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

by Bishop, Claudia

  "Passage," Freddie said helpfully.

  "Yes, passage. But I think you guys have a great idea and a lot of talent, and of course you can do well. But you don't need me to talk to Selena and Hugh. You can drop by the Summerhill Winery anytime and talk to them yourselves. You wanted a wine tour, too, didn't you? That might be a perfect time to sit down and talk about your proposal."

  "Without an introduction?" Mary said. "I don't know. I'd be embarrassed, I think. I mean, she's a big shot, obviously, owning a whole winery and whatever. We can't just walk up and introduce ourselves."

  "Sure you can," Quill said cheerfully.

  Rocky Burke, looking the better for a solid night's sleep, came into the dining room from the foyer. He looked around, and seeing no one to seat him, sat himself at table seven—the one overlooking the Falls.

  Quill nodded at him and got to her feet. "I see I have another customer. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you now. I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes."

  "Now see that, Fran," Quill heard Freddie say in an undertone as she approached Mr. Burke with a menu. "That's class. If we're going to do this as a real business, and do it right, that's what we'll need. A little class."

  "Mr. Burke," Quill said. She laid the breakfast menu in front of him. "Would you like coffee or orange juice?"

  "Sure," he said gloomily. "Both. And both fresh, if you don't mind. Can't stand coffee that's been stewing on a hot plate for hours."

  "Our coffee's brewed at the table, and the orange juice is freshly squeezed," Quill said. She would keep her temper with this guy, just as she'd kept her temper with the unpleasant Fran Grimsby.

  "Fine. And the eggs Benedict. Bring some coffee for yourself, why don't you? I've got a couple more questions for you."

  "Sure." Quill went back into the kitchen. Meg was nowhere in sight, so she gave Bjarne the order for the eggs, and squeezed the orange juice herself. Just before the painful budget crunch, she'd talked John into buying individual Melitta coffee carafes for each table. The coffee could be ground at the table, and made in front of the guest. It worked out well for those guests who had a real appreciation of good coffee. And Rocky Burke, for all his boorish behavior, seemed to like good coffee. She loaded a tray with two glasses of orange juice, and two small drip pots, then asked Bjarne to serve the eggs himself when they were finished. "Table seven," she added.

  "Ya. This is good to do. To have the chef appear. The hashes? Did they like that?"

  "They loved it. And they'll love it if you stop by and ask them if they loved it. Table five. Well, you'll see. There's only two tables out there, and I'll be at the other."

  "Business is picking up," he said gloomily, then winked. Bjarne was tall, pale, with eyes the color of a glass of plain water. He had, she realized, made a Finnish joke.

  "Business is picking up," she agreed.

  Rocky Burke swallowed the orange juice with an appreciative grunt.

  "How's the investigation going?" Quill asked sympathetically.

  "All right. I've been all over the place." He eyed her. "You're not going to believe it, but this place exceeds the New York State fire code."

  "It does?" Quill said, pleased.

  "Yeah. You two spent a ton. Didn't need to, but it's nice to see from my perspective. Codes here are stiffer than any other place in the U.S."

  "They are?"

  "Yeah. Lotta stupid requirements, if you ask me, but then, nobody did, did they? It's the city."

  "New York City?"

  He pointed a forefinger at her. "R-i-ight. Lot of slumlords that just as soon you burned up as pay the rent. Lot of these requirements are defensive, if you get my drift. But no, except for the fact that you had a fire that killed Ellen Dunbarton, aged sixty-two, married with three kids, you're in fine shape."

  "Are you being sarcastic?"

  "Nope. Just a little disappointed that it looks as though I'm going to have to pay that claim."

  "So you don't think that my sister and I set that fire."

  "Hell." He shrugged. "There's a certain profile to an arsonist, you know what I mean? Neither of you fit, and you haven't got anyone that works for you that fits either. Besides, whoever set that fire was a pro."

  "A pro?"

  "Big-time. He, she it, whoever used phosphorous. Hard to get. Used it right. Which is even harder. More than one arsonist's been blown up with his, her, its phosphorous bomb. Small loss. So. If I hadn't had my hackles raised, I never would have found it. Somebody climbed up your balcony and tucked the phosphorous bomb with a remote switch behind the bed curtains. They backed down, got away as far as a mile, maybe, and set the damn thing off. It ignited like that"—he snapped his fingers—"and what's more, consumed most of the evidence along with it. You can stick that sucker in your pocket—the whole thing's the size of a thick wallet. Thing is, our friend trimmed the fuse before he, she, it left. Must have fallen out of the perp's pocket, because I found it on the stone floor of the balcony." He reached into his breast pocket and showed Quill a plastic bag. A short piece of insulated wire was inside. "There are scorch marks very typical of a phosphorus fire on the wall behind the drapes, near the phone stand. I understand that you put that fire out with your handy dandy extinguisher, or that evidence would have gone up with poor Mrs. Dunbarton, too. That was another thing that convinced me you didn't have a part in this, Cookie. Why would you have preserved evidence of the crime? Unless you were stupid." He looked at her, head cocked on one side. "And you don't look stupid. Pretty, a little scatterbrained. But not dumb. Nossir."

  "Thanks, I think. I preferred your politically correct 'he, she, it,' frankly."

  "Your type would."

  Quill showed her teeth in a tight smile. "Do you have any theories as to why the fire was set?"

  "Got a preliminary autopsy report from the village doc. This guy's no slouch either. Wouldn't think an out-of-the-way b—"

  "DON'T say 'burg,' " Quill snapped. "You're being too tough-guy to be believable."

  He shrugged, finally abashed.

  "Your eggs," Bjarne announced, and set the plate of eggs Benedict down with a flourish. "And yours, as well, madam." He set a second, smaller portion in front of Quill.

  "Why thanks, Bjarne. I'm starved as a matter of fact."

  "So," Bjarne said glumly, "how do you like it?"

  "You the chef?"

  Bjarne nodded.

  "Wait a minute." Mr. Burke cut the eggs Benedict with care, making sure to include the crumpet, back bacon, eggs, and sauce. He ate it. He chewed thoughtfully. "Lime instead of lemon in the hollandaise," he said.

  Bjarne nodded, sad as a hound dog.

  "And this bacon's home-cured."

  "It is. Our master chef, who has left the kitchen to me, takes great care with the bacon."

  "Left the kitchen to you?" Quill said.

  "For the time being," Bjarne admitted. "I am looking forward to this happening more often. If the eggs are good."

  "The eggs are very good."

  "Um, Bjarne …" Quill stood up. She had a sudden vision of Meg stamping down the driveway, her knapsack on her back, running away from home. "Maybe I'd better …"

  "No, no, Quill. I will just stop and see if the Crafty Ladies require something different." He sighed. "You just do not know, with food. They may have hated it."

  "This food's terrific, pal," Mr. Burke said. "Hope you get to do more in the kitchen."

  "It is up to her." Bjarne shook his head, a Finnish Eeyore. "Yes, it is all up to her." He shuffled to table five, to address the Crafty Ladies.

  "Guy needs Prozac," Mr. Burke said.

  "He's a Finn," Quill said, with the feeling that this should explain it, but didn't. "Now, about the autopsy."

  "You're not going to like it. I suggest you finish your Finnish eggs. I'm going to, before I give you the details."

  They ate in silence for a while. Quill, who was very hungry, wondered why she didn't feel more optimistic. Fifty thousand dollars would go a long way tow
ard payroll and the overdue grocery bill. If they could hold off until the winegrowers' association had the grant money coming in, there might be a way out of this after all.

  If Rocky Burke really intended to settle the claim.

  That was it. She didn't trust his confiding, open air. She didn't believe that she and Meg "didn't fit the profile of an arsonist." He thought he was being clever.

  "Excellent!" Mr. Burke said. He breathed out in a satisfied way. "You ready?"

  Quill nodded.

  "You already knew the sprinkler system for that room was turned off."

  "Yes. I tried to figure out why that happened, what the arsonist could have been thinking of."

  "You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out, Cookie. So as much damage as possible would be done."

  "Oh, I see."

  "We didn't get any fingerprints from the shutoff valve, of course." His eyes slid sideways, met hers, then slid away again. She was right. He did still suspect them. "As for the deceased—the doc thinks it was duct tape, but he won't be sure until he gets the results from the forensics lab in Buffalo."

  "Duct tape? What do you mean, duct tape?"

  "Ellen Dunbarton's hands were strapped behind her back, and her mouth was taped shut. He stared at her openly now. "No doubt about it. She was murdered."

  Quill, who had been rather wildly thinking of someone, anyone, who would want to put them out of business, sat up with a jerk. "You mean—the fire wasn't arson? It was homicide?"

  "Exactly what I mean. Miss Quilliam." He stretched. "So that check? It'll have to wait till the perp's arrested and very probably convicted." He grinned. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Takes a long time in this country."

  "Tell me something. Why would I want to murder a guest? Why would my sister want to murder a guest? And for God's sake, why would I choose such an ugly way to do it?"

  "Lot of crazies in the world. How should I know why people do what they do?"

  Quill looked over at Freddie, Mary Lennox, and Robin. She even felt awful for the horrible Fran. "Has anyone told them?"

  "Not my job, Cookie." He got up and flung his napkin on the table. "Be seeing you." His glance was speculative. "One way or the other."

  5

  Hugh Summerhill looked all that his name implied: tall, erect, with thick dark hair silvered at the temples. He was very good-looking in a Louis Auchincloss sort of way. He was some years older than Selena; Quill had heard there had been a first marriage, with children, that had dissolved in divorce several years before he'd purchased his twenty-six acres of farmland in Hemlock Falls. He sat at ease in the Summerhill living room, legs crossed, with a detached, pleasant expression.

  Quill sat across from Hugh and Selena, deep in a comfortable leather chair. She'd been in many rooms like this one as a girl in Connecticut, including her own family's. The floor was polished oak. The couches were soft, well worn, and plushy to sit in. They were covered in a subtly elegant floral pattern—almost chintz, but not quite. Books were scattered around the room. They spilled over the cherry end tables and on the floor near Hugh's recliner. More volumes were stored haphazardly in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominating the north wall.

  The south wall looked out over Cayuga Lake, blue-gray under the spring sun. There were spring flowers everywhere: lilacs, apple blossom, a few branches of flowering plum.

  Selena bloomed like a hothouse lily in the middle of this shabbily comfortable restraint. She wore a bright orange T-shirt, white trousers, and sandals on her slender feet.

  "May we have some coffee, Selena?" Hugh's voice was cultivated, assured, resonant. "Meg and Quill should undoubtedly shore up their defenses against the assault from the man from Albany."

  "But of course!" Selena unfolded herself from the couch. "You take a bit of cream, Quill. And, Meg? Black, as I recall." She disappeared into the kitchen, the heavy scent of gardenia in her wake. Hugh wrinkled his nose slightly; it was. Quill admitted, a little overpowering this early in the day.

  "You've met him?" Meg asked. "The bozo from the State office?"

  "No." His tone was amused. "Not this particular bozo. But I agree with you." He dropped his left eyelid in a wink. "Most politicians are bozos."

  "What sort of approach to the—ah—bozo did you have in mind?" Quill asked.

  "I take it there's some interest, on your part, in presenting a joint effort between Summerhill and the Inn to encourage oenoephiles to come to this area?"

  "We're not sure," Meg said candidly. "A great deal would depend on the parameters we set up. Yesterday at the Chamber meeting, Selena said …"

  He waved one hand in a dismissive gesture that was at once paternal and affectionate. "I drilled Selena on her delivery to the Chamber at the meeting yesterday, but I didn't have to check with Harvey to know how it went. She was scatterbrained, ineffectual, and utterly charming."

  Meg coughed.

  Quill pulled on her lower lip. "I thought she made a very knowledgeable speech."

  "Selena doesn't have the presence to make a knowledgeable speech, much less a coherent one, do you, my darling?"

  Selena, carrying a loaded tray in from the kitchen, set it down on the coffee table and threw her arms around Hugh's neck. "I do not, cariño. But you love me anyway, do you not?"

  "Indeed I do." Rather awkwardly, he slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed.

  Quill pulled harder on her lip. She didn't dare look at Meg.

  "Sit and pour out for us, my darling."

  "With pleasure, cariño." She sat close to him, and served him first. He refused the cup, and nodded toward Quill. "Ah. Of course!" She poured a small dollop of cream into the cup, presented it to Quill, and then served Meg. She poured out for Hugh, then herself, and settled happily back into the circle of his arm.

  Meg, who was sitting at right angles to Quill, bent over and stared intently at the tip of her shoe. Quill glanced at her, curious; Meg turned her head away from the Summerhills and mouthed. Oh, thank you, my darling! then straightened up.

  "Are you too warm, poor Quill?" Selena said with concern. "Hugh. Perhaps we should put the air-conditioning on. Quill's face is quite flushed."

  "Oh, no! I'm fine. The coffee was a little warmer than I expected." She coughed hard, then assured Selena that no, no, she didn't want an ice cube for her cup and said, "Meg and I discussed the possibility that we might design a series of gourmet dinners in conjunction with the presentation of the Sununerhill Chardonnays, Hugh."

  The discussion was leisurely but productive. They agreed to each establish a tentative joint agreement, and reconvene the discussion later in the week. At that point Quill suggested, they should bounce the idea off the Chamber of Commerce, to see how the town reacted to it. "It is public money," she said, "and we'll need to find some way to benefit everyone."

  Hugh glanced at his watch. "The public meeting is due to start in fifteen minutes. If I know the villagers, they'll be arriving right about now. I asked Pfieffer to stop by a little early, so I could take the measure of the man. Selena, how are the preparations for lunch?"

  "Very good. You will be pleased."

  "Go into the kitchen and make certain everything is in order, will you please? And then meet us in the tasting room. The only place," he added, turning to Quill, "where there is enough room to accommodate the hoi polloi." The doorbell rang. Hugh rose. "That will be Pfieffer. Will you think me rude if I don't accompany you to the tasting room? I'd like a few moments alone with this man. You know your way."

  Heigh-ho, dismissed. Quill thought. "Of cour—I mean, yes, we do. We'll see you there, Hugh." She raised her voice. "Selena? Thank you for the coffee!"

  "De nada."

  "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, my darling!" Meg cooed as they made their way down the drive to the winery building. She stopped in the middle of the pavement, put both hands on her hips, and deepened her voice. "Sit, Selena, my darling." Then in falsetto, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, my Hugh!"

>   "Meg, shut up!"

  " 'Are the villagers assembled with the properly humble subservient attitude before I come in?' " Meg growled. She stuck her stomach out and swaggered. " 'Are they ready for my magnifi—' "

  "Meg, darn it! They'll see you." Quill grabbed her elbow and jerked her forward. "So he's a little pompous."

  "So the Pope's a little Catholic. Darn, I wish Doreen had seen that."

  "Zowie." Quill shuddered. "Just behave yourself in the meeting, okay? He's a dork, but he's a dork with good ideas."

  "So you are listening for the call of the bugle, the thunder of the horses' hooves, the shouts of gleeful—" She broke off at Quill's bewildered expression. "The cavalry. You're a believer. Finally."

  "Oh, that." She smiled. "Maybe I am."

  Meg shrieked and clutched her. "Quill. Look at the cars! The place is jammed already!"

  Quill sat squashed in the tasting room of the Summerhill Winery. Most of the area wineries built tasting rooms, and the Summerhill room was one of the most pleasant she'd seen. The floors were new oak, stained clear and highly polished. The north and south ends of the room had large windows overlooking the vineyards. The east wall held hundreds of bottles of the Summerhill wines: Chardonnays, Chablis, white table wines, and some of the new ice wines that an inventive vintner created after an early frost destroyed his harvest. The fourth wall was the tasting area: a long thin counter with stools conveniently placed for the tipsy or tired.

  The area was good-sized, approximately thirty by forty, but the Summerhills hadn't anticipated village interest in the availability of state money to bolster faltering tourism, and it was very crowded. Meg and Quill had walked in to discover it was S.R.O., and not much of that available either. Selena, entering the room in a gardenia-scented whirl, behaved with an unexpectedly decisive charm. She moved Mr. and Mrs. Freddie Bellini (Bellini's Funeral Home) out of their seats and to the back of the room with the tactful reminder that tourists who died were generally shipped home for burial. Both Bellinis were mollified by a large glass of Summerhill Chablis. She seated Meg and Quill in their former seats. She whispered, "A dreadful year, that Chablis, if I do say so myself, but the Bellinis? They will not know the difference. Sit, sit! There will be lunch after, of course. For you and some others. Not the car dealers, of course, or the pet store. Madre de Dios! But, when I give the sign to empty the room, do not go!"