'Your Honor!' Howie, suddenly cold (and, Quill saw, very, very angry), folded his arms and lowered his head, like a bull about to charge. She put a hand on his arm. His voice was tight. 'Go on, Santini. Hang yourself.'
'She has been identified by the bus driver, and has a driving record which clearly places her in the ranks of the reckless. All the conditions for the severest penalty have been met, and I request the maximum sentence.'
As if recognizing a cue, Bernie Bristol thwacked his gavel. 'Seven days... ' he said directly into the rolling camcorder.
Howie clenched both his hands. 'Your Honor! I must warn you that I will immediately contact the Office of Court Administration to file a complaint!'
'... seven hundred dollars for the much-needed budget of the state of New York. Bailiff? Escort the prisoner to the jail house, please.' He adjusted the collar of his judge's robe and 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 mean?'
'Mr. Murchison's down to the courthouse right this minute, paying your fine. I told you that, twice. Not that I mind saying it more than once,' he added hastily. 'No, ma'am.'
'Seven hundred dollars,' Quill murmured darkly.
Davy shuffled. He was able to shuffle, Quill noted, because he had boots. She, on the other hand, didn't.
'I really hated to lock you up like this, Ms. Quilliam, but the law's the law.'
'Then how's about my boots? Honestly, Davy, why can't I just have my boots? They aren't exactly lethal weapons.'
'Sheriff Dorset'd have my guts for garters if I hadn't processed you in right, and prisoners can't have shoes or belts or anything like that. Says so in the manual.'
'Where is Sheriff Dorset, anyway?'
'Out,' Davy said vaguely, 'with that senator.'
'Al Santini is not a senator.' Quill explained with restraint, 'He lost the election. He's an ex-senator. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is why I'm here at this very moment.'
Davy, who clearly had something on his chest, ignored this and said earnestly, 'I just hope that you won't, you know' - Davy's ears turned an even brighter pink - 'tell Kathleen that I treated you bad or anything like that. You want something, 'I'll get it for you. Just lemme know. Unless it's your boots. Can't give you your boots.'
Quill felt an attack of tartness coming on. 'Kathleen is perfectly capable of deciding that her brother is a Nazi all on her own. She's not only our best waitress, she's the one with the most sense.' She sat on the cot and the sank her chin in her hands. She wondered if she'd be in here if Myles had been reelected sheriff. Nobody knew much about Frank Dorset, except that he lived at the very edge of Tompkins County and farmed pigs. Myles, she thought, wouldn't have let things get to this point.
