not by principle."
Quill hoped very much that the tape recorder was on, that Meg and Brady were getting all this. She darted an involuntary glance toward the examination room.
"Oh, I came through that way," the colonel said softly. "She isn't going to bother either one of us, now, Miss Quilliam."
Quill felt herself turn pale. "Meg!"
His arm shot out and grabbed her wrist. He was dismayingly strong. He held her with one hand. In the other was a knife. A boning knife. Quill looked away from the fresh red stain and wanted to scream. "She can't hear you."
"What about—" Quill stopped herself just in time.
She took a light breath. She was aware that she was cold,
aware that her hands were stiff, that she was almost inarticulate with hate and grief. But she said, "Tell me. Tell me about the cattle."
"Oh, you know. You know what Royal did. Did I kill him? No. But I would have."
"And Laura? Why Laura? She loved cattle. She wasn't in it for the money." Quill took an imperceptible step
backwards. Then another. Calhoun followed her, his eyes
hot on her face, the knife raised.