Lost and Fondue (12 page)

A door slammed at the front of the bed-and-breakfast. Footsteps grew louder as the guests climbed the stairs. A man spoke—something low, unintelligible.

Rebecca said, “Sounds like your father, Quinn.” I swear she had elephant ears sometimes.

“Daddy!” Quinn raced toward the door. Dane and Edsel parted to let her pass.

Rebecca nudged me. We popped into the hallway for a peek. Freddy and Winona halted at the top of the stairs. Winona looked flushed, windblown. A raincoat hung over one arm. Her tight gold dress had inched up around her thighs. She tugged the seams to draw the clingy material down.

Quinn threw herself into her father’s arms. “Daddy, it’s gone. Harker’s art is gone. Stolen.”

When confronted by his tearful daughter, Freddy reminded me of a punk being brought up on charges—shoulders taut, eyes wary. He patted her back stiffly.

What was up with that? The girl was heartbroken.
Hug her, for heaven’s sakes
.

They shared a muffled exchange, then Quinn broke free and glowered at Winona. “What’s she doing here?”

“Quinn, don’t be rude,” Freddy said.

“I’ll be what I want.” She aimed a stern finger at her father and then at Winona. “You don’t belong here.”

“Actually, I do, dear.” Winona plucked a key from her purse and wiggled it.

“You should be with the other donors at Violet’s Victoriana Inn,” Quinn said. More tears erupted from her eyes. She tore past Winona and Freddy, rushed into a room, and slammed the door.

Winona smirked.

Lois, who’d sneaked into the hallway with Agatha for an eyeful, clucked her tongue. “Sad to lose the love of your life so young,” she said, a wistfulness in her voice that I didn’t understand. Was it born from experience? I didn’t know much about Lois. I didn’t know how she’d lost the eye, didn’t know why she loved lavender. I was her neighbor, and yet I knew nothing about her. A knot of guilt caught in my throat and made it hard for me to swallow, but I couldn’t address that right now. I was too concerned with Freddy and Quinn’s situation. Why had he been so cold toward her? Was his stiffupper-lip act meant to impress Winona? And what was Winona doing at the B&B instead of staying with the other donors?

As if sensing my agitation, Winona raised her chin, defying me to question her relationship with Freddy. “So-o-o-o.” The way she dragged out the word, I expected her to break into an aria. “What are you all doing here?”

Dane said, “We’re staying here, or did you forget?”

Winona narrowed one eye to admonish him—or was she winking at him, too? “I wasn’t addressing you. Them.” She gazed at me with malice. Did she view me as competition? Did she think I was vying for Freddy’s affections?

“We’re helping out Chief Urso,” Rebecca explained. “Finding out who filched the art might be a clue. Whoever took it might be the killer.” She looked to me to confirm her theory.

The timing of the theft did seem suspicious.

Freddy glanced over his shoulder toward Quinn’s room. Was he regretting his behavior toward his daughter? Did he have to ditch Winona before he could deal with Quinn? He caught me watching him, offered a miserable shrug, and put his hands into his pockets.

“How can you be so sure the artwork was stolen?” Winona resumed smoothing the wrinkles from her stretchy sheath. “Maybe Harker threw it away.”

“It was too good to throw away,” Lois said.

“And how exactly did you see it, Mrs. Smith?” Winona asked.

I didn’t appreciate the frosty prosecutorial tone she was using to grill Lois. I said, “It was in his portfolio.”

Winona raised an eyebrow. “What portfolio?”

“The one Harker kept under his bed,” Rebecca said. “There was artwork in it. Now it’s gone.”

“What does it matter who took the art?” Winona asked. “The murder didn’t occur here.”

“Maybe whoever made off with the art wanted the theft kept secret,” Rebecca said. “What do you think about that theory, Chief?”

Urso loomed in the doorway. What had he been doing all this time in Harker’s room? Hopefully a little sleuthing without Lois hanging around. He ignored Rebecca’s question and eyed Freddy. “Where have you been, Mr. Vance?”

Freddy whipped his hands out of his pockets and snapped to attention, a reaction that looked like a holdover from his days as a gymnast. He’d never been in the army. “I was upset. I needed some air.”

“Why didn’t you return to the winery?” Urso asked.

“He told you,” Winona cut in. “He needed air. I found him taking a walk and having a smoke. I told him that you wouldn’t mind if he came back here, since he didn’t kill Harker.”

Urso looked annoyed by her presumption.

I would be, too. How could she act so smug? Maybe she’d made her wealth working as a mind reader, I thought with a tinge of snarkiness.

“As long as he didn’t leave town, of course,” Winona hurried to add.

Another malicious thought flitted through my mind, but I erased it. Just because Winona sounded hip to the methods of the police didn’t mean she was a criminal. She could come by that information the same way Rebecca did—by watching television—but her snooty attitude did make me wonder.

“Was I wrong to do that?” Winona asked.

Wait for it. Wait for it.
I didn’t have to wait long. Winona batted her eyelashes.

Urso sighed. He wasn’t a pushover for a pretty woman’s ploys. “Look, we’re all tired.” He addressed Freddy. “First thing in the morning, you and I powwow, Mr. Vance. Good night.” Urso marched past them and headed for the stairs.

Dane and Edsel pivoted and entered a room down the hall.

“Wait, Chief.” Rebecca ran after Urso. “You can’t leave. Isn’t this a crime scene?”

Urso glanced over his shoulder. “Mrs. Smith, please shut Mr. Fontanne’s door and lock it. I’ll review the crime scene again in the morning.”

Rebecca said, “But—”

“No, Ms. Zook. It’s time to go home. Sleep could do us all a world of good.” Urso tapped the brim of his hat as a farewell and proceeded downstairs.

Rebecca sputtered and posed, fists planted on her hips. She looked about as mighty as a moth.

“C’mon, Super Girl,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“I’m mad,” she hissed.

“Got that.”

“The least we should do is guard the room.”

“Don’t worry,” Lois said. “I’ll set up a cot outside, don’t you know.” She looked more eager than Rebecca to get to the bottom of this.

I groaned inwardly. Just what Urso needed, another budding detective in town.

“Good night, Charlotte.” Freddy pressed Winona at the small of her back. She moved forward, unlocked her door, demurely kissed Freddy on the cheek, and slipped inside. The door shut with a click.

Freddy did a U-turn and headed back to the room next to his daughter’s. With his hand on the doorknob, he glanced wistfully at Quinn’s door, but he didn’t break stride. He entered his room and closed the door quietly.

In the gloomy silence, fatigue crept into my bones. I thanked Lois for her help, accompanied Rebecca downstairs, and we went our separate ways. I had made it as far as the front stoop of my house next door when I realized I’d left my purse sitting on the ladder-back chair in Harker’s room.

I hurried to Lavender and Lace, slipped through the front door, which Lois never locked, and paused.
She never locks the door.
Anyone could have come into the bed-and-breakfast, stolen into Harker’s room, and taken his things. Anyone. I’d bet the Cube was not as attentive as Lois had made out. I made a mental note to tell Urso in the morning.

In the meantime, I dashed upstairs. Lois had yet to set up camp, and—surprise, surprise!—she hadn’t followed Urso’s orders and locked Harker’s door yet. I retrieved my purse, and as I returned down the hall, I paused outside Freddy’s door, wondering whether I should talk to him about Quinn. I raised my hand to knock but realized his door was slightly ajar.

I heard him muttering to himself. I couldn’t make out the words, but he clearly wasn’t happy.

Ever so silently, I toed the door open. Peeking in through the three-inch slit I’d created, I watched as Freddy placed a large manila envelope—large enough to hold Harker’s artwork—into the opened suitcase that sat on the four-poster bed.

Sleep did not come quickly, but dawn did. I roused the twins and prepared one of their favorite breakfasts—omelets with fresh herbs that I’d plucked from the windowsill garden. I added their preferred cheeses. For Amy, Maple Leaf’s Smoked Gouda. For Clair, Two Plug Nickels’ Lavender Goat Cheese. Unfortunately, my attempt to spoil them didn’t lighten their grumpy moods. They were snapping at each other, accusing the other of hiding a shoe or a sock, as if poison had been injected into them. In a way, it had. Not through a glass of orange juice but by the presence of their mother. Sylvie was such a negative force. I had to do something to remove her from their lives, but what?

“Why are Daddy and Mum angry at each other?” Clair said as she clambered into her spot at the breakfast table.

Amy said, “Because they’re meeting with attorneys, that’s why.” She stood beside the table, toying with a Chinese finger puzzle that her mother had brought her. She had her index fingers stuck into two ends of the bamboo braid and was pulling, which made the braid tighten, trapping her fingers inside. “Shoot, shoot, shoot.” She grumbled her frustration. “I hate this game. Hate it!”

“Don’t pull,” I said. “Twist. It’s a game about not resisting.”

She did as I suggested and tossed the braid aside. “Why aren’t you answering us?”

“Don’t snap at me,” I said calmly, knowing they wanted little-girl answers for big-girl problems.

“I’m sorry.” Amy tucked her lower lip under her teeth. A single tear trickled down her face. Clair handed her a napkin.

I said, “Your parents aren’t happy with each other.”

“Were they ever?” Clair asked.

I smiled. “Once upon a time.” I didn’t offer anything more.

With a heavy heart, I sent them off to school and took a moment for myself. I sat in a chair on the wraparound porch of my Victorian home. Rain was not in the forecast, but the temperature—a brisk thirty-six degrees—wasn’t quite up to spring standards. Dressed in a down parka, sweatpants, and a snuggly pair of Ugg boots, I sipped a cup of mint tea and stared at the B&B next door.

Yet again, the news of a murder in our fair town was drawing a curious selection of tourists. A dozen or more newshounds hunkered in vans along the street. Tourists dressed in winter clothing roamed past the inn with to-go cups of coffee in their hands. Some snapped photographs. Others plucked purple tulips from the Lavender and Lace garden as mementoes. I imagined there were lookie-loos lurking about the Ziegler Winery, too. The notion made me recall a quote by Oscar Wilde: “The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything, except what is worth knowing.”

Around seven fifteen, Freddy trotted out of the B&B. He was wearing jogging clothes and a bright orange ski cap.

Reporters descended on him like locusts to honey.

“Was Mr. Fontanne a gambler?”

“Were the jewels real?”

“What’s the deal with the brick wall?”

I wondered where they had come upon their information. Last night, Urso had cautioned everyone at the winery not to talk about the investigation, but gossip was like a wildfire—hard to control.

Freddy didn’t open his mouth. Didn’t wave. Didn’t stop. He bounded along the sidewalk and passed in front of my house looking rested and buoyant. I itched to know what he was hiding in his larger-than-necessary suitcase, but I didn’t have time to snoop. I had a business to run. I tried to convince myself he was hiding something as innocent as underwear, but in my heart of hearts, I knew better.

When I opened The Cheese Shop doors to customers, more curious reporters and tourists appeared. I didn’t mind the extra business—many purchased cheeses and breads and cups of mulled cider that Rebecca had insisted we serve on cold days. But I did mind that many were looking for Bozz. It didn’t matter that Rebecca and I professed his innocence or that Bozz wouldn’t arrive until he was out of school for the day. The reporters were dogged. At one point the noise level rose so high that Rebecca clanged a metal spatula against a baking pan and ordered them to hush. Occasionally Rags peeked out from the office, as if on alert so he could give Bozz extra emotional support the instant he arrived. Whenever I shook my head indicating we’d had no sign of Bozz, Rags retreated to his favorite spot on the desk chair and nestled down to wait a little longer.

Around noon, Pépère waved to me from behind the cheese counter. “Charlotte, your opinion, please.” He was helping out while Matthew met with Mr. Nakamura over at Nuts for Nails. I hoped Mr. Nakamura, who used to have a big law practice in Cleveland, could make Matthew’s custody battle problem go away. Pépère held up a wedge of Appenzeller and a wedge of Vella Dry Monterey Jack. “Which cheese do you want me to set out on the tasting counter?”

“The Appenzeller,” Rebecca said. She was busy behind the counter finishing off a cheese basket, which she had filled with three artisanal cheeses, a chalkboard serving tray, an olive-wood-handled cheese knife, and a few of my favorite recipes. It was the prize for our first Internet contest. Anyone who signed up for our monthly online newsletter was eligible to win.

“I agree, Pépère. Appenzeller.” Most people aren’t familiar with the cheese, but I adored it. Appenzeller is a semihard Alpine cow’s milk that looks a little like Gruyère but has a more pungent, farmlike aroma. The Swiss keep the recipe a mystery, though it’s no secret that the recipe requires the cheese maker to continually brush the cheese with a special mixture of herbs, wine, and salt.

As Pépère started to cut the cheese into cubes and set them on a decorative platter, the grape-leaf-shaped chimes over the front door jingled.