A Touch of the Grape

by Claudia Bishop

"Since nobody listens to Dookie, nobody would know it was his idea."

  "But that's how it works, Meg. Haven't you noticed? Maybe the mayor would say, 'Might better get so-and-so's idea about that,' and then Esther might say she'd feel more comfortable if the whole Chamber were involved, and bingo! They'd end up doing the right thing. I suppose everyone's greedy in one way or another … What's that?" She braked hard.

  Meg, used to her sister's erratic driving, hung on to the dashboard and said merely, "What's what?"

  "That sign."

  "It Says, CRAFT SHOW. BARGAINS GALORE. You see those signs all over this part of the country this time of year. What's so unusual … oh."

  "Yeah. That's what's so unusual. It's us."

  "Room 314, The Inn at Hemlock Falls. Wine tourists welcome. Oh, dear. The Crafty Ladies." There was a second sign on the turn from Route 15 to Hemlock Drive, and a third at the foot of the driveway to the Inn itself. "Lot of cars parked at the top of the hill," Meg observed. "My goodness, there's one of those Blue Bird Tour buses. Golden Age Golden Tours, it says."

  Quill pulled the Olds into the garage. "You want to come up with me?"

  "I think I'd better check on Bjarne in the kitchen. There may have been a lot more people for lunch than I'd expected. He's probably sunk in gloom. I should have hidden the boning knife; it's the sharpest I've got. Or he may be cheerful in the face of disaster. You never know with a Finn. But let me know if there are any real bargains."

  "Ha."

  Quill walked the long way round to the front door. The foyer was filled with middle-aged ladies in pantsuits, ladies in cotton twill shorts and bright shirts, and elderly gentlemen wearing patient expressions. All of them wore hats. Quill wondered about retired people in hats. In the short (and disastrous) time she and Meg had spent in Florida last year, she'd noticed that everyone over fifty-five seemed to wear hats on vacation.

  Doreen was standing behind the counter with a smug expression. "Hey," she said as Quill came in that door.

  "Hey, yourself. What's all this?"

  "Good idea, innit? That Fran had it. You know all that luggage the Crafty Ladies brung with them?"

  "Filled with product, I expect."

  "You betcha. You know what? Got a couple of bookings for tonight, too."

  "From this crowd?"

  "Not exactly. Although one couple woulda stayed, 'cept the fire in 310 made the lady real nervous. Tolt her the fire was set, so she wouldn't think it was the wiring or nuthin', but it didn't seem to help. Place was too nice to leave, they said, and who wants to go see the hog farm tomorra anyways? That's what's next on this here Golden Age tour. So if we get that room fixed, we'll get guests like you wouldn't believe, as long as the craft show goes on."

  "You said we had two bookings, though."

  "Ayuh. Some fella named Smith called, gonna check in tonight. So him, and some fella name of Pfieffer …"

  "Paul Pfieffer?"

  "Yeah. Booked him into 212."

  "Mr. Burke is in 212."

  "Mr. Burke's gonna check out, soon as he's finished his lunch."

  "Did he leave a check?" Quill asked without hope.

  Doreen looked dark. "He did NOT. That bozo. I held on to his luggage for a bit, but he started hollerin' for the sheriff so I had to give it up."

  "Doreen!"

  She snorted. Doreen was a master of the scornful snort. "Like that squirt Davy Kiddermeister could find his a—"

  "Stop. Davy Kiddermeister may be young, but he is the sheriff and he is empowered by the state of New York to arrest you for theft, or kidnapping, or whatever keeping a person's lugg—" She grabbed her hair with both hands and tugged it. "Why do I even bother?!"

  "You might better leave things to me."

  "Right. You said Mr. Burke's in the dining room?" She allowed herself some hope. "Did we have a lot of people for lunch?"

  "Nope."

  "We didn't?" Quill surveyed the lobby. "There's a lot of people here. Some of them must be hungry."

  "They was."

  "Didn't Bjarne want to feed them?"

  Doreen pointed. Quill looked in the direction of her finger. She hadn't noticed the sign before; it was at the side of the entrance to the dining room, concealed by the rush of people up and down the stairs, "DINING ROOM CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. What repairs?"

  "To that Bjarne's nerves," Doreen said simply. "People started orderin' and he started runnin' around the kitchen, gigglin', like, and said there wasn't enough herring."

  "Was anyone ordering herr—?" Quill interrupted herself. "Never mind. I have to say that was quick thinking, Doreen."

  "Mr. Burke got fed before Bjarne went nuts, so I didn't think quick enough."

  "I'll talk to him about that insurance check right now."

  Rocky Burke sat at table seven, contemplating the view of the Falls. His feet were propped on the chair adjacent to his. He was sipping coffee. He sat up as Quill approached and waved at her to sit down. "Great lunch," he said. "Great view. Great place."

  "Thanks." Quill regarded him steadily. "Doreen said that you were checking out."

  "My work's done." There was the slightest stress on the pronoun.

  "So you're headed back to—where is it?"

  "Syracuse." He shot a glance at her, then looked away.

  "And you've decided that my sister and I are innocent of arson?"

  "Seems that way."

  "But you aren't going to give us that check."

  "Nope. Well. If it hadn't been for the fire, it would have been a nice little vacation. By the way, I didn't mention this, did I? You know that Signer what's-his-name."

  "Bellasario?"

  "The old guy. Great. Just great. The boys and I had a great time."

  "That's just … great," Quill said dryly. "Does this

  mean you're leaving a check for us?"

  "Persistent, aren't you? Tell you what. Cookie. We'll be in touch."

  "I thought that one of the selling points of Burke's Insurance was the quick way you paid claims."

  "Urn. Yeah. There's quick and there's quick, Cookie. What may seem slow to you is real quick to us." He punched her lightly in the arm, in a fraternal way.

  "Mr. Burke, I know that the circumstances of our policy were unusual. But we do have a policy, and we do have a claim. We have to get that room repaired."

  "I heard that the folks in town were going to give you a hand with that."

  Quill flushed. "They offered, yes. But does that change the circumstances of what you owe?"

  "Can't say that it does. You don't," he murmured to himself "see a lot of the good side of people in insurance."

  "Mr. Burke, an offer is not a performance. Now I don't want to have to drag Howie Murchison into this—"

  "Who?"

  "Our lawyer. Are you refusing to pay us?"

  "Oh, no, not at all. You have a legitimate claim, you get a legitimate check. Burke's Insurance guarantees that."

  Quill chewed her lower lip. Mr. Burke got up and retrieved his briefcase from under the table. "I'll see you around, Cookie."

  "What happened to make you change your mind?"

  "Hah?"

  "I asked you why you think my sister and I set that fire."

  "Did I say that?"

  "You didn't say a word. And you haven't left a check either. So something's happened to affect the way you look at us. We didn't fit the profile of arsonists, you said."

  Burke shrugged and walked away. He reached the archway that led to the foyer, and Quill called after him. "Who told you the Chamber was going to help us fix that room?"

  "Some skinny short broad, Cookie. Looked a bit like a short-order cook."

  Betty Hall. Marge's partner. Marge would have told him herself if she hadn't thrown him out of her restaurant. Which was not a bad idea. The last she saw of Mr. Burke was the backside of his well-pressed suit. Quill sat at the table for a long moment, thinking hard. Meg poked her head out of the swinging doors to the kitchen and whistled, jerking her from
her abstraction. "He's gone," Quill said.

  "What?!"

  Quill got up and walked across the room. "Gone. Checked out. Hasta la bye-bye."

  "No check?"

  "No check." She peered past Meg's shoulder. "How's Bjarne?"

  "Okay. I gave him a shot of vodka. He'll be fine. Question is, will we be fine? If we don't have that check, how can we get the room fixed?"

  "The Chamber volunteers?" Quill said doubtfully.

  "Sure. After I teed everyone off this morning. Aaagh." She rested her head against the door and rubbed it back and forth.

  "There's one way we can get that check."

  "Find out who set the fire," Meg said. "Easier said than done. I mean, why? You can suspect Marge Schmidt all you want, but I don't really think—"

  "I don't think so either. I mean, she's taking advantage of the situation, that's for sure. No, she'd be the first to tell you that all's fair in war and business. But hurt somebody? Not Marge. She's a shark, but a sand shark."

  "A sand shark?"

  "Sand sharks are very nice, as sharks go. They don't eat people. No, this is a murder with a motive. A personal motive. Who here knew Ellen Dunbarton?"

  "Just the Crafty Ladies," Meg said. "You don't think …? Of course you do. One of them!? Jeez!" She straightened up. "You want to go up and take a look at the scene?"

  "I sure do. And I wouldn't mind seeing how all this craft stuff is doing either."

  The foyer had cleared of people, not, as Meg and Quill discovered when they went upstairs, because of lack of interest, but because the Crafty Ladies were out of crafts.

  "Sold the lot!" Freddie Patch said in soft delight. "Can you believe it?"

  Quill surveyed the room. The ladies had been inventive. Several long planks had been brought in from the garden shed. They lay between two chairs and were covered with a bedsheet. The carpet in the room had the messy, after-the-ball look that comes from a lot of people tramping through a confined area. A few sequins glittered on the improvised counter, several petals from silk flowers were scattered near the door, but it was clear the sale had been a success. Robin and Mary bustled about the room clearing away tissue paper and folding bags.

  "We sent Fran to take down the signs," Freddie said. "And none too soon! There's not a thing left! Not a thing. Oh, I wish I had my workshop here! I don't think we've ever had as successful a sale, do you, girls?"

  "There's something so satisfying about someone paying actual cash money for something you've put your heart and soul into," Robin said. Her face was suffused with contentment. She looked exactly like the pre-1970 Betty Crocker, when the consumer market expected their mothers and grandmothers to be plump, rosy, and comfortable.

  Robin patted Quill's arm. "You let us tidy up in here, Quill. We don't want to put the housemaid out. But, boy, could we use some tea."

  "In the gazebo," Meg said suddenly. "We'll meet you out there. It overlooks the Falls. Would you like a full English tea? Scones? Devonshire cream? Strawberries? On the house, of course."

  The three women exchanged guilty looks.

  "Do we dare?" Robin asked.

  "Try and stop me!" Mary said. "We'd love to."

  "But only if you two join us," Freddie said. "And of course we'll pay. We know how tough things are for your little Inn at the moment." She patted Quill in a kindly way. "But you know, dear, everyone goes through tough times. We wanted to tell you that. The only thing about getting older is that you realize things get better, then things get worse. It's the way life is."

  "Give us fifteen minutes," Meg said. "We'll meet you there." She tugged Quill out of the room and into the hall. Once outside the room, and away from the Crafty Ladies, they stared at each other.

  "I don't believe it," Quill said.

  "Neither do I." Meg rolled her eyes. "It's like accusing your mother."

  "There have been some pretty rotten mothers," Quill said. "Still …"

  "I wish I hadn't offered them a free tea," Meg said gloomily. "We can't afford to give people free teas. Especially innocent people. Do you really think we're going to find out anything incriminating about Ellen Dunbarton? All the former female guards in World War Two concentration camps are dead by now. They didn't have women combat troops in Vietnam, so no one could be wreaking revenge for a long-ago massacre. What in the heck could have motivated Ellen Dunbarton's murder? And in such an awful way?"

  "We have to try to find out. And your cream teas, Meg, would soften up Attila the Hun."

  Quill was as baffled at the conclusion of the cream tea as she had been at the beginning. Spring was softening into summer, and the afternoon air was a gentle bath of warm gold light. The gardeners would be out in full force all over the village, Quill thought. She caught a scent of burning in the air, one of the Petersons in the Gorge, getting rid of the dead wood. The Falls were in full flood and the water sprayed high; for a short time, the sun was at just the right angle, and a rainbow arced over the Gorge.

  "This is one of the most beautiful places we've ever been," Freddie said. She set her teacup down on the little table inside the gazebo. The five of them just fit around it. "And that was one of the most delicious teas I've ever had."

  "Fran is going to be so sorry she missed it," Mary said regretfully. "She left to get those signs down almost two hours ago. I wonder where she got to."

  "There were a couple of wonderful shops in the village," Freddie said practically. "I'm sure she got caught up in those. She'll be here. Quill, are those sweet peas planted around the base of this little hut?"

  "Yes." Quill finished the last sip of her tea and absently picked up another scone. "They'll be out in July."

  "I don't think so," Mary said. "Not if you don't stop that dog from peeing on them. Dog pee simply wrecks shrubbery." She leaned over the railing and said, "Shoo! Go away!"

  "Max!" said Quill. "What color is it?"

  "What color?! It's a sort of a grayish-brown dog."

  "No, the—um—dog pee."

  "Why, yellow, of course."

  "Good," said Quill. John had been right. His injury was healing itself. "Hey, Max!"

  "Woof!" Max said.

  "That is the ugliest dog I've ever seen," Meg said.

  "Whose dog is it?" Freddie looked disapproving. "It's very dirty."

  "I've been meaning to give him a bath." Quill got up and looked down at her dog. "Hey, Max. What have you been up to? Don't tell me, Mr. Peterson's chickens. Did you thank Selena for dropping you off?"

  "Woof," Max said again, more urgently. "Woof!" He ran backwards, toward the Gorge, and looked over his shoulder at Quill.

  "Did you find something cool?" Quill asked in a voice even she felt to be too syrupy.

  "Is that the dog that saved your life?" Freddie asked in a hushed voice.

  "Yes."

  Max began to bark in a "come here right now" sort of way. He ran to the edge of the lawn, and disappeared over the lip of the Gorge.

  "Max!" Quill went down the steps and across to the edge of the lawn. The Gorge plunged steeply down to the river here. Quill saw the gray-brown flash of Max's back plunging through the brush. A thin spiral of smoke drifted over the river. Max's barks scaled into hysteria. Quill took a deep breath and started to go after him. She inhaled again. Her head swam. She forced herself to stand still. She breathed shallowly, but the terrible odor carried on the smoke seemed to cling to her like grasping hands.

  It was familiar, that smell, and she trembled. She'd washed herself again and again, scouring it away the night before.

  "Meg," she said quietly. "Give the sheriff a call, will you?"

  6

  "We can't leave," Robin sobbed. "Our president's due any day now."

  "Can't you call her?" Quill asked gently. "You must tell her what's happening here."

  "We've sent her a fax. If it is a her. We think it's a him."

  "You think it's a him?"

  "We're going to meet him for the very first time!" Robin made a determined effort to
keep her tears at bay. Quill felt her own eyes fill in a sympathetic response. "He's so proud of what we've accomplished. Fran thought he might look like Richard Gere." She lost the battle. Tears rolled down her face. "Now she'll never see him."

  They were in the foyer. The carpet and floor were still littered with the debris generated by the traffic from the impromptu craft fair. Quill, Mary, Freddie, and Robin were squashed uncomfortably on the leather couch in front of the cobblestone fireplace. The surviving Crafty Ladies had insisted on sticking together, in full view of the sheriff, the state troopers, and the inevitable rubber-neckers who had arrived at the site of yet another murder. Quill sat back. There was some insanity at work here, and it wasn't limited to the murders. Now was not the time to probe.

  The volunteer firemen had put out the flames before Fran's body had been totally consumed. Quill had spoken quickly to Andy Bishop, who had told her that, just like Ellen Dunbarton, Fran's mouth had been taped shut with duct tape, her arms bound behind her. There were a few differences, he said. He'd get back to her.

  Quill got up. Freddie clutched at her. Her face was rubbed pink with tears. "Where are you going?!"

  "Just upstairs for a moment. You know what? Why don't you go into the Tavern and sit down. Quite a few people are in there already. You'll be safe there. Ask Nate—" Not Nate; he'd started his job at the Croh Bar yesterday. "Tell Kathleen I said to give you some sweet sherry."

  "Would there be any martinis?" Robin asked timidly. "I do like a vodka martini."

  "Enough to sink a battleship. Why don't you go on. now." They walked together down the hall, fear in the set of their shoulders. Quill began to make her way up the staircase, and almost collided with Paul Pfieffer coming down.

  "I understand a body has been discovered here on the premises," he said with disapproval.

  Quill bit back the retort that it wasn't her fault. "In the Gorge. Which is actually village property." She eyed him with a bit of disapproval herself. This gray, prim man had his hand firmly on the checking account that could save their Inn. And he would check in in the middle of the worst brouhaha they'd had for months. "We open our doors to the volunteers when anything like this occurs. If it does." Since murders had, in the past, occurred quite frequently at the Inn, she abandoned this attempt at lobbying.