"Are we going to hire extra help?"
Meg, clicking though the channels of the small television set built over the Zero King refrigerator, nodded in an abstracted way. "Yeah, but I can't do much cooking - so it's a lot of fresh stuff: caviar, crab, shrimp. Dull, dull, dull!"
"And expensive," Quill said.
John agreed, then said, "There it is. The Syracuse channel."
Meg shrieked. "You're on! You're on!"
Quill stuck her fingers in her ears and hummed loudly, but try as she might, she couldn't keep her eyes shut. So she saw, although she didn't hear, a full color videotape of herself in her ugly down coat, hair every which way, a scowl on her face, sock Nora Cahill in the nose with her boot.
The station cut to a commercial. "I need a haircut," said Quill.
"You need a new coat," said Meg. "Don't turn it off! Her commentary's next."
"That's not Nora Cahill," said Quill.
"It sure isn't," said Meg. "It's some guy."
"She told me she was on vacation," said Quill, with hope. "Maybe she just forgot about the story. What kind of story is a small-town traffic ticket, anyhow?"
"... that news flash repeated," the male anchor said soberly into the camera. "The body of Syracuse television newswoman Nora Cahill was found under the traffic light of an intersection in the central New York village of Hemlock Falls. Sheriff Frank Dorset has refused to release details of the death pending investigation. No further details other than the report of the death are available at this time. KSGY-TV will be the first to bring you periodic updates on this tragic event. And now, for a look at the weather. The word is snow..."
"She was killed? Here?!" shrieked Meg. "Right here?!"
John reached up and switched the television off.
"You don't suppose..." said Quill. Her mind leaped to the last time she saw Nora, in angry conversation with Alphonse Santini. Except that it wasn't the last time she'd seen Nora. The last time, the very last time, struck her with the force of a fall on thick ice; she'd been wiping her cheeks free of the muddy spray from Quill's boots.
"Car accident," said John. "Had to be, in this weather."
"They would have said car accident," Meg insisted. "And that bozo Dorset refusing to release details? It doesn't sound good at all. Poor Nora! Maybe we should poke around a little bit, Quillie. You know, a lot of people must have had it in for that poor thing."
"No," said Quill. "No investigation. No murder inquiry. We are out of that business and into the Inn business. Full-time. This time I really mean it."
"Things have been so quiet lately," Meg complained.
"Quiet for you, maybe. I don't need to remind you that while you were peacefully chopping away in your kitchen I spent practically the entire morning in jail." Except, she thought, for the part where I tried to whack Nora with my boots.
"Three hours," Meg muttered. "Big deal."
"You try it! God, I feel awful. I mean, the last time I saw her, I tried to break her nose."
"Oh, Quill. You were really provoked. Anyone would have tried to - um..."
"Um, what? I feel like a jerk. I'm a swine. I don't know why I ever agreed to run this place. All I've seemed to do is create one huge mess after the other. It's not worth it."
"Of course it's worth it," Meg said stoutly. "We have a terrific business, great guests..."
"Oh, right, Claire the cranky bride, Elaine the water faucet, Vittorio the mysterious Scottish-Italian, and let's not forget his psychic mother. And who has to deal with all this craziness while you retreat to this chrome and stainless steel haven? Me, that's who! And poor John has to run around cleaning up after all the messes I create."
"Quill, you are hardly responsible for Alphonse Santini and his choice of prospective in-laws," said John. There was a faint grin behind his eyes.
"She's hysterical," said Meg. "And about time, too. I was wondering when all of this would hit her."
" `Three knocks,' " Quill repeated with what she felt to be justifiable bitterness. " 'Three knocks and then, blood, blood... ' "
Three knocks sounded at the back door. They tolled through the kitchen like the bell announcing the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Like Scrooge, Quill felt like flinging the covers over her head, but the only thing at hand was a dish towel. She clutched Meg. "Sassafras," Meg said, patting her arm, "or comfrey. Herbal teas'll help you get right to sleep."
"I'll get it." John walked unhurriedly to the back door and snapped on the outside light. There was a murmur of male voices, John's voice louder than the others, an argumentative note to it. The door slammed and he stepped back into the kitchen. His dark hair was sprinkled with snowflakes.
"Quill," he said, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him, "get upstairs and lock yourself in your room. No questions. Just do it. Meg, get Howie Murchison on the line as fast as you can."
The back door rattled. A cold eddy of outside air curled around Quill's feet.
"Move, Quill!"
"But, John, what in heaven's name is going on? Why should I lock myself in my room?"
"Sarah Quilliam?" Frank Dorset pulled the hood of his dark blue parka away from his face. Davy Kiddermeister shuffled behind. Their snow boots left muddy tracks on the floor.
"You know very well who she is," Meg said tartly. "Have you come to apologize? It's about bloody time."
"You're under arrest, Ms. Quilliam, as a material wit- ness to the murder of Nora Cahill. You have the right to representation by an attorney for your defense. If you do not have an attorney, the court will appoint one for you. You have the right to remain silent." He grinned, his teeth sharp and yellow. "And I sure as hell hope you do. Nothing worse than a yapping female behind bars."
The drive to the Tompkins County Sheriff's Department had taken about five minutes, Quill figured, which meant it must be about eleven-thirty. She wasn't sure. Deputy Dave had taken her watch. She was sitting under the halogen lights in the sheriff's office huddled in John's parka. She'd been too dazed to find her own coat, and she missed its comforting warmth. The room felt too small. The linoleum - which had been installed at some point in the dim and faraway sixties - was as cracked and peeling as it had been that morning, although there was a fresh smell of disinfectant. Metal filing cabinets lined one wall. There were two metal desks, of the type found in every state and federal office Quill had ever seen: battleship-gray, incredibly heavy, with tarnished strips of chrome along the desk top edge. She sat behind the larger one, in the black Naugahyde chair that still, she thought, held a faint scent of Myles McHale. Frank Dorset balanced one buttock on the edge of this desk and leaned into her face. She pushed her feet along the floor and edged back, hitting the green-painted wall. Dave Kiddermeister sat at the adjacent desk, holding a small tape recorder.
"You want to go over this again?" Dorset asked. His voice was calm. Silky.
Davy cleared his throat. "She might better wait for Mr. Murchison, Sheriff."
Dorset twisted his head over his shoulder, so that Quill couldn't see his face. "Your shift about up, Deputy?"