A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series)

by Bishop, Claudia

  "Bjarne's little joke. Or maybe it's herring pizza? What do I know?" She flung it back into the freezer and slammed the door shut.

  "We have to feed this guy something, Meg."

  "Why?"

  "Because he's a rich investment counselor from Boston."

  "Last time I looked, we had zero to invest."

  "You're not getting the point," Quill said patiently. "He's here because of all that state money. He's an advisor, Meg. That means he advises people to invest in guess what …"

  "Bankrupt inns?"

  "Inns that need a little infusion of cash to be wildly successful. Meg, don't you see? This must be part of the governor's plan! When you put a lot of public money into a place, the private money is sure to follow. Mr. Smith is the thin edge of the wedge … no … no … you know what he is?"

  Meg heaved a huge sigh.

  "He's the advance man for the cavalry!"

  "The cavalry being the hordes of the wealthy about to descend upon us? Sure."

  "He was going to Marge's for dinner. Heard good things about the diner, he said. He hadn't, by the way, heard a word about you."

  "Oh?" Meg scowled, and for a moment Quill thought the competitive spirit had won out over fatigue and despair. "Screw it. I'll feed him pizza."

  "Meg!"

  "Don't worry. I'll fix it up."

  "What will I call it?"

  "Fou de suer pizza."

  "Fou de what?"

  "I forgot. Your French sucks. Foo-duh-sur."

  Quill went into the dining room. The influx of visitors had spread detritus here, too. She pulled the carpet sweeper out from its place behind the maitre d's podium. She swept the more visible parts of the carpet. Max, at first convinced the sweeper was a threat, bit it, sneezed, then retired to the maitre d's podium to sit and wait. She filled Thorne Smith's water glass. She was waiting in the empty room when he came down the stairs.

  "Reservation for one?" she asked. "For 8:33?"

  "Yup."

  "We can seat you now."

  He looked at Max, who wagged his tail with a helpful expression.

  Quill seated him, unfolded the napkin with a professional snap, and spread it on his lap. "Would you care to see a menu?"

  "I thought there was only lamb."

  "Well, I was wrong about the lamb. The chef and I haven't been communicating well lately. I thought you might like to see a menu to discover what we can offer when we aren't … um …"

  "Aren't?" he said helpfully.

  "So busy."

  He was. Quill decided, a very nice man. He didn't look around the room with a pointed expression. The only other person she knew who would have done that was Myles McHale.

  "Maybe I'll take a look at the menu tomorrow."

  "I can offer you the wine list."

  "That depends on what's for dinner, doesn't it?"

  "Foo-de-sur pizza," Quill said.

  "What?"

  "Foo—"

  "I heard you." He started to laugh. "Jee-sus! Okay, I'll have the pizza. And a good strong red to go with it."

  "Great!" Quill smiled at him.

  "And, Quill?"

  "Yes?"

  "Tell your sister I think you're crazy, too."

  Meg looked at her face when she banged into the kitchen and started to giggle. The kitchen smelled delicious. Whatever Meg was making, Mr. Smith was going to like it a great deal. "You jerk," Quill said without heat. "Fou de suer indeed. Look, you serve the poor guy, will you? Sit down with him, too. What does Harvey say? Schmooze him a little."

  "Oh, gag. Quill! I can't believe you said that!"

  "Well, you know what I mean. Just be pleasant, okay?"

  "And what are you going to do?"

  "A little follow-up with the Crafty Ladies."

  Freddie, Mary, and Robin were seated in the middle of the Tavern Bar. A few of the tables around them were filled, mostly with volunteer firemen and a state trooper or two. Quill passed Davy Kiddermeister, nursing a beer and in close colloquy with Denny Webster.

  "Yo, Quill." Davy got to his feet. "I've been wondering where you were. How you holding up?"

  "All right, I suppose. This is terrible, Davy. Do you have any leads yet at all?"

  Davy was as fair as his sister Kathleen was dark; this was a disadvantage in a young sheriff who blushed easily. His ears and cheeks turned bright pink, but he said steadily, "I'm afraid we don't know much at all yet. Doc Bishop's got this body at the Bellinis', too. And the fellas from forensics in Syracuse are back. They might turn something up."

  "Same M.O. as the other, looks like," Denny said. "It's a terrible thing. We were just talking that maybe we should get the mayor to declare a curfew."

  Davy nodded agreement. "Thing is, with this killer running around loose, we don't know if anyone's safe. You be sure and lock your doors tonight, Quill."

  "You think it's just a series of random killings, then?" Quill shook her head. "I can't believe that. I mean, the killer climbed up the balcony to get into Ellen Dunbarton's room and deliberately set that fire. Not only that," she added, hoping the sarcasm didn't show up in her voice, "he gagged her with duct tape and taped her arms behind her back. Doesn't that seem as though the murderer targeted her particularly?"

  "Maybe the fire and the murder were separate, like," Denny said.

  "Separate?!"

  Davy's face burned an even brighter red. "It's just a theory. Quill. See, Ellen Dunbarton wasn't burned to death. And Fran Grimsby wasn't either. Both of them were strangled."

  Quill breathed out, slowly. "Before the fire?"

  "Looks like."

  "So they didn't …" Burning to death had always seemed so horrible. Then she thought, strangled first?

  "Probably didn't feel much at all," Davy said. "Anyway, this makes us think the first fire may have been a different thing altogether." His eyes shifted away from hers.

  "You mean that Meg and I did it."

  "Yuh."

  "You know me, Davy. And you know Meg. Neither one of us would have done such a thing. Under any circumstances. No matter how broke we were."

  "You see all kinds of things in the insurance business," Denny said helpfully.

  "Now where have I heard that before?" Quill snapped. "Mr. Burke is feeling somewhat abused, I admit, but that does not mean that his suspicions are justified."

  "Whatever you say. Quill. So …"

  "And," Quill went on, her temper up, "you ought to consider that an attempt was made to bum the second body, too."

  "Copycat," Denny said wisely.

  "Oh, pooh!" She cast an expert glance at the table. "Do either of you need another beer? Or more peanuts? If not, I've a few things to do before the night's out."

  "Just one thing." Davy turned his beer can in his hand. "You haven't heard from the sheriff, by any chance?"

  "You're the sheriff, David Lincoln Kiddermeister. And no, I haven't heard from Myles today. Excuse me, will you?" Exasperated, she wound her way through the rest of the room to the bar. Kathleen greeted her with a tired smile. "How are you holding up?"

  "Not bad. The tips are pretty good." Kathleen brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Who's been taking care of the tables in the dining room?"

  "Me. We'll close at nine-thirty tonight, Kath. Oh, and don't forget that the beer's free to the volunteers."

  "Got it."

  Quill chatted with a few more customers, then went to the Crafty Ladies' table and sat down.

  "You must be run off your feet," Freddie said sympathetically.

  "I'm used to it. Have the three of you eaten anything tonight?"

  "Oh, yes. Kathleen brought us some delicious soup from the kitchen, and very good bread. Cucumber, the soup was."

  "Cold," Robin offered. "But we didn't mind. With everything that's happened, it's a wonder the kitchen got anything out at all. We're sitting here feeling so useless!We're not used to just sitting, you know."

  "Well, you should be," Quill said warmly. "Think of all the times i
n the past when you've been run off your feet between kids and jobs and husbands. I think you deserve to sit. I hope Kathleen remembered to bring you the sherry?"

  "She brought us a drink in a little teeny glass, but we think she just may have gotten mixed up," Freddie confided. "But, as Robin says, with all that's been happening, it's no wonder. The stuff in it tasted like furniture polish. Just a little bit."

  "So we told her how to make a Fuzzy Navel," Mary said. "That hit the spot."

  "I'm glad. You know that Doreen and I have moved you to the second floor. You'll be right near my suite, and my sister's. And you're all in the same room. We'll leave the lights on in the hall, if you're at all nervous about staying on." She cocked her head, puzzled. "I'm not sure why you just don't go home."

  "The president's coming," Mary said simply. "We've never met the president."

  "I don't understand."

  "It's like this. We're all retired, you know. I'm sixty-three." She paused.

  "No!" Quill said.

  "And Freddie here's sixty-eight, if you can believe it."

  "I can't," said Quill. At the moment, they all looked considerably older than their actual ages.

  "And I'm the oldest of the bunch. Just seventy," Robin said. "Might as well confess it now, before the girls here turn me in."

  "I wouldn't believe it of any of you."

  Mary adjusted the lace collar of her twinset. This one was a pale violet. "Well, as I was saying, we were all retired, and we kind of had been in business together all those years anyway."

  "What she means is, we were all in the same business," Robin said, a little sharply. "Babies, husbands, and boring jobs. Don't boast so, Freddie. It'll always catch you out."

  "I'm sony, dear. You're right. Well, we all get together for coffee Monday mornings."

  "We can't do that anymore, can we?" Mary's eyes clouded with tears.

  "Hang on, puss." Robin grasped Mary's hand and squeezed it tightly. "Hang on."

  "For a few years, we'd been talking for weeks about how useless we felt." Freddie sat back with the air of having unburdened herself. "That was it. After years of being on our feet, and busy, well—the kids were grown …" She interrupted herself. "Do you call your mother once a week, Quill?"

  "My parents died in a boating accident nine years ago."

  "Well, you should call once a week. And you would, I'm sure, if your mother were alive. But children these days …" She shook her head. "So there we were. Beached."

  "And the package came," Robin said. "You know, it was one of those 'earn thousands of dollars at home in your spare time' sort of things." She turned to the others. "I still think Ellen sent in an ad and just didn't tell us. She never wanted to admit how lonely we were, or how desperate …"

  "Now you hang on," Mary said. She put an arm around her friend. "But we had fun, didn't we?"

  "We surely did. And if you ask me, we improved that darn business plan. You see. Quill, the way it was set up, you were supposed to send money to the president of the Crafty Ladies Kit service and get instructions on how to run home parties. But home parties—ha! What woman these days has time to give parties?"

  "We did," Freddie said. "But then, we're retired. And we weren't as in need of money as some poor housewife is."

  "We improved the plan," Mary interrupted. "We wrote to the president, Mr. Vinge, or maybe it's Mrs. Vinge, we never did find out."

  Freddie had lost her sad, depressed look and was animated. "We wrote with all our suggestions for improvement. Just-in-time inventory, will-call supply chain, toll free 1-800 number. And the president wrote back! He said—I feel sure it's a man—that our suggestions were excellent. He suggested that we try them for a year, and if we were showing a profit—and we are. Quill dear—that he'd buy our ideas and franchise them."

  "Franchise them?"

  "Like Burger King," Robin explained. "For a down payment, you get the whole business idea, and the Crafty Ladies logo and a start-up plan. You even get financing, if you need it. Mr. Vinge said we would get ten percent of everything if we went national. Do you know how much money would be in that?"

  "Sometimes," Freddie confided in a hushed voice, "we all get together and try to figure it out. How much we might have, I mean."

  "I see." Quill got up. She wanted to put her arms around them all and keep them safe. She'd found the motive. Or at least she was pretty sure she'd found the motive. "By the way—do any of you play the triangle?"

  "The triangle?" Mary said. "You mean the little bell chime thingie in orchestras?"

  "Yes. Or does the triangle have any significance for you? Any at all?"

  Three bewildered faces stared at her.

  "Never mind. You three take care of yourselves, okay? Meg and I will be right down the hall from you, and if you need anything, anything at all, don't even stop to think. Just come and get me."

  "We promise," Freddie said with a twinkle. "Thanks, Mom!"

  Quill exited to a chorus of delighted giggles.

  "It could possibly be a great deal of money," Howie Murchison said. He yawned into the phone. "Hard to say. But businesses like Tupperware, and those Copper Craft things are worth quite a bit. Can't this keep, Quill? It's not all that late, I grant you, but I'm an early-to-bed kind of guy. Besides, I'm a lawyer, not a businessman. Why don't you ask Jo—sorry, I forgot. Why don't you call Mark Jefferson at the bank … sorry, I forgot that, too. What about Marge?" He stopped. Quill could hear him breathing into the phone. "Nope. I can see why you called me."

  "And just what have the gossip mills been saying?" she asked sweetly.

  "Ah. Well."

  "Who was it?" Quill demanded. "You know me, Howie. When my dander's up, I don't quit."

  "Dander," Howie mused. "Now there's a word from my grandmother's days."

  "I've been talking all night to women who might well be your grandmother, Howie Murchison. So. Was it Esther at one of her shrimp and mayonnaise lunches you don't think anyone knows about? Or was it Miriam Doncaster, at an intime little dinner in Syracuse? Who's been talking about us?"

  "Does everybody in town know about my dates?"

  "That," said Quill ruthlessly, "is the price you pay for being an eligible bachelor. About the gossip: You tell me what you've heard, and I'll tell you if it's true."

  "That your mortgage's a month overdue." "Blabbermouth Jefferson. And he's right. And?"

  "That you're furious with Marge because she made an offer to buy out the Inn and you think she's trying to drive you out of business."

  "Esther," said Quill. "And John?"

  "That you rejected John for Myles, and he's run off to nurse a broken heart in Grand Rapids. No, call me a liar. Long Island, that was it."

  "That either came from my very own dear sister or Miriam Doncaster. Probably Miriam. Trust the town librarian for the romantic view."

  "Are you in trouble. Quill?"

  She closed her eyes. She could see Howie sitting in his leather armchair, gray, balding, slightly paunchy. He'd have on his disgraceful loafers and be drinking one more glass of wine than he should. "I'll manage, Howie."

  "You call me if you need me. My pension's secure. I don't need the fee."

  "You're a sweetie. Now. Just let me be sure I understand this. One, under the circumstances I described to you, this Mr. Vinge would definitely owe the Crafty Ladies a substantial sum of money if he took their ideas and used them to change his business procedures. Oh, and if he profited by the ideas."

  "That's not exactly what I said, but it'll do."

  "Two. If there are no Crafty Ladies around to make the claim, he's home free."

  "That's an assumption you made. Quill, not I." "Hey, it gives me enough to start on. I've got to solve this case, Howie. I know what you didn't tell me about town gossip. That Meg and I set that fire for the insurance money. We didn't."

  "I take it you two are planning on solving this case?"

  "We don't get that money unless I clear our name. We need it. But there's worse,
Howie. I'm afraid there are going to be more murders. What do you think of that?"

  He sighed. "You have any idea when Myles will be back?"

  "Nope. I can handle this on my own. Thanks, Howie. You can go to bed now."

  "I'm going to. Take care of yourself."

  It was late, after eleven. Quill prowled the Inn, making sure the doors were locked and the windows shut and bolted from the inside. Max had disappeared again, sometime earlier. Quill hoped he wasn't after more chickens. Farmers in Hemlock Falls shot dogs who chased their chickens. She wondered who had let him out, and then recalled the door. His makeshift dog door; damn it all. She got a hammer from the kitchen tool kit, went into the Tavern Bar and crawled under the table concealing the hole. She'd have to ask Mike to take care of it in the morning. In the meantime, she whacked a few fourpenny nails in place and tested the frame by pushing hard against it. It held.

  She went to her room, suddenly exhausted. She forced herself to brush her teeth, shower, then fell into bed. She looked at the clock: 12:30, and Meg would need help in the kitchen at six.

  She slept.

  "Dammit, Max!" she said. She pushed at the source of the warm breath on her cheek and rolled over. She pulled the covers over her head. Something pulled them down. Furious, she sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.

  "Who the hell is Max?"

  "Myles!" She held out her arms. "Oh, thank goodness. Myles!"

  7

  The thin spring moon spread a fan of pale light across the floor. Quill lay with her head against Myles' shoulder. She rubbed her cheek across his bare chest.

  "Max snores," Myles said.

  Quill propped herself on her elbow and looked over her side of the bed. Max lay tucked in a ball on the floor. His forepaws jerked. He was dreaming. She really did have to get the window under the table in the Tavern Bar fixed; maybe Myles could fit it with a spring hinge. She turned to look at Myles, a broad-shouldered shape in the dark. He hadn't really taken to Max yet. As a matter of fact, nobody had. Maybe she'd try again to fix the dog door herself. "I've been meaning to give him a bath." She yawned. "What time is it?" She felt him move and stretch an arm out to the bedside table.