Free Murder Well-Done by Claudia Bishop Page B

threw a pillow at her and stomped off to bed.

Quill slept and dreamed of empty canvases, stacked in abandoned warehouses.

-4-

Meg threw back her head and caroled, "Top of the world, Ma!" Then conversationally, `You're going to get sent up the river. To the big house. Yep, you're looking at hard time."

"Oh, shut up." Quill twitched the modestly tied scarf at her throat. She wasn't sure about the scarf; her hair was red and the scarf was a brilliant gold and teal. She felt tired, after yesterday's confrontation with Myles. She felt conspicuous. She didn't know if her anxiety was over the way she looked or the fact that she was in the Tompkins County Courthouse waiting to be arraigned for a nonexistent traffic ticket. She'd never actually been in the Tompkins County Courtroom before. She wasn't surprised at how intimidating high ceilings, butternut paneling, and the musty smell ordinarily common to attic closets could be. "Other voices, other rooms," she said obscurely. Then, "It's only a traffic ticket. And it's my first traffic ticket... "

Meg, startled out of her Cagney imitation, went "Phuut!" which in turn startled Howie Murchison, who'd been sitting quietly next to them.

"In Tompkins County,' Quill amended. "And that means it's my first for seven years at least. And they take them off your what-do-you-call-it after three years anyway."

"Your MV104," Howie said with a faintly surprised look. "You've had priors, Quill? In some cases the court can pull your records all the way to the beginning. They don't dump old information. It just doesn't relate to most of the within-eighteen-months laws, so it isn't listed on current requests. You didn't tell me you had priors."

"She didn't, huh," said Meg. Her gray eyes, clear and limpid, met Howie's wary gaze head-on.

Quill pulled at the scarf around her throat again. "This darn thing is stifling me."

"I must say that suit and little bow don't become you," Howie said thoughtfully. "No offense, Quill,

but I'm used to seeing you more - how should I put it? - loosely dressed."

"Loosely?" Quill demanded, slightly affronted.

"Casually," Meg supplied. "You mean casually dressed, Howie."

"You said to dress discreetly, Howie." Quill stuck her thumbs in the waistband of her tailored wool skirt and jerked at the material. "I don't understand why the heck this thing is so constricting. I haven't gained any weight since the last time I wore this."

"You wore that suit to interview for the graphics job at Eastman Kodak company," said Meg. "Which means you last wore that suit when you were nineteen. Which makes it a B.T. suit.Ha! That's why you're wearing it. For luck."

"B.T.?" said Howie.

Quill jerked the skirt over her knees and glared a warning at Meg.

"B.T.?" Howie repeated. "What's B.T.?"

"You haven't gained weight," Meg added. "It's just that a person sort of settles around the middles, Quill, after fifteen years. Or is it seventeen?" She counted on her fingers, her lips moving. `Nope, fifteen. You're thirty-four."

"Before Taxes?" Howie said, and sighed. "I don't get it. But then, I never get half of what you girls are talking about anyway."

"Girls?" asked Meg, eyebrows raised.

Quill wriggled her shoulders against the high-backed seat and slid down so that she couldn't see over the top of the bench in front of her. "Howie, is this going to be over soon? I've got so much stuff to do back at the Inn that I haven't even opened my mail for a week. Which is why I'm here in the first place."

He peered at her over his wire-rimmed glasses. In his late forties, Howie, had settled into a comfortable, slightly paunchy middle age that Quill found very appealing. His well-cut Harris tweed sports coat was worn at the cuffs, the knot of his striped tie was skewed to leave his shirt collar loose, and his black wing tips had been resoled at least twice, not, Quill knew, because he couldn't afford another pair, but because he didn't want to break in new shoes. Like Myles (now on his way to