Murder Well-Done by Claudia Bishop

smiled at Nora Cahill. `You get all that/ You want me to do it again?"

-5-

The drive from the Tompkins County Courthouse near Ithaca had taken about twenty-five minutes, which meant, Quill thought, that it must be about eleven-thirty, although she wasn't certain. Deputy Dave had taken her watch.

The Municipal Building at the end of Main Street housed the Sheriff's Department and Town offices. The jail was on the west end of the building facing Main, so that Quill could see most of Hemlock Falls through the barred window. The sun was pale gold through a light snow, creating a veiled and misty landscape worthy of attention by Turner, if Turner'd ever gotten to America to paint, which he hadn't. And if he weren't dead. Which he was.

Most of the stores lining Main Street were cobblestone. Marge Schmidt's diner, Esther West's dress shop, and a few other were of white clapboard with black trim. The contrast was pleasing, even, Quill thought gloomily, for this vantage point. Four inches of new snow covered rooftops and bushes and made feathery cones on the wrought-iron standards of the streetlights. The snowplows had left the curbs knee-high with pillowy drifts. Through the heavy gauge wire screen, Quill could see Esther West in a bright red ski jacket, mounting a pine wreath on the front door of her shop. Esther finished hanging the wreath and walked the three store-fronts down to Marge's diner and went in. A few cars drove by. Quill started to count he squares to the inch in the screen. Some minutes after Esther disappeared in to Marge's diner, Mayor Henry, portly in a black and green ski suit, ran out of his office, crossed the street to the diner, and charged inside. Then the street was quiet.

Quill sighed, coughed, wound her hair around her finger, and sat on the bare mattress of the fold-out cot. She debated her chances of getting a cup of coffee. She'd been in the cell before, having interviewed incarcerated suspects in several murder cases in years past, and it was as utilitarian and boring as ever. Caffeine might keep her awake.

Open bars on the cells' fourth side faced the solid door to the sheriff's office. This door was half open, and she could see Davy Kiddermeister's feet propped up on his desk. His socks were sagging. Quill's own feet were cold and bare except for her panty hose, since Davy'd taken her boots and then had been unable to find a pair of prison slippers. Quill loved her boots. They were crushed leather with a fleecy top. They'd been soaked with snow and mud on the outside, but the inside always kept her feet warm, no matter how poor the weather was. Quill sighed again, chewed on her hair, and stared at the ceiling. Perhaps she should have called Meg, although Howie had assured her she'd be out before lunch. A flash of re din the street caught her eye and she went back to the window.

Like two fireplugs on either side of a skinny poplar, Mayor Henry, Esther, and Marge stood in the middle of Main Street staring at the Municipal Building. Quill untied her silk scarf, a bright teal and gold, and wagged it back and forth. Esther clutched Elmer. Elmer pointed at the jail window, his mouth moving soundlessly. Marge socked Elmer in the arm, then all three waved together, tentatively. Quill waved the scarf in response. Esther semaphored back, knocking the mayor's knitted hat sideways and poking him in the eye. There was an excited colloquy, then Marge stumped to her Lexus, the mayor and Esther on her heels. They piled in. Marge peeled out from the curb, slush spraying from beneath the wheels.

"Coffee!" Quill shouted futilely through the barred window. "Bring coffee."

"You need anything, Ms. Quilliam?" Davy Kiddermeister stood outside the cell, his thumbs hitched in his belt loops. Davy was blond and fair-skinned. In the winter, the tips of his ears were perpetually chapped.

"No, thanks, Davy," said quill. She sighed and twiddled her thumbs. "Has Howie had any luck finding that judge? The real one, I