A Touch of the Grape

by Claudia Bishop

  The Chamber was out in force. Marge settled herself squarely in the front row and gave Quill a toothy grin that she didn't believe for a minute. Betty wasn't there— Quill devoutly hoped she wasn't back at the Inn weaseling cooking secrets out of Bjarne, who'd been left in charge of the kitchen. Elmer and Adela Henry had dressed for the occasion, Adela in a large hat that clipped Dookie Shuttleworth under the eye every time she made a vehement comment to her husband. Since Adela was famed throughout Hemlock Falls for both vehemence and volubility, Dookie was in significant danger of a scratched cornea. Quill winced, watching them.

  "There's Stoke," Meg said. "I don't see Doreen with him."

  "I asked her to sift through that room before it got cleaned up," Quill said.

  "Three-ten? Why?"

  "In part, because Marge Schmidt volunteered to head the cleanup crew."

  "Quill, you can't think that Marge had anything to do with Ellen Dunbarton's murder!"

  "I don't know what to think," Quill said frankly. "Of course I don't see Marge as a murderer. But she's one heck of a business competitor. Maybe she set that fire not knowing anyone was in there."

  "Bull," Meg said rudely. "Then who tied up Ellen Dunbarton, and why?"

  "What if the two incidents aren't connected?"

  Meg shook her head decisively. "No way. It makes no sense whatsoever."

  "Actually, I agree. And actually, I don't think Marge set that fire. It seems to me that Burke was partly right; there are types of people that commit certain types of crimes. If Marge were going to murder anyone, she'd hit him over the head with a baseball bat on Main Street at twelve noon. And if Marge wants our Inn so she can cut a larger swathe in town when all this grant money comes flooding in, she wouldn't set a fire to force us out; she'd do something legal and sneaky, like buying out our mortgage. But you know what? Marge may know something about who did kill Ellen Dunbarton. I wouldn't put it past her to search that room herself, thinking she'll find some evidence overlooked by the police."

  "We've done that in the past. And if you asked Doreen to search that room, we're doing it now."

  "So?"

  Meg laughed. "So? Nothing like consistency, sis. Glad to see you're in better spirits, anyway."

  "I think," Quill acknowledged, "that I was more depressed by John's departure than I cared to admit."

  "No kidding. You know what I think? I think you should write to John. Just a chatty little note at first, followed by increasingly expansive letters. I think it'd be good for both of you. I think—"

  "I think you should be quiet," Quill said firmly. "There's Hugh. We must be about to start."

  He walked to the front of the room and waited for the babble of voices to die down. "I'd like to welcome you all to this first meeting of the Hemlock Falls Winegrowers' and Tourism Association. As you may know, we have designed this group to be a subsidiary of our parent organization, the Winegrowers' Association of the State of New York. I see most of our fellow growers here— the Blacks from Grape Noir, the Hutchinsons from Verdant Valley, and I see a lot of our Hemlock Falls business people, as well. The agenda for this meeting today is short; we are going to hear from Paul Pfieffer, the governor's representative. Mr. Pfieffer is director of this county's fund for the Revitalization of Tourism."

  "R.O.T.?" said Meg. "It's called R.O.T.?"

  "Musta bin named by a Republican," Marge said.

  Hugh was unruffled. "Laches and gentlemen? Mr. Pfieffer."

  Paul Pfieffer was thin, gray, acidic, and very, very dull. He began by thanking the governor (who wasn't, as far as Quill could tell, within one hundred miles of the Summerhill Winery), the Democrats in the State Legislature who had approved the appropriation of funds (Marge had been right—R.O.T. was courtesy of the Republicans, who lost the vote on how much to appropriate but got to name the fund), and for all she knew, since the room was warm and she slipped into a doze, he thanked his sisters and his cousins and his aunts as well. She drifted sleepily through the reading of the bill itself, and came to attention when Mr. Pfieffer finally cut to the chase.

  "In short," he said, "there is a total of four million, six hundred and fifty thousand dollars available to those businesses of Hemlock Falls who wish to support, or are in any way connected to, the growth of tourism in our area. Twenty percent of this money is available as an outright grant to candidate businesses; the remaining eighty percent is available as a fifteen-year loan available at two percent."

  "Two percent!" Meg said.

  Quill looked at Marge. She was absolutely expressionless, but her eyes were glittering like the night lights on a gun turret. She thrust her fist in the air.

  Paul Pfieffer twitched. "Yes, Miss … um …"

  "Schmidt. Marge Schmidt. What kinda contingencies are attached to this loan?"

  "Contingencies? I don't understand."

  "A politician that don't understand contingencies?" Marge said, not at all pleasantly. "Don't make me laugh. Contingencies. No-no's. How can I use the money and how can't I use the money?"

  "It can be used for expansion," Pfieffer said primly, "or for payroll. For remodeling. For business-related expenses such as advertising …"

  Harvey Bozzel's hand immediately went up. He waved frantically for attention.

  "Cool it, Harve," Marge said, without looking back. "Can you use it for acquisitions, Pfieffer?"

  "It may be used for acquisitions if the acquirer is already in a tourist-related business and if the acquiree is engaged in a tourist-related business at that time."

  Quill, who had no idea why Pfieffer needed to invest the final prepositional phrase with such verbal significance, poked Meg in the side.

  "Does that mean what I think it means?" Meg whispered.

  "That Marge can use this money to buy us out? Yes." Quill twisted her hair around her forefinger. "Bloody hell, I knew she was up to something. I knew it."

  The meeting broke up. Pfieffer made a quick and well-timed exit, before anyone realized he was gone. Selena surveyed the disappointed members of the newly formed Hemlock Falls Winegrowers' and Tourism Association, and with a perspicacity Quill hadn't expected, shouted, "He's in the parking lot!" This left eleven people in the room. Quill, Meg, Marge, the mayor and Mrs. Mayor, Hugh and Selena, Esther West, Harvey Bozzel, and the Reverend and Mrs. Dookie Shuttleworth.

  "Bueno." Selena said. "My ploy worked. I told Mr. Pfieffer to leave by the crushing room. He is not in the parking lot at all! He is waiting for his lunch. So, all those people, with their hands outstretched and their earnest pleas for the cash, will be able to go home. Now, I think, Hugh, we should have some lunch and discuss what is to be done. Come with me to the house, please."

  Selena's Spanish heritage was evident in the kitchen, which Quill hadn't seen on her first visit to the house. The floor tiles were warm bronze. The kitchen cabinets were a dark teak in the Mediterranean style. Quill exclaimed aloud when she saw the tiled countertops. Each had been hand-painted in blues and yellows. "Very Portuguese," she said. "Where did you get them?"

  "Selena hand-painted them herself," Hugh said. He slid his arm around her shoulders and gave her a dignified kiss. "Won't you come into the dining room and sit down?"

  Paul Pfieffer, a glass of wine in his hand, was peering nervously out the window when they walked into the dining room. He jumped when Selena swept the party into the room, and mumbled hellos. He was clearly uncomfortable.

  The dining room table was refectory-style, and had been set with a Portuguese pottery that matched the kitchen countertops. Thin crystal wineglasses were in front of each place setting. Hugh pulled the corks on two unlabeled wine bottles, and began to pour. "This is a red we bottled six years ago, after we harvested the first of our Pinot Noir grapes. I think you'll like it." He raised a forefinger in Selena's direction.

  Selena struck a small bell by her glass, and a young girl brought salads in from the kitchen. "Our daughter, whom you have not met," Selena said. "Victoria, this is Miss Sarah Quilliam, whom you so m
uch admire. She has seen your paintings. Quill, in her art class at school."

  Quill blushed and looked at her plate.

  Selena finished introducing the others, commanded that no business should be talked at the table, and asked Dookie to extend God's grace over the table.

  Quill found herself eating an excellent lunch, finishing with a creamy cheese she had never tasted before.

  "My family sends it to us each year for Christmas," Selena said. "And the Pinot Noir? What do you think? We have not retailed it, as yet. You are the first to try it."

  The wine had been drunk to general approbation. But, as the Reverend Shuttleworth freely admitted, none of them except Quill and Meg knew anything at all about wine, except that the Lord approved, thank heaven, and for that he was grateful. Quill knew a fair amount—Meg a great deal. She glanced at her sister, who shook her head slightly.

  "Delicious," Quill said. "We'd love to buy a few cases for our own use."

  "We were hoping, perhaps, that you would agree to stock your cellar at the Inn with this," Selena said somewhat ingenuously. "It is not selling as well as we hoped. The brokers who buy in bulk, they tell us there is a prejudice against New York reds."

  "This mean we can talk bizness?" Marge demanded. "Is the lunch over? It was good, by the way."

  "For business?" Selena said. "We defer to my Hugh."

  "Good." Marge smacked her hand on the table. "What I say is this, Hugh. We make a run at that money, and we get it."

  "That's an …" Hugh paused, searching for the most tactful word, "an admirable, if somewhat belligerently stated, sentiment, Marge. But to think of it, it's the truth, so why try to dress it up in tact? I agree, I think those of us here at this table should make a run at that money and get it. We have here all of the movers and shakers in Hemlock Falls. And I think we can be counted upon to use the money for the good of the town."

  "So that's why we're here? To make decisions for the village?" Meg's voice was calm and reasonable, but her left foot was jiggling up and down. It was. Quill knew, a bad sign.

  "What Meg means is that this isn't really a public forum," Quill intervened. "And we haven't been elected to make decisions, have we?"

  "Some of us have," Adela Henry said majestically.

  "There will be no decisions made here. None," Mr. Pfieffer said crossly. "I was told this was to be an informational meeting only."

  Meg bit her thumb and stared past Adela Henry's left ear. "I'd just like to point out that none of the other growers are here. And Howie Murchison, the town attorney, isn't here. Nor are Ben Croh from the Croh Bar, or Tilly Angstrum from the village Bed and Breakfast. These are all movers and shakers in Hemlock Falls, too."

  "Quite minor ones," Hugh said mildly. "With no influence whatsoever."

  Meg's gaze dropped directly to Adela's. "And voters, of course. They're all voters."

  Adela shot a glance at her husband and looked thoughtful.

  Harvey Bozzel smoothed his hair with a careful hand. "The Reverend Shuttleworth's here at our specific request."

  "Our, Harvey?" Meg's tone was dangerously sweet. "And it's just like you to drag the minister into this."

  "And the world knows how honest the Reverend is."

  The world also knew how frequently the input vanished from Dookie's hard drive. Even with the best will in the world (and by far the most Christian spirit of any other Hemlockian) Dookie had a difficult time navigating the harsh realities of life. Most eyes at the lunch table were on him now. Dookie smiled benignly and said, "The wine was quite good, Selena."

  "And what, Harvey?" Meg drummed her thumb on the table. It sounded far more ominous than it should. "Because you've talked the Reverend Mr. Shuttleworth here into coming for lunch, you think the rest of the town is going to be happy about all of the money going just to us?"

  Paul Pfieffer threw his napkin on the table. "I knew this was a bad idea. You'll have to excuse me. Ladies?" He nodded to Quill and Meg. "You have clarified a situation that required clarity. Señora Summerhill? Thank you for the lunch. Good day to you all. My office may be reached through the regular channels. We will be delighted to review any written application for the disbursement of these funds." He burped. "Excuse me. The official review, of course, shall be conducted at the R.O.T. offices in Albany. And not at lunch. I may as well inform you now that I have taken rooms in the village and you will see me on the streets of Hemlock Falls. Do not speak to me unless I speak to you."

  He left silence behind him.

  "We don't need Mr. Pfieffer's direct input to formulate a plan," Harvey said at his most mellifluous. "We can review it all here, together. Now, if you'll just let me duck out and get my briefcase …"

  Meg twisted her face into a ferocious scowl. "Harvey! No dice, Harvey. We do this in a public forum, or we don't do it. Get it?"

  "Now, Meg, far be it from me—"

  "Oh, pooh on far be it from you." Her eyes slid sideways and rested for a moment on Marge Schmidt. "I just want to know one thing, Harve, and then Quill and I are leaving. When did you know about this money?"

  Harvey giggled. "I don't know why you're asking me, Meg. I'm sure I heard it when the rest of you did. Yesterday, when the governor's office announced it to the press."

  "And I'm just as sure that you and a few others knew about it long before this."

  "It's not important, Meg, really," Quill said. "Why don't we go?"

  "Marge?" Meg faced her directly. "You've always been straight with us. When did you know about the amount of money that had been allocated to Hemlock Falls?"

  "Coupla weeks ago. A month, maybe. I got a friend on the Ways and Means Committee."

  "Why do you need to know this, Meg?" Quill asked in an undertone.

  "Because if we'd known a month ago, John would have stayed, that's why. A month ago, with this in our future, we wouldn't have had to be thinking about filing for Chapter Eleven. That's the problem with secret meetings. If we'd known about the availability of these funds when you all did, our reputation would have been intact; I wouldn't be cooking hash browns for ladies who make money belts out of Kleenex boxes!" Furious, she turned to the mayor. "You knew, too, dammit. If you'd shared the information with us, a lot of things would have been different. Don't you think you owed us that much?"

  "I do not think," Dookie said gently, "that raised voices will solve the problem here. Meg, it appears to me that apologies should be freely given and freely accepted. Shall we have a moment of reflection?"

  "No, sir, we will not. We will have a moment of leave-taking, which my sister and I will take right this minute." Meg slapped her napkin onto the table, then stood up. In the middle of this tension, the phone rang.

  "No, no!" Selena cried in distress. "Please, Meg, you mistake the matter." She ignored the insistent ring from the kitchen. "All of us know how public-spirited you and Quill are. We would not have invited you here if we had intended any—what is the expression, Hugh, more than one dealing?"

  "Double-dealing, my darling. And please answer the phone."

  She fluttered up from the table and grabbed Quill by the arm. "Do not let this end in bad feelings. Quill. I will be right back."

  Quill spoke diffidently into the stiff silence. "Um. I don't know just how public-spirited we are at the Inn, but there's no doubt that we have an obligation to do the best for the village we live in. Laws," Quill said, "are for all of us. This notion that only the privileged few should benefit from monies gathered from the citizens of this state is a bad notion."

  Meg rolled her eyes and drew her finger across her throat. Cut!

  Quill ignored her. She was on a roll. "I support my government," she said earnestly, "and I support the freedoms of our country, but I also support the laws … yes, Selena?"

  "It is that dog," Selena said apologetically. "There is no license, but it is yours, yes? I am afraid I must go catch it, Quill. It is chasing the chickens of Mr. Peterson's farm."

  "Oh," said Quill. "I'll be happy to go—"
>
  "Oh, I don't think that would be appropriate, do you. Quill?" Hugh smiled at her, his teeth white and perfect in the middle of his grin. "Selena's just upholding the law. Selena's the dog warden, and you'll have to follow the rules and pick it up at the pound."

  "Hugh, darling. That would be cruel! I will bring the dog back to you. Quill. But it must have the license and soon. It is the la—" She stopped and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Meg threw her hands in the air. "That's it. Come on, Quill." She turned for a parting shot as they left the dining room. "Anybody wants us, come by the Inn. We're the two bag ladies on the driveway with the tin cups and the unlicensed dog. Thanks again for the open discussion, guys."

  "Wow," Quill said, when they were in her battered Oldsmobile on their way back to the Inn. "You blew."

  "Just call me Krakatoa." Meg stared out the open window. "You, on the other hand, started tap-dancing with all the righteous aplomb of Newt Gingrich. Did you lose your mind?!"

  "I was just trying to salvage the situation for us. You were a little hard on them, Meggie."

  "I was not. I wasn't hard enough!"

  Quill drove quietly for a moment. Summerhill was only a few miles off Route 15, no more than twenty minutes from the Inn. The day was fine. Quill loved the light that came in spring: she always thought of it as slender, yet voluptuous, like the statue of Niobe in Paris. Perhaps she should start a series of Water Studies, and paint the pool beneath the Falls in each season. "You know," she said, after the angry red left Meg's cheeks, "there's a terrific imbalance in this family. You have too much of the in-your-face spirit, and I appear to have too little."

  "Do you think it would have been right to stay there at that secret little grabbers meeting?"

  "No, I don't. But I also think that Dookie would have pointed out, in his nonconfrontational, abstract, totally inoffensive way, that perhaps we should bring this to the attention of the rest of the town."