Lost and Fondue (11 page)

“Gone, as in
gone
?” I swallowed hard.

“Told you somebody split,” Delilah said.

I couldn’t remember seeing Freddy or Quinn when I’d returned to the winery, but I hadn’t been paying attention. Why would they run? I couldn’t believe Quinn was guilty. Not Quinnie. We’d read books, blown bubbles, sung “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” She was an innocent.

“They left while we were at the theater,” Urso said. “Deputy Rodham tried to detain them, but Freddy Vance put up a fuss. According to ten party guests, Quinn Vance was the last person seen with Harker Fontanne.”

“But she’s so sweet,” I said.

“Sweet people kill, Charlotte.”

“Sure, except—” I snapped my mouth closed, worried that condemning words might slip out. I’d seen Quinn quarrel with Harker. Had she abandoned her frolic with Edsel, only to return to Harker and have it out with him? Had she lured him to the cellar? Earlier I’d determined that she wasn’t strong enough to have strangled Harker, but now I recalled seeing her in that bikini. She had tight abs and muscular arms. Was she capable of taking down someone Harker’s size?

“Except what?” Urso demanded.

“Aw, shoot.” I couldn’t keep a secret. I mean, I could, but I wouldn’t when it came to tracking down a murderer and bringing him, or her, to justice. “Rebecca and I saw Harker and Quinn fighting.”

“In the kitchen,” Rebecca said.

“But she fought with Dane, too,” I added. “That was when she abandoned her scarf.” I explained about Dane taunting her with fondue. “Anyone could have picked up the scarf after that.”

“Including Quinn,” Urso said.

“I’d wager a bet on Winona Westerton being guilty,” Delilah cut in.

Rebecca waved a hand. “I agree. She’s got a secret.”

“Seconds ago, you said it was Dane,” Urso reminded her.

“I’m allowed to change my mind.” She flipped her ponytail for effect.

Sometimes I believed my lively assistant had dreams of becoming a private detective. I didn’t dare ask what her Amish family would say about that. She’d had little contact with them since she’d left the fold.

“Did you know Winona tracked down Freddy to make a donation?” Rebecca went on. “I heard she was itching to go on this trip.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” Urso said. “Did she have to donate to be included?”

“If she made a donation, how could Freddy say no?” Rebecca replied.

Good point.

“Winona Westerton looks strong enough,” I said, backing Rebecca’s suspicions. “And I saw her flirting with Harker at The Cheese Shop. She winked at him.”

Urso smirked. “A wink is flirting? Hmmm, better watch myself.” He deliberately winked at me.

I looked away, hoping I was misinterpreting his intentions, which got me to thinking. Maybe I had misconstrued Winona’s brief exchange with Harker in The Cheese Shop. Perhaps she was the kind of person who winked at everything. They’d been talking about the treasure, not s-e-x.

The door to the diner whisked open, the chimes jangled again, and Edsel Nash slogged in, chin slack, his dress shirt rumpled and hanging out of his jeans. Dane shuffled in behind him, looking equally messy, his gaze dark with unease.

Edsel weaved toward our table and glowered at Urso. “You let that Bozz nerd go, didn’t you, Chief?” He pounded a fist into his palm. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t feel he was guilty, son. He had a solid alibi.” Urso sniffed hard. “Been drinking?”

Dane slung an arm over Edsel’s shoulders. “Man, let’s grab some chow and chill out.” He guided Edsel to the counter and nudged him onto one of the red leather stools. I had to admire the way he defused his friends.

Edsel teetered. Dane righted him. Edsel looked at Dane with weary eyes. “Harker was my best friend. Best in the whole world.”

He had to be kidding. I remembered the demeaning way Harker had treated Edsel at The Cheese Shop.

Urso rose from the booth and drew near to Edsel. He perched a foot on the chrome rung of Edsel’s stool. Like a stalwart musketeer, Dane slipped behind Edsel. If he’d had a sword, I had no doubt he would have laid a tip in Urso’s chest to keep him at bay. All for one and one for all.

Edsel shoved Dane away. “I’m cool, bro.”

“Mr. Nash, tell me more about your relationship with Harker Fontanne,” Urso said, his tone laced with honey. He was fishing.

“We were freshman roommates,” Edsel replied.

I wanted to hear everything, so I slid out of the booth and carried the remains of the grilled cheese platter to the counter. “Hungry, fellas?”

Delilah hopped up and hurried behind the red laminate counter. As she rustled up two sodas, Rebecca joined the huddle.

Edsel snatched a grilled Butterkäse triangle, finished it in two bites, and licked his fingertips. “Harker and me took art classes together. Ski and me—”

“Who’s Ski?” Urso asked.

Edsel jerked his thumb at Dane. “Cegielski. If you ask me, those Germans have too many letters in their names.”

“Polish,” Dane corrected.

“I thought your grandparents were German. Whatever.” Edsel wasn’t slurring. He couldn’t have been too drunk. “Ski and me, we were first in the class. Then Harker came in. He was great, right off the bat. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to paint with oils or acrylics or watercolors, but our teacher, Freddy, said to do anything he wanted. Harker was that good. He had the talent. The rest of us are hacks compared to him.”

“
Were
hacks.” Dane’s face twisted with pain.

Edsel nodded. “Yeah.
Were
.”

“Quinn’s talented.” Dane took a sandwich and stared at the different angles of it as if studying a piece of sculpture. “But Harker had the chops.”

Urso pulled a notepad from his hip pocket. “What was your relationship with Harker Fontanne . . .” He consulted the pad. “. . . Mr. Cegielski?”

“We were friends.”

“And poker buddies,” Edsel said. “Harker owed Dane a wad of cash.”

Urso’s gaze sharpened with interest. “How much?”

“Five hundred,” Edsel said.

“Liar!” Dane abandoned his sandwich. “We never bet that—”

“Chief Urso!” Lois, the owner of Lavender and Lace, darted down the aisle between the booths and counter. The hem of her purple poncho fluted up like an umbrella to reveal the lavender sweater and purple calf-length skirt she wore beneath. “Chief Urso! There you are. And Mr. Cegielski and Mr. Nash. Oh, my! I heard the news. Oh, my.”

Freddy, Winona, and the artists were staying at Lois’s bed-and-breakfast.

“Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my.” Lois placed a bony hand on her narrow chest.

Urso rushed to her and steadied her by the shoulders. “Breathe, Mrs. Smith. What’s the problem?”

“It’s lost. Mr. Fontanne’s art.” Lois’s partially blind eye fluttered open-shut, open-shut. “It’s gone!”

Lois talked nonstop from the diner to Lavender and Lace, covering the same ground. The artwork was gone, stolen. She couldn’t imagine how a thief had gotten into her place. Her husband, a man whom I’d dubbed the Cube because of his solid, square stature, was home night and day and always watchful, she told the group of us who had accompanied Urso.

After fetching a set of master keys from the kitchen, Lois bustled up the stairs. The purple rabbit’s foot on the keychain bounced in rhythm. She entered Harker Fontanne’s room ahead of us. Her Shih Tzu, Agatha, bolted out of nowhere, weaved around our legs, and scuttled to her mistress’s side. Without a command from Lois, Agatha sat on her rump and panted, totally attentive to the serious nature of the business.

Urso paused in the doorway, making it difficult for the rest of us to see past him. Rebecca and I stood on tiptoe for a peek. Dane and Edsel hung back. I could hear them fidgeting.

Lois stopped beside the four-poster bed and folded her hands beneath her poncho. “Here we are.”

Harker’s room, like every other room at the B&B, was decorated in shades of lavender: floral bedspread, lavender pillow shams, sprigs of silk lavender in lavender-glazed flower vases. Light from a streetlamp glinted through the sheer curtains that tiered behind the brocade lavender drapes and created a path on the carpet. In every guest’s room, Lois had set up a showcase of her collectible teacups on a floating bookshelf. Other homey touches included the makings of a fire in the hearth, ready to go with a single match, and a hurricane candle on top of the antique bureau. Two scones sat on a lavender-rimmed china plate beside the candle.

A few things looked out of place in the tidy room: Harker’s jeans, socks, and paint-splattered work shirt were strewn on the easy chair; his mess of toiletries was scattered on the counter by the antique sink; his clothing spilled out of a suitcase that was tucked into the corner of the room.

“Are all the students rooming alone?” Urso asked.

“Mr. Cegielski and Mr. Nash are together,” Lois said. “The others chose singles, don’t you know. Anyway, as I said, I cleaned this room yesterday and then again today, and, well, I’m a snoop. I admit it. Terrible habit. But I am.” She crossed to the pillows on the bed and automatically fluffed them. Agatha jumped to her feet and followed, her ID tags jingling merrily. “Anyway, I was cleaning yesterday and I saw Mr. Fontanne’s . . . Oh, what do you call it?” Lois snapped her fingers. After a brief moment, she tapped her head. “Aha! Portfolio. He has this portfolio.” She pulled a black leather case, which was about three feet by two feet with a finger-grip handle, from beneath the bed.

A number of artists I’d known at OSU had carried similar art cases, large enough to hold works in progress.

“Yesterday, I peeked inside,” Lois went on. “His work was beautiful. Portraits and landscapes. And now it’s gone, don’t you know.”

Urso strolled into the room to inspect the portfolio, giving Rebecca and me a chance to slip in, too. Eager to see the evidence, I set my purse on the mahogany ladder chair to the left of the door and started toward the bed.

“Stay back, Charlotte,” Urso said, deducing my intention. He unfolded the case on the bed and thumbed through the cellophane sleeves.

Lois said, “See? Empty. There were paintings and sketches in it.” She shook her head, obviously distraught with the circumstances. Without another word, she shuffled away and fussed with the drapes.

As I watched her, a prickle of curiosity nipped me. Had someone climbed the trellis outside and crept in through the window? Would there be fingerprints on the sill? I heard Dane and Edsel whispering and looked over my shoulder. They sealed their lips, and like men on a chessboard, advanced one pace forward.

It didn’t take long for me to learn what they were whispering about. Quinn. She was hurrying down the hallway. Relief swept over me. She was alive, and she hadn’t run away. She wedged through the boys and slipped into the room, her face blotchy, her red hair knotted and tangled.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

I crossed to her and gripped her shoulders. “Are you okay? Where have you been?”

“I was ...” She sucked in a breath. “I was ... walking.” Tears pushed at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Charlotte, I can’t believe Harker’s gone. Dead. I can’t believe it. I ...” She curled into my arms and rested her head on my shoulder. After a moment, she pulled away from me. “What’s everyone doing here?”

“Harker’s artwork is missing,” I said.

“Can’t be,” Quinn said. “He carried his portfolio everywhere. It was never out of his sight. He didn’t want anyone to see what he was working on.”

Except he hadn’t carried it everywhere, I mused. He hadn’t taken it to the water-balloon fight or to The Cheese Shop or to the fund-raiser.

“Was anything else stored in here?” Urso cocked his head. “Anything at all?”

“You mean like drugs?” Edsel edged closer.

“Harker didn’t do drugs,” Quinn said, her voice rising in pitch. “He rarely drank.”

Except he had earlier. Matthew had spoken to him about overindulging. Had Harker discovered that his artwork was missing? Was that why he’d been drinking?

“He was very territorial about his work,” Edsel added.

To my mind, Harker had been quite territorial about all of his possessions, including Quinn.

“Where’s your father?” I asked.

“I don’t have a clue. Doesn’t that Winona know?” Quinn said, evidently not pleased that Winona was pursuing Freddy. But then what nineteen-year-old was happy with change? Quinn probably adored her mother. Freddy dating anyone but her mother would be considered a betrayal.

Urso moved closer, his size making Quinn cower ever so slightly. “You and your father disappeared from the winery when I gave strict instructions for everyone to stick around.”

“I told you, I went walking. Not a very good alibi, I guess.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her shoulders shuddered in distress. “I just couldn’t handle being around so many people ... I needed time to think.” She hiccupped. “I’m so sorry.” She jammed her knuckles into her mouth. “Ohmigod, Harker’s really dead. I loved him so much.”

Urso didn’t look moved in the least. Did he still suspect Quinn was the murderer? He turned back to Lois. “Can you tell us what some of the art looked like?”

The Shih Tzu yipped.

“Hush!” Lois scooped the pup off the floor and petted her head. “There was a painting of a sunset, and another of towering buildings, and another of birds flying. A few of them were portraits of a pretty girl’s face. No full figures.”

Quinn said, “Harker didn’t do torsos well. He had trouble with hands. They always turned into claws.” The memory brought a pained smile to her face. She whispered, “Did you see what he painted at the winery? Masterful.”

Dane stifled a snicker. Edsel slugged him with an elbow. Were they callous or jealous?

I remembered thinking Harker’s artwork of the cellar in a black sea seemed forlorn. Had he foreseen his own fate?