A Touch of the Grape Read online

  The dog looked alertly at Quill. His tongue lolled. He licked his lips.

  Selena flourished the catch pole. "You go up to him, Quill. I'll be right behind you." He looked at Selena. His lips curled back from his teeth. He growled. It was a low, nasty growl, entirely ferocious. Meg stopped singing, rose to her feet, and backed carefully away. "Ah, Quill …"

  "I've got this side covered," Selena said bravely. She was wearing a long flowered skirt and a gauzy blouse that hung limply around her slender figure. She was getting very damp in the misty rain. She didn't look like any dogcatcher Quill had ever seen. "You take the other."

  Meg shrieked. "Are you crazy, Selena? He'll bite her hand off! He'll bite all of us!"

  "Be quiet, both of you!" Quill said. "Here, boy. Here, boy." She advanced slowly, her hand outstretched, palm up to display the beef. The dog extended his neck and sniffed. Quill took two steps forward. The dog sneezed, shook his head, and backed up. "Easy, boy. Whoa, boy."

  "He's not a horse," Meg said.

  "Well, 'stay' then, boy. Or sit. Can you sit?"

  The dog barked and ran under the azalea bush. Quill could hear him panting. Doreen, gazing skyward, pursed her lips in an "I told you so" whistle.

  "Do you think I should crawl in after him?" Selena asked.

  "I do not," Meg said.

  "I can't believe that four intelligent women can't get a little old dog out from the bushes," Quill said. She clucked in what she hoped was a dog-tempting way.

  "Three intelligent women," Meg said. "Not four."

  "Speak for yourself."

  "I was."

  Quill glared at her.

  "For heaven's sake. Quill. What kind of lunatic is going to go after a stray sick dog with a fistful of meat? You're nuts."

  "It's just a dog, Meg. Not a wild boar."

  "That dog's a hundred and twenty pounds if it's fifteen," Meg said. "It might as well be a wild boar. Did you see those teeth? I think we'd better get the guys. This could be dangerous."

  "Crimney's sake," Doreen said. She rattled the Doritos bag, then shook all the chips onto the ground. The dog emerged from the bush flat on his belly and inched forward. Grasping the catch pole in both hands, Selena moved to the dog's left. Meg began a series of duck-like squawks as what Quill presumed was an encouraging diversionary tactic. Suddenly, the dog jerked his head back and stared over Quill's left shoulder. Distracted, Quill turned, saw the group approaching the garden shed, and groaned under her breath. Five middle-aged ladies gathered under three brightly colored umbrellas were strolling in a clutch on the path through the gardens. Headed straight for them. That many people were bound to scare him off. Quill turned back to the dog. All she could see was a tail thumping at the perimeter of the azalea bush. The rest of the animal was nowhere in sight. The Doritos were gone. "Damn," Quill said.

  Doreen smoothed her apron and greeted the approaching group with a toothy grin. The largest umbrella, the one with the Cinzano label on it, dipped forward and a voice cried, "Miss QUILLL-I-yam."

  "Oh, yippee," Meg muttered. "It's the crafty ladies."

  "Qué pasa? " said Selena. "This name-calling does not suit you, Meg."

  Meg looked startled. "It's what they call themselves. Their organization is the Crafty Ladies. They're into …" She waved her hand vaguely. "You know— crafts. They stuff things. They booked into the Inn for a week. As a matter of fact, they're the only guests we've got booked for the entire summer."

  "That's not true," Quill said. "Two of the insurance brokers are staying overnight after their banquet this evening."

  "The Crafty Ladies do more than stuff things," Doreen said indignantly. "I've been talkin' to that Ellen Dunbarton all about it. They're artists. They make things. Quite a bit a money innit, or so she says."

  "And so there is," said the Cinzano umbrella. The canvas tipped up to reveal a cheerful woman with a comfortably plump figure, bright orange-red hair, and a startling pair of earrings. The earrings appeared to be made of bottle caps. All of the Crafty Ladies seemed to be on the far side of sixty. Quill admired the verve for life that resulted in their colorful clothes and attention-grabbing (if peculiar) jewelry.

  "Ecology-minded, too," Doreen added. "Them are caps from Coke and like that."

  "We recycle," said the red-haired woman. "Have you forgotten, Quill? The tour?"

  "Madonna," Selena said.

  Quill, not knowing whether this was an imprecation or an attempt to seem saliently hip, abandoned her contemplation of the dog's tail and made a guilty face. "Oh, dear. I had forgotten we had arranged to tour the Inn."

  "That is a very ugly dog," Ellen Dunbarton observed pleasantly. "OOPS! It went back into the azaleas again."

  "I am attempting to catch it," Selena explained. She waved her catch pole. "I am the dog warden. Warden Summerhill." She smiled in a pleased way.

  "Sorry," Quill said, "I'm forgetting my manners." She began introductions. "Selena, I'd like to present some of our guests."

  "Our only guests," Doreen added, "on account of somebody here'd rather play with dogs than get any more of 'em."

  "Hush, Doreen. Selena, this is Ellen Dunbarton."

  "Vice president, the Crafty Ladies." Ellen smiled graciously at Selena. "And these are all the members of our group but one. We're ladies-in-waiting, you see. Our group has assembled to meet our president, which brings our total organization to six. Fran Grimsby's there in the hand-painted muumuu. Right beside her are Robin Robinson and Mary Lennox; Robin's the sequin sweatshirt, Mary's the pink twinset—hand crocheted. And that's Freddie Patch, under the yellow umbrella. Short for Frederica. She's our craftless Crafty Lady."

  Selena raised one slim black eyebrow. "But this Mary Lennox is a lady-in-waiting! I study history, you see, when I am not catching dogs and helping my Hugh press grapes. I am getting an associated degree at the Hemlock Falls Community College. My Hugh wishes me to be more conversable. Right now, we are studying the American labor movement."

  "Associated with what?" Ellen asked.

  "Associates," Quill said. "She's getting her A.A. And you're right, Selena. Mary Lennox was a lady-in-waiting. To Mary, Queen of Scots."

  No one seemed especially interested in this, and Quill went back to considering the dog.

  "How come you called Ms. Patch the craftless Crafty Lady?" Doreen asked.

  Ellen winked. " 'Cause she's not wearing anything handmade. All store-bought."

  "Just call me an oddball," Freddie said. She had soft, rose leaf cheeks and very pure white hair that floated around her head like cotton. "I can't find anything I really like to make. And I've tried it all. I'm all thumbs, too." She held out her hands, which were a little swollen with arthritis. Quill felt a tinge of pity. "I'm hopeless at needlepoint, lousy at wood carving, terrible at cross-stitch. I can't even do plastic forks and glue."

  "Fans," Ellen said, by way of explanation. "You make fans by gluing plastic forks together. You line them up, parallel to each other, with the tines facing j'n."

  "You could try rag work," Doreen said unexpectedly. "I seen some pret' good work done out of just rags, like."

  "You mean like rag rugs?" Robin said. Her hair was dyed a pinkish-blond somewhat at odds with her wrinkles and bright red lipstick. Her sweatshirt displayed her expertise with sequins: a vegetable garden of red radishes, emerald lettuces, and carrots spread from bosom to bosom. Or maybe the radishes were tomatoes; Quill wasn't certain. "Now there's something for you, Freddie. Rag work is fun, inexpensive; and you can do it in the privacy of your own home."

  "Money innit, too," Doreen added, with a significant look at Quill. "Be happy to show ya. If you are innerested."

  "Really?" said Freddie. "I'd like it if you did. It sounds like something I'd like to try."

  "What I do is, is I run a class," Doreen said. "Twenny bucks an hour; takes maybe five, six hours to learn it. I don't earn twenny an hour myself," Doreen added. "This rag class is part of the entertainment offered by the Inn."

  "Sin
ce when?" Meg demanded.

  "Since we're broke," Doreen said flatly.

  "Stop," Quill said. "You guys, honestly!" She laughed in what she hoped was a lighthearted and careless way. "Ha, ha."

  "We are broke," Doreen said remorselessly. "And if we don't walk right …"

  Ellen intervened with an executive-style firmness, which demonstrated just why she had been elected her organization's vice president. "Maybe we should discuss it after the tour of the Inn?" She turned to Quill. "We thought we were to meet at ten-thirty? It's way after that now."

  Dismayed, Quill looked at her watch. "My goodness, I'm so sorry. I had no idea …" She gave the azalea bush a quick glance. The tail was gone, and so presumably was the dog. "Selena, can you excuse me? Ellen and her group particularly asked to see each of the suites in the Inn. I developed a little speech to go with the tour. I'm sorry to get you out on a rainy day like this, and we couldn't even catch the poor thing …"

  "It's not a problem at all," Selena said with an absentminded air. "I'm sure Meg and Doreen and I can take care of it. Tell me, is there a fee for the tour of the suites?"

  Quill felt her cheeks flush. If the village of Hemlock Falls had any criticism of the two women who ran their internationally renowned Inn and restaurant, it was that they were too "highfalutin." Quill, the first to demur becomingly when accused of elitism, was self-consciously aware she was also the first to wince at the thought of paid tours of her Inn. The second rule of good innkeeping was that guests were, well, guests. (The first rule, laid down after six months in business eight years ago, was that you didn't belt the guests. Unless severely provoked.) Guests, as Nero Wolfe would have put it, were to be treated as "jewels on the cushion of hospitality." Specifically, one didn't charge guests to take tours of a home away from home they'd already rented in the first place. On the other hand, Nero Wolfe never seemed to have significant money troubles, and Quill certainly did. "Yes, I do charge a fee, Selena. A slight one, only. I add a little lecture to each of the stops on the tour, and I demonstrate our remodeling plans and show the original architectural drawings. It's very informational, very historic."

  "Good for cash flow, too," Doreen said with approval.

  Selena clasped Ellen's hand between both her own with a great deal of playful charm. "Senora Dunbarton, perhaps you and your group would like a tour of our vineyard, too? It is called the Summerhill Winery and it is about twenty minutes from here. My Hugh knows a great deal about wine. And he is so handsome! Like Richard Gere, only a little older. Yes, there is a fee. But it is a slight fee, only. Much less, in fact, than the fee for the tour of the Inn."

  "Well!" Doreen said, with a competitive glitter in her eye. "I must say we was the ones who—"

  "We'd love to take all the tours," Ellen said, with a shrewd glance from Quill to Doreen. "We've brought our crafts with us, of course, and we have our business meeting coming up as soon as our president gets here, but we still have a lot of free time on our hands. And we're happy to pay a reasonable fee We love to learn new things. I've never been to a winery. I'd love it. What about it, Robin?"

  "Well, if the fee was reasonable, like this Selena said," Robin Robinson said. "Hemlock Falls is such a pretty village, and we haven't even begun to explore all its nooks and crannies. The more we know about a place, the more we love it."

  "The more people work together, the easier it is to show off a place like Hemlock Falls," Quill said with a significant look at Doreen. "We've had very good luck with sponsoring wine tours in the past, and I think you ladies would enjoy seeing Summerhill. Selena's not being prejudiced, you know. Hugh is very good-looking and very knowledgeable."

  "Tomorrow might be very good," Selena said. "I will check with my Hugh, and let you know. I will take this dog, now, and then come back in an hour to let you know, okay? I, myself, will probably not accompany you, however, on the tour of Summerhill. There are a great many dogs to catch in Hemlock Falls."

  "Great," Quill said heartily, already beginning to dislike "my Hugh." "We'll start this tour right now." She found herself making shooing motions to drive the Crafty Ladies toward the Inn, and away from any more revelations of their financial plight by blabbermouth Doreen. She took Ellen Dunbarton by the arm, and drew her along the path; the other ladies followed like baby ducks. "I haven't really had time to get to know you all, and this will be a wonderful opportunity for both of us, I hope. The tour will take about an hour, and then we'll have lunch on the terrace. Meg's prepared something wonderful. It's new. Quiche á la Quilliam. Fresh fruit in a cheese custard. Perhaps at lunch we can plan your trip to Summerhill Winery. Or would you prefer to wait until your president comes in?" She linked her other arm companionably with Freddie's and led the whole group down the flagstone steps leading to the front door.

  Behind her, she heard Doreen methodically kicking the azalea bushes, in an attempt to flush out the dog. Meg whistled, a piercing soprano note that used to bring their old collie at a run, back home in Connecticut, when neither she nor Meg had to worry about whether or not they were going to make payroll.

  "Well!" Quill said, coming to a halt in front of the old oak door at the Inn's entrance. "Here we are. The Inn at Hemlock Falls dates back to the mid 1700's, when it was a small hostelry frequented by trappers on their way to the fur trade in Canada …"

  She gave them the whole history, from the Inn's first hostess/owner (Turkey Lil, who sold her favors to the trappers along with homemade gin) to the present.

  "And you paint, don't you?" Mary Lennox asked abruptly. She was tall and angular. Her hands were as work-roughened as Doreen's.

  "Yes, I do. Or did. In the past."

  "There's some of her stuff in the bar, Mary." Freddie looked up at Quill with bright eyes. "You're quite famous in places like New York City."

  "Hmm," Quill said, embarrassed. "Do you get to New York often? I thought you were all from Trenton."

  "We retired to Trenton," Fran Grimsby said. She was tall, with an unflattering haircut and an eager, aggressive walk, rather like a hen's after corn. Quill had noticed that she was conscious of speaking through her nose. She took a deep breath and said, rounding the syllables carefully, "We found this cute little apartment complex, and we all took one-bedrooms. It's just adorable." She stopped at the archway to the dining room. Quill had selected an exuberant mixture of cream, maroon, yellows, and greens to celebrate the view of the Falls. The archway faced the south wall, which was almost entirely of glass. Beyond the windows, the water leaped in the sunlight. "You'd love our place," she said doubtfully.

  "She'd hate it," Mary Lennox said with cheerful brutality. "It's nothing like this. This place has class."

  Quill took them through the Provençal suite, with the blue and yellow tiles she'd purchased in France, and the Shaker suite, with its stark, clean simplicity. She also showed them the rooms on the top floor, where they were converting two of the suites into four rooms. "To accommodate the extra bookings we have in the summer," Quill explained. Ellen, charmed with the view, asked if she could be moved to 310, which opened almost over the Falls themselves. The room she was in, she explained, was lovely. But the Falls! Selena, slightly breathless, joined them as the tour ended two hours later with a small party in Quill's own suite, where she still painted, when she had the time and energy.

  They admired the view of the perennial gardens from her balcony, and clustered around the fruit and breads Quill had set out in the small living room.

  "Well, this is nice," Mary said. "A little party, too!"

  "We should have brought something!" Ellen said. "I know! I've got a little something in wine I picked up the other day, in my room. I'll get it, shall I?"

  "It's awfully early," Quill said doubtfully.

  "It is never too early for wine," Selena said grandly. "And my Hugh is happy to host you all at our vineyard, whenever you wish. I would very much like some wine, if you please."

  "We really shouldn't," Fran said. "Thin edge of the wedge. First thing you know
, we're all old soaks."

  "Heavens! This is a vacation!" Ellen trotted out and soon returned with a well-worn silver flask; Quill, reminded irresistibly of bathtub gin, bit back a giggle.

  "Aren't we naughty," Fran said with relish. Ellen poured with abandon, and they settled themselves around the room.

  "It's quite different from the rest of the Inn," Ellen said. She pushed her toe along the pale Berber carpet, then sat down on the semicircular couch in front of the French doors to the outside.

  "What's this?" Fran pointed at the painting on Quill's easel. "It's not finished."

  "That's the ocean at night. Meg and I were in Florida a few weeks earlier this year." Quill drew her thumb lightly across the blue-green swirls of acrylic.

  "It is?"

  "We go every year to Florida. Fort Meyers," Ellen explained. "We just love it. There's a mahjong club we joined, and when the ladies get together, well!"

  "We have such a good time there!" Robin said eagerly. "Did you enjoy your stay?"

  "The weather was wonderful," Quill said carefully. She had, in fact, had a terrible time in Florida, which, like Hamlet, she found "flat, stale, and unprofitable."

  "Now, Miami," Freddie said eagerly. "You want to see some action, Miami's the place to be."

  "Freddie!" Fran said. "Quill's going to think we're … we're …"

  "The Loose Ladies, rather than the Crafty Ladies," Ellen said. They all laughed heartily at this. "This tour was just wonderful, Quill. I don't know how you bear to leave this place, even for Florida."

  "So did you get a chance to get them all straight?" Meg asked some hours later. They were both in the kitchen. The lunch concluding the tour had been a great success. Meg's fruit quiche was a keeper. "I mean Grimsby, Dunbarton, Lennox, Robinson, and Patch. Sounds like an Idaho law firm. They checked in so fast, and all in a big lump, that I wasn't at all sure who was who."