"Tea? Our usual tea?" Freddie blinked in confusion.
Mary poked her sharply. "You know!" She hissed loudly, "The Plan!"
"Oh, of course." She dimpled. "You know," she confided, "this is quite exciting."
"At three, then," Quill said loudly. "In the gazebo."
"Three, at the gazebo." Robin dug into her capacious purse and withdrew a little pen and a cloth covered notebook. "Recycled detergent carton," she explained proudly, displaying the notebook. White powder showered onto her strawberries. "You just find a few scraps of cloth, trim the cardboard with a pair of pinking shears, and staple the unused backs of Christmas cards together for the paper. Very sturdy, and of course it doesn't cost a dime. You have to buy the pen, though." She put on her reading glasses, squinted at the opened pages, and said as she wrote, "Th-re-ee oo'-clock. Gazebo. There! We'll see you then!"
Paul Pfieffer cleared his throat in a pay-some-attention-to-me! way, and Quill nodded hastily. "You all stay right around here, today, please. I don't want to lose anyone else."
Quill was rushed off her feet in the next hour, and the kitchen crew was put under a severe strain. It hadn't taken the village gossip mill long to discover Mr. Pfieffer's whereabouts or to catch wind of the presence of the rich investment counselor from Boston. Nineteen of the twenty-four members of the Chamber of Commerce showed up, "just for coffee and a little something," as well as the Kiwanis, the Lions Club, the Ladies Auxiliary, and what seemed like an entire busload of the Hemlock Falls Future Farmers of America. As far as Quill was concerned, the absentees were more important than those present. "Marge and Betty haven't poked their heads in all morning," she said hurriedly to Meg, "and neither have Selena and Hugh Summerhill. Worse yet. Harvey isn't here. Harvey's always where the real action is. And everyone manages to drop casually into the conversation: 'Seen that Mr. Pfieffer around?' or 'Heard some fella from Boston was here,' and there'll be a significant pause. Well, tough. Pfieffer ate and went, and I haven't seen Mr. Smith at all."
"Who cares?" Meg filled four plates of scrambled eggs with bacon, added a sprig of mint and a whole strawberry to each serving, and slid the plates onto a tray. "Table six. The mayor and his banker pals. You know, I could have made it as a short-order cook."
"You may end up as a short-order cook if the Summerhills and Marge are plotting a way to keep all that government money themselves." She stopped herself and said conscientiously, "Although we don't know that, do we? They may be planning to use it for the good of the town. If they can get their hands on it. Anyway, after the rush is over, I'm going to take a little trip out to the winery. I'll bet you fifty cents that's where our conspirators are." She picked up the tray and braced it on one hip.
"If you're abandoning me, then get me some more staff!" Meg shouted after her.
The dining room cleared out at eleven. Quill resisted the temptation to sit and put her feet up. Instead, she went into her office. She left the phone on automatic answer. She entered the fifty-thousand-dollar deposit in the computer, then picked up the phone and called Kathleen, Nate, and Dina Muir, in quick succession. Fulltime, she said to each of them, at least until the end of June. She took the list John had left and wrote out checks for the most pressing of the bills. Two estimates for rebuilding the burned-out suite lay in her "In" basket. She reviewed them, dismayed. Labor rates had gone up since she and Meg had last remodeled. And the price of lumber was extortionate. They could talk about Hurricane Hugo all they wanted, she thought darkly, somebody was making a pile of money off wood. She placed a call to Peterson's Hardware and asked that the most pressing work be done right away. "The wiring, the Sheetrock, and the windows on the balcony," she said. "That's all I can afford for the time being, Petey. The flooring and the rest of it is just going to have to wait." He told her he'd be there that afternoon, and Quill rang off with a sense of having accomplished a great deal. There was just one more thing to check. She dialed 597-FOOD. Betty Hall answered the phone. Quill pinched her nose closed with one hand. "Marge Schmidt? This is the state insurance commission calling."
"Ain't here."
"It's quite important to reach her. Tell her we called."
"Wait!" Betty's voice was anxious. "This about her application to be a broker?"
"I'm sorry, I cannot discuss applications for broker's licenses over the phone." This was true. Quill didn't know a thing about applying for a broker's license.
"She's at a meeting. I'll give you the number."
"Sorry."
"Summerhill Vineyards," Betty said desperately. "The number is …"
Quill smacked the phone into the cradle with all the rudeness of a state employee on her way to lunch. She'd been right.
The door to her office opened. "Hi!" Dina said. "I'm back. You look happy. Did we win the lottery?"
"Just a reprieve. We aren't out of the woods yet. I've got to go out. Could you handle all the phone messages? I haven't gone through them yet."
"No problem."
"And bookings?"
"We've got bookings?"
"We just might. You never know. And if Meg needs you in the kitchen you'll give her a hand, won't you? And if Myles should call—did I tell you he came home last night?—tell him I've gone to the Summerhills for a meeting. You've got that number in the Rolodex."
"Things are sure hopping," Dina said, pleased. "Are you solving the murders?"
"At the moment, I'm saving the Inn. This afternoon at three, I'm solving the murders."
"Cool. Anything else?"
"I can't handle anything else! Mail these bills, if you would. And if Max comes in, give him chopped up rice, a couple of raw eggs, and some bouillon. His digestion can't handle anything else."
"Sounds gross. Bouillon, rice, and eggs. Got it."
"He'll want something else, but he can't have it. Keep an eye on the Crafty Ladies, Dina. And make a note each time Paul Pfieffer leaves and comes back."
"Paul Pfieffer?"
"Paul Pfieffer."
"Got it."
"One last thing. Would you see if Doc Bishop and Davy Kiddermeister can come over here about eight this evening for dinner? Tell both of them they can have whatever they want from Meg's kitchen."
"Got it." Dina flipped her long brown hair and sighed happily. "Nice to be busy again, you know? Makes a person feel more useful."
"It certainly does. Do you have any questions?"
"Yah. Just a couple. Who's Paul Pfieffer, which one is Max, how long is Sheriff McHale—"
"He's not sheriff anymore, Dina."
"—going to be in town, and what if David doesn't want to come to dinner?"
"Why shouldn't Davy want to come to dinner?"
Dina's clear brown eyes were as sorrowful as Max's. "We had a fight. He might not want to be in the same county as me."
"You're dating Davy Kiddermeister?"
"Just for laughs, you know? It's not, like, serious. But," she said with unexpected gravity, "it's like, don't call him Davy, okay? His name's David. It's more— responsible. He needs, like, more respect."
"How does David feel about you getting your doctorate?" Quill asked dryly. "You know, Dina, he's a nice, good-looking guy, but as far as I know, he's not much interested in a life outside Hemlock Falls."
"Quill! You have, like, these old fogy notions! If I have the bigger paycheck, does he, like, care? I don't think so." She rolled her eyes. "I think I got it all, okay? I mean, your instructions. So I know where you are; I'll call you if I have to." She fluttered her fingers. "I'll catch the phones. And I'll catch you later." She banged out the door to her workstation behind the reception desk.
Old fogy? Quill looked in the mirror hung on the back of her office door. Were those lines on her upper lip? Was she getting gray? She unwound her hair from the top of her head and examined her widow's peak. No gray. Just the usual red, darker than it generally was at this time of year, because she hadn't anytime to spend outside. And old fogies didn't single-handedly save their family business whil
e simultaneously solving the biggest crime of the year in Hemlock Falls.
"Maybe Miss Marple did," she said to her reflection. She sighed heavily. "Except that she had a private income, so she didn't worry about the business side of life." She checked the time: noon. With any luck, she'd catch Marge and the Summerhills right in the middle of planning to appropriate all that cash for themselves.
Yesterday's clouds were cleared, and the sun was shining. Driving the Oldsmobile to the vineyard, Quill's spirits rose. She hummed that she loved Paris in the winter, she loved Paris in the fall, then sang, full-throated, "I love Paris in the springtime!" and ignored the speed limit. She turned left at the gold-lettered sign that said SUMMERHILL WINERY. The sign giving the hours for the tasting room had a placard over it: closed for today only. Quill followed the arrows up the hill.
Most of the boutique wineries in the area were built on the slopes of hills surrounding the lakes. Summerhill Winery was no exception. Lake Cayuga glittered in the sunshine below the fields. The air was scented with apple blossoms and flowering plum. The grapevines were just coming into leaf. The rows between the long vines had been neatly raked. The fields themselves were deserted. The vines were trimmed and culled in early winter, after the harvest. Quill knew, so maybe there wasn't a great deal to do in the spring. Either that, or the Summerhills couldn't afford the labor. But the whole property looked trim and well cared for. It was hard to believe that the Summerhills were in financial trouble. Selena and Hugh had twenty of their twenty-five acres under cultivation, slightly more than the average winery here. Selena had told her once they pressed more than sixty thousand gallons a year.
They should have been profitable. But for the taxes. Quill thought. I'll bet the taxes are eating them alive, too. I'm facing two certainties of life right here, right now: Death and Taxes.
Five acres at Summerhill were allocated to the winery itself, the house, and two barns that had been part of the farm when Hugh had purchased it several years before. Quill pulled into the blacktopped driveway, braked, and muttered, "Aha."
Four cars sat in the parking spaces in front of the tasting room: Marge's Lincoln (brand-new), Harvey's Cadillac (old, but lovingly polished), a Mercedes with Boston plates, and a Ford Taurus with an Avis sticker on the license plate. Quill recalled reading that the state of New York had switched to Avis as its rental dealer of choice.
The parking lot was quiet. Anyone who was here was inside. Quill noticed that the windows on the south end of the building were open to the air and the view of the lake. They'd probably gathered at that end of the room.
She had options. She could march in, sit down, and discover what was going on through sheer force of personality. She could go home. Or she could reconnoiter. Quill was of the opinion that reconnoitering was a term Special Forces invented as a euphemism for eavesdropping. She'd often thought that very few of the fictional private eyes she liked to read for fun properly addressed the problem of the more character wrecking parts of being an investigator. Lew Archer never had to lie or eavesdrop. Easy Rawlins was as straight as they come.
But there were times when discretion was absolutely the better part of valor. If Quill marched into the tasting room and demanded to know what's what. Marge was fully capable of booting her out the door. There was also the distinct possibility that she'd hear more truth outside the window than inside the tasting room.
Besides, in one of Marge's more memorable phrases, "business was war." If she. Quill, really were in a war, and had to save the lives of her men, she'd reconnoiter away without a qualm. She straightened her shoulders and stuck out her chin: she wouldn't go so far as to imagine the sound of trumpets, but she did think of God, King Harry, and England.
The front door was on the south end of the building on the west wall. She'd have to pass it to get to the open windows. She walked by it on tiptoe, wishing she'd thought to wear her tennis shoes instead of her slappy Birkinstocks.
She stopped at the end of the west wall and heard the murmur of voices. She craned her neck around the corner and held her breath to hear better. The words were indistinguishable, the tone clipped, the voice masculine. Either Hugh or Thorne Smith.
"Haven't heard a thing yet worth a bucket of warm spit!" Marge's voice was very distinct. Bless that foghorn bellow.
Mutter mutter mutter, said the male voice in response.
"… an infusion of cash, is all," Marge said. "Them two don't know shit from shinola when it comes to running a business! Raintree did all the financials. But you won't find a better cook than the brunette, and the redhead knows how to treat the guests."
Mut-ter mutt mutt mutter? This voice, also masculine, sounded like a horse clipper: thin, dry, and buzzy. Paul Pfieffer.
"Bullshit. He left because he was in love with the tall skinny one with red hair and she's been havin' it on with the sher'f … It's a good business, and they're pretty good folk."
Quill blushed. She could feel it. After all the suspicions she had had about Marge.
Mut-ter muttermutter?
"Not the current sher'f. The real one. Raintree's leaving wasn't a business issue at all. Woulda hired him myself if I needed a good business manager. But you'd have to go farther than some M.B.A. like Raintree to beat me at business." (This, Quill reflected, was true.) "Ask Jefferson down to the bank if you don't take my word for it. Snot-nosed bureaucrat who probably couldn't read a balance sheet anyways."
Wow. Quill flattened herself at the side of the building and reconsidered her decision to eavesdrop. Not only did Marge appear to be on the side of the Inn, she didn't sound anything like a conspirator. She sounded just like she always did, ready to flatten anyone who challenged her (admittedly superior) business decisions. She could hear Marge's opinion of just about anybody anytime she wanted to go to the Hemlock Home Diner for Sunday breakfast. She didn't have to stand flattened against the side of a metal building in the hot sun. Besides, if there was any content to this meeting other than name-calling, it didn't appear to be imminent.
"You can shove that opinion right where the sun don't shine!"
Whack! That sounded like a chair going over. "Okay, boys," Quill murmured to her imaginary battalion. "We're going in."
SLAM! The front door banged open and Marge stumped into the parking lot, purse over one meaty shoulder, briefcase dangling from the other. "What are you doin' here?!"
Quill was ready for that one. She dangled her car keys. "Dropped my keys over here. I was just about to come in. How's the meeting going?"
"Thought you was too honorable to mix with pee-ons."
Marge's feelings were hurt! Well, well. Quill decided, magnanimously, to forgive her the "having it on" remark about her relationship with Myles. "Meg and I may have been a little hasty in our reading of the situation. May I join the meeting?"
"It's over." Marge eyed her up and down. " 'Cause I'm leavin' and they ain't gonna get a thing decided without me. Tell you what, though. I'll drop by the Inn tonight, about ten, we maybe can talk some."
"Okay."
She jerked her thumb backwards. "You gonna say anything to them four twits, you tell them this. Your inn's the on'y real attraction goin'. Wine drinkers? Puh! Ain't enough of them to count on, and besides, what ever all them boozers gonna do with their kids and families if they do come up to drink themselves silly? None of those wieners in there have a clue that they need to do more than package sales, and that's the plain truth."
"We aren't set up for children either," Quill said doubtfully.
"Got a few ideas about that." She gave Quill a friendly blow to the arm. "See ya tonight."
Quill walked in on a clearly disgruntled group. Harvey was biting his nails. Paul Pfieffer looked as if he had indigestion. Hugh looked glum. Even Thorne Smith appeared slightly flapped. "Hi, everyone. I just met Marge outside. Sorry I missed the meeting."
"But we didn't invite you. Quill," Harvey said apologetically. "Pfieffer said we'd pissed you off."
"I did not use that phra
se, Mr. Bozzel."
"We all seem to have misread the situation," Quill said. "But I'm certainly ready to listen now."
"Please sit down. Miss Quilliam," Paul Pfieffer said, "and we'll see if we can make some headway here."
8
It was almost a quarter after three when Quill got back to the Inn. She parked at the front entrance and hurried into the foyer. Dina broke into speech as soon as she came in the front door. "There's tons of messages. It is so cool."
"Really?" said Quill, pleased. "I'm running late for tea with Freddie Patch and her friends, but I'll come and get the messages after that. Unless there's a few that can't wait."
"You mean messages for you?"
"Yes, Dina. Messages for me."
"Most of them are for Sheriff McHale."
"He's not … never mind. Are there any at all for me?"
"Yeah. But you won't like it. At least you didn't last time and you wouldn't let them come."
"Let who come? What last time?"
"The Geraldo people. Please, please won't you let them do a story on the Murder Inn. It would be so—"
"If you say it, I'll scream. Are Freddie and her friends in the gazebo?"
"I guess."
"That's where I'll be until just after four o'clock. Will you please tell Meg I have very good news? I'll talk to her as soon as I can. And were any of those messages bookings?"
"The Geraldo people wanted to book a ton of rooms."
"They can't," Quill said flatly. "Anyone else?"
"Nope."
"I'll be back in an hour."
She was back in less than five minutes. "They aren't there. And don't say who or I'll throttle you."
"You mean Freddie Patch and those other old ladies."
"I thought I asked you to keep an eye on them, Dina. And don't call them old ladies."
"Sorry, sorry. I did watch them while they were here at the Inn! But I can't keep an eye on them if they're shopping. For that," Dina said with a rather malicious air, "I would have to quit my post. And I couldn't take all these messages for Sher—I mean, Myles. They went into the village just after you left. The tall one that wears those twinsets?"
A Touch of the Grape Page 16