Mavis and Keith Baumer were from out of town and had never met John before. Could the picture have belonged to either of them? Was there any connection between John and Mavis? What possible connection could John have with the companion to an elderly and wealthy widow?
That left Gil himself. Gil and John were business acquaintances, hardly friends. But John, a loner, had few friends.
Quill carried the photograph into the kitchen. Nadine stood at the sink, staring out the back window.
"Nadine, I just wanted to say goodbye. If there's anything at all that you need, please call me."
"Thanks for coming, Quill. I've been telling everyone I don't know when the funeral's going to be held. Myles said maybe a week or two."
"That long?"
"He wants to complete the investigation. There'll have to be an autopsy. Howie Murchison says that's standard in an accidental death. He won't be able to probate the will until the inquest is done, so I hope Myles is quick about it."
"Will you be... all right... until then?"
This was local code for money matters. Wealthy farmers were said to be doing "all right." Marge Schmidt was said to do "all right" out of the diner. Betty Hall, a junior partner, was held to be doing not so well.
"Things weren't going so well," Nadine said, confirming the commonly held belief that Gil's money troubles were real and not the grousing of a Hemlock businessman who felt it unlucky to look too successful. "Mark Jefferson at the bank said there's a couple of outstanding loans that have to be paid off, but Gil had a lot of life insurance. That's the one thing he kept up. Now Marge Schmidt" - spite made Nadine ugly - "had better have some damn good proof that Gil borrowed money from her. If she doesn't, she can whistle for it."
"Meg and I could probably find something to tide you over," said Quill.
"Thanks. But I can always call on Tom. He's been a good brother, by and large. Been supporting Gil for all these years."
Quill shifted uncomfortably. "By the way, Nadine, I found this dropped on the floor of the living room. Is it yours or Gil's?"
Nadine glanced at the photograph. Her expression froze. "My sister-in-law," she said shortly.
"Your sister-in-law?"
"John Raintree's sister, yes. She was married to my brother Jack. We don't talk about her or him, so just forget it, I okay?"
"Sorry," said Quill. "I didn't know."
"You didn't?" Nadine lit a cigarette and slitted her eyes through the smoke. "John never told you?"
"No!"
"Then I'm not about to." Nadine crushed the cigarette into a used coffee filter in the sink.
Quill went back to the living room. She made idle conversation with the remaining townspeople, but the visitors were clearing out. She wondered if she'd ever know all the town's secrets, or if she'd always be treated like a flatland foreigner.
Quill looked at her watch. She needed to get back to the Inn and she still had Tom Peterson to tackle about the meat. Perhaps he might tell her about John's sister. She fingered the photograph. She should either leave the photograph here, or take it to Myles as evidence in the case. And if she did that, she'd have betrayed John, perhaps, to the inexorable machinery of the law. If she could just talk to John first, show him the picture.
Her bad angel, a handy scapegoat for childhood crimes and misdemeanors, and little-used until now, whispered, "Swipe it!" She did.
After a hurried exit from the Gilmeister living room, she drove to Peterson's Transport, wondering if the penalty for theft increased relative to the viability of the victim. "He's dead, he won't care," sounded like a practical, if graceless, defense. On the other hand, phrases like "impeding an official investigation" had an ominous ring to them. So did, "concealing the evidence in a crime."
I am hunted, beleaguered, and driven by time, Quill thought as she turned onto Route 96. It was four-thirty; she had to be back at the Inn before six for the Chamber dinner. Maybe she could just toss the spoiled meat in a convenient dumpster rather than talking face to face with Tom Peterson. But Meg would have a fit. Peterson would want to send the meat back to the supplier, who in turn would dispose of it, and process, thought Quill, will be process.
Petersons had owned much of Hemlock Falls at one time or another; as the family's fortunes declined, bits and pieces of their property had been sold off. Tom had leased the parcel on the comer of Route 96 and Falls River Road to Gil when they had gone into the car dealership together. The land abutted the warehouses and dispatch offices from which Tom ran his trucking business, a location convenient to Syracuse, Ithaca, and Rochester. Gil' s hopes of a customer base far beyond Hemlock Falls had never materialized, but the dealership managed somehow from year to year. Quill wondered who, if anyone, would take it over now that Gil had passed on.
Quill pulled into the driveway to the dealership. The Buick flags were at half-mast, and a black-bordered sign had been posted on the glass doors: CLOSED OUT OF RESPECT FOR GIL, which Quill thought had a better ring to it than "Drowned, but not forgotten."
She drove the car around to the converted house trailer that served as a dispatch office for Peterson Transport. It was placed outside the chain-link fence that surrounded the warehouse. She parked the car, got out, took the smelly cardboard box from the trunk, and carried it to the trailer door. Freddie Allbright, whom Quill knew from his occasional appearances at Chamber meetings as a substitute for Gil and Tom, opened the door partway and greeted her with a laconic snap of his gum.
"Hi, Freddie. Is Tom in?"
Freddie jerked his head toward the inside of the trailer. "Mr. Peterson!" he shouted, not taking his eyes from Quill. "Compn'y."
"Quill." Tom rose from his desk and came forward to welcome her. "Come in. Sit down."
Quill sat down in one of the plastic chairs that served for office furniture and set the cardboard box on the floor next to it. The scent of raw meat filled the air. Freddie hulked in the doorway, snapping his gum.
Tom stared at him. "Freddie, I want you to go out and find that dog."
"Just dig hisself out again."
"Then find him and chain him up," said Tom deliberately. "He's the best security system we've got." Freddie slouched out of the trailer. Tom shook his head. "You never seem to have trouble keeping good help, Quill. Want to pass along your secret?" Since this didn't seem to be anything more than a rhetoncal question, Quill didn't reply. Tom settled himself behind his desk and smiled. "What can I do for you?"