Read Online A Touch of the Grape: A Hemlock Falls Mystery (Hemlock Falls Mystery series) by Claudia Bishop - Free Book Online
Authors: Claudia Bishop
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quiet. The night lighting along the edges of the ceiling shone into air just slightly tinged with smoke. Alarms were placed throughout the Inn; the age of the building and the sprawling layout made quick access to them essential. There was an alarm and fire extinguisher between her suite and Meg's. She grabbed the extinguisher with one hand, and pulled the alarm with the other, then ran to Meg's door.
The whoop!whoop!whoop! of the alarm struck the air like a brass knuckled fist. Quill pounded on Meg's door with the extinguisher, opened it, and almost tumbled into her sister. Andy Bishop stood behind her, hastily knotting his bathrobe around his waist.
"Where?" Meg demanded tersely.
"I don't know. There's smoke. No burning. You take this floor. I'll go up."
"I'll take the up—"
Quill was already gone, the dog at her heels. The alarm was shrill, insistent, terrifying. She ran up the stairs and rounded the landing to confront confusion and shouts. The Crafty Ladies had five of the rooms on the third floor. The smoke was heavier here, and there was a smell of burning. Robin Robinson, hair in curlers, dressed in a shabby chenille bathrobe, raced into the hall from her room and slapped the door to 314. "Fran!" she cried. "Fran!" Mary Lennox emerged from the door to 316, hair wild, her bedspread clutched around her.
"Fire escape at the end!" Quill ordered. "Quick! Quick!"
"My purse!" Fran shrieked. "I've got to get my—"
Quill grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her forward. "Out! Out!"
Fran Grimsby opened her door and tumbled into Robin's arms. "Ellen?" Fran said. Her voice was thin and high. "Where's Ellen?"
"Three-ten!" Robin screamed. "She's in 310. I'll get Mary. She's at the other end."
"Get out!" Quill said. "All of you get out now!" Three-ten was behind the landing and faced the Falls. It had a balcony, thank God.
The smoke was thicker there. Quill found herself at the door, the dog leaping at her side. She tried the handle. It was hot. The door was locked. Smoke seeped in thick, ugly waves from beneath the door. Quill hoisted the fire extinguisher to her hip. She used the master key in the lock. The door flew open, sucked inward by a hot draft.
The room was blazing. Thick fingers of flames twisted drapes, crawled up the walls, reached for the ceiling. It was intensely, incredibly hot. Something grabbed Quill's nightgown and pulled her off balance."Not NOW, dam mit," Quill said to the dog. "Beat it! Beat it!"
The dog ran halfway down the hall and back again, his barking colliding with the yell of the alarm. Quill snapped the extinguisher nozzle free of the clamp. Thick foam spurted out like evil-smelling Redi-Whip. She sprayed in a slow, smooth arc, the thick gush of foam smothering the flames. The nozzle sputtered; the foam trickled to nothing. Quill threw the empty canister away with a curse. The smoke cleared for moment. The bed in this suite faced the balcony. The balcony doors were open. Quill didn't know much about fire, but she knew that the fresh air coming in would fuel whatever smoldered in the room. When the fire reignited, it would come back with a blast. She could make out a huddled figure beneath the spread.
She didn't stop to think. If she had, she would have run away, down the stairs, out the door, to the safety of the lawn. She took a breath and held it. Ran into the room. Grabbed the figure in the bed by the hair and screamed. The hair came off in her hands like masking tape from a wall. She clutched the shoulders and was briefly aware of heated, crumbling, greasy flesh. She pulled. The weight was incredible, an anchor, a deadweight, immovable.
She pulled, hard. Near the open French doors, a white- orange pillar sprang for the open air, a giant cat after prey. Quill sobbed, pulled, and pulled again. The fire resurrected with a roar and a bellow that set her hair crackling. She heard the dog barking with sharp hysteria. Fear drove her like a blow. There was a moment of heat, of huge
The whoop!whoop!whoop! of the alarm struck the air like a brass knuckled fist. Quill pounded on Meg's door with the extinguisher, opened it, and almost tumbled into her sister. Andy Bishop stood behind her, hastily knotting his bathrobe around his waist.
"Where?" Meg demanded tersely.
"I don't know. There's smoke. No burning. You take this floor. I'll go up."
"I'll take the up—"
Quill was already gone, the dog at her heels. The alarm was shrill, insistent, terrifying. She ran up the stairs and rounded the landing to confront confusion and shouts. The Crafty Ladies had five of the rooms on the third floor. The smoke was heavier here, and there was a smell of burning. Robin Robinson, hair in curlers, dressed in a shabby chenille bathrobe, raced into the hall from her room and slapped the door to 314. "Fran!" she cried. "Fran!" Mary Lennox emerged from the door to 316, hair wild, her bedspread clutched around her.
"Fire escape at the end!" Quill ordered. "Quick! Quick!"
"My purse!" Fran shrieked. "I've got to get my—"
Quill grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her forward. "Out! Out!"
Fran Grimsby opened her door and tumbled into Robin's arms. "Ellen?" Fran said. Her voice was thin and high. "Where's Ellen?"
"Three-ten!" Robin screamed. "She's in 310. I'll get Mary. She's at the other end."
"Get out!" Quill said. "All of you get out now!" Three-ten was behind the landing and faced the Falls. It had a balcony, thank God.
The smoke was thicker there. Quill found herself at the door, the dog leaping at her side. She tried the handle. It was hot. The door was locked. Smoke seeped in thick, ugly waves from beneath the door. Quill hoisted the fire extinguisher to her hip. She used the master key in the lock. The door flew open, sucked inward by a hot draft.
The room was blazing. Thick fingers of flames twisted drapes, crawled up the walls, reached for the ceiling. It was intensely, incredibly hot. Something grabbed Quill's nightgown and pulled her off balance."Not NOW, dam mit," Quill said to the dog. "Beat it! Beat it!"
The dog ran halfway down the hall and back again, his barking colliding with the yell of the alarm. Quill snapped the extinguisher nozzle free of the clamp. Thick foam spurted out like evil-smelling Redi-Whip. She sprayed in a slow, smooth arc, the thick gush of foam smothering the flames. The nozzle sputtered; the foam trickled to nothing. Quill threw the empty canister away with a curse. The smoke cleared for moment. The bed in this suite faced the balcony. The balcony doors were open. Quill didn't know much about fire, but she knew that the fresh air coming in would fuel whatever smoldered in the room. When the fire reignited, it would come back with a blast. She could make out a huddled figure beneath the spread.
She didn't stop to think. If she had, she would have run away, down the stairs, out the door, to the safety of the lawn. She took a breath and held it. Ran into the room. Grabbed the figure in the bed by the hair and screamed. The hair came off in her hands like masking tape from a wall. She clutched the shoulders and was briefly aware of heated, crumbling, greasy flesh. She pulled. The weight was incredible, an anchor, a deadweight, immovable.
She pulled, hard. Near the open French doors, a white- orange pillar sprang for the open air, a giant cat after prey. Quill sobbed, pulled, and pulled again. The fire resurrected with a roar and a bellow that set her hair crackling. She heard the dog barking with sharp hysteria. Fear drove her like a blow. There was a moment of heat, of huge
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