A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) (19 page)

"Possibly. Let's take it down to Meg and see."

"A triangle?" Meg dropped the cloth she was polishing the counter with and turned the instrument over in her hand. "Did she like to listen to it before she went to sleep?" She dropped it with a clatter, and again the
chime filled the air. "Beats me. You guys want some
dinner?"

"Wouldn't mind." Doreen eased herself onto the kitchen stool. "Stoke's out interviewin' the town on this four million bucks the government's got to give away.
I remember when Roosevelt was elected all the hoo-ha from the rich folks about the government giving away
money for food. Now the government's giving away money for folks on vacation, and you don't hear a word about it."

"You remember
Roosevelt
?" Meg demanded. She looked at Quill. "Franklin Delano?"

"Sure do." Doreen grinned at Meg. "You don't tell Stoke, neither."

"Okay," said Meg, stunned. Her lips moved. "Over
seventy?" she said finally. "You're over seventy?! What the heck are you do—"

"Meg!" Quill cut in sharply. "I'm starved. What do you have to eat?"

"Cold cucumber soup. Fresh bread. Some roasted
lamb and new potatoes. I decided," she added, "to serve
one entrée tonight, and tough bounce to anyone who won't eat lamb. There's strawberries and cream for dessert."

They ate in silence. Quill turned the events of the past
two days over and over in her mind. "Here's the deal," she said aloud. She waved her fork in the air, making her point. "First of all, five ladies checked in here two days ago for a week. Right? They said they were here to plan their new line of craft kits for two years from now."

"How'd they sell 'em?" Doreen asked.

"Mail order. Ellen Dunbarton explained it to me. All they did was buy a 1-800 line, which is really cheap,
and print up a catalogue. They contacted a whole bunch
of suppliers of the components of the kits—safety pins.
beads, artificial flowers—and had them on standby for
order."

"So they never had to buy an inventory," Meg said.

"Not a penny went to inventory. They get a call, they
tell the customer it's a week's guaranteed delivery, then call their suppliers. The suppliers drop-ship the order, and they all get together and assemble it, then mail it. They bought a mailing list
from
one of those craft companies, I believe. Ellen said it cost them a dime a name. She said it's how Spiegal's does business."

"Pretty clever," Meg said.

"It's very clever. The thing is, what kind of trouble
could five churchgoing type ladies have possibly gotten
into with a backyard mail-order business?"

There was an angry knock on the swinging doors. Meg rolled her eyes. Doreen muttered, "Now what?!" Quill pushed the doors open gently.

Paul Pfieffer said angrily, "There is a large, ugly dog
in your dining room. This is a violation of the New York
State health codes."

Max shoved his way without ceremony into the kitchen.

"YOU!" Doreen said in a voice of loathing. "GIT!"

Max whined and wriggled. Meg bounced off her stool
and said, "Come in, Mr. Pfieffer. We were just about to
have some dessert. And my sister was just about to take
the dog outside. After that, she plans to call the dog-
catcher who, instead of surreptitiously returning the dog
to her, will take it to the pound. Weren't you. Quill?"

"Selena?" Quill said feebly. "I hate to disturb her now, Meg. It's after eight o'clock and you know how
hard she works. Why don't I just take Max to the garden
shed?"

Max whined loudly at the words "garden shed."

"There is also a lost-looking gentleman in the foyer,"
Mr. Pfieffer said icily. "He is looking for the receptionist." He craned his neck to look over Quill's shoulder.

"You said something about dessert, Maitre d' Quilliam?"

"Coming right up. And some freshly ground coffee, perhaps with a bit of cognac on the side?"

"The meal was delicious," Mr. Pfieffer said grudgingly. He edged past Quill and the dog. "You'll do something about that animal before morning? I have friends in the health department."

I have friends in the health department. Quill mouthed
silently at his back.

"About that guest in the foyer?" Meg said in a mean
ingful way.

"It's Mr. Smith, I think, waiting to check in. I'll take care of it. Come along, Max."

"And I'll be gettin' on home to Stoke," Doreen said. "Night, Quill. Night, Meg." She gave Pfieffer a look so malign, he jumped. "Don't you keep this kitchen open too late, you hear?"

"Mr. Smith?" Quill asked as she walked into the foyer.

"I am at that." The pronoun was soft and long, an "aah" rather than an "eye." Mr. Smith didn't look lost. He looked confident, clever, and rich. He was also blond, Southern, and buff—he reminded Quill of the
current President. A person, she told herself, whom you
might expect to use charm over substance. But likable. Very likable.

"Miss Quilliam." He was dressed in a summer
weight navy sports coat. The buttons were from a well-
known yacht club in Connecticut. He had on well-
pressed gray trousers, Oxford blood loafers, and a white cotton shirt, open at the collar. Quill suppressed the im
pulse to call Harvey Bozzel. "Harvey?" she would say. "I want you to take a peek at your dream man. Your role model. The advertising man's advertising man."

"Miss Quilliam?" he repeated. His voice was louder,
firmer, than it had been at first, with empathetically kind
overtones; the sort of voice, Quill was sure, he would use as he opened the door for a little old lady on crutches.

"Miss—"

"Yes, yes, yes. I'm Sarah Quilliam. Please call me Quill. You're here to check in?"

He nodded at a black leather suitcase near the door. From the discreet line of Vuitton. At least he wasn't a reporter. She'd been afraid of reporters since the discovery of poor Fran's body. Quill moved behind the registration desk and took up the pen. He gave his name as Thorne Smith, with an "e" (now why did that seem
familiar?); address Boston, (by way of Atlanta—she was
certain from his accent); car, Mercedes, Massachusetts plates; occupation …

"Marketing," he said easily.

There really wasn't any way. Quill thought, to inquire about what kind of marketing. Black marketing? Industrial marketing? Grocery marketing? At the rate bodies were piling up, she was suspicious of anyone checking into her inn.

"It's okay, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

"That I'm in marketing. Investments, to be precise. An advisor in real estate, to be more precise yet."

Quill opened her mouth, then closed it. Four million was a decent sum, even these days. The government's fund had been announced in the paper; the total sum available to outlying counties all over New York State was close to one hundred million. It wasn't reporters she had to be worried about: murder was becoming far too commonplace to bring the media out unless the victim was famous, or the crime so brutal it would give pause
to millions of Americans eating breakfast (and ratings to
the lucky station). She thought of Fran's frank and exuberant shout of the day before: SHOW ME THE MONEY. Well, the governor had. And look what the dog had brought in.

"Nice dog," said Mr. Smith dubiously. Max sniffed thoroughly around his feet. He bent and patted him.

"That's odd," Quill said.

Mr. Smith's expression clearly said he thought Quill was odd but was far too sophisticated to say so. "An odd dog?"

"It's just that he's quite people-shy. Or he has been. Maybe because he's feeling better. He peed yellow today, you know."

"
Did
he?"

Quill shook herself. "I'm sorry. It's been a tough cou
ple of days, a tough couple of weeks, as a matter of fact,
and you must think I'm completely crazy."

"Not at all."

"Well. I'd better get you checked in before you flee to the Marriott."

"I've been at the Marriott for the past few days. I'd be happy to go back."

"Full up, I believe," Quill lied cheerfully. "Now. Would you like a view of the waterfall? No, maybe you'd better wait until tomorrow. I don't think the body's up yet. What about a nice view of the rose gardens?"

"The body."

"Accident," Quill said briskly. "Here you are, room 200. Top of the stairs, then take a left. Will you need help with your luggage?"

"No. No."

"And have you eaten?"

"Ah, no. I passed a diner on the way in. As a matter of fact, our company's received some very good press about the diner. It looked interesting. Hemlock Home Diner? Fine Food and Fast? I make sort of a hobby of diners. You must know all about it."

So Marge was, as usual, two steps ahead of her. A representative for wealthy investors in town, and she'd
already conned him, somehow. Her dander up. Quill fur
ther perjured her soul. "The food there? Grease up to here." She tapped her chin. "The specialty in our dining room tonight is roast leg of lamb, a fresh mint sauce,
the British way, with vinegar, new potatoes, and fresh parsley. You've heard of our chef, of course. Rated three
stars by
L'Aperitif."

"Really?"

"And our wine list is very complete. What do you think?"

"As a matter of fact, the local wines are of equal interest to my company. Do you carry local wines?"

"We have a wonderful Chardonnay from Summerhill Winery. A marvelous varietal from Noir Hill, and some very decent red from Arcadia Vineyards." That, at least,
was the absolute truth. "Now, the diner?" She shook her head gravely. "The diner dinners are alcohol free. The owner," Quill added darkly, "has a thing about liquor. Don't even think of going in there with yeast on your breath." Marge
did
have a thing about liquor; she
drank her whiskey neat, and more than once had offered
the opinion that wine was for weenies.

"Can I reserve a table for you for dinner?"

"I need a reservation?"

"Yes," Quill said diffidently. So he would see the room was empty when he sat down. So what?

"Fine. In about—" He checked his watch. It was a
Rolex. Not even gold. The platinum version. That watch
would pay Doreen's salary for a year. "Twenty minutes?"

"Hmm?"

"Twenty minutes?!" The idiot-child kindliness was back in his voice.

"That'll be 8:33, sir. We will seat you then."

Quill hurried into the dining room. Kathleen was still busy in the Tavern Bar, apparently; Mr. Pfieffer's table
hadn't been cleared. She piled the dirty dishes on one arm and swept back into the kitchen. Meg was wiping down the sink. "Hey," she said.

"Hey, yourself."

"We've got one more for dinner."

"Send him to Marge's, Quill. She may be a sneaky son of a gun, but she's a terrific cook. I'm pooped. I'm beat. I'm so tired I could scream. Do you realize I've
taken care of this whole kitchen by myself since this afternoon? That means dishes and cooking and cleaning up and more dishes and more cooking and MORE clean
ing up in case that little weasel Pfieffer decides to call his buddies at the D.O.H. That damn dog, by the way,
is still here!"

Quill reached down and absently scratched Max's ears. "Good boy. Mr. Smith will have the lamb."

"There isn't any lamb. You ate it all."

"You had some, too!"

"We ate it all, then. It's finished. Kaput. Gone."

"Can you make some more?"

"I cannot."

"Isn't there anything for dinner?"

Meg muttered under her breath and flung open the freezer door. "There's pizza," she said after a long moment.

"Pizza? Frozen pizza? In your kitchen?"

"It's Bjarne's pizza. He has a thing for American junk food. He doesn't think I know it's there, but I do." She took it out and weighed it in one hand. "Feels like the tasty five toppings variety."

"The package says 'herring.' "

"Bjarne's little joke. Or maybe it's herring pizza? What do I know?" She flung it back into the freezer and slammed the door shut.

"We have to feed this guy something, Meg."

"Why?"

"Because he's a rich investment counselor from Boston."

"Last time I looked, we had zero to invest."

"You're not getting the point," Quill said patiently. "He's here because of all that state money. He's an advisor, Meg. That means he advises people to invest in guess what …"

"Bankrupt inns?"

"Inns that need a little infusion of cash to be wildly successful. Meg, don't you see? This must be part of the governor's plan! When you put a lot of public money into a place, the private money is sure to follow. Mr. Smith is the thin edge of the wedge … no … no … you know what he is?"