A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) (7 page)

"No, you don't. Checked on you, of course, before I
came out. Had a little talk with your business manager—
bright guy. He asked about lower rates from me than from the boy you were buying from before. I said I'd check it out—never let an opportunity pass you by, Cookie. You're going to be canceled, if you haven't been already, for nonpayment of premium. Now. You
need a policy. I need a pianist. Bingo. Bob's your uncle.
Deal?"

"What's that expression mean, anyway? Bob's your uncle?"

"Can't say as I know for sure, Cookie. Have we got a deal?"

"I … you say John asked about rate fees from you?"

"He did. Yes, ma'am." He took the cigarette out of his mouth and eyed her through the smoke. "He here, still? Heard he had a new job."

"How did you … never mind. Yes, he's still here. But he won't be back until quite late."

"Uh
huh.
Well, you tell the old boy, if he questions the amount of the
quid pro quo,
that rates were a little higher than I thought."

"I see." Quill began to understand how the poor got poorer. Mr. Burke seemed to know she didn't have the cash on hand to pay him—and take care of several urgent bills tomorrow—but that Signer Bellasario, the pianist, would wait for his fee. So she ended up paying more, because she couldn't afford to pay now. "John thought it'd be okay to go with your company at a five-hundred-dollar premium for two months?"

Mr. Burke shrugged.

"Then I guess it would be okay." Quill tapped her
thumb nervously against the side of her wineglass. She'd
defer a five-hundred-dollar payable for two months. Anything could happen in two months. "You wouldn't have any paperwork with you right now, would you?"

"Sure would. In the old briefcase. Left it in your foyer. You show me where my room is; I'll haul out the old laptop and bingo! Barb's your aunt. Ha!"

Nate set the second double V.O. Gibson (with Kleenex) in front of Mr. Burke. He swallowed it, slapped Quill on the back, and rose to take his leave. "You got a key?"

"You're booked into 212. The key's on the board behind the reception desk. But I'll—"

"Don't you worry your—"

Pretty little head about it. Quill thought.

"—pretty little head about it. Sit there. Finish that touch of the grape. And I'll see you in a while."

There was quite a bit of Burgundy left in the wineglass. Quill swirled it around, took a sip, and closed her eyes. She could see every detail of the room around her: the long shining sweep of the bar; the rows of wineglasses hanging from the beech wood racks, bell down; the round tables and the comfortable lounge chairs. She and Meg had traveled to all five boroughs in New York looking for lounge chairs a customer would love to sit
in sober, but wouldn't encourage too much consumption.
They'd never actually found one.

"You have a minute. Quill?"

She opened her eyes. She'd hired Nate on a snowy afternoon in January five years ago. They'd decided, John, Doreen, Meg, and Quill herself, that maybe, by spring, there'd be enough business to hire a bartender full-time. John, a recovering alcoholic, hadn't liked the
work, Quill had known that from the beginning, but he'd
insisted on tending bar while the business was building.

Nate had come to the back door, hat twisted between his hands, not too certain he wanted to work for two
women, but in need of a job and willing to try. He stood
in front of her now, head turned a little sideways.

"So who made you an offer you couldn't refuse?"

Surprise and relief gave him a slightly comical look. "The Croh Bar," he said readily. "Stewie Harrelson had to quit. Heart, the doc said. Tips are pretty good there. I hope there's no hard feelings."

"No. Of course not." She reached out and clasped
his hand briefly, as warmly as she could. "I'm just sorry
we couldn't keep you in work. I feel awful."

He shrugged. "Hey. Times get good again, I'll be right back. If you want me." He hesitated. "I suppose John'll be taking over?"

"No. No. The thing is, Nate, John's found a great opportunity in Long Island. He thought he might give it a go. As they say."

"Hm. Wouldn't have figured that would have happened. But then—"

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, Quill thought.

"—a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

Quill, whose memory of nonfinancially related facts was almost eidetic, recalled a relevant section of Termination. When you terminated, (although, granted,
Nate had terminated himself) you were supposed to be
positive, upbeat, and sincere. "You've been the best, Nate, just the best. We couldn't have done it without you."

Nate nodded. "It's been a pleasure."

"It's been more than a pleasure. I'll always feel that you had a big part in our success, Nate. When we were successful, that is."

"Thank you very much. Now, who's going to take care of her?" He indicated the long sweep of the bar.

"I thought I'd ask Kathleen. Tips in the dining room are even worse than in here. Not that she'd be a tenth of the bartender you are, Nate."

"Thank you. Thank you very much. Who's going to take over for Kath in the dining room?"

"We'll figure it out. Me, probably."

"Yeah? Just like the old days."

"Just like the old days."

"I thought I'd work out the week. Maybe start at the
Croh on Monday. Tell you what. Quill. You get a special
party in, like that Swamp Engineers Group, I'd be glad to sub for you. Anytime. All you gotta do is ask."

"That's a good idea." Quill sat up a little straighter and took a healthy swallow of her wine. "That's a very good idea. I wonder if we could do it all with part-timers. I mean—we've always felt it was important to offer salaries and health benefits, but part-timers don't care about that, do they? And they work cheap."

Nate nodded.

"You don't think it's a good idea, Nate. I can tell you don't think it's a good idea."

"You've been a good boss, Quill. Hate to see you start the nickel-and-dime stuff, that's all."

"Well, maybe if I'd paid more attention to the nickel-and-dime stuff, you wouldn't be looking for a job at the Croh Bar."

"Could be."

Quill waited until the heat in her cheeks subsided. "Sorry."

"S'all right. Times are tough."

"Times aren't that tough. People like Marge Schmidt never seem to go through tough times." She thought a moment. "Nate?"

"Yeah, Quill. Still here."

"Marge Schmidt's run the Hemlock Home Diner for how long?"

"Long as I can remember. I think she bought that place with the money from her high school graduation party, I swear to God. And she's never looked back."

"I've heard she's the richest woman in Hemlock Falls."

"Richest citizen in Tompkins County," Nate said. "And that's saying something, with all the wineries."

"I wonder." Quill beckoned Nate closer, and leaned forward until her curls tickled his cheek. "You don't think … you don't think she'd like to buy out John's share in the Inn?"

"John's got shares in the Inn?" Nate frowned.

"Fifteen percent. Of course, at the moment, that fifteen percent isn't worth a bucket of warm spit, as they say in Fargo, but still. She's a successful woman, Nate. A woman who knows her way around a bank."

"When did you give ol' John fifteen percent of the Inn?"

"We didn't give it to him, he earned it. It's called sweat equity. He deferred part of his salary every year, or something. I'm not entirely sure. Howie Murchison handled it for me."

"How come I didn't get a chance at these shares?"

"You?"

"Me." He tapped his chest. "Nate. Guy that's standing right here in front of you. I mean being such a valuable employee and all."

"Oh." She thought a moment. "Well, everyone got a chance to participate in the boutique when it opened."

"Thanks a lot."

"I detect a little sarcasm here, Nate."

"Well, the dang thing went bust, didn't it? So much for all that profit sharing."

"Who knew Mr. Sakura was going to make it into a car wash and miniature golf course?"

"Anyway."

There was an awkward silence. Quill cleared her throat. "I'll be getting along then." She glanced at her watch. "Myles usually calls about now. He's in Europe, you know. That German thing And I've got to give Signer Bellasario a call. The brokers want some music."

"See you around. Quill."

"See you."

She walked briskly out of the Tavern Bar with, she
hoped, an attitude of purpose and confidence. The foyer
was empty, the front door closed. No noise at all came from the dining room, and when she looked, she saw it
was empty. The Crafty Ladies had finished their dinners and gone—who knew where. The silence was deafening.

A note from Kathleen was taped to the room ledger: 214, 216, 218 checked in. So the other brokers must have arrived. A second note taped to the telephone was from Doreen: sorry. So the wholesaler wanted his money up front. "Damn," Quill said. The answering machine light blipped red; she punched the Play button:

Myles, his voice hollow and tinny on the line from Frankfurt. Love and he'd call in two days.

Selena Summerhill, offering dates for a wine tour.

Two calls from the obnoxiously cheerful, nastily firm
credit card people.

Marge Schmidt, inviting her to the Hemlock Home Diner (Fine Food and Fast!). No rush. Anytime. Just to talk. Thought she might be interested in doing a little business.

Marge's number at the diner was easy to remember: all the village telephone prefixes were the same, 597. The diner was 597-FOOD. Quill dialed before she lost her nerve.

"Diner, 'lo."

"Hello, Marge. It's Sarah Quilliam. Up at the Inn."

"How's it going, up there at the Inn, Ms. Quilliam?"

"Fine!"

Marge didn't say anything to this, although the quality
of the silence was of the "what am I, stupid?" variety. Then, "You got some bonehead insurance guy named Burke stayin' up there with you. Quill?"

"Rocky Burke? Yes. Why?"

"I hope he chokes to death on one a Meg's chicken bones, that's why. Creep comes in here at lunchtime with his round little stummick stickin' out, tries to hit up the whole damn town for new policies. Threw the bugger out."

"Good grief," Quill said.

"Thing is, Quill. I'm kinda startin' in that line myself."

"Insurance?"

"Good hedge against bad times."

Quill made an attempt to sort this out before Marge said anything more. Was she trying to sell Quill a policy? Did she leave the call just so she could rub it in that half the village was eating lunch at her diner, rather than at the Inn? Was there a hidden message (Marge could be subtle) in the phrase, "bad times"?

"Quill?"

"Yes?"

"Wondered if you might want to talk about selling the Inn."

So much for subtlety. "No," Quill said, and hung up. "Hell."

"Speak of the devil and he appears!" Rocky Burke
bounced ebulliently down the stairway. "My guys down
yet?"

"Not yet. And if you'll give me a moment, I'll give Signer Bellasario a call. What time would you like to start?"

"Where's the piano?"

"In the Tavern. We can serve your dinner in there, if you like." At least, she thought, there were a couple of customers still there. The empty dining room would seem oppressive.

Burke peered shrewdly at her. "Kinda quiet for a Sat
urday night, isn't it?"

"It's usual this time of year," Quill fibbed. "Why don't you come and sit down in my office while I call Signor Bellasario?"

"Fine, fine. I've got the binder right here." He drew a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket, and followed her into the office. "Your business manager still around or has he left already?"

"He's in Syracuse tonight. It's his night off."

"I see. He said that nonpayment of premium was a mistake; drew the check from the wrong checking account or something."

"It was my fault," Quill said, because it was. "I forget to list the checks I write sometimes, and I didn't tell John about a couple of them, and then I forgot to make a deposit."

"Good thing you had him running the financial end for you."

"It certainly is."

"Too bad he's leaving."

Quill didn't answer him.

Her desk was piled high with the paperwork John in
sisted she had to review. She sat down at her desk and glanced at the paper at the top of the pile: it was the spreadsheet for the year's revenues. The numbers at the bottom of the income column were in the dreaded parentheses. The parentheses, John had explained more
than once, did NOT mean profit. It meant, in the mem
orable phrase of Hudson Zabriskie, the former manager
of the Hemlock Falls Paramount Paint Company, nega
tive profit. A deficit. A loss.