Quill tried not to look as sour as she felt. "You're right."
"Right? I'm inspired. You call Selena right now and set up a meeting for us tomorrow, before that person from Albany talks to the town. We want to have our ideas about the Summerhill Inn at Hemlock Falls Axis lined up and ready to roll when the politico asks his questions."
"What axis are you talking about?"
"Gourmet dinners and winery tours? Are you kidding? It's political power, Quill. It's that axis."
"The Axis powers lost the war."
"Pooh! If we work together, I can plan menus that'll draw the gods from Olympus. I can cook dinners that will make almost anyone forget about the taste of New York reds. Go on. Quill. Call Selena now. Take her up on her offer to work together. It doesn't have to be formal—tell her we'll meet her just before the noon meeting for the public."
Quill hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Come on, sweetie. This whole week has been a big depressing mess for you. I mean, you're so bummed you even adopted an ugly dog. You have to cheer up before we end up with a menagerie. Call Selena, Quill. It's going to be fun."
Not certain as to how much of this enthusiasm was forced, and how much was genuine, Quill gave up. She looked up Summerhill Winery's number, talked to Hugh, and arranged a "preliminary discussion of possible joint plans" for eleven the next morning.
Quill hung up and chuckled. "He may be 'her Hugh,' Meg, but boy is he stuffy."
"Are we on?"
"We're on." She looked at Meg intently. "Meggie. Tell me something. How come you've got all this information about taxes and worker's comp on the brain anyway?"
"Because I've been listening to John for the past six months even if you think I haven't. I know what's going on, Quill, even if you think I don't"
"You do, huh?"
Meg sprang to her feet. "Forget it. All I want to know before I go to bed is why you aren't jumping for joy that the cavalry's coming over the hill with reinforcements."
"Because," Quill said slowly.
"Because? That's it? Because?"
"It's too pat. You realize that everyone in town knows we've been in trouble?"
"I suppose."
"The insurance policy business …"
"Where you 'forgot' to tell John you'd written those checks on the business account, and the premium check bounced? Yeah."
"I did forget," Quill said weakly. "And if I have to say I'm sorry one more time I'm going to throw a fit of hysterics you wouldn't believe."
"Okay, okay, okay. I'm sorry. So, everyone in town knows that we were about to be uninsured …"
"I mean, we bank here, and the insurance policy that was canceled was from the Peterson Agency, which is right on Main Street next to—" Quill stopped.
"Next to what?"
"Marge's diner," Quill said slowly. "Don't you think it's just a little bit coincidental that the fire occurred the day the policy lapsed?" she asked, after a moment.
"Ol' Sock-it-to-me Burke certainly seems to think so," Meg said.
"Well, I think so, too. I think someone is trying to put us out of business."
"You inhaled too much smoke last night."
"Think about it, Meg. Everyone knew we were in the middle of turning that suite into two rooms so we could get a little more income. The remodeling hadn't started, but we weren't booking anyone into that room. Until I took Ellen Dunbarton and her friends on that tour, and she loved the view, and asked to sleep in it at the very last minute, and if I hadn't said fine, she'd still be alive." Quill put her hand to her eyes for a moment. Meg patted her knee. "Anyhow. For all the world knew, that suite was empty. I tell you what I think, Meg. I think that somebody torched that room on purpose. Without knowing anyone was in it, to be perfectly fair. But I think someone wants to buy us out. Force us to the wall. Get us to the point where we can't afford to go on anymore."
"And who is this mysterious someone?"
Quill couldn't say it. Not even to her sister. But she thought it. Unworthy, nasty, spiteful, unjustified as it was, she thought it.
Marge Schmidt.
4
Quill woke early to sunlight flooding her bedroom and a deadweight at her feet. She lay motionless for a moment, then wiggled her toes under the blanket. The weight shifted, rolled, then thumped to the floor. "You," she said to the dog.
He approached the bed cautiously, head down, tail waving frantically. He nudged her hand with his head, then leaped away. He smelled awful, a combination of smoke, mud, and unwashed dog.
Quill sat up. "How are you getting in?"
He went to the bedroom door, barked once, then looked appealingly over his shoulder.
"I take it there were no alarms in the night, or you would have licked my face off."
He sat down with a sudden, exhausted movement and put his head between his paws. His days in the wilds of Hemlock Falls were doing nothing for his looks. He was dirtier than ever, and there were bare spots on his sides. She looked at the bedside clock: six o'clock, and the sun was already well over the horizon. Hooray for May. She loved it when the days got longer. She supposed she could sneak into the kitchen and get the dog something to eat. Unless she had something appropriate in her little refrigerator. She mentally reviewed the contents: white wine, some cheese, eggs, and skim milk. And a loaf of Meg's rye bread.
"Bread and milk, boy?" She supposed she'd have to think of a name. With his pendulous lower lip, grizzled whiskers, and slyly mischievous expression, he looked a little like a sketch of Max Beerbohm she'd seen in the Oak Room at the Algonquin. "Max?" she said.
"Woof."
"Come on. Max. Food, and then maybe a bath."
She threw on her oldest pair of jeans, a T-shirt she used to paint in, and pulled an old pair of tennis shoes over her bare feet. Max followed her downstairs. When she reached the foyer, he turned left, to go down the hall to the Tavern Bar. Curious, she went after him.
The Tavern was quiet, deserted, smelling faintly of smoke—the cigarette kind rather than the fire. The only places that had been affected by the conflagration of two nights ago were the second and third floors. Max headed directly for the long bank of windows facing the vegetable gardens. He crawled under the small round table set into the corner and disappeared from view. Quill crouched down and went after him. Max was a large dog. At his normal weight, he'd be close to her own of 120. Any hole he could go in and out of, she could, too.
Max had been getting in and out through a loose bottom windowpane. Quill poked experimentally at the crumbling wood and groaned. More repairs. More bills. And this expense could have been prevented. At some point in the Inn's history, this side of the building had housed a conservatory, and Quill had insisted that they leave the charming roof-to-foundation windows in place when she and Meg had done renovations eight years ago. The contractor had warned her the frames would rot out, and he'd been right.
She crawled out the opening and into the damp morning air. Max barked happily at her. "You didn't pull this away by yourself, did you. Max?" She took a close look at the wood. Someone—and she didn't believe it was Max, had pushed the frame in from the outside; the newly splintered wood around the frame pointed into the room, not out. And the damage was recent.
Quill stood up. This entire side of the building would be in full view of anyone walking the grounds or working among the raised beds. She could see the garden shed from here, and the whole length of the path winding around this side of the house. No trees, no high shrubs. And no floodlights. The outside lighting was all at the front of the Inn, not back here where there was nothing in particular to see. So whoever had broken in had done it at night. And within the last forty-eight hours. The floor beneath the table had been dry; there had been no rain yesterday. Quill got down on her hands and knees and examined the frame closely again. She found a scrap of reddish-gold hair (her own), tufts of dirty brown fur (which explained the bare spots on Max's side), and a bottle cap, pierced through the middle. She'd seen that bot
tle cap before. "Ellen Dunbarton," she said to Max. "Now why in the heck would Ellen Dunbarton be crawling into the Inn at night? Why didn't she just ring? Because whoever let her in would know she'd been out, that's why. But who would care? Unless somebody here was suspicious of her already? Because she didn't want anyone to know she'd been out?"
Max, who had been following this monologue with upright ears and a puzzled expression, barked loudly. "Shh, Max. You'll wake everyone up. Whisper, Max, whisper."
"Woof," Max said in a very small voice.
Quill was absurdly delighted with her first foray into dog training. She crouched and ruffled his ears. "C'mon, Max. Let's go get you some food. Breakfast, Max, breakfast."
Since the Inn was still locked for the night, she crawled back in the way she'd come out. Max wriggled through behind her, and together they went to the kitchen. Quill rummaged through the Zero King, giving Max a running commentary of the contents. "Well, there's some leftover chicken liver pate, but not much. Meg uses one part butter to one part chicken liver, did you know that. Max? Guaranteed to give you a major heart attack. And the cognac in it will make you sneeze. Let's see. Well, there's rice, Max. Which is supposed to be good for a dog in your condition, which, if you'll pardon me, is perfectly awful. How would you like it if I beat up a couple of eggs in the rice, and later we go down to Nicholson's and pick up some real dog food. Something healthy."
"So you've named him," John said. "I told you that was the beginning of the end."
Quill whirled, startled. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, and he was freshly shaved. She caught the faint drift of shampoo. "I hardly recognized you."
He spread his hands in a deprecatory way. "I've got a meeting at ten."
"In Syracuse?"
"Long Island."
Dismayed, Quill said, "So soon?"
"Waiting isn't going to help. Quill."
"But we haven't even had time to say good-bye. Oh, my, that sounds like a bad Country Western ballad, doesn't it? What I meant is that I haven't had time to adjust to this, John. You're part of the Inn for me."
"Like the furniture?"
She was taken aback at the bitterness in his voice. "Like the furniture?!"
He took a step nearer. Max growled. Quill took a deep breath, then another. "I was just about to make some breakfast. And coffee. We need coffee."
"Coffee? You mean you'd like to sit down and talk?"
"I think that's a good idea, don't you?" Quill was proud that her voice was steady. The set of John's shoulders relaxed, and he settled onto a stool at Meg's work-table. The moment—whatever it was, and Quill knew she was afraid to guess—seemed to have passed. Quill poured them both some orange juice, started the coffee, then dumped leftover rice, two eggs, and some beef broth into a bowl for Max. "I'm not a bad hand at an omelet, you know."
"Sounds good."
She turned up the Aga, broke four eggs into a copper bowl and whipped them briskly to a froth. "I'm not used to being uncomfortable with you, John." She got out the omelet pan, poured a little olive oil in it, and set it on the burner.
"You're not used to talking about feelings. Quill." He smiled a little. "Unless it's squabbling with Meg."
"I think I'm more used to putting feelings on canvas." She poured the eggs into the pan with extraordinary care. She didn't want to look at him.
"You put your political views on canvas. Not emotions."
This made her indignant. "That's a rotten thing to say. And I'm not particularly political. If I were a political sort of person, I'd throw out half the people who show up at this Inn."
"Then I should have said observations, not political views. You observe life. Quill. You don't really live it. It's one of the reasons—" He stopped, perhaps, Quill thought, because the coffee he was drinking was too hot.
"One of the reasons what?"
"One of the reasons why you won't marry Myles."
Quill flipped the omelet with a quick twist of her wrist and set it back on the burner with a sharp bang. Her immediate response to this was four letters, seven if you counted the pronoun "you," and she'd never spoken it aloud in her life. Instead she said tightly, "Back off. Just back off."
"I've backed off for seven years. That's enough time served, I think." He stood up. Quill forced herself to stand still, chin up. "So all I'll say is this. I've loved you all that time. Your hair never stays up. Half the time you run around in a droopy skirt with your shirttail hanging out. You can't drive, you won't add up the checking account, and the rest of the time you spend avoiding doing real work, real painting. And—" He checked himself. "You're beautiful. I've loved you from the moment I saw you. And I'm never coming back here again."
He turned on his heel and walked out.
Max whined.
Quill let the omelet burn and cried until she couldn't stand the smoke anymore. She dumped the pan in the sink.
"Jeez-Louise, what the heck did you do in here this morning?" Meg banged into the kitchen dressed, Quill saw, to go out. She wore her best black chinos, a lichee-green vest, and a white cotton shirt. She'd tied a little enameled butterfly on a rawhide string around her throat. "Aaagh! The dog!" She eyed Max, who'd taken a position on the rag hearth rug in front of the cobblestone fireplace. "He needs a bath."
"It's not 'the Dog.' His name is Max. And I'll give him a bath later. When it gets really warm outside."
"Uh-oh. So you named him. John said once you name an animal, you're doomed to own it for life. Looks like he's right. Doreen's going to have seven fits and a temper tantrum. That coffee?" She grabbed a cup, then sat in the rocking chair next to Max. She nudged him amiably with her toe. Max growled and bared his teeth. She tucked both feet under the chair. "Jeez. Where is he?"
"Right there." Quill got up from the stool where she'd been sitting, head in hands, and went to the sink. She began to scrub the omelet pan with a wire brush.
"Not the dog. John. His car was out front when I got up this morning, and when I came down, it was gone."
"So's John."
"Gone?"
"To Long Island."
"Already?" Quill could feel Meg's gaze on her back. She refused to turn around. After a moment, Meg added, "I was right, wasn't I?"
"You were right."
Meg sighed happily. "I love it when you say I'm right."
"It's not funny, Meg."
"No. It's not. I'm sorry."
Quill scrubbed at the last of the burned egg, rinsed the pan, and set it in the drainer. She turned around.
"Oh, Quill," Meg said. "I'm so sorry. You look like you've been crying for weeks."
"Just cool it, will you?"
"Well, you do."
Quill felt the tears start again and she waved her hands helplessly in the air. "Say something."
"What?"
"Anything." Quill gulped. "If you don't I swear I'll keep this up all day."
"Might be good for you," Meg said quietly.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You never want to talk about it."
"Whose business is it if I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!?"
"Yours, of course. I just want to say one thing, and then will never ever mention John again, all right? We've lost a valuable friend. We've lost a terrifically shrewd and capable business partner. If you'd talked about it, worked through it, addressed it, years ago, he might still be here. And happily married to somebody else. Okay?"
"What do you mean, happily married to someone else?"
"What? You want him to pine away for you forever? Come on, Quill. And you accuse me of being the romantic. People get over things. It isn't easy. I should know. And you should know that I know. When Simon died, you know what happened to me. I wanted to die, too. And look. Eight years later I'm just as in love with Andrew Bishop, the best-looking—and only—internist in Hemlock Falls. Don't be so afraid of pain. Quill. It can't kill you. Not unless you let it."
"Lecture over?"
"For the moment."
; "Good. Because I've had it with your blithe assumption that everyone can be as open and confrontational as you can without risk. Okay?"
"Okay."
"So we're going to talk about something else. Right?"
"Whatever you want. How come you're not dressed?"
Quill looked at her T-shirt and jeans. "I'm dressed."
"I mean to go to the winegrowers' meeting. Didn't I sit in your room last night while you called a meeting with Selena and Hugh Summerhill to see about scheduling romantic wine weekends for any hapless tourists that may come our way? Wasn't this the first strike in the war against high taxes, insupportable business conditions, and the generally lethargic condition of the Upstate New York economy?"
"Oh, my gosh." Quill ran her hands through her hair. She'd washed it twice since the fire and it still smelled of smoke. "And the guy from Albany's going to give a speech about the fund. What time was it? Noon, right? At Summerhill. And the discussion with Selena and Hugh was at eleven …"
"Yep. Now look, it's six-fifteen. The dining room opens at seven. I've got Kathleen coming in and one sous-chef, Bjarne, but breakfast is going to be heavier than lunch today. So you've got your choice, you can waitress in the dining room and let Kathleen help me in here in the kitchen or you can help me in the kitchen, and let Kathleen do the waitressing. Which?" She cast a significant look in the direction of the scoured omelet pan.
"I'll help out in the dining room. It'll be just like old times, when we were starting out."
"Great. But it'd be better for people's appetites if you changed those clothes. And Quill, your hair still smells like you had a close encounter with Smoky the Bear. Did you try the tomato juice?"
"I'm not going to wash my hair in tomato juice."
"Sure you are." Meg held up a "wait a minute" finger, disappeared into the pantry, and reemerged with a forty-ounce bottle of Campbell's Tomato Juice (Not from Concentrate!).
Quill regarded the bottle dubiously, took it, splashed her face with cold water to erase the tearstains, then headed for the dining room doors. She was accompanied by the patter of untrimmed feet. She stopped, the juice bottle under one arm. "Dang," she said. "What about Max?"
A Touch of the Grape Page 8
