For Cheddar or Worse (25 page)

I glanced at the ceiling and the wood-beamed rafters, and a notion struck me: the skylight in Lara's room. Erin claimed all the windows on the attic floor were painted shut, but what if the skylights weren't? Urso said he and his staff had inspected the floors and walls. He didn't mention checking out ceilings or overhead windows.

I flashed on Andrew's haunting chant:
Up, up, up
;
down
,
down, down.
Was his hearing so attuned that he figured out the killer had gone
up
over the roof and
down
through the skylight?

Shayna and Erin were still sitting at their table. Quigley Pressman had left
.
I hurried over. “Erin, I've got a question.”

She moaned. “Sorry, Charlotte. I'm interviewed out.”

“This won't take long. The windows in the inn. On the third floor. Are they all painted shut?”

“Yes. I told you—”

“What about the skylight in Lara's room?”

Erin's mouth fell open. She swung her head right and left, as if realizing along with me. “The skylights—all the rooms on the attic floor have one—are new. They were the last upgrades my parents made before they died.”

“Did you tell the police that?”

“I didn't think—”

“How do you open the skylights? With a pole or something?” I couldn't remember seeing one in Lara's room.

“They are remotely operated.” Erin mimed using a hand controller.

Shayna said, “I know what you're thinking, Charlotte, that the killer came in through the door and exited through the skylight, and it's a good theory, but there's no way anyone could have climbed up to it without a ladder. The ceiling is pitched. The window is too high. I don't have a ladder in my room.”

My mind whirled with possibilities. Maybe the killer climbed on a chair, scrambled to the top of the armoire, and reached the skylight. No, that couldn't be the case. No one had set a chair near the armoire in Lara's room. The only one I'd noticed had been tucked under the escritoire.

What if the killer scaled the armoire? Victor was fit enough, but his alibi cleared him. Kandice had strong arms. She could probably climb the furniture even with an artificial limb. And what about Shayna? Was she dismissing my theory out of hand to throw me off track?

If the killer exited via the skylight, he . . . or she . . . would have had to descend the side of the inn or across the roof to reenter his or her room. Erin told Urso that some of the windows had been refurbished. Which ones would open and make it easy to reenter a room? Had all the windows on the second floor been upgraded like ours? It might have been easier to drop to the ground and enter through the front or rear door.
Up, up, up,
Andrew had chanted.

A chair scraped a floor; Ryan was rising from the table. I summoned up the conversation I'd overheard between Shayna, Victor, and Ryan in the breakfast room. Ryan said he was a former gymnast. He had competed in the rings, an event that required extreme upper body strength. He could maneuver the climb up the armoire to the skylight without the use of a ladder, but what motive did he have to kill Lara? Prior to the brain trust, he and she had never met. Or had they? Lara had hated him from the get-go. Why?

And what about Erin? Yes, she was my friend, but I
needed to remain objective. Did she keep the information about the skylight from the police on purpose? She was teeny, but using hinges on the armoire as footholds, she could have scrabbled to the top of it and gone out through the skylight.

CHAPTER

Jordan slipped up behind me and kissed me on the neck. A shiver, the good kind, ran down my spine. “What a nice surprise,” he murmured. “I've got two minutes.”

I spun around to face him. “I don't. I've got to contact Urso.” I explained why and punched Urso's private number into my cell phone. Urso didn't answer my call. I texted him and alerted him to the skylight and remote control. If my theory was correct, the killer would have taken the remote control along. How else would he or she have been able to close the skylight after exiting?

By the time I pocketed my cell phone, Jordan was busy with another restaurant task. I whizzed by him and whispered I would see him at home.

Outside the restaurant, Victor was standing beside a truck, wrapped in a feverish embrace with his young date and kissing her roughly. She pushed him away and made a U-turn. He didn't go after her. He spied me and halted. His face didn't move a muscle. A bad case of the heebie-jeebies
shimmied through me. I tamped them down. Victor may be a creep, but he wasn't a killer. He had an alibi, right?

Even so, I kept a brisk clip all the way home.

As I neared my driveway, I heard the rumbling of an engine. An indistinguishable dark-colored sedan was driving toward me without headlights. My breath caught in my chest. The car slowed. I couldn't make out the driver. It was too dark. Suddenly the car picked up speed . . . and the headlights switched on.

“It's official,” I muttered. “I'm paranoid.” The driver had probably slowed to look for an address. Refusing to act like a damsel in distress and call Jordan, I hustled inside. Once I was standing in the foyer, however, anxiety gripped me full force, and I started to tremble. To shake off the tension, I jogged through the house making sure all the doors and windows were locked, then I nabbed Rags and brought him to bed with me.

An hour later, while reading but not absorbing a mystery, it dawned on me that I hadn't asked Jordan whether he had picked someone to be his second-in-command. I made a mental note to do so when he came home and, yes, I would tell him about the darkened car. He would put my mind at ease. But after I drifted off, both mental notes must have vanished because when Jordan crawled into bed with me, I couldn't remember muttering anything more than
I love you
.

***

At dawn Thursday, I took a gander in the bathroom mirror. Tossing all night is not good for the complexion. My skin was sallow; the area beneath my eyes, gray and dry. No amount of eye moisturizer would help. Swell.

I kissed my sleeping husband good-bye, dressed in taupe trousers and a peach V-neck sweater, and ate a quickie meal of eggs scrambled with Parmesan cheese, and then I hooked Rags to his leash, and we hurried to work. Routines mattered.

Around eight thirty, Rebecca entered The Cheese Shop, a bounce in her step. While preparing cheese, we discussed her plans to see her father. Devon was excited about the prospect, she told me. He believed in family first. When I asked her about her desire to postpone wedding plans, she said Devon was fine with that, too. He would wait for six months, but then he expected an answer. I was pretty sure she wouldn't wait that long to say
yes.
Devon was a catch.

Close to noon, Rebecca displayed a fistful of circular slogan buttons that read:
Say Cheese!
“Put one on,” she said. “Grandmère ordered them to promote the Street Scene.”

I obeyed. “When did she stop by?”

“When you were in the office on the telephone with suppliers. She didn't want to disturb you.”

Matthew shuffled into the store via the rear entrance, his shirt hanging out on one side of his trousers, his hair scruffy and uncombed. “Morning,” he mumbled and let the door slam shut.

“Did you forget to look in a mirror?” I pointed to his shirttail.

He tucked it in. “Guess so.”

Worry whooshed through me. “Is Meredith okay?”

“She's fine, but how can I get any rest when she's making sounds like”—Matthew uttered a teensy groan—“and she pets her stomach all the time.”

“That's normal.”

“Since when are you an expert?” He jabbed an index finger at my abdomen. “Until you have a bun in the oven, you don't know what's
normal
.”

“Touché.”

“By the way, if you don't know how to knit, don't take it up after you're pregnant. Meredith and knitting are like oil and water. Who knew she had a mouth like a truck driver?” He slogged into the wine annex.

“Coffee for my cranky cousin,” I whispered to Rebecca. “With a dash of cream. Now.”

“On it,” she chirped and darted away.

The front door flew open and Delilah rushed in. The skirt of her red waitress outfit fluted up. She was carrying a tall to-go cup of a beverage that required a straw. “That man!” She cut around the barrels of wineglasses and platters and made a beeline for me.

“U-ey?” I said, wondering whether he had received my text.

“I adore him,” Delilah went on, “but he can drive a girl to drink milkshakes.” She jiggled her cup at me. “My second this morning.”

“What did he do?”

“Changed up everything for the wedding.”

“Without asking you?”

“No, silly, of course he asked me. He was all sugar and spice about it. Would I be comfortable with twice as many people? His mother wants to invite out-of-towners.” She took a sip of her shake. “Could I settle for red birds instead of red butterflies? I think Tyanne put him up to that one. She can't get her hands on the darned things.” Another sip that elicited a big
slurp
. “Will I be happy if we say
I do
at five
P.M.
instead of three? His mom, again. I guess she thinks a late-evening supper is more fashionable.”

Mrs. Urso, a loveable, squeezable woman, was the last person who would worry about being in vogue. She probably thought a five o'clock dinner offered a wider choice of menu.

Delilah flipped off the top of her milkshake and stirred the contents of her cup with the straw. “What do you think?”

“About?”

“About U-ey sticking his nose into every aspect of the wedding.”

“You're back to calling him U-ey, not Umberto?”

“When he's in my face. Yes.”

“I think it shows he cares.”

“He does, but he's driving me crazy.”

“Not a far drive,” I teased.

The telephone at the rear of the shop jangled. Rebecca answered and said, “Charlotte, for you! It's the chief.”

Delilah whispered, “Do you think he knows I'm here?”

“Doubtful.”

“Take this.” She thrust the rest of her milkshake at me. “Don't let me have another, or I won't fit into my wedding dress.” She dashed toward the exit. “And don't tell U-ey I was carping about him,” she yelled over her shoulder. “I adore him.”

I mimed locking my lips—her secret was safe—and raced to the telephone. “What's up?”

Urso said, “Didn't you see my text message response?”

“My cell phone is in the office.”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“The tip. I'm red-faced to say it, but my team and I were lax. We never checked out the skylights at the inn. When Erin said . . .” He hesitated. “It doesn't matter what she said. We assumed, and you know what that makes us.” He let out a low, self-deprecating laugh. “As it turns out, the skylights open easily and silently. We found evidence of rope fibers on the inside of the skylight in Lara's room.”

“Meaning the killer could have come and gone through the skylight. No need to be let in by Lara.”

Urso hummed his agreement.

“Did you find the rope?” I asked.

“For all we know, the killer tossed it into a lake.”

“Or down the well,” I suggested. “Except you already dredged that.”

“And get this,” Urso continued. “We found minuscule rope fibers in Victor's room. We also found the skylight remote control tucked between his mattress and box springs. We've taken him into custody.”

“You told me he had an alibi, verified by my grandfather.”

“That's the other thing. Your grandfather rescinded his testimony this morning. He said his eyesight isn't so good at night. He could have been mistaken about seeing Victor.” Urso cleared his throat. “Did you coach him?”

“No. I—”

“Well, Victor is behind bars. You can relax now.” Urso ended the conversation.

I stared at the telephone.

Rebecca sidled up to me. “What was that about?”

I filled her in.

“I told you.” She toyed with a tress at the nape of her neck. “I never liked that Victor guy.
Babe
,” she uttered in Victor's sleazy way. “He made me uncomfortable.”

“Me, too.” I considered Victor's motive, stronger now in light of the evidence. What if his swapping-cheese prank wasn't as innocent as he made out? The memory of Victor staring at me outside The White Horse made he shudder. Had he heard me talking to Erin about the skylights? Was he the one who had driven past me in the dark-colored sedan? Had he thought about harming me and then reconsidered?

“Case solved,” Rebecca chimed. “Finding the remote control was a coup.”

“Yes,” I murmured. Or was it too easy? If Victor had ditched the rope, why wouldn't he have gotten rid of the remote control? Simple. Because he had intended to put it back in Lara's room when the body was found. Wait. How did he get the remote control in the first place? Lara must have left her room unlocked.

An image of Erin ducking under Ryan's arm to get into Lara's room popped into my mind. Erin had known about the skylight access. If she was the killer—
if
—she could have intended to replace the remote control in Lara's room, but when she couldn't, she hid it in the next nearest place: Victor's room.

A cluster of customers entered the shop all at once. The first needed a platter of cheese for a Street Scene crew,
pronto
. The second ordered a basket for an aunt who broke her leg. The third was shopping for a wedding gift and begged for our recommendation. Rebecca and I kept busy, nonstop, for over an hour.

When the activity died down, I concentrated on Erin again. I hated to think she was guilty, but I couldn't let friendship impede my judgment.