"Just remembering that German shepherd when we went to investigate the Thermo King truck way back when we had our first corpse."
"This is a good dog. I don't think we'll run into that kind of problem here. Here, steady, girl." He probed
along her ribs, her jaw, then each of her legs in turn. Tye
lay on her side, her brown eyes rolled trustfully up at him. There was blood on her hindquarters. Quill bent next to John. She could feel his skull, the silkiness of his hair.
"I think she's been kicked." He eased the dog up into
his arms, then got to his feet. Tye whined, but didn't bite.
"Is she going to be okay?"
"I don't know. But we'll get her back into the kitchen and give Laura a call."
They walked back to the house, not speaking. In the kitchen, Quill spread several large dish towels on the prep table. John laid the dog down. She waved her legs feebly, licked John's hand, then closed her eyes. Quill
went to the phone on the wall and dialed directory service
for Laura Crest's number, both the emergency and the clinic number. "No answer at the clinic," she told John. The answering service promised to call the vet's private line, and no, they wouldn't release the number to Quill. "It's extremely urgent," Quill said into the phone. "Please have her call right away. Tell her we've found her dog Tye, and she's seriously hurt."
Minutes passed. John kept his hand on Tye's head,
which seemed to quiet her. Quill paced restlessly up and
down the kitchen. "I'm going to try again."
Sorry, the answering service said. Her line was busy.
"Then will you interrupt, please?! And call me back right away." Quill left her number and hung up the phone with a frustrated snap of her wrist. "What if we try Andy? She doesn't look good, John." Tye's tongue lolled from her mouth. She panted heavily. Quill called Andy at home and her sister answered.
"A what?"
"The vet's dog."
"But Andy's a people doctor. He doesn't know a thing about animals."
"He must know something, Meg. Please. The poor thing."
"Oh, all right." Meg banged the phone down. Moments later, it rang.
"That phone is off the hook," the answering service operator said.
"Laura Crest's phone? Off the . . ." Quill's breath came short. "All right, thank you." She hung up for the final time and turned to John. "We'd better call the police."
"How did you know she was dead?" Trooper Harris demanded, several hours later.
"I didn't know she was dead. I just knew that something must be wrong." They were seated in the semi-darkness of the dining room. It was three o'clock in the morning. John had taken Tye to a vet in Syracuse, where
they had a 24-hour emergency service. Andy had said he
wasn't sure, but he thought that, at worst, Tye had a ruptured bladder.
"A kick, probably," he'd said sadly. "If I'm right, she'll just need a week or two off her feet."
Max was asleep in his pen in the backyard.
"You must have had some prior knowledge to call the police at that hour for a phone off the hook. Why didn't you go out there first, before giving us a call?"
Quill didn't like his tone of voice at all. She kept her temper and said calmly, "The biggest problem with run
ning a restaurant this size is that there's no place to really
sit. Would you like to go into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee there?"
"No."
Quill raised her eyebrows. She got up and flipped on the dining room lights. She felt better, with the darkness at bay.
"You were telling me why you called us and didn't go out to take Crest's dog to her."
"I was afraid to transport the dog, John told you that. I told you that. And that dog meant the world to Laura.
It just seemed very suspicious that the dog would be here,
ten miles from the clinic without her, and that her phone should be off the hook. She's a vet, Mr. Harris.
"
"Sergeant Harris."
"Sergeant. And a good one. Responsible vets don't leave their phones off the hook. They're on call twenty-four hours a day."
"Right."
The sarcasm in his voice raised her temper. She controlled it with an effort. "What did you find? Do you think it was a burglary?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"How . . . how did she die? I understand that it must not have been a natural death . . ."
He leaped on that. "Why?"
"Because you're asking me all these questions." You idiot, she added silently.
"It's enough for you to know that the circumstances weren't by the book." His eyes slid up and down her face. He got up, placed both his hands on the table, and leaned into her. "Now. Let's go through this one more time."
"Let's not," Quill snapped. She shoved herself away from the table and went into the kitchen. She could feel him behind her. "Sergeant, can't we continue this in the morning?"
"You have some reason you don't want to talk now?" His hand caressed the gun at his belt.
"It's three o'clock in the morning. And you're a by-the-book kind of guy, aren't you? That's what Myles McHale said tonight. And a by-the-book kind of guy
should really have another person present when doing . . .
whatever it is that you're doing."
"You know McHale?"
He was standing so close to her that she had to bend back from his breath in her face. She put her hands on his chest and gave an angry shove. He didn't even flinch. "I said, you know McHale?"
"She knows McHale. And she knows me." John came
through the back door, face impassive with anger. Harris
backed off.
Quill stood up straight and took a deep breath. She felt
sixteen different kinds of a fool. Make that twenty. It could have been worse. She could have thrown herself on John's chest and squealed, "John."
"Coffee anyone?" she said brightly.
Harris left, with a silent glower in John's direction.
Quill covered her face with her hands and counted to ten.
"You okay?"
"I'm okay." She took her hands away. "Did you find out what happened to Laura, John? And how's the dog?"
"The dog's fine. Or will be. Andy was right about the kick. She'll be at the clinic for a couple of days, and then she can come home."
"And Laura?"
"I don't know any more than you do."
"The whole town will know by morning. All we have to do is wait."
"I'll see you in the morning then." He hesitated, then went upstairs. Quill heard the quiet tread of his feet, the
closing of his bedroom door. She waited for a long while
before she went to bed herself.
"Quill?" Someone was pulling her out of water. "Quill!" Quill woke up. Doreen stood over her, a scowl on her face. "
I
didn't want to wake you up. John said you didn't get to sleep till after four. But you better come downstairs."
Quill rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. Ten-thirty. "Good grief, Doreen, I slept past the breakfast trade." She sat up. "What's going on?"
"Hear that?" Doreen gestured toward Main Street with one scrawny arm. There was a thud of marching feet and a rhythmic chant.
"What in the heck is it?" Quill pulled her robe from the rocking chair and went to the window. "Who are all those people?"
There was a crowd on Main Street. All ages. All sizes. All genders. Some of them were carrying signs: DON'T SEND OUR FRIENDS TO SLAUGHTER and ONLY CANNIBALS EAT MEAT. The chant was loud, if uninspired: "No! No! No! No!"
"Oh, dear."
"What'ya goin' to do about it?"
"What am I supposed to do about it, Doreen? And why should I get involved in what looks to be perfectly peaceful . . ." She gazed out the window again. It was an
oddly ragged crowd for a vegetarian demonstration. Quill didn't know a great deal about vegetarians, but she hadn't
noticed that they dressed any worse than anyone else. ". . . if somewhat disreputable demonstration." An old yellow school bus was parked directly across from the Palate. The sides were painted with slogans such as FREE THE INNOCENTS and STOP THE SLAUGHTER! The whole was dominated by the picture of a pitiful-looking calf squashed into a carrying crate. Quill saw Sky and Normal Norman talking to CarolAnn Spinoza. CarolAnn Was nodding her head so vigorously Quill hoped her hair would fall off.
"Jeez," Meg said. She came into the room without her usual bounce. "What are you going to do about this, Quill?"
"Me? Why me?"
"Because it's our restaurant they're picketing." Meg pressed close to her and peered over her shoulder. "See?
They're protesting the Russians coming here to buy cattle
to ship back to Moscow or the Gulag or wherever. They
want to close down International Night. Sky and Norman
want to talk to you."
"Oh." Quill considered this.
Meg nudged her. "Well?"
"Well, what?" she said crossly. "Where's John, anyway?"
"Went over to talk to that bozo from the Marriott," Doreen said.
"Besides, you're in charge of public relations," Meg added.
"Right. Yes. I am. Okay." Quill threw off the robe, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and smoothed back her hair. "I'm ready."
"Shoes," Doreen said briefly.
"Right. Shoes."
They followed her downstairs. The dining room was totally empty. Half filled cups of coffee, uneaten food, and pushed back chairs told Quill that at some point the
diners here had made a hasty departure. And without, she
suspected, paying the bill.
She walked out onto Main Street and surveyed the situation. Esther West stood in front of her store, arms folded over her chest. Marge stood beside her. Both of them were glaring in the direction of the Palate. Quill crossed the street and went up to them. "Hi, guys."
"What are you going to do about this, Quill?" Marge demanded. "These are the same damn fools what picketed the Dew Drop day before yesterday. I thought that Harris ran them out of town, but hell, no, here they are back again. Harland," she added with a slight blush, "is all upset. 'Fraid they'll be out to his place next. And if they are"—she hitched up her chinos with a determined hand—"they're gonna know what hit 'em."
"Why aren't they going to know what hit them right now?" Quill said. "You're good at this sort of thing, Marge. Why don't you tell them to go?"
"She can't go near them," Esther contributed nervously. "Trooper Harris served her a restraining order after she clobbered that bearded guy up at the Inn the other day. She's not allowed to go near them."
The protesters had formed into a ragged circle smack in front of the Palate's teal blue door. Quill could see Doreen and Meg staring at them through the large plate glass window. Suddenly Max bounded around the edge
of the stone building and joined the group. Tail wagging, he attached himself to Sky (who apparently had the lead,
although since it was a circle Quill wasn't sure).
"I hope," CarolAnn Spinoza said sweetly, coming up to her, "that you aren't contemplating the disturbance of a peaceful protest."
"CarolAnn," Quill said, "why are you doing this?"
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. You got these protesters here. Why are you stirring up all this trouble?"
CarolAnn grew sullen. "You'd better watch it, missy.
"
"Now, CarolAnn," Marge said, "Quill didn't mean what you think she means."
This was the last straw. Rough, tough Marge groveling
in front of this person? "Now, you
look
CarolAnn Spinoza . . ."
"Hang on," said Marge, grabbing her arm. Quill threw it off. "Hang on yourself, Marge. It's about time somebody . . ."
"No. Hang on. Somebody called the cops."
Two state police cars drove slowly through the crowd (half Hemlockians and half protesters) and stopped in front of the Palate. Trooper Harris got out of the passenger side and swaggered up to Sky and Normal Norman.
"Down!" Sky screeched. The circle promptly collapsed onto the pavement. Sky lay flat on her back and resumed her chant, "No! No! No!"
Trooper Harris said, tight-lipped, "Norman Francis
Smith? You have the right to remain silent. You have the
right to counsel to represent you, and if you do not have counsel, one will be appointed . . ."
Quill, Marge, and Esther edged closer.
"That little snot," Marge said two decibels lower than her usual bellow. "Whyn't the heck he arrest them when they was up to my place?"
Harris jerked Normal Norman upright. Two troopers
from the second car put handcuffs on him. Harris droned,
". . . for the murders of Laura Crest, and Bruce Detwiler, known as Candy Detwiler. The charge is murder one."
"I don't believe it for one minute," Quill said, astonished.
Harris shot her a glance that would have wilted kudzu.