A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) (14 page)

Quill, suddenly, felt the fool. The idea that this wholly
normal lady with a normal set of problems would be
crawling in and out of the Inn in the middle of the night
was suddenly ridiculous.

"It's kids today," Freddie said with regret, jerking Quill back to the moment. "Poor Ellen wasn't the only one to have problems. We've all had them one way or another. Your boy, Fran …"

"That's enough about Jeffrey," Fran said curtly. "There's nothing wrong with my Jeffrey."

Drugs, Freddie mouthed silently. Then chirpily, "Let's not talk about that now. Let's talk about the
happy things. What do you think. Quill? Would you in
troduce us to Mr. Summerhill, did you say? Is that the man in charge?"

"He and his wife Selena, yes. You met her day before
yesterday, when we were out by the garden shed trying to catch the dog."

"That Mexican?" Fran said doubtfully.

"Fran! Move into the nineties." Freddie rapped Fran's arm with her table knife. "Honestly, you'd think that one of her closest friends wasn't a perfectly nice
Mexican, Rosa Marguiles. Would you want Rosa to hear
you say 'that Mexican' like that, Fran?"

"Besides, she's Spanish," Quill said.

"That's what they all say," Fran said.

Freddie shook her head. "She doesn't mean those things. Quill." She sighed. "So what do you think. Quill? Will you help us?"

"I'd love to help you, yes. I mean, not only do I think I owe you something to make up for this terrible fire and Mrs. Dunbarton's … um …"

"Passage," Freddie said helpfully.

"Yes, passage. But I think you guys have a great idea
and a lot of talent, and of course you can do well. But you don't need me to talk to Selena and Hugh. You can drop by the Summerhill Winery anytime and talk to them yourselves. You wanted a wine tour, too, didn't you? That might be a perfect time to sit down and talk about your proposal."

"Without an introduction?" Mary said. "I don't know. I'd be embarrassed, I think. I mean, she's a big shot, obviously, owning a whole winery and whatever. We can't just walk up and introduce ourselves."

"Sure you can," Quill said cheerfully.

Rocky Burke, looking the better for a solid night's sleep, came into the dining room from the foyer. He looked around, and seeing no one to seat him, sat himself at table seven—the one overlooking the Falls.

Quill nodded at him and got to her feet. "I see I have
another customer. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you
now. I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes."

"Now see that, Fran," Quill heard Freddie say in an
undertone as she approached Mr. Burke with a menu. "That's class. If we're going to do this as a real business, and do it right, that's what we'll need. A little class."

"Mr. Burke," Quill said. She laid the breakfast menu in front of him. "Would you like coffee or orange juice?"

"Sure," he said gloomily. "Both. And both fresh, if you don't mind. Can't stand coffee that's been stewing on a hot plate for hours."

"Our coffee's brewed at the table, and the orange juice is freshly squeezed," Quill said. She would keep her temper with this guy, just as she'd kept her temper with the unpleasant Fran Grimsby.

"Fine. And the eggs Benedict. Bring some coffee for yourself, why don't you? I've got a couple more questions for you."

"Sure." Quill went back into the kitchen. Meg was nowhere in sight, so she gave Bjarne the order for the eggs, and squeezed the orange juice herself. Just before
the painful budget crunch, she'd talked John into buying individual Melitta coffee carafes for each table. The cof
fee could be ground at the table, and made in front of the guest. It worked out well for those guests who had a real appreciation of good coffee. And Rocky Burke,
for all his boorish behavior, seemed to like good coffee.
She loaded a tray with two glasses of orange juice, and two small drip pots, then asked Bjarne to serve the eggs himself when they were finished. "Table seven," she added.

"Ya. This is good to do. To have the chef appear. The hashes? Did they like that?"

"They loved it. And they'll love it if you stop by and ask them if they loved it. Table five. Well, you'll see. There's only two tables out there, and I'll be at the other."

"Business is picking up," he said gloomily, then winked. Bjarne was tall, pale, with eyes the color of a glass of plain water. He had, she realized, made a Finnish joke.

"Business is picking up," she agreed.

Rocky Burke swallowed the orange juice with an ap
preciative grunt.

"How's the investigation going?" Quill asked sympathetically.

"All right. I've been all over the place." He eyed her. "You're not going to believe it, but this place exceeds the New York State fire code."

"It does?" Quill said, pleased.

"Yeah. You two spent a ton. Didn't need to, but it's nice to see from my perspective. Codes here are stiffer than any other place in the U.S."

"They are?"

"Yeah. Lotta stupid requirements, if you ask me, but
then, nobody did, did they? It's the city."

"New York City?"

He pointed a forefinger at her. "R-i-ight. Lot of slum
lords that just as soon you burned up as pay the rent. Lot of these requirements are defensive, if you get my drift. But no, except for the fact that you had a fire that killed Ellen Dunbarton, aged sixty-two, married with three kids, you're in fine shape."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Nope. Just a little disappointed that it looks as though I'm going to have to pay that claim."

"So you don't think that my sister and I set that fire."

"Hell." He shrugged. "There's a certain profile to an
arsonist, you know what I mean? Neither of you fit, and
you haven't got anyone that works for you that fits either. Besides, whoever set that fire was a pro."

"A pro?"

"Big-time. He, she it, whoever used phosphorous. Hard to get. Used it right. Which is even harder. More
than one arsonist's been blown up with his, her, its phos
phorous bomb. Small loss. So. If I hadn't had my hackles raised, I never would have found it. Somebody climbed up your balcony and tucked the phosphorous bomb with a remote switch behind the bed curtains. They backed down, got away as far as a mile, maybe, and set the damn thing off. It ignited like that"—he
snapped his fingers—"and what's more, consumed most
of the evidence along with it. You can stick that sucker in your pocket—the whole thing's the size of a thick wallet. Thing is, our friend trimmed the fuse before he, she, it left. Must have fallen out of the perp's pocket, because I found it on the stone floor of the balcony." He reached into his breast pocket and showed Quill a plastic bag. A short piece of insulated wire was inside. "There are scorch marks very typical of a phosphorus fire on the wall behind the drapes, near the phone stand.
I understand that you put that fire out with your handy
dandy extinguisher, or that evidence would have gone up with poor Mrs. Dunbarton, too. That was another thing that convinced me you didn't have a part in this,
Cookie. Why would you have preserved evidence of the crime? Unless you were stupid." He looked at her, head
cocked on one side. "And you don't look stupid. Pretty, a little scatterbrained. But not dumb. Nossir."

"Thanks, I think. I preferred your politically correct 'he, she, it,' frankly."

"Your type would."

Quill showed her teeth in a tight smile. "Do you have
any theories as to why the fire was set?"

"Got a preliminary autopsy report from the village doc. This guy's no slouch either. Wouldn't think an out-of-the-way b—"

"DON'T say 'burg,' " Quill snapped. "You're being too tough-guy to be believable."

He shrugged, finally abashed.

"Your eggs," Bjarne announced, and set the plate of eggs Benedict down with a flourish. "And yours, as well, madam." He set a second, smaller portion in front of Quill.

"Why thanks, Bjarne. I'm starved as a matter of fact."

"So," Bjarne said glumly, "how do you like it?"

"You the chef?"

Bjarne nodded.

"Wait a minute." Mr. Burke cut the eggs Benedict with care, making sure to include the crumpet, back ba
con, eggs, and sauce. He ate it. He chewed thoughtfully.
"Lime instead of lemon in the hollandaise," he said.

Bjarne nodded, sad as a hound dog.

"And this bacon's home-cured."

"It is. Our master chef, who has left the kitchen to me, takes great care with the bacon."

"Left the kitchen to you?" Quill said.

"For the time being," Bjarne admitted. "I am looking forward to this happening more often. If the eggs are good."

"The eggs are very good."

"Um, Bjarne …" Quill stood up. She had a sudden vision of Meg stamping down the driveway, her knap
sack on her back, running away from home. "Maybe I'd
better …"

"No, no, Quill. I will just stop and see if the Crafty Ladies require something different." He sighed. "You just do not know, with food. They may have hated it."

"This food's terrific, pal," Mr. Burke said. "Hope you get to do more in the kitchen."

"It is up to her." Bjarne shook his head, a Finnish Eeyore. "Yes, it is all up to her." He shuffled to table five, to address the Crafty Ladies.

"Guy needs Prozac," Mr. Burke said.

"He's a Finn," Quill said, with the feeling that this should explain it, but didn't. "Now, about the autopsy."

"You're not going to like it. I suggest you finish your Finnish eggs. I'm going to, before I give you the details."

They ate in silence for a while. Quill, who was very
hungry, wondered why she didn't feel more optimistic.
Fifty thousand dollars would go a long way toward pay
roll and the overdue grocery bill. If they could hold off
until the winegrowers' association had the grant money
coming in, there might be a way out of this after all.

If Rocky Burke really intended to settle the claim.

That was it. She didn't trust his confiding, open air. She didn't believe that she and Meg "didn't fit the profile of an arsonist." He thought he was being clever.

"Excellent!" Mr. Burke said. He breathed out in a satisfied way. "You ready?"

Quill nodded.

"You already knew the sprinkler system for that room
was turned off."

"Yes. I tried to figure out why that happened, what the arsonist could have been thinking of."

"You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that one out, Cookie. So as much damage as possible would be done."

"Oh, I see."

"We didn't get any fingerprints from the shutoff
valve, of course." His eyes slid sideways, met hers, then slid away again. She was right. He did still suspect them.
"As for the deceased—the doc thinks it was duct tape, but he won't be sure until he gets the results from the forensics lab in Buffalo."

"Duct tape? What do you mean, duct tape?"

"Ellen Dunbarton's hands were strapped behind her back, and her mouth was taped shut. He stared at her openly now. "No doubt about it. She was murdered."

Quill, who had been rather wildly thinking of someone, anyone, who would want to put them out of business, sat up with a jerk. "You mean—the fire wasn't arson? It was homicide?"

"Exactly what I mean. Miss Quilliam." He stretched. "So that check? It'll have to wait till the perp's arrested and very probably convicted." He grinned. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Takes a long time in this country."

"Tell me something. Why would I want to murder a guest? Why would my sister want to murder a guest? And for God's sake, why would I choose such an ugly way to do it?"

"Lot of crazies in the world. How should I know why
people do what they do?"

Quill looked over at Freddie, Mary Lennox, and Robin. She even felt awful for the horrible Fran. "Has anyone told them?"

"Not my job, Cookie." He got up and flung his nap
kin on the table. "Be seeing you." His glance was spec
ulative. "One way or the other."

Hugh Summerhill looked all that his name implied: tall,
erect, with thick dark hair silvered at the temples. He was very good-looking in a Louis Auchincloss sort of way. He was some years older than Selena; Quill had
heard there had been a first marriage, with children, that
had dissolved in divorce several years before he'd purchased his twenty-six acres of farmland in Hemlock
Falls. He sat at ease in the Summerhill living room, legs
crossed, with a detached, pleasant expression.

Quill sat across from Hugh and Selena, deep in a com
fortable leather chair. She'd been in many rooms like
this one as a girl in Connecticut, including her own family's. The floor was polished oak. The couches were soft, well worn, and plushy to sit in. They were covered in a
subtly elegant floral pattern—almost chintz, but not quite. Books were scattered around the room. They spilled over the cherry end tables and on the floor near
Hugh's recliner. More volumes were stored haphazardly in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominating the north
wall.