“…And that includes that idiot from the winery case five years ago,” she said to Marge half an hour later.
“I remember that one,” Marge said nostalgically. “That’s the first time you and I ever did a B and E together.”
“B and…? Breaking and entering. Yes. Well. We’re probably breaking more laws by hacking into Brady’s computer.”
“And why are we doing this again?”
They sat in Marge’s office on Main Street. Outside, a group of ladies from the Fireman’s Auxiliary were filling the sidewalk planters with bright red geraniums and English ivy. Members from the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God attached hanging planters filled with purple petunias and asparagus fern from the wrought-iron lampposts. In two weeks, at the start of the fete, the old village would be looking its very best.
“Because Althea Quince took it and she was going to hack it, too.”
“What’d she expect to find?”
“Initially, I think she expected e-mails from Carol Ann to Brady, planning more mischief. Then, I think she suspected Brady of being involved in the theft of the fete funds.”
“No flies on that lady,” Marge grunted. “Althea, I mean. Okay. Let’s see here.” She flipped open the laptop. “You do know that if this is password protected, we’re going to have a problem.”
“I thought maybe your computer guy can handle it.”
“She can. It can take a while though.” Marge tapped the power button and the laptop began to boot up. “Brady’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier so maybe we might get lucky.”
The screen pulsed with light. The little box requiring user name and password identification glowed at them.
Marge input ‘Brady’ and then ‘1234’ with an air of resignation. “Doubt this’ll work. Nope. Shoot. I’ll give Caitlyn a call, ask her to come in and pick it up.”
“Hang on a second.” Quill pulled the laptop in front of her. She examined the case, turned the computer over, and carefully peeled off a piece of tape from the underside. She set the laptop back in front of Marge. “Try this.” She read off a string of letters and numbers and Marge typed them in.
“We’re in!” Marge said as the laptop chimed “Welcome.” “I told you Brady’s not going to win any awards for smart.”
“This tape with his password on it has been peeled off from somewhere else. I’ll bet Althea found it under a desk drawer or something. We need so many passwords to function these days, I do it, too. Write them down and put them somewhere in my office.”
“You’re not going to win any awards for smart, either.” Marge went straight to the site history and began to scroll down. “‘Hot Chicks in Cool Coops,’” she read aloud. “‘Wild, Wet Women.’” She made a face. “Jeez. And I buy cars from this guy? I’m going to switch over to his e-mail account. What do you think? Should I try ‘old’ or ‘sent’? I’ll try sent. Aha. Ah-ha!” She started to chuckle.
Quill couldn’t see the screen from her position across the desk. “What? Did you find something?”
“E-mails from Carol Ann to Brady and back again. Hoo. Carol Ann sure has it in for you!” Marge scowled suddenly. “And for me. The little witch. But if you ask me…” Marge tapped rapidly, scrolling through the e-mails. “That whole protest crud is pretty well pooped out. Take a look for yourself. Carol Ann sent this after the steering committee meeting this morning.”
From: carolann@spinoza.com
To: bpeter@petersonmotors.com
Re: village disgrace
So the money’s disappeared into somebody’s pocket (you can bet I know who!!!!) and as usual the Quilliam/Schmidt faction has shown once again who runs this town. I don’t know why you won’t march on opening day. We could rip this town wide open!!! But if you’re going to be a poopyhead, there’s not a darn thing I can do about it. You will be sorry!!!! It’s not over till it’s over!!!!
“Bluff and bluster,” Marge said. “You can set Althea’s mind at rest about any funny business at the fete.”
“What do you suppose she meant, ‘it’s not over till it’s over’?”
“Who knows? Who cares? Brady runs with the grumblers and malcontents and if he’s not able to get his people out to demonstrate, Carol Ann will be out there all on her lonesome.”
“And she thinks she knows who has the money?”
Marge’s face darkened. “Me.”
“You?”
“Grabbed me by the collar after the meeting”—Marge cracked her knuckles and smiled in a sinister way—“or tried to. Anyhow, yeah. She thinks I took the money in cahoots with Adela. She’s just grabbing at straws. That’s her style and always has been.” She bent over the laptop again.
“Maybe we should return this to Brady,” Quill said. “He’s got all his business accounts on there.”
“Along with the wholesale price of a pickup truck Harland wants to buy. Give me a second while I look for it.”
“Marge, I don’t think that’s quite fair of you.”
She raised one hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then with a very different tone in her voice. “What the hell is this?”
Quill bent sideways to look at the screen.
“That’s the new girl at Bonne Goute, isn’t it? Sophie something.”
“Yes,” Quill said soberly. “Yes, it is. Sophie Kilcannon.”
There were dozens of pictures of the tall blonde. About half of them were on the beach somewhere, with Sophie in a very brief bikini. The others had been taken with a long-distance lens. Sophie in her apartment at Bonne Goute, reading in her living room. Sophie getting ready to shower. Sophie getting out of a Ford Escort that had seen better days. It was clear she had no idea someone was taking pictures of her.
Quill rubbed her arms. “This is creepy. And bad. Really bad.”
“You got any idea where that beach is?” Marge scrolled back to the photos of Sophie on the beach. She was smiling, her blond hair caught up in a billed cap, her sunglasses in one hand.
“The days are long gone where I could wear a bathing suit like that,” Quill said wistfully.
“I never could wear a suit like that.” Marge rapped the desk. “Focus, please. Those big buildings behind the beach. That look at all familiar to you?”
“Miami, maybe?” Quill hazarded. “Didn’t Clare say she recruited Sophie from Miami? It looks like somewhere in the US, at least. It’s not tropical enough to be Hawaii and it’s too tropical for the west coast.”
“Harland and I have been looking at Florida property,” Marge said. “We’ve been thinking about getting out of these winters. That’s Miami, for sure.” She clicked rapidly through the photos once again, then shut down the laptop and closed the cover. “Now what do we do?”
“What possible reason could Brady Beale have to take sneaky photos of Sophie Kilcannon?”
Marge snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Do I need to remind you of the crud on that guy’s browser? Hot Chicks in Cool…”
Quill held her hand up. “Ugh.”
“The guy’s a voyeur, at best. At worst—well. Maybe we don’t want to know the worst.”
“I should take this to Davy.” Quill reached for the computer.
Marge pulled it out of reach. “And what, have Brady charge us with petty larceny? Of course, you could tell him that Althea Quince was really the one who stole it, so we can get her into trouble, too. No, here’s what we do. We go talk to this Sophie Kilcannon. And then,” Marge cracked her knuckles. “We have a couple of Harland’s linebacker cousins have a talk with old Brady.”