"I meant muscle-wise. Flesh-wise." She reached down and touched the length of him. "Soft-tissue-wise."
"You feel lighter. Have you lost weight?"
"I don't think so. Although it'd be the only good thing to come out of this sorry mess."
"You get any thinner and I'll have a talk with Andy Bishop. Why don't you tell me about the sorry mess."
"You need to sleep, my dearest dear. How long was the flight from Frankfurt?"
"Seven hours. Another two at Kennedy, and then an hour to Syracuse. Not bad."
She didn't want to ask the question, but she did. "When do you have to go back? Let me rephrase that." She sat up and put on a streetwise accent. "So, sailor. How long ya in town for?"
"A week or two. Maybe more. A lot depends on the situation in Bonn."
He wouldn't tell her more than that. He never did. "You didn't come back because you thought I was in trouble, did you?"
His hands were rough, large, callused. She loved his hands. He picked up the hair from the back of her neck, kissed her there, then ran one hand down her back in a long gentle stroke. "I told Carter I had a family emergency."
She turned and glared at him in the dark.
"But there's a great deal for me to do in Washington. I switched assignments with Moorhouse in D.C. So I'm back in the States for the duration of the assignment. How long I'm in Hemlock Falls depends on how much I can get accomplished online."
She didn't say anything, thinking this over.
He made a movement, oddly tentative for a man of his size and assurance. "You might consider, Quill, that I'm a part of your life. Of all your life. There isn't one category just for lovers, and a separate category for innkeeper, and a third for artist. They're all integrated. Or they should be. And don't confuse my presence with interference. When have I ever made a decision for you?"
She sighed.
"So I'll be here, but just at the times when it's right."
"Right," she said reflectively.
"Right. As in appropriate, fitting, usual. For example: 'Myles, I need to talk to you about this,' or 'Myles, this was not a good day. Do you want to hear why?' or, better yet—'Myles, I had a great day. How was yours?' " He stopped stroking her back and gave her a light, affectionate slap. "It's easy. Now get me something to eat, woman."
She threw on a robe, switched on the lights, and went to her refrigerator. Max followed, delighted to have human company at this hour, and peered in the opened door with her. "Cheese omelet with toast?"
"Sounds fine."
Myles kept very few clothes in her suite: some shaving gear, a few shirts. He pulled on the robe she kept for him and sat at her small kitchen table, long legs stretched out, his gray eyes narrowed. She gave him a succinct account of the past week's events while she cooked.
Quill poured them both some orange juice, divided the omelet neatly in half, and put the plates on the table. "That's it." She rubbed her face with both hands. "Between the financial mess and those poor women, it's been quite a week." She felt her face grow warm with indignation. "Dookie Shuttleworth is right, you know. The love of money is the root of all evil. This Vinge finds a few women in the way of his profits and phhht!" She snapped her fingers. "Get them out of the way. Marge Schmidt sees a chance to pick off eight years of Meg's hard work and bloody! Friendship goes out the window."
"What is the financial situation exactly? John told me it's fairly serious."
Quill closed her eyes. "It's two o'clock in the morning, Myles. It's the wrong time to talk about the financials."
He laughed a little. "Not if the State's going to nail the doors shut tomorrow morning. Can you make payroll this week?"
"John made arrangements with that computer service in town to issue paychecks to Doreen, Kathleen, and Bjarne. Meg and I are on very short rations. I'm sure the company will call me if that changes. He did say he'd set aside a minimum payroll until the end of the summer. Then, I don't know."
"And the other bills? You've missed one mortgage payment. Mark Jefferson isn't going to start pressuring you until you're three or four months in arrears."
"I know we'd be fine for the summer if Burke would just issue that check. And, Myles, by then we'd have a much better handle on the grant from the governor's office. And I know Marge wouldn't be so interested in buying us out if she didn't count on a lot of money coming in from private investors after the grant money's in circulation. I didn't tell you about Thorne Smith, did I?"
"Thorne Smith?" He drew his eyebrows together. "Why does that name sound familiar?"
"Beats me. He's an investment advisor from a big Boston firm. He seems to be here because of the Winegrowers' Association."
"What's the name of the firm?"
Quill told him, then asked if he recognized it.
"No. But I'll check."
"He looks successful, behaves with confidence …" She rubbed her nose. "Gee, that name sounds familiar to me, too. Hang on a minute." Her kitchen was divided from her small living room by a breakfast counter. She stored her own laptop computer under one of the shelves. Myles watched as she dragged it out and logged on.
"I do have a question, however. What was the purpose of the meeting at Summerhill yesterday?"
"Why …" Quill hesitated, thinking while her modem connected with the Internet. "I don't know."
"Before Meg got edgy, Marge said what, exactly?"
"She wanted to plan how to use the four million dollars."
"She never got a chance to explain?"
"No. Come to think of it …"
He waited, drinking his orange juice. Quill stared at the computer screen, then absently keyed in the address of the New York City Public Library. "Who was the fellow who looked around in wild surmise upon a peak in Darien?"
"Stout Cortez. And I believe the poet was referring to his tenacity, not his girth. Why do you ask?"
"Because Meg and I engaged in some. Wild surmise, that is. When I think about it, neither Meg nor I have the least idea what Marge had in mind. For all I know, she and the Summerhills wanted to use the money to establish a charity for the restoration of impoverished inns. We just assumed that they wanted it all for themselves." She closed her eyes in chagrin. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Would you look at me? This financial crisis is uncovering some very unpleasant parts of my character."
"Financial distress can twist the best of us."
"I'm embarrassed."
He smiled. "Why don't you sit down with Marge and Hugh and ask them what they have in mind?"
"I'll go out to the winery today."
"I love it when you're humble, Quill. While you're in this unusually abashed and vulnerable state, why don't you let me loan you the fifty thousand that's due from Burke?"
"No."
This didn't seem to surprise him. He finished his omelet, then said, "The bank won't loan you the money on it unless Burke is willing to guarantee payment. Since the arson investigation is still open, that guarantee isn't going to happen. One way or another, the check will eventually come in. You need it. You know what can happen if you don't make payroll. Quill. The State can— and will—put a lock on your front door. John would advise you to take this loan. My interest rates," he said with a grin, "are pretty low."
"I don't like it."
"It's a good idea for a lot of reasons. It'll take the money pressure off temporarily. You're going to have to make some changes at the Inn, that's clear. But you want a clear head and a rational state of mind to do that. Hard to sustain if you're fending off creditors."
Quill rubbed her face with both hands. "One of the many many reasons I love you, Myles, is that you always make sense. I'll talk to Meg."
"Good. Let's take a look at the other problem. Do you want some advice on how to look at these crimes?"
Quill eyed him a little warily. She gave herself a few moments and queried the Reference Library about Thorne Smith. Then she said, "Yes. I think I do."
"Talk to Andy directly about the autopsy result
s. Go over the evidence bags Davy's collected yourself. Don't take his word for it, or let him give you a list. You said Doreen went through the room where Ellen Dunbarton was murdered?"
"She found a few things. Nothing that seemed important."
"Every anomaly, no matter how small, is vital in an investigation. What about your suspect?"
The screen blinked invitingly at her. She ignored it. "Paul Pfieffer, Myles. It has to be. He's got the business background. If his second career as a direct market salesman came out, it would jeopardize his job with the state. And he's got that jumpy, anal retentive attitude a lot of state employees seem to have.
"Then there's Thorne Smith. He's been at the Marriott during the entire time the Crafty Ladies have been here. He's slick, smooth, and you only have to look at him to realize how much he likes money.
"The other alternative is just plain Mr. X. There's no reason for this murderer to show himself. Quite the reverse. But if it is Mr. X, I have no idea where to begin looking for him. It's probably that X lives in Hemlock Falls, don't you think? Why else have the Crafty Ladies check in here? We have how many people living in the village? Three thousand and some odd. I don't know how to begin. The murders Meg and I have solved in the past have risen out of personal motives. The players have always been onstage before. This could be a Patricia Cornwell situation, don't you think? By that I mean forensics are going to solve this case, not intuition and deduction. Oh, I considered the fact that it's someone we've known for years, like Marge. But come on! Or the Summerhills, or one of the Petersons—anyone could be involved. But it doesn't add up."
"If it doesn't add up, it's because we don't have enough facts in place." She was pleased by his use of the pronoun. Myles had always resisted her involvement in his cases in the past. On the other hand, he wasn't the sheriff now, he was a private investigator himself. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Do you mind if I poke around a bit myself? This case is interesting."
"Davy and the fire chief would love to have you poke around a bit. They keep asking me when you're coming home."
"I'll see what I can do."
"You'll tell me everything, Myles, won't you?" she said anxiously. "I mean, I feel that all of this is my responsibility. I worry that—" She felt tears behind her eyes. "Oh, nuts. It's nuts. What's the matter with me? You're much better at everything than I am." She frowned fiercely at Max, who had curled up at her feet. "The cavalry's come over the hill, Max, and the white wimmin have been saved from a fate worse than death." She switched the frown to Myles. "I'm so glad I amuse you."
He rubbed his chin, partly. Quill suspected, to conceal the grin on his face. "Listen to me, Quill. That somewhat incoherent metaphor implies that either I or you or perhaps both of us want the kind of marriage where there's a general and a private. I'm speaking of a marriage in principle, you understand, since you're so skittish about the fact. We aren't a paramilitary organization, my darling. We're two overlapping circles, right?" He made a circle out of the thumbs and forefingers of both hands and held them up. "We, Myles and Quill, are in the center. Quill qua Quill is to the left. Myles qua Myles is to the right. Together, but separate." His glance fell on Max, whose tail thumped approval at the tone of voice, if not the sentiment. "I suppose we've got to include that damn dog, too."
Quill, the query about Thorne Smith forgotten, shut down the computer, and turned off the light. "Myles," she said into the dark. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"
Quill came downstairs at seven o'clock the next morning, feeling guilty. She'd had every intention of getting up at six to help Meg in the kitchen, but the alarm had wakened Myles, of course, and there you were, she thought. She felt wonderful. Three cheers for the snake in the apple tree.
"Quill!" Freddie Patch's worried voice stopped her headlong rush to the kitchen. The three remaining Crafty Ladies were seated at their regular table. "Could we talk to you for a minute?"
They all had coffee and orange juice at least, Quill noticed. Poor Meg. If she accepted that loan from Myles, they could afford help, at least until this was all over. "Of course. I just want to check on Meg, then I'll be right back."
Quill pushed open one of the double doors to the kitchen and peeked in. Doreen was standing at the work-table, hulling strawberries. Meg was at the oven with a pan of uncooked muffins. "Hi, guys!" She walked in. Doreen sniffed. Meg slapped the muffins on the oven rack and slammed the door shut. "Sorry I'm late."
"Everything's under control," Meg said. "Except my normally excellent temper. We can't close the kitchen because we need the income, as pitiful as it is, from the two and one half guests that are staying here. We can't get help because we're broke—" She stopped herself, and looked closely at her sister "Is Myles home?"
"Did you hear him come in last night?"
"Nope. Slept like a log. An overworked, underpaid— make that no-paid—log. Andy wanted to take my blood pressure three times last evening because he thought I was dead. I have none. Because I am dead. On the other hand, you're blooming. I'll bet your blood pressure is just fine. You worked as hard as I did yesterday, and you had about the same amount of sleep, and goodness knows you are even more worried than I am about the lack of money, but you don't look dead. Since I am a part-time and, if I do say so myself, highly qualified amateur detective, I deduced, cleverly, that Myles came home."
"I'm impressed," Quill said. "I really am."
"Also, he come by for coffee a few minutes ago." Doreen dumped the hulled strawberries into a colander and began trimming a new pint. "He left that"—she nodded toward a white envelope on the counter—"in case you and Miss Hissy here wanted to take that loan."
Quill picked up the envelope and opened it. The check for fifty thousand was inside.
"I'm goin' to the bank this morning," Doreen offered. "To deposit my paycheck. If I got one. I can take that there with me."
Quill looked a question at Meg.
"Are you out of your mind? Of course we should take it!"
"What if we can't pay it back?" Quill asked quietly.
"You remember those 401k's John set up for us."
"He said never never never touch them."
"When needs must, or whatever that expression is. I'll guarantee my twenty-five thousand from my 401k, Quill. You do what you want."
"It's all we've got left."
Meg shrugged. "So? I can always get a job as a chef. You can teach art to the artless."
"And I'll take in laundry," Doreen said. "You laugh, Meg. I done it before."
"I'm not laughing."
"You want I should deposit that there?"
"Yes," said Quill. "Go ahead. And the paychecks should be in the morning's mail, Doreen. That payroll service on Main Street is doing them."
"I don't need mine for a while yet. But I'll see Kathleen gets hers. And Mike."
Quill didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. But she gave Doreen a kiss, and made a face at her sister.
"This here order's ready for table five," Doreen scolded. "You get it right on out."
Quill took the three bowls of strawberries, brioche, and a jug of cream to the ladies at table five. "I'd like to sit with you for a while," Quill said. "But if we get guests in for breakfast, I'm going to have to wait on them. Our waitress—um—called in sick."
"The financial situation hasn't improved any?" Freddie said, with unexpected shrewdness. "You can always tell when you have to lay off the help. I'm so sorry. And I'm afraid we're going to add to your troubles. We're leaving."
Quill had been too busy to notice before, but none of the three women at the table looked at all well. Freddie's soft white hair hadn't been combed. Mary's eyes were deeply shadowed. Robin's hands trembled as she ate her toast. Quill sat in the vacant fourth chair and looked at them with concern. "Did anything happen last night?"
"Noises in the corridor." Robin shuddered. "We didn't sleep at all."
"I'm afraid that must have been a friend of mine. It was very late wh
en he got in."
"Terrible sighs and moans."
Quill kept her composure. "Max the dog, I should think. He went out early this morning."
"We don't feel safe here," Freddie said softly. "We just don't feel safe."
"I don't blame you at all. But do you think moving is going to help?"
"We can't leave Hemlock Falls until Mr. Vinge comes, we just can't!" Mary cried. "There's all this money at stake."
More than they've seen in their whole lives, Quill thought, and sighed. "I understand. But I want to ask you something. What if Mr. Vinge killed Fran and Ellen?"
Freddie's soft mouth formed an astonished "O."
"Mr. Vinge?" Robin said. "Mr. Vinge? But he's going to pay us! Why would he want to hurt us?"
"I see what you're saying," Mary said slowly. "It's because he owes us, isn't it? It's because we've come up with all these good ideas. He wants to keep them for himself."
"I'm afraid so. At least, that's my theory." They looked, if it were possible, even more frightened than before. Quill made her voice as reassuring as she could. "You know what? You all need some food. Have your breakfast, and then we'll talk about it. I," said Quill, "have a plan."
"To help us? We can eat and talk at the same time," Freddie said eagerly. "We do it all the time at canasta club. What's your plan. Quill? Here. See? I'm eating my strawberries." She placed a spoonful of them in her mouth and chewed energetically.
"Are we going to be decoys?" Freddie asked. "Like on the cop shows?"
"The decoys always get into trouble on the cop shows on TV, Freddie," Mary said. "I'm sure Quill has a better plan than that."
Actually, Quill didn't have a better plan than that. "I wasn't thinking of using you as decoys, exactly. More along the lines of getting Mr. Vinge to show himself. Without danger to any of you. But first, I need to know where he is, and how to reach him."
"Good morning," said a dry voice in Quill's ear. "I assume, since these people are having breakfast, that food is available."
"Mr. Pfieffer!" Quill jumped, recovered herself, and got to her feet reluctantly. "I'll be right with you. Please have a seat where you would like. Freddie? Mary? Robin? I'll see you all for tea? As usual?" She invested her voice with heavy significance.
A Touch of the Grape Page 15