“Martha?” Sally said, bewildered. “Oh, no, not you too, Martha?”
“Don’t look so surprised.”
“I don’t understand,” Sally said. “You’re a wonderful cook, Martha. You go out with poor Ed. You take grief from Thelma. You’re nice, damn you. What’s going on?”
Quinlan said slowly, “I knew there had to be a ringleader, one person with a vision, one person who could get all the others to fall in line. Aren’t I right, Martha?”
“Exactly right, Mr. Quinlan.”
“Why didn’t you just let them elect you mayor?” Sally said. “Why murder innocent people?”
“I’ll let that go, Sally,” Martha said. “Oh, poor Mr. Shredder. You, Corey, set him down in that chair. Too bad Doc Spiver fell sick of cowardice and remorse. He drew the straw and had to kill that woman who’d overheard a meeting we were having. We caught her on the phone, dialing 911. Poor bitch. She was different. We didn’t know what to do with her. She wasn’t like those tourists who came into town for the World’s Greatest Ice Cream. No, we wouldn’t ever have picked her. She was too young; she had children. But then, we didn’t know what to do with her either. We couldn’t very well let her go-
“When she got loose that first night and screamed her head off-you heard her, Sally, Amabel told us the next day-we put a guard on her. But then two nights later she got loose again, and that time Amabel was forced to call Hal Vorhees over, because of you, Sally. There was no choice. Since it was Doc’s fault that she got loose, since he’d been her guard, we all decided that she had to die. There was simply no other choice. We were sorry about it, but it had to be done, and Doc Spiver had to kill her. He just couldn’t stomach it. He was going to call Sheriff Mountebank.” She shrugged.
“Fair is fair. Yes, we’ve always been scrupulously fair. Helen Keaton drew the straw. She put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. If it hadn’t been for that sheriff and that medical examiner down in Portland, it would have been declared an accident. Yes, that was a pity. Amazingly unfair.”
It was remarkable, Quinlan was thinking, that every criminal he’d ever known had loved to talk, to brag about how great he was, how he was smarter than everyone else. Even a little old lady.
“Yeah,” he said, “a real pity.” Martha was fiddling with her glasses, since she wasn’t wearing her pearls, but her voice was calm and assured. “You don’t appreciate what we’ve done, Mr. Quinlan. We turned a squalid little ghost town into a picture postcard village. Everything is so pristine. Everything is so beautifully planned. We leave nothing to chance. We discuss everything. We even have a gardening service for those who don’t enjoy tending flowers. We have a painting service that comes in every week. Of course, we also have a chairperson for each service. We are an intelligent, loyal, industrious group of older citizens. Each of us has a responsibility, each has an assignment.”
“Who selects the victims?” Corey asked. She was standing beside Thomas, her hand on his shoulder. He was still conscious, but his face was white as death. She’d wrapped a hand-crocheted afghan around him. It looked as if a grandmother had spent hours putting those soft pastel squares together.
Quinlan stared at that afghan. Then he stared at Martha. He’d be willing to wager that she had knitted the afghan. No accounting for grandmothers. Martha was a vicious cold-blooded killer.
Martha laughed softly. “Who? Why all of us, Ms. Harper. Our four gentlemen who play gin rummy around their barrel? Yes, they look over everyone who drives in for refreshment at the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop.
“Zeke down at the cafe eyes every tourist from his window in the kitchen. When he’s too busy, then Nelda pays attention when folk take out their wallets to pay.
“Sherry and Delia run the souvenir shop in that little cottage close to the ocean cliffs. They check out tourists there. As you can imagine, we must make decisions very quickly.” She sighed. “Sometimes we’ve erred. A pity.