A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) (17 page)

"Do you think it would have been right to stay there at that secret little grabbers meeting?"

"No, I don't. But I also think that Dookie would have pointed out, in his nonconfrontational, abstract, totally
inoffensive way, that perhaps we should bring this to the
attention of the rest of the town."

"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 in
volved, 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 book
ings 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 think
ing, 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 cov
ered 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 pay
ing 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 com
fortable.

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?"