A Touch of the Grape

by Claudia Bishop

  A TOUCH

  OF

  THE GRAPE

  Claudia Bishop

  www.claudiabishop.com

  www.marystanton.com

  www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/stanton.htm

  Copyright © 1998 by Mary Stanton

  Cover by Allegra Media LLC

  Books by Mary Stanton

  Heavenly Horse novels

  THE HEAVENLY HORSE FROM THE OUTERMOST WEST

  PIPER AT THE GATE

  Beaufort & Company - Paranormal Mystery Series:

  DEFENDING ANGELS

  ANGEL’S ADVOCATE

  AVENGING ANGELS

  ANGEL’S VERDICT

  ANGEL CONDEMNED

  Unicorns of Balinor Series

  THE ROAD TO BALINOR

  SUNCHASER’S QUEST

  VALLEY OF FEAR

  BY FIRE, BY MOONLIGHT

  SEARCH FOR THE STAR

  THE SECRETS OF THE SCEPTER

  NIGHT OF THE SHIFTER’S MOON

  SHADOWS OVER BALINOR

  YA Magical Mysteries

  MY AUNT, THE MONSTER

  WHITE MAGIC

  NEXT DOOR WITCH

  Books by Mary Stanton writing as Claudia Bishop

  Hemlock Falls Mystery Series

  A TASTE FOR MURDER

  A DASH OF DEATH

  A PINCH OF POISON

  MURDER WELL-DONE

  DEATH DINES OUT

  A TOUCH OF THE GRAPE

  A STEAK IN MURDER

  MARINADE FOR MURDER

  JUST DESSERTS

  FRIED BY JURY

  A PUREE OF POISON

  BURIED BY BREAKFAST

  A DINNER TO DIE FOR

  GROUND TO A HALT

  A CAROL FOR A CORPSE

  TOAST MORTEM

  DREAD ON ARRIVAL

  A FETE WORSE THAN DEATH

  A PLATEFUL OF MURDER (combo volume of A TASTE FOR MURDER and A DASH OF DEATH) DEATH IN TWO COURSES (combo volume of A PINCH OF POISON and MURDER WELL-DONE)

  The Casebooks of Dr. McKenzie Mysteries

  THE CASE OF THE ROASTED ONION

  THE CASE OF THE TOUGH-TALKING TURKEY

  THE CASE OF THE ILL-GOTTEN GOAT

  Anthologies

  DEATH DINES AT 8:30 (with Nick DiChario) A MERRY BAND OF MURDERERS (with Don Bruns) DEATH DINES IN (with Dean James)

  For Helen Stanton

  with love and admiration

  for your eighty-three years of talent

  A TOUCH

  OF

  THE GRAPE

  Claudia Bishop

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  The Inn at Hemlock Falls

  Sarah "Quill" Quilliam . . . owner/manager Margaret "Meg" Quilliam . . . her sister, the chef John Raintree . . . business manager

  Doreen Muxworthy-Stoker . . . the housekeeper Dina Muir . . . the receptionist

  Kathleen Kiddermeister . . . a waitress Nate . . . the bartender

  Bjarne . . . the sous-chef

  Ellen Dunbarton . . . vice president, the Crafty Ladies, a guest

  Freddie Patch . . . secretary, the Crafty Ladies, a guest Robin Robinson . . . treasurer, the Crafty Ladies, a guest

  Fran Grimsby . . . member, the Crafty Ladies, a guest

  Mary Lennox . . . member, the Crafty Ladies, a guest

  Rocky Burke . . . Burke's Insurance, a guest Paul Pfleffer . . . of the governor's Budget Office, a guest

  Thorne Smith . . . an investment counselor, a guest

  The Hemlock Falls Chamber of Commerce

  Elmer Henry . . . the mayor

  Adela Henry . . . his wife

  Dookie Shuttleworth . . . minister, the Hemlock Falls Church of the Word of God

  Harvey Bozzel . . . president, Bozzel Advertising Marge Schmidt . . . owner, Hemlock Home Diner Betty Hall . . . her partner

  Esther West . . . store owner

  Villagers in Hemlock Falls

  Myles McHale . . . a private investigator Andrew Bishop . . . a physician

  Hugh Summerhill . . . a vintner

  Selena de la Vega Summerhill . . . his wife Davy Kiddermeister . . . the sheriff

  Denny Webster . . . chief, the Hemlock Falls Volunteer Fire Department

  Howie Murchison . . . a lawyer

  1

  The dog peered around the corner of the garden shed. It was a large dog. Sort of a yellowish brown, with large lop ears and big feet. He cocked his head at the three women facing him, whined, and ducked back out of sight. Sarah Quilliam, known as Quill, had called the Humane Society when she'd noticed the dog had left blood on the fountain in the center of their herb garden.

  "Somebody kicked it, undoubtedly," said Selena de la Vega Summerhill. "Right over the kidneys. My guess is that the damage is there." She sighed. "I've seen too many abused animals since I've started working at the shelter. It's terrible the way they treat animals." She was a lovely woman in her late thirties. Her Spanish accent was slight.

  "The way who treats animals?" Meg Quilliam demanded. She nudged her sister affectionately. "Quill's been feeding it. She doesn't think I've noticed, but I have. My beef Marengo, if you can believe it. So it isn't terrible the way Quill treats animals. Not when this particular animal gets a stew that's been rated the best in fifty states."

  "Meg got the third star back from L'Aperitif," Quill said to Selena. "After that trip to Florida earlier this year."

  "So we heard." Selena smiled. "And you heard, I think, that our Summerhill Chardonnay took second place in the winegrowers' competition this year." Her warm olive skin took on a rosier glow.

  "No!" Meg said. "That's great, Selena. Who says Upstate New York's in a depression? Award-winning wines. Award-winning chefs." She scowled suddenly. "So how come neither of us has any business? How come you, Selena, as part owner of one of the largest wineries in central New York, has to take a job as the town dogcatcher to help make ends meet? How come Quill has to—"

  "Because Upstate New York's in a depression," Quill said abruptly. "Come on, guys. What about the dog?"

  She whistled. The dog stuck its head through the azaleas planted to the right of the shed door and barked once. Then he flopped over on his side and yawned. One scarlet petal drifted down from the bush and settled over his right eye. It didn't add anything to his looks. He was still the most unprepossessing mutt Quill had ever seen.

  "I have this leash sort of thing," Selena said. "It's a collar attached to a pole. I'll get it. You, Quill, get some of Meg's stew. Meg, talk to it so it will stay here while we fetch these things."

  "Talk to it?" Meg ran one hand through her short dark hair. "Talk to it? What sort of things do you say to a dog?"

  "Call him querido," Selena suggested. "Talk to him of lady dogs. I don't know."

  "You're the dogcatcher," Meg said. "If you don't know, who does?"

  Selena shrugged. "I've only had the job a few days. I'm in training."

  "So where's the person that's supposed to be teaching you how to catch dogs?"

  "Laid off," Selena said. "Budget cuts, they said."

  "How much does it pay?" Quill asked, thinking catching dogs might be a far easier job than catching nonexistent guests in a depressed economy. The dog growled.

  "Not enough," Selena said, her voice quivering slightly. "But I got there first. Quill."

  "Selena! I didn't mean … I mean, we're not that desperate."

  "Well, we are," Selena said grimly. "Hugh? He is most unhappy that I have this job. But we cannot sell enough wine. And you know the people that bought his clothing business?"

  "I didn't know Hugh had a clothing business."

  "Oh, yes. Not very fancy clothes, you understand. The more inexpensive lingerie, and the women's pant-suits of … what do you call it? It
is fake."

  "Polyester?" Meg said.

  "Polyester. This is where I met Hugh, of course. I was a runway model. As I said to Hugh, a woman who has been a runway model for cheap lingerie does not mind being a dogcatcher. He did not seem to like that much." She giggled.

  "Um," Quill said, floundering. She didn't know Hugh Summerhill very well, but she had heard his family was from upper-class Boston. He looked the part, that was for sure.

  "About this dog." Selena pushed a tendril of black hair from one eye. "You must keep its attention, Meg. While Quill obtains a bribe. It is the way of the world. Even dogs must be bribed. I will sneak up on it and be ready to pounce. But first I will get the catch collar."

  "I'll sing to him," Meg said. "It's very soothing. I've tried it on the sous-chefs."

  "Which is why we go through so many," Quill said. "Keep it sotto voce, Meg. You don't want to get bitten."

  "Very funny." Meg crouched on her heels, facing the garden shed. The dog raised himself at the sudden movement and regarded her for a long moment. "How much is that dooo—oogy in the window?" Meg sang. Her voice, Quill always thought, was reminiscent of very small trains changing tracks. "The oooonnnee with the waaagyly ta-a-a-a-il."

  "It's going to howl," Quill predicted.

  It did.

  Selena muttered something in Spanish.

  Quill bit her lip to keep the giggles back. "I'll get some food or something," she said steadily. "I'll be right back." She made her way up the flagstone path to the Inn at a rapid clip. It was a Monet-ish sort of morning in spring: a misty rain settled like silver mesh over the newly green grounds surrounding Hemlock Gorge, blurring the lilacs into soft lavender and muting the pale yellow of the jonquils. The Inn occupied the highest point of the cliff over the waterfall. Usually, the sound of falling water in spring was one of Quill's pleasures, an aural painting surrounding the visual beauty. At the moment, Meg's off-key crooning denying the desire for goldfish or a parrot mingled unfavorably with the dog's counterpoint tenor, and the natural music of the Falls receded. The view, today, wasn't the pleasure it usually was.

  Maybe it wasn't the dog and the singing. Maybe it was the fact they were going broke.

  Quill shook off the thought and entered the Inn through the back. She shut the door on the noise. It didn't help the volume much. The Inn was solidly built—most of the structure dated from the mid-18th century, and parts were even older—but the double-hung windows facing the perennial gardens had been opened to the fresh spring air and the ululation found its way through with the persistence of a collection agent. Quill went through the short hall leading to the kitchen. Mid-morning was one of the few times of the day when the kitchen was empty; the breakfast crew was on break in the dining room, and preparations for lunch wouldn't start until eleven. With luck, she could grab the stew and escape outside without having to deal with questions about the canine/three-star chef chorus or the endless other minutiae that were part of her days as manager of the Inn.

  Like how to pay this month's gas bill.

  Or how to keep out of filing for Chapter Eleven. "It's not bankruptcy, Quill," their attorney Howie Murchison had said. "It's protection from bankruptcy."

  She headed for the glass-fronted refrigerator where Meg kept her leftovers.

  "What'n the double-dyed heck is all that noise?" Doreen, Quill's head housekeeper, chief nemesis—and. Quill freely admitted, one of her best friends—banged through the double doors leading to the dining room and addressed Quill, one hand on an aproned hip, the other armed with a mop. There were days that Doreen looked more like a rooster than others, and this was one of them. Her sparse gray hair spiked over her head like a cockerel's comb, and her eyes were narrowed into birdy black beads.

  "Meg and the dog," Quill said briefly. She opened the refrigerator door and began to search the shelves.

  "Why are you out playin' with that damn dog when all we got stayin' here at the Inn is that ladies organization? And they'll be gone as soon as that president of theirs shows up for their meeting. You should be out bangin' the bushes for business." Doreen leaned back and addressed the ceiling. "Who was that damn fool Eye-talian who played the fiddle while the whole place burned down around him? Nero. That's the one. Nero." She lowered her gaze.

  Doreen's stare was so accusing, Quill could feel it through her back. She ignored it and continued her search through the refrigerator. The glass bowl containing stew was gone. There was a huge mound of tenderloin for the steak tartare scheduled for that evening's Crafty Ladies dinner; two loaves of chicken liver pâté shaped like dollar signs for the Association of Insurance Agents banquet; and a casserole dish filled with an unidentifiable green goo that turned out, on a quick taste test, to be pesto. Quill muttered, "Dang," shrugged, and scooped up a handful of raw tenderloin.

  Muttering, Doreen filled her mop bucket at the sink and set it on the floor with a bang. "Insteada dog tricks, you oughta—" She broke off, and gasped. "You ain't gonna feed that good meat to that DOG!?" Outraged, she advanced like Patton on Inchon. Or was it MacArthur? Quill could never get military history straight.

  "Missy?!"

  "What?!!" Quill closed her hand defensively on the meat. That was a mistake. She patted futilely at the red oozing over her knuckles.

  "That meat's a hunnert dollars a pound—"

  "It's nowhere near a hundred dollars for twenty pounds, much less one pound—"

  "—and in Times-Like-These-Here you're gonna feed a damn dog that there meat? What, you're gonna put it on his bill? In Times-Like-These-Here, you gotta watch the bottom line. That means cash flow, missy, in case you don't know it."

  "I don't," Quill said tightly, "want to hear another word about Times-Like-These-Here. As for the dog, I called the people at the pound. Selena Summerhill's come to take him away."

  "That's a sign for you," Doreen muttered darkly. "The wife of one a the best winegrowers in central New York takin' a job as a dogcatcher. I ask you, what are things coming to when—" She stopped herself in mid-flow. "She's takin' the dog?"

  "That's right. I think it's been hurt, Doreen, and I just couldn't stand watching it mooch around here. It won't let anyone near it."

  "You know what's gonna happen to that dog once it gets to the shelter, doncha?"

  "Probably," Quill said with a sigh. "But it's a stray, Doreen, and it needs a vet, and we can't afford to help it. Besides, what do you care? I thought you hated that dog."

  "Ugliest damn thing I've ever seen," Doreen agreed with suspect belligerence. She thought a moment, her jaw working. "What you should do is, you should tell Mike to get out the shotgun and just …" She cocked her forefinger.

  "Why don't you tell Mike to get out the shotgun and shoot him?"

  "You're the boss. You do it."

  "The only time you agree that I'm the boss is when there's something horrid to do that you don't want to do and I'm not going to do it. Like try to get more business here at the Inn. I don't notice you standing by the side of the road flaggin' down tour buses … oh, no. You just come in here and nag on at me." Quill shook her head, exasperated and ashamed that she'd lost her temper. "Never mind. There's a very nice vet that volunteers at the shelter, Selena says, and there's a chance the dog can be treated and adopted. So. Good-bye. I'm going back to the garden shed and help Selena get the dog into her pickup truck." Clutching the beef. Quill marched toward the back door. She heard Doreen marching after her. Quill skidded to a halt and turned around. "Why are you following me?"

  "I'm goin' out to he'p you. Scrawny thing like that'd soon as bite you as look at you."

  Quill looked at her suspiciously. She was carrying her mop like a rifle. "Okay. You can help. But don't scare it."

  Doreen gave an indignant sniff.

  "And don't even think of bashing it. Leave your mop in the kitchen."

  Doreen set the mop against the side of the long birch worktable that dominated the kitchen, raised her eyebrows at the meat in Quill's fist, and said truculently,
"You better ditch that meat and get some Doritos."

  "Doritos?"

  "Doritos," Doreen said flatly. "Damn dog like that, it ain't used to meat. Used to eating out of garbage cans. You wanna catch it, you get yourself something it's used to. Like Doritos."

  "Doreen, this is a three-star gourmet restaurant attached to a two-star hotel. We don't have any Doritos. Meg wouldn't let a bag of Doritos within sixty feet of the Dumpster out back, much less in the pantry itself."

  "Bjarne's got himself a stash right next to the stockpots."

  This didn't surprise Quill at all. Bjarne was a young Finn from the Cornell School of Hotel Management (as were all of their sous-chefs), and he thought no one knew about his addiction to junk food. He was wrong. When Quill regretfully laid off all the others due to the desperate state of the business, it was the first thing they told her.

  Doreen tramped to the shelving underneath the long windows and rummaged among the pots. After a prolonged bout of clanking (an unwelcome addition to the cacophony still drifting in from the garden ) she emerged with a familiarly marked cellophane bag. "See?"

  "Do you think we should just take it? I mean, those are Bjarne's, not ours."

  "Finns are a bunch a damn Socialists anyways. They don't believe in ownership."

  Quill tried to keep the beef from dripping out of her hand and onto the floor, and decided not to clarify the distinction between communism and socialism. She rather hoped the dog preferred Doritos to beef. The dog looked as if he might be a very good biter if he had the inclination, and you could just scatter Doritos in front of it. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

  Outside, the mist had turned to a fine rain. Quill ignored the damp air and the puddles forming under her feet, and strode purposefully back to the azalea bushes. The dog was sitting bolt upright near the shed, clearly anxious. Whether this was because Meg had switched from "Doggie in the Window" to "Old Shep"—in which, Quill recalled, the dog died—or because Selena Summerhill had returned from her pickup truck armed with a long pole and capture collar. Quill wasn't entirely sure. She brandished her fistful of beef. "Here, boy. Here, boy."