A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) (23 page)

"Who cares?" Meg filled four plates of scrambled eggs with bacon, added a sprig of mint and a whole strawberry to each serving, and slid the plates onto a tray. "Table six. The mayor and his banker pals. You know, I could have made it as a short-order cook."

"You may end up as a short-order cook if the Summerhills and Marge are plotting a way to keep all that government money themselves." She stopped herself and said conscientiously, "Although we don't know
that, do we? They may be planning to use it for the good
of the town. If they can get their hands on it. Anyway, after the rush is over, I'm going to take a little trip out to the winery. I'll bet you fifty cents that's where our conspirators are." She picked up the tray and braced it on one hip.

"If you're abandoning me, then get me some more staff!" Meg shouted after her.

The dining room cleared out at eleven. Quill resisted the temptation to sit and put her feet up. Instead, she went into her office. She left the phone on automatic answer. She entered the fifty-thousand-dollar deposit in
the computer, then picked up the phone and called Kath
leen, Nate, and Dina Muir, in quick succession. Fulltime, she said to each of them, at least until the end of June. She took the list John had left and wrote out checks for the most pressing of the bills. Two estimates for rebuilding the burned-out suite lay in her "In" bas
ket. She reviewed them, dismayed. Labor rates had gone
up since she and Meg had last remodeled. And the price of lumber was extortionate. They could talk about Hurricane Hugo all they wanted, she thought darkly, somebody was making a pile of money off wood. She placed a call to Peterson's Hardware and asked that the most pressing work be done right away. "The wiring, the
Sheetrock, and the windows on the balcony," she said.
"That's all I can afford for the time being, Petey. The flooring and the rest of it is just going to have to wait." He told her he'd be there that afternoon, and Quill rang off with a sense of having accomplished a great deal.
There was just one more thing to check. She dialed 597-
FOOD. Betty Hall answered the phone. Quill pinched her nose closed with one hand. "Marge Schmidt? This is the state insurance commission calling."

"Ain't here."

"It's quite important to reach her. Tell her we called."

"Wait!" Betty's voice was anxious. "This about her application to be a broker?"

"I'm sorry, I cannot discuss applications for broker's licenses over the phone." This was true. Quill didn't know a thing about applying for a broker's license.

"She's at a meeting. I'll give you the number."

"Sorry."

"Summerhill Vineyards," Betty said desperately. "The number is …"

Quill smacked the phone into the cradle with all the
rudeness of a state employee on her way to lunch. She'd
been right.

The door to her office opened. "Hi!" Dina said. "I'm back. You look happy. Did we win the lottery?"

"Just a reprieve. We aren't out of the woods yet. I've got to go out. Could you handle all the phone messages? I haven't gone through them yet."

"No problem."

"And bookings?"

"We've got bookings?"

"We just might. You never know. And if Meg needs you in the kitchen you'll give her a hand, won't you? And if Myles should call—did I tell you he came home last night?—tell him I've gone to the Summerhills for a meeting. You've got that number in the Rolodex."

"Things are sure hopping," Dina said, pleased. "Are you solving the murders?"

"At the moment, I'm saving the Inn. This afternoon at three, I'm solving the murders."

"Cool. Anything else?"

"I can't handle anything else! Mail these bills, if you would. And if Max comes in, give him chopped up rice, a couple of raw eggs, and some bouillon. His digestion can't handle anything else."

"Sounds gross. Bouillon, rice, and eggs. Got it."

"He'll want something else, but he can't have it. Keep an eye on the Crafty Ladies, Dina. And make a note each time Paul Pfieffer leaves and comes back."

"Paul Pfieffer?"

"Paul Pfieffer."

"Got it."

"One last thing. Would you see if Doc Bishop and
Davy Kiddermeister can come over here about eight this
evening for dinner? Tell both of them they can have whatever they want from Meg's kitchen."

"Got it." Dina flipped her long brown hair and sighed
happily. "Nice to be busy again, you know? Makes a person feel more useful."

"It certainly does. Do you have any questions?"

"Yah. Just a couple. Who's Paul Pfieffer, which one is Max, how long is Sheriff McHale—"

"He's not sheriff anymore, Dina."

"—going to be in town, and what if David doesn't want to come to dinner?"

"Why shouldn't Davy want to come to dinner?"

Dina's clear brown eyes were as sorrowful as Max's. "We had a fight. He might not want to be in the same county as me."

"You're dating Davy Kiddermeister?"

"Just for laughs, you know? It's not, like, serious. But," she said with unexpected gravity, "it's like, don't call him Davy, okay? His name's David. It's more— responsible. He needs, like, more respect."

"How does David feel about you getting your doc
torate?" Quill asked dryly. "You know, Dina, he's a nice, good-looking guy, but as far as I know, he's not much interested in a life outside Hemlock Falls."

"Quill! You have, like, these old fogy notions! If I have the bigger paycheck, does he, like, care? I don't
think
so." She rolled her eyes. "I think I got it all, okay?
I mean, your instructions. So I know where you are; I'll
call you if I have to." She fluttered her fingers. "I'll catch the phones. And I'll catch you later." She banged out the door to her workstation behind the reception desk.

Old fogy? Quill looked in the mirror hung on the back
of her office door. Were those lines on her upper lip? Was she getting gray? She unwound her hair from the top of her head and examined her widow's peak. No gray. Just the usual red, darker than it generally was at this time of year, because she hadn't anytime to spend
outside. And old fogies didn't single-handedly save their family business while simultaneously solving the biggest
crime of the year in Hemlock Falls.

"Maybe Miss Marple did," she said to her reflection. She sighed heavily. "Except that she had a private income, so she didn't worry about the business side of life." She checked the time: noon. With any luck, she'd catch Marge and the Summerhills right in the middle of planning to appropriate all that cash for themselves.

Yesterday's clouds were cleared, and the sun was shining. Driving the Oldsmobile to the vineyard, Quill's spirits rose. She hummed that she loved Paris in the winter, she loved Paris in the fall, then sang, full-throated, "
I
love Paris in the springtime!
" and ignored the speed limit. She turned left at the gold-lettered sign that said SUMMERHILL WINERY. The sign giving the hours for the tasting room had a placard over it: closed for today only. Quill followed the arrows up the hill.

Most of the boutique wineries in the area were built
on the slopes of hills surrounding the lakes. Summerhill
Winery was no exception. Lake Cayuga glittered in the sunshine below the fields. The air was scented with apple blossoms and flowering plum. The grapevines were just coming into leaf. The rows between the long vines had been neatly raked. The fields themselves were de
serted. The vines were trimmed and culled in early win
ter, after the harvest. Quill knew, so maybe there wasn't a great deal to do in the spring. Either that, or the Summerhills couldn't afford the labor. But the whole property looked trim and well cared for. It was hard to believe that the Summerhills were in financial trouble. Selena and Hugh had twenty of their twenty-five acres
under cultivation, slightly more than the average winery
here. Selena had told her once they pressed more than sixty thousand gallons a year.

They should have been profitable. But for the taxes. Quill thought. I'll bet the taxes are eating them alive, too. I'm facing two certainties of life right here, right now: Death and Taxes.

Five acres at Summerhill were allocated to the winery itself, the house, and two barns that had been part of the
farm when Hugh had purchased it several years before.
Quill pulled into the blacktopped driveway, braked, and
muttered, "Aha."

Four cars sat in the parking spaces in front of the tasting room: Marge's Lincoln (brand-new), Harvey's
Cadillac (old, but lovingly polished), a Mercedes with
Boston plates, and a Ford Taurus with an Avis sticker on the license plate. Quill recalled reading that the state of New York had switched to Avis as its rental dealer of choice.

The parking lot was quiet. Anyone who was here was
inside. Quill noticed that the windows on the south end
of the building were open to the air and the view of the
lake. They'd probably gathered at that end of the room.

She had options. She could march in, sit down, and
discover what was going on through sheer force of per
sonality. She could go home. Or she could reconnoiter.
Quill was of the opinion that reconnoitering was a term Special Forces invented as a euphemism for eavesdropping. She'd often thought that very few of the fictional private eyes she liked to read for fun properly addressed the problem of the more character wrecking parts of be
ing an investigator. Lew Archer never had to lie or eavesdrop. Easy Rawlins was as straight as they come.

But there were times when discretion was absolutely
the better part of valor. If Quill marched into the tasting
room and demanded to know what's what. Marge was
fully capable of booting her out the door. There was also the distinct possibility that she'd hear more truth outside
the window than inside the tasting room.

Besides, in one of Marge's more memorable phrases, "business was war." If she. Quill, really were in a war, and had to save the lives of her men, she'd reconnoiter away without a qualm. She straightened her shoulders and stuck out her chin: she wouldn't go so far as to
imagine the sound of trumpets, but she did think of God,
King Harry, and England.

The front door was on the south end of the building
on the west wall. She'd have to pass it to get to the open
windows. She walked by it on tiptoe, wishing she'd thought to wear her tennis shoes instead of her slappy Birkinstocks.

She stopped at the end of the west wall and heard the
murmur of voices. She craned her neck around the corner and held her breath to hear better. The words were
indistinguishable, the tone clipped, the voice masculine.
Either Hugh or Thorne Smith.

"Haven't heard a thing yet worth a bucket of warm spit!" Marge's voice was very distinct. Bless that foghorn bellow.

Mutter mutter mutter,
said the male voice in response.

"… an infusion of cash, is all," Marge said. "Them two don't know shit from shinola when it comes to running a business! Raintree did all the financials. But you won't find a better cook than the brunette, and the redhead knows how to treat the guests."

Mut-ter mutt mutt mutter?
This voice, also masculine,
sounded like a horse clipper: thin, dry, and buzzy. Paul Pfieffer.

"Bullshit. He left because he was in love with the tall
skinny one with red hair and she's been havin' it on with the sher'f … It's a good business, and they're pretty good folk."

Quill blushed. She could feel it. After all the suspicions she had had about Marge.

Mut-ter muttermutter?

"Not the current sher'f. The real one. Raintree's leaving wasn't a business issue at all. Woulda hired him myself if I needed a good business manager. But you'd have to go farther than some M.B.A. like Raintree to beat
me
at business." (This, Quill reflected, was true.) "Ask Jefferson down to the bank if you don't take my word for it. Snot-nosed bureaucrat who probably couldn't read a balance sheet anyways."

Wow. Quill flattened herself at the side of the building and reconsidered her decision to eavesdrop. Not only did
Marge appear to be on the side of the Inn, she didn't
sound anything like a conspirator. She sounded just like
she always did, ready to flatten anyone who challenged her (admittedly superior) business decisions. She could
hear Marge's opinion of just about anybody anytime she
wanted to go to the Hemlock Home Diner for Sunday breakfast. She didn't have to stand flattened against the
side of a metal building in the hot sun. Besides, if there was any content to this meeting other than name-calling,
it didn't appear to be imminent.

"You can shove that opinion right where the sun don't shine!"

Whack!
That sounded like a chair going over. "Okay,
boys," Quill murmured to her imaginary battalion. "We're going in."

SLAM!
The front door banged open and Marge stumped into the parking lot, purse over one meaty shoulder, briefcase dangling from the other. "What are you doin' here?!"