A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) (6 page)

"So if it's not all that horribly boring stuff—a lot of
money, great travel, and a short train ride away from the greatest city in the known universe, which is to say, New
York—why is he taking this horrible job?" Meg asked. Both eyebrows were raised almost to her hairline. She placed both hands onto the counter, leaned over, and shouted, "I mean to say, QUILL! Earth to QUILL!! If that's not why he's taking the job, what is it?"

"It's me," Quill said miserably.

Meg looked at her sharply, then said with a deceptively casual air, "Oh?"

"I'm a terrible partner. I forgot to write down the amount of a couple of checks …"

"Again?"

"And this time, the insurance company canceled our policy."

"They what?"

"The check John wrote bounced because he thought
there was more in the account. Oh, he's fixed it, as usual,
but honestly, Meg. I must drive him crazy."

"I don't think
that's
the reason," Meg said thoughtfully.

And so, Quill thought, Meg knows more than she's letting on.

She knows John won't stay on in a business that couldn't—according to the numbers at least—make a profit no matter how successful it was. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong state, John had said. Even if you could run a hundred percent occupancy all year round, you still couldn't make expenses, John said.

Sell the Inn, Quill.

She'd have all her teeth pulled and then eat glass before she told Meg John's solution.

"So why do you think he's leaving us?"

"I don't think he's gone because you're driving him bananas. You drive everyone bananas. He's an M.B.A. A good one. This job never offered the kind of scope
he can have with a good company. The reason he stayed
in a dead-end job with an improvident partner all these years is the same one he's leaving."

"It'd be nice if you would try and make some sense, Meg. Given the kind of day I've had, and all."

Meg unhooked the copper whipping bowl from its
place above her head and filled it with heavy cream. She whipped vigorously with her hand beater for a moment,
then said casually, "If you ask me, he's stayed because he's in love with you. And he's leaving because he's in love with you."

"For heaven's sake, Meg!"

Meg shrugged. "This
temporary
—and by that I mean I don't care what John says, it's temporary—this busi
ness slowdown of ours has forced his hand. If he could
afford to take a pay cut he would. Just to stay near—"

"Shut UP, Meg!"

"—you, but he can't. Because of his sister." Meg
stopped beating, tested the whipped cream with a critical
air, then resumed her vigorous whipping. "Another thing is Myles. If you hadn't agreed to marry Myles,
John would have taken a second job to make ends meet,
rather than leave you. But" —Meg set the copper bowl down with a satisfied
thunk!
— "there you are."

"You are a complete and utter idiot."

"I have a sixth sense about these things."

Quill was so annoyed, she barely registered the opening and closing of the dining room door. "You have NO
sense about anything. You've been a complete and total idiot since you were six years old. No. No. Pardon me. It came much later than that. And I remember the exact precise time." Quill stood up and leaned over the whipped cream. "It was after you read
Gone With the Wind.
What kind of woman with any pretensions to adulthood takes Scarlett O'Hara as a role model?!"

Meg flicked a handful of whipped cream in her face.
Furious, Quill scooped up the butter (now somewhat liquid in the warmth of the kitchen) and drew her arm back
for the best overhand pitch she'd made since the Connecticut Intramural Girls Softball Tournament in her freshman year.

"Ladies? Am I interrupting?"

Quill froze, her arm upraised, butter dripping onto her
hair. The voice was male, with a smoker's rasp, and quite unfamiliar. She turned to face him. He was just shy of middle-aged. About forty-five, she thought. He wore a pale blue sports coat with gold buttons, gray
linen trousers, and a dark blue cotton, button-down, Ox
ford cloth shirt with white collar and cuffs. She was
pretty sure she'd glimpsed a gold chain around his neck. She was very sure about the white patent leather loafers,
since they winked in the overhead lights like a streetwalker's eye.

"May I help you?" she asked coldly.

"I wish somebody would. Name's Burke. Rocky
Burke, owner/president of Burke's Central New York
All-inclusive Insurance Agency. The Rocklike Broker for Rocky Times." He gave Quill an appreciative look,
beginning at her ankles, traveling up her hips, waist, and
breasts, and ending with her nose. "You can call me Rock, Cookie." Then, "I
like
a feisty woman."

"Here, sport," Meg said. She tossed Quill a damp towel. "Insurance? You must be part of the broker's dinner booked for this evening."

"Banquet. Broker's banquet. Little celebration for my five top salesmen this year. Yes, that's what I am. Came a little ahead of time to check on the arrangements and couldn't find a perishing soul out there except a lot of very drunk old biddies in that bay window table. They get all that booze here?"

"Please don't call them old biddies," Quill said.

"Golden-agers, then. Whatever. They're sure drunk, though. Like I said, if they're going to drive somewhere, I hope you didn't sell them all that booze."

"What business is it of yours?" Quill demanded. The butter seemed to have gotten all over her. She dabbed futilely at her hair. "They've had some rum, to be sure, but …"

"Dramshop Law," Mr. Burke said darkly. "Nasty sidelight to doing business in the great state of New York. See, that's a law which holds you, the bar owners—" He stopped. "You are the Quilliam sisters, aren't'cha? Thought so. The Dramshop Law, or Act,
holds you, the bar owners responsible for the amount of
liquor served to invitees on the premises. This law …"

"We've got insurance," Meg said. "Quite a lot of insurance."

"Actually, we don't," Quill reminded her.

Mr. Burke addressed an invisible companion. "I know they have no insurance, don't I? And aren't these the ladies who are supposed to sign my binder policy?"

"Oh! You're that Mr. Burke. I'm sorry there was no one to greet you, sir." Quill tucked her hair behind her ears and took a deep breath.

"Yeah, well. S'all right. Okay with you, we'll take care of the business tomorrow. Your current policy's good till then, right?"

"Right."

"So what I came back here for is about the banquet."

"Would you like to check on the arrangements for your dinner, I mean banquet? You know already that Meg is one of the finest chefs on the eastern—"

"That a fact? Nah. Screw the food. All the boys will care about is the booze. And it looks like the booze is
okay, from the way those broadies out there are slurping
it up. What I wanna know is, what about the entertainment?"

There was a short silence. Quill looked at Meg. Meg opened her mouth, shut it, then went to the oven to check on the World's Largest Cream Puff.

"Entertainment," said Quill, just to be certain she'd heard correctly.

"Yepper. Thing is, I wasn't quite sure what you got here."

"We have dog duets," Meg said to the World's Largest Cream Puff, "or maybe the Quarreling Quilliams? Whipped cream and warm butter All-Girl Wrestling? Take your pick."

"Huh?" Mr. Burke said, with a worried geniality that undoubtedly served him well on the claims end of his business.

"Why don't we go into the Tavern Bar, Mr. Burke? We can discuss the issue there, over—er—some booze." Quill took his arm, and, with the expertise born of years of dealing with guests who were unimaginably
rude, unforgettably snide, and ridiculously bellicose, she
steered him out of the kitchen across the dining room, and down the short corridor to the Tavern Bar.

"Very nice place you have here," Mr. Burke offered as she pulled him briskly along. "Very historic."

"Very," Quill agreed. She tugged him over to the mahogany bar. Here, at least, were customers. Not many, but a few. She signaled Nate the bartender with
a lifted forefinger and a smile. The sight of Nate, stolid,
dark, reassuring in his familiar stance behind the long mahogany bar, lifted her spirit. She smiled brightly at Rocky Burke, then said, "Um … name your—er—poison, Mr. Burke. Rocky, I mean. On the house."

"That right? Double V.O. Gibson on the rocks. And a Kleenex."

"I beg your pardon?"

Nate gave the bar in front of them a graceful swipe with his cloth. "He means a pickled onion. Quill. Shall I pour the usual for you?"

"Thanks, Nate."

"No problem. By the way, you got some time later, I'd like to talk to you. No rush. No biggie."

Oh,
shit.
Quill thought. Another no rush. Another no
biggie. Another ex-employee. "Of course," she said. "Anytime. My office is always open."

Rocky Burke grasped his Gibson with the air of a man
coming home. He tested it. Smiled. Said, "A drink this good, may be all the entertainment we need."

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Burke, we really don't have any entertainment. As such."

"As such? As such what?"

"Well, there's the pianist, of course, but he only comes in for special occasions. For example, we had a banquet for a group called the Savoyards. They're from
New York City, and they're devotees of Gilbert and Sul
livan—"

"
I
am the very model of a modern major gen-er-al!"
Mr. Burke sang in a creditable baritone. "Sure. I know
Art and Bill real well." He winked. "Course, at our little banquets, we kind of change the words to fit, you know.
Make it all about insurance."

"All about insurance?"

This put Mr. Burke on his dignity. "Of course all about insurance. You know the 'Policeman's Song' from
Pirates?'

"I don't think—"

"Sure you do. Only we sing.
When a broker's not engaged in his employment, (his employment) or maturing his annuity's little plans (little plans).
Like that. Or 'Buttercup's Song' from
Pinafore. Hurrah for commissions,/ three cheers for commissions/ there's no need at all to decry/ the cash from commissions/ tho' it's quite an omission/ if the insured one refuses to die.
"

"Aagh," Quill said and took a long sip of her red wine.

"So a pianist would be just fine."

"Really?" Quill brightened. Their pianist was a retired concert artist from Cornell, usually available, and very good. "I'll make the arrangements right away. Of course, there's a fee, quite reasonable, considering."

Mr. Burke hunched forward in a confiding way. "Tell
you what I'm gonna do."

"What are you going to do, Mr. Burke?"

"I'm gonna write you a fire policy you won't believe." He patted his breast pocket and looked at her in an appealing way. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

He lit up, flicked the match into the ashtray and sipped his Gibson. He exhaled luxuriously. "I wonder what the
poor people are doing tonight!"

Sitting watching you drink my mortgage money. Quill
thought.

"What about this fire policy?"

"Not just fire. No, Cookie. Includes wind, rain, floods, and other acts of God. Vandalism. Malicious mischief. The works. It's your policy, you get me?"

"Sort of."

"See, the deal is this. How much does it cost for this pianist?"

"Three to five hundred dollars, depending."

"Depending on what?"

On how many times he has to play "New York, New
York" and the Macarena, Quill thought, but she said, "Whether the group wants requests, or a concert—he's one of the world's best known interpreters of Mozart— that sort of thing."

"We're a sing-along bunch of guys, that's for sure."

"Then for sure he's going to want five hundred."

"And you just guess how much a two-month straight fire policy on this old Inn is from the Rock's agency?"

"How much?" Quill asked warily. "Not
…
five hun
dred?"

"You betcha!" He swallowed the remains of his
drink and signaled Nate with an exuberant, "My
man]
Another!"

Quill had the very distinct feeling that she wasn't the one getting the advantage here.

"Now. This will be on a binder. Two months. With a slight, very slight rise in the premium after we do the inspection thing."

"How much of a rise?" Quill asked.

"It's
de minimis.
Which is to say, not to worry. You get a hell of a deal on your fire policy. I get a new customer. And the boys get a terrific pianist tonight."

"Well," Quill said. "We already—"