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

A TOUCH

OF

THE GRAPE

Claudia Bishop

www.claudiabishop.com

www.marystanton.com

www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/stanton.htm

Copyright © 1998 by Mary Stanton

Cover by Allegra Media LLC

Heavenly Horse novels

THE HEAVENLY HORSE FROM THE OUTERMOST WEST

PIPER AT THE GATE

Beaufort & Company - Paranormal Mystery Series:

DEFENDING ANGELS

ANGEL’S ADVOCATE

AVENGING ANGELS

ANGEL’S VERDICT

ANGEL CONDEMNED

Unicorns of Balinor Series

THE ROAD TO BALINOR

SUNCHASER’S QUEST

VALLEY OF FEAR

BY FIRE, BY MOONLIGHT

SEARCH FOR THE STAR

THE SECRETS OF THE SCEPTER

NIGHT OF THE SHIFTER’S MOON

SHADOWS OVER BALINOR

YA Magical Mysteries

MY AUNT, THE MONSTER

WHITE MAGIC

NEXT DOOR WITCH

Books by Mary Stanton writing as Claudia Bishop

Hemlock Falls Mystery Series

A TASTE FOR MURDER

A DASH OF DEATH

A PINCH OF POISON

MURDER WELL-DONE

DEATH DINES OUT

A TOUCH OF THE GRAPE

A STEAK IN MURDER

MARINADE FOR MURDER

JUST DESSERTS

FRIED BY JURY

A PUREE OF POISON

BURIED BY BREAKFAST

A DINNER TO DIE FOR

GROUND TO A HALT

A CAROL FOR A CORPSE

TOAST MORTEM

DREAD ON ARRIVAL

A FETE WORSE THAN DEATH

A PLATEFUL OF MURDER (combo volume of A TASTE FOR MURDER and A DASH OF DEATH)
DEATH IN TWO COURSES (combo volume of A PINCH OF POISON and MURDER WELL-DONE)

The Casebooks of Dr. McKenzie Mysteries

THE CASE OF THE ROASTED ONION

THE CASE OF THE TOUGH-TALKING TURKEY

THE CASE OF THE ILL-GOTTEN GOAT

Anthologies

DEATH DINES AT 8:30 (with Nick DiChario)
A MERRY BAND OF MURDERERS (with Don Bruns)
DEATH DINES IN (with Dean James)

For Helen Stanton

with love and admiration

for your eighty-three years of talent

A TOUCH

OF

THE GRAPE

Claudia Bishop

The Inn at Hemlock Falls

Sarah "Quill" Quilliam . . . owner/manager
Margaret "Meg" Quilliam . . . her sister, the chef
John Raintree . . . business manager

Doreen Muxworthy-Stoker . . . the housekeeper
Dina Muir . . . the receptionist

Kathleen Kiddermeister . . . a waitress
Nate . . . the bartender

Bjarne . . . the sous-chef

Ellen Dunbarton . . . vice president, the Crafty
Ladies, a guest

Freddie Patch . . . secretary, the Crafty Ladies, a guest
Robin Robinson . . . treasurer, the Crafty Ladies, a
guest

Fran Grimsby . . . member, the Crafty Ladies, a
guest

Mary Lennox . . . member, the Crafty Ladies, a
guest

Rocky Burke . . . Burke's Insurance, a guest
Paul Pfleffer . . . of the governor's Budget Office, a
guest

Thorne Smith . . . an investment counselor, a
guest

The Hemlock Falls Chamber of Commerce

Elmer Henry . . . the mayor

Adela Henry . . . his wife

Dookie Shuttleworth . . . minister, the Hemlock
Falls Church of the Word of God

Harvey Bozzel . . . president, Bozzel Advertising
Marge Schmidt . . . owner, Hemlock Home Diner
Betty Hall . . . her partner

Esther West . . . store owner

Villagers in Hemlock Falls

Myles McHale . . . a private investigator
Andrew Bishop . . . a physician

Hugh Summerhill . . . a vintner

Selena de la Vega Summerhill . . . his wife
Davy Kiddermeister . . . the sheriff

Denny Webster . . . chief, the Hemlock Falls
Volunteer Fire Department

Howie Murchison . . . a lawyer

The dog peered around the corner of the garden shed. It was a large dog. Sort of a yellowish brown, with large lop ears and big feet. He cocked his head at the three women facing him, whined, and ducked back out of
sight. Sarah Quilliam, known as Quill, had called the
Humane Society when she'd noticed the dog had left blood on the fountain in the center of their herb garden.

"Somebody kicked it, undoubtedly," said Selena de
la Vega Summerhill. "Right over the kidneys. My guess
is that the damage is there." She sighed. "I've seen too many abused animals since I've started working at the shelter. It's terrible the way they treat animals." She was a lovely woman in her late thirties. Her Spanish accent was slight.

"The way who treats animals?" Meg Quilliam demanded. She nudged her sister affectionately. "Quill's been feeding it. She doesn't think I've noticed, but I
have. My beef Marengo, if you can believe it. So it isn't terrible the way Quill treats animals. Not when this par
ticular animal gets a stew that's been rated the best in fifty states."

"Meg got the third star back from
L'Aperitif,"
Quill said to Selena. "After that trip to Florida earlier this year."

"So we heard." Selena smiled. "And you heard, I think, that our Summerhill Chardonnay took second place in the winegrowers' competition this year." Her warm olive skin took on a rosier glow.

"No!" Meg said. "That's great, Selena. Who says Upstate New York's in a depression? Award-winning wines. Award-winning chefs." She scowled suddenly. "So how come neither of us has any business? How come you, Selena, as part owner of one of the largest wineries in central New York, has to take a job as the town dogcatcher to help make ends meet? How come Quill has to—"

"Because Upstate New York's in a depression," Quill said abruptly. "Come on, guys. What about the dog?"

She whistled. The dog stuck its head through the azaleas planted to the right of the shed door and barked once. Then he flopped over on his side and yawned. One scarlet petal drifted down from the bush and settled over his
right eye. It didn't add anything to his looks. He was still the most unprepossessing mutt Quill had ever seen.

"I have this leash sort of thing," Selena said. "It's a collar attached to a pole. I'll get it. You, Quill, get some of Meg's stew. Meg, talk to it so it will stay here while we fetch these things."

"Talk to it?" Meg ran one hand through her short dark hair. "Talk to it? What sort of things do you say to a dog?"

"Call him
querido,"
Selena suggested. "Talk to him of lady dogs.
I
don't know."

"You're the dogcatcher," Meg said. "If you don't know, who does?"

Selena shrugged. "I've only had the job a few days. I'm in training."

"So where's the person that's supposed to be teaching you how to catch dogs?"

"Laid off," Selena said. "Budget cuts, they said."

"How much does it pay?" Quill asked, thinking catching dogs might be a far easier job than catching nonexistent guests in a depressed economy. The dog growled.

"Not enough," Selena said, her voice quivering slightly. "But I got there first. Quill."

"Selena! I didn't mean … I mean, we're not that desperate."

"Well, we are," Selena said grimly. "Hugh? He is most unhappy that I have this job. But we cannot sell
enough wine. And you know the people that bought his
clothing business?"

"I didn't know Hugh had a clothing business."

"Oh, yes. Not very fancy clothes, you understand. The more inexpensive lingerie, and the women's pant-suits of … what do you call it? It is fake."

"Polyester?" Meg said.

"Polyester. This is where I met Hugh, of course. I was a runway model. As I said to Hugh, a woman who has been a runway model for cheap lingerie does not mind being a dogcatcher. He did not seem to like that much." She giggled.

"Um," Quill said, floundering. She didn't know
Hugh Summerhill very well, but she had heard his family was from upper-class Boston. He looked the part, that
was for sure.

"About this dog." Selena pushed a tendril of black hair from one eye. "You must keep its attention, Meg. While Quill obtains a bribe. It is the way of the world. Even dogs must be bribed. I will sneak up on it and be ready to pounce. But first I will get the catch collar."

"I'll sing to him," Meg said. "It's very soothing. I've tried it on the
sous
-chefs."

"Which is why we go through so many," Quill said. "Keep it sotto voce, Meg. You don't want to get bitten."

"Very funny." Meg crouched on her heels, facing the garden shed. The dog raised himself at the sudden move
ment and regarded her for a long moment.
"How much is that dooo
—
oogy in the window?"
Meg sang. Her voice, Quill always thought, was reminiscent of very small trains changing tracks.
"The oooonnnee with the waaagyly ta-a-a-a-il."

"It's going to howl," Quill predicted.

It did.

Selena muttered something in Spanish.

Quill bit her lip to keep the giggles back. "I'll get some food or something," she said steadily. "I'll be right back." She made her way up the flagstone path to the Inn at a rapid clip. It was a Monet-ish sort of morning in spring: a misty rain settled like silver mesh over the newly green grounds surrounding Hemlock Gorge,
blurring the lilacs into soft lavender and muting the pale
yellow of the jonquils. The Inn occupied the highest point of the cliff over the waterfall. Usually, the sound of falling water in spring was one of Quill's pleasures, an aural painting surrounding the visual beauty. At the moment, Meg's off-key crooning denying the desire for goldfish or a parrot mingled unfavorably with the dog's counterpoint tenor, and the natural music of the Falls receded. The view, today, wasn't the pleasure it usually was.

Maybe it wasn't the dog and the singing. Maybe it was the fact they were going broke.

Quill shook off the thought and entered the Inn through the back. She shut the door on the noise. It didn't help the volume much. The Inn was solidly built—most of the structure dated from the mid-18th century, and parts were even older—but the double-hung windows facing the perennial gardens had been
opened to the fresh spring air and the ululation found its way through with the persistence of a collection agent. Quill went through the short hall leading to the kitchen. Mid-morning was one of the few times of the day when
the kitchen was empty; the breakfast crew was on break in the dining room, and preparations for lunch wouldn't start until eleven. With luck, she could grab the stew
and escape outside without having to deal with questions
about the canine/three-star chef chorus or the endless other minutiae that were part of her days as manager of the Inn.