A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) by Claudia Bishop Page B
Authors: Claudia Bishop
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call."
She had to disabuse Signer Bellasario (who was eighty-six, and going just a little deaf) of the notion that she was selling house siding before he agreed to have his daughter-in-law drive him to the Inn. "Bad line," she said to Mr. Burke before he could question the entertainment value of a deaf pianist. "But he's delighted to help out. He'll be here within the hour." If his ar thritis medicine kicks in, she thought. "Now. About this binder."
"Right here." Burke spread his papers carefully on the desktop and looked at them with possessive pride. "Burke's is an insurance agency that can meet all your liability and casualty needs, Miss Quilliam. Like I said, our motto is Rocklike Security in Rocky Times. Now, Mr. Raintree seemed to feel that the value of your buildings here was over eight hundred thousand. That fit with your assessment?"
"Yes," Quill said recklessly.
"Good. 'Cause that agrees with your tax assessment. And now Mr. Raintree gave me your revenue numbers from '95. Hell of a business you've got here, Miss Quilliam, if I do say so myself."
"Ninety-five," Quill recalled, "was a very good year."
"Part of this insurance plan provides for interruption of business due to fire, flood, famine, or other acts of God. Now, I'll need your numbers for the past year to verify the actual amount of business you'd lose if your beautiful Inn here were to burn down, but based on Mr. Raintree's word, I'm gonna go with the flow for '95. We'll reassess when you get me the 96-97 numbers, of course, so don't worry that you're underinsured. You get me? I mean, if you stand to lose more from an interruption of business than the '95 figures show, we'll take care of you."
"It'll be fine," Quill said.
"Mr. Raintree seemed to know what he was doing. You got his figures for this year around anywhere? 'Cause I'll be happy to write in the figures for those, even if the statement's unaudited."
"I'm not sure exactly what you mean, Mr. Burke." Which, Quill figured, wasn't as blatant a lie as it sounded. She was picking up the nouns and verbs in Mr. Burke's spiel, but the insurance jargon was beyond her.
"Well, we'll go with the '95 figures, then. Chances of anything happening in the next sixty days while the binder's in effect are slim to nonexistent. Not," he added hastily, and with an earnest expression, "that you can do without this, Miss Quilliam. Insurance is important."
He took a pen from his breast pocket, rose, and stood behind her. "You sign right here."
Quill signed,
"And here."
Quill signed again.
Mr. Burke sighed happily. "There you are. Miss. Quilliam. This binder's good for sixty days, as I said, and your formal policy will come through the mail. You just sign it and send it right back to me. And now …" He clapped her on the shoulder. "Now you can sleep easy."
3
Quill dreamed of rain. She stood at the tip of the Gorge under a thunderous sky. Lightning flashed and flashed again. She smelled ozone. The rain felt at odds with the bleak and cold landscape: it was soft, warm, and somewhat sticky.
"Woof," came a bark in her ear. "WOOF!"
Quill sat upright in bed. Red eyes glared into hers. She yelped, fumbled for the light next to the bed, and switched it on. The dog stood at her bedside, tail wag ging frantically. He backed up, the woofs escalating into short, high barks. He dashed to her bedroom door, then back to the bed again.
"How in the heck …"
The dog roared. Quill gasped, shrank back, and pulled the covers up to her chin. She coughed. Smoke. The ozone smell in her dream was smoke.
Her head cleared. She reached for the phone at her bedside, hand steady. She dialed 911, spoke curtly, quickly to the volunteer fireman at the other end of the line, then leaped out of bed, headed out of her bedroom and through her small living room. Her set of master keys hung by the coffeepot in her little kitchen. She grabbed them and raced into the hall. The dog followed, frantic with impatience to be out and gone.
It was
She had to disabuse Signer Bellasario (who was eighty-six, and going just a little deaf) of the notion that she was selling house siding before he agreed to have his daughter-in-law drive him to the Inn. "Bad line," she said to Mr. Burke before he could question the entertainment value of a deaf pianist. "But he's delighted to help out. He'll be here within the hour." If his ar thritis medicine kicks in, she thought. "Now. About this binder."
"Right here." Burke spread his papers carefully on the desktop and looked at them with possessive pride. "Burke's is an insurance agency that can meet all your liability and casualty needs, Miss Quilliam. Like I said, our motto is Rocklike Security in Rocky Times. Now, Mr. Raintree seemed to feel that the value of your buildings here was over eight hundred thousand. That fit with your assessment?"
"Yes," Quill said recklessly.
"Good. 'Cause that agrees with your tax assessment. And now Mr. Raintree gave me your revenue numbers from '95. Hell of a business you've got here, Miss Quilliam, if I do say so myself."
"Ninety-five," Quill recalled, "was a very good year."
"Part of this insurance plan provides for interruption of business due to fire, flood, famine, or other acts of God. Now, I'll need your numbers for the past year to verify the actual amount of business you'd lose if your beautiful Inn here were to burn down, but based on Mr. Raintree's word, I'm gonna go with the flow for '95. We'll reassess when you get me the 96-97 numbers, of course, so don't worry that you're underinsured. You get me? I mean, if you stand to lose more from an interruption of business than the '95 figures show, we'll take care of you."
"It'll be fine," Quill said.
"Mr. Raintree seemed to know what he was doing. You got his figures for this year around anywhere? 'Cause I'll be happy to write in the figures for those, even if the statement's unaudited."
"I'm not sure exactly what you mean, Mr. Burke." Which, Quill figured, wasn't as blatant a lie as it sounded. She was picking up the nouns and verbs in Mr. Burke's spiel, but the insurance jargon was beyond her.
"Well, we'll go with the '95 figures, then. Chances of anything happening in the next sixty days while the binder's in effect are slim to nonexistent. Not," he added hastily, and with an earnest expression, "that you can do without this, Miss Quilliam. Insurance is important."
He took a pen from his breast pocket, rose, and stood behind her. "You sign right here."
Quill signed,
"And here."
Quill signed again.
Mr. Burke sighed happily. "There you are. Miss. Quilliam. This binder's good for sixty days, as I said, and your formal policy will come through the mail. You just sign it and send it right back to me. And now …" He clapped her on the shoulder. "Now you can sleep easy."
3
Quill dreamed of rain. She stood at the tip of the Gorge under a thunderous sky. Lightning flashed and flashed again. She smelled ozone. The rain felt at odds with the bleak and cold landscape: it was soft, warm, and somewhat sticky.
"Woof," came a bark in her ear. "WOOF!"
Quill sat upright in bed. Red eyes glared into hers. She yelped, fumbled for the light next to the bed, and switched it on. The dog stood at her bedside, tail wag ging frantically. He backed up, the woofs escalating into short, high barks. He dashed to her bedroom door, then back to the bed again.
"How in the heck …"
The dog roared. Quill gasped, shrank back, and pulled the covers up to her chin. She coughed. Smoke. The ozone smell in her dream was smoke.
Her head cleared. She reached for the phone at her bedside, hand steady. She dialed 911, spoke curtly, quickly to the volunteer fireman at the other end of the line, then leaped out of bed, headed out of her bedroom and through her small living room. Her set of master keys hung by the coffeepot in her little kitchen. She grabbed them and raced into the hall. The dog followed, frantic with impatience to be out and gone.
It was
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