Free Murder Well-Done by Claudia Bishop Page A

thing Meg wanted to see at night, she'd told Quill and Doreen, was a stove or a refrigerator.

"No paper towels?"

Quill wiped her cheek with her hand. "Cloth ones."

"Here." Meg tossed her a dishtowel. "Are you sorry you broke it off with him?"

"He broke it off with me!"

"Do you want to make up?"

Quill shook her head.

Meg sat down next to her and announced, "This is absolutely the last pat of the day," and rubbed her back.

Quill cried, Meg patted her back, and then the room was quiet. They sat on the cream sofa in front of her French doors, feet propped on the oak chest Quill used as a coffee table. Quill drank another glass of the cabernet. Outside the French doors, the snow knocked against the window like a soft white cat trying to get in.

Quill's easel stood in the comer, half-hidden by the tea-stained drapes. A half-finished charcoal sketch - Doreen, laughing with a cup of coffee in one hand. Quill looked at it and felt the familiar clench of muscles in her right hand.

"Meg. Remember that taxi driver?" she said suddenly.

"The one that picked us up at the train station ten years ago? The day we arrived in New York? Me off to Paris, to learn to cook, you off to paint great things?" She laughed. " 'The great thing about dis job, goils? Ya never know where it's gonna take ya.' " She smiled. "And he took us for a ride, all right. That was the wildest taxi ride I've ever been on before or since. To this day, I don't know why he didn't get a ticket."

Quill sat bolt upright. "Traffic court!"

"He didn't take us to traffic court. He took us to that cool little apartment in SoHo. Actually, it wasn't all that little..."

"I have to be in traffic court tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. And you have to come with me."

"Why do I have to come with you?" Meg demanded indignantly. "I'm not the one who got a speeding ticket."

"I didn't get a ticket. Dave Kiddermeister stopped me and told me I was going a little fast past the school. But he didn't give me a ticket."

"How much over the limit were you?"

"I don't know. He didn't write me a ticket," Quill said patiently. "It's some screwup. Howie Murchison's going to represent me."

"Howie? Over a speeding ticket you didn't get?"

"Well, there's this thing called a bench warrant or whatever."

"Quill." Meg's voice was ominous. "You know exactly what a bench warrant is. You used to get them all the time."

"I swear to God, Meg. I've reformed. No speeding. No unpaid parking tickets, Honest."

"If they pulled your driving record from New York City, you could be in big trouble."

"It's been years," said Quill, "and if I have to tell you one more time that I didn't get a ticket, I'm going to scream. I talked with Howie on the phone today and he said just to be safe I should bring a witness."

"A witness to what?!"

"My general honesty, I guess. I mean, what if Dave says he gave me a ticket? He won't. Or he shouldn't. It'll take two minutes, Meg."

"Not necessarily," Meg said darkly. "And if they want me to witness what kind of driver you are, you're in big, big trouble. And anyway, what can I say? That I've never witnessed you getting a ticket?! That's bull. I've seen you get parking tickets, speeding tickets, every kind of ticket."

"Howie just said to bring you so you can testify as to my probity."

Meg shrieked, "I'm your sister. They aren't going to believe a word I say."

"Well, you have to come anyhow."

"Well. Okay. Since you've got a broken heart. But you better get over this broken heart fast." She grinned suddenly. "Howie's divorced. And I think he's pretty neat."

"The last thing I want is to jump into any kind of relationship with anybody. I'm going to be an aunt. A professional aunt."

"A professional aunt?"

"Yep. You're going to marry Andy Bishop sometime next year and have zillions of children, and I'll sit and rock them to sleep and look melancholy, and everyone will wonder about my tragic past." She started to hum a version of "Melancholy Baby" that was so repellent Meg