"And so you've come," she said.
"Selena, I …" His voice was hoarse, faint.
"How stupid did you think I was?" she said, her voice conversational. "We meet, as if by accident, outside that warehouse. Accident?" She spat. "I don't think so. You saw me, didn't you? With my sister. The man in the shadows. You."
Hugh's eyes darted left, then right. "I don't know what you're—"
"Liar. You know how I know? That wine. The Pinot. No one else had it, but that bitch, that Dunbarton bitch. You gave it to her as a prize, did you not? You and your secret meetings. I knew there was someone else. Their president. And to have it be you, my Hugh. How funny." The gun in her hand wavered slightly. "I knew them all, all, from when I first came here, and after my sister died, I planned. The landlord, the one who pretended to be a lawyer to get us our papers. They didn't know me. I got them here, so I could get their confessions, one by one, and I talk with them and I look at them, and they don't know me. We look the same, we do. All the same. I drink their wine, your wine, Hugh, the wine no one but you and I had drunk …" She didn't seem to notice the tears pouring down her face. "Come here."
He shook his head. Selena dug the pistol into Quill's throat. Davy pushed Hugh forward, and he stumbled and fell to his knees.
"Closer," Selena demanded.
He got to his feet and shuffled forward.
Selena bent down slowly, her right arm stretched up to keep the gun on Quill. She pulled the burlap bag off the floor, upended it, and the contents fell out: duct tape. A small knife. A black cartridge about the size of TV remote, wound round with wire. And a smaller cartridge with a homemade switch protruding from one end.
"You will tell them," she said to Hugh. "You will tell them what you have done."
He shook his head in a rapid, loose movement. It made Quill think of jellyfish.
Selena said quietly. "You will tell them how you made your fortune. By bringing whole families from Mexico. From Hong Kong. From Korea. All to that place in New York, promising them a future. You will tell them how you handcuffed them to their beds at night, so they couldn't run away. How you charged them for food, for shelter, so that they ended up with no money at all. Tell them."
"Yes," Hugh whispered.
"You will also say how you locked the doors, always, so they could not get out. And how you set that fire, because you were …" She began to breathe hard, pulling in air with great gasps. "Keeping. My sister. And they. Would tell me."
"I didn't …"
Selena pointed to the phosphorous bomb on the floor. "Whose is that?" she asked in a reasonable way. "Where did I find that?"
"All right, dammit!"
"Good," Selena said quietly. "I have to tell you all, because it is true, that I myself made that one. It is very small, not like the others. Pick it up, Hugh. Hold it. Show it to all these people here, what you have made." He didn't move.
Selena cocked the trigger.
Quill thought of Myles.
"Here, you." Doreen got to her feet with a groan, picked up the cartridge. Hugh backed away. Doreen put it in the pocket of his crisp blue shirt. "You all see that?" She turned to Selena. "He's got it now. He's holdin' his guilt. You let Quill go."
"Back away from him," Selena said. She held Hugh to her, and pulled him backwards, step by step, until the thick oak frame of Meg's huge butcher's block stood between the two of them and the rest of the world. And stepped on the trigger.
Epilogue
Rocky Burke stared at the remains of the kitchen. "It's not as bad as it looks," Quill said in what she hoped was a comforting way. "A lot of the damage occurred when people tried to get out of here." She looked at the floor. "She pulled him behind the butcher block. And the … the … device was small. I think she just wanted to get him. No one else."
He picked his way through the rubble and gave the splintered swinging doors a tentative poke with one finger. So far, he hadn't said a word.
"We haven't been able to find anyone here in Hemlock Falls who can handle the restoration of the floor, unfortunately."
Rocky poked the century-old flagstone with his toe. There was a hole the size of a twenty-five gallon stockpot. "Linoleum," he said. "Cheap, durable … you want linoleum."
"The worktable's in the worst shape." Quill regarded it doubtfully. "I don't think it's salvageable, do you? The preliminary estimate on that came from an antique dealer friend of mine. But that thick heavy oak saved a lot of lives. Hugh Summerhill was standing behind it when … um … I guess I told you that already." She ran her hands through her hair. It was going to take a while to get used to having it short. The flames had seared it badly. The burns, Andy Bishop told her cheerfully, were no worse than those incurred by women who opted for laser resurfacing. Her skin would be pink and healthy in two weeks.
"Well," Rocky Burke said. "Tell you what I'm gonna do, Cookie. I'll leave you a check right here, right now, based on a sensible repair to this place. All this old stuff—" He waved his hand carelessly. "You don't want to fuss with that, right?"
"It wouldn't do any good to leave a check with me," Quill said apologetically. "We've sold the Inn, and we've assigned the claim for damages to the new owner. She's very interested in the costs of the restoration."
"Somebody bought your inn?" He looked hopeful. "Well, now. If you just want to send me right on down to them, I'll leave a check for this damage and for Room 310, and that will be the last you see of me. Who bought it?"
"Marge Schmidt."
The smile dropped from his face. "Marge Schmidt!? That dragon-faced old bat? I mean, the woman who runs the diner?"
"Yes. Except we're going to be running the diner now, my sister and I. And Doreen Stoker, you remember her."
"Yes," Rocky Burke said hollowly, "I sure do."
"She's going to be helping us. Part-time."
"Marge Schmidt," he said.
Quill smiled at him. "Rocky, it could have been a lot worse. No one was seriously hurt, just a few burns and a broken toe, but that happened when Adela and the mayor collided with each other trying to get out of the kitchen."
"It could have been a lot worse, that's true. That fella and his wife—"
"The Summerhills? Yes. Both dead. Their daughter is with Hugh's parents."
"What about the old biddies who ran the sweatshop for him?"
"Thorne Smith's company is prosecuting them. They filed not-guilty pleas."
"Bet they get off. Jury looks at those sweet faces … I can hear the lawyers now, 'Would you send your gramma to jail?' "
"These grandmothers, I would," Quill said.
Myles had taken her to Canada for three days after the terrible events in the kitchen. The respite had been welcome, but she'd dreamed too frequently of Robin's malevolent face, and the hissing whisper: "They're only Mexican." She shook her head, to clear it. "Rocky, we hope to open the Palate in about three weeks, to take advantage of the tourist season this summer. We're going to need some liability ins—"
"No, ma'am. No, thank you. No way."
"I assure you that we don't plan on having bombers in for breakfast."
"What about that dog?" He pointed at Max, who was curled in his bed near the fireplace. "Da—I mean darn thing nearly took my finger off when I gave it a pat. You get rid of the dog, I'll think about insuring you."
"He's still recuperating from that gunshot wound," Quill protested.
"Yeah?" said Rocky skeptically. "Think his attitude will improve?"
"Well, sure it will," said Quill. "Mine has, now that this is all over. Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to make a phone call."
It had been ten days since the blast that killed Selena and her Hugh. Marge had paid cash for the Inn, and the deal had gone through.
Quill wandered through the rooms. Marge had purchased most of the furniture; Meg, Quill, and Doreen had kept the couch in the foyer, the two large Oriental vases, and the rug. Their personal things would be put in storage until Quill decided on a house to buy
in the village. Between moving into a new home, and restoring the little diner—now known as the Palate—it was going to be a busy summer.
She went into her office. The desktop was cleared of bills, invoices, shipping lists, tax forms, advertisements, laundry lists, business summaries—the lot. Quill ran one hand over the clean and shining surface.
She couldn't do it. Now that the cash was in Marge's hands, the furniture moved, the plans all set … she couldn't do it.
She sat down, dizzy with the effort of breathing. Leave it all? Leave it all?!
"No," she said and picked up the phone. "Long Island, please," she said. "I'd like the number for the residence of a Mr. John Raintree."
Meg's Thrifty Recipes
Meg had a hard time getting used to cooking on a budget, but she managed pretty well during the time that the Inn was in such financial trouble. Here are some of her recipes for gourmets on a budget.
~
LEFTOVER SOURDOUGH BRUSCHETTA
Take all of the sourdough bread made for guests that never showed up and slice it into inch-long pieces. Melt one part pure unsalted butter to one part extra virgin olive oil in a sauté pan. Add several cloves of puréed garlic to taste. Brush on the bread. Do not clean the pan. Chop red peppers, green peppers, scallions, and pimiento very fine. Sauté lightly in the pan, for about forty-five seconds. Arrange the vegetables on the bread, sprinkle with Parmesan cheese, and broil until done.
~
FLAN QUILLIAM
1 cup heavy cream
1 cup whole milk
5 cups leftover brioche, broken into one-inch pieces
two tablespoons sugar
two eggs
raisins soaked in nun
dark rum, to taste
Beat the eggs to a froth. Add the sugar and beat to a cream. Add a dash of dark rum, an eighth of a cup if you made the mortgage this month, or a quarter of a cup if you made payroll on top of that. Mix in the cream and the milk until the mixture is smooth and uniformly colored. Add the raisins—two cups if you can afford it. Place the brioche in a casserole dish, add the cream/egg/raisin mixture. Bake at 350 for about thirty minutes, or until the cream is bubbling around the browned edges of the bread. Meg has a temper tantrum if she can't serve this with whipped cream, fresh raspberries, and a leaf or two of mint. But life's tough.
~
MARGE SCHMIDT'S BREAKFAST BAKE
Forget it. Meg would rather eat a rat.
Claudia Bishop
www.claudiabishop.com
www.marystanton.com
www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/stanton.htm
Claudia Bishop (Mary Stanton) writes the popular Hemlock Falls mysteries from her farm in upstate New York, where she is surrounded by great vineyards, wonderful restaurants, and the incredible beauty of the Finger Lakes. In the cold winter months, she lives in a small house in West Palm Beach, Florida. She can be reached at her website, www.claudiabishop.com.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Mary Stanton
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Meg's Thrifty Recipes
About the Author
A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) Page 21
