Lost and Fondue (20 page)

If I darted now, I could hightail it to the main road before the intruder realized I was inside. I calculated time and distance to where I’d stashed my car and sighed. If only I had Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility!

Crouching low—like that would help me be somewhat invisible—I slipped open the front door and scurried out. Halfway down the front steps, I paused. Something overhead made a smacking sound.

I looked up. The sound I’d heard in the cellar was nothing more than a loose shutter banging against the house in the wind. The shadow I’d seen must have been the shutter’s reflection.

Flush with embarrassment, I was ready to end my investigation, but I’d never live it down if Rebecca found out that I’d given up because a noisy shutter had scared me off. I willed myself to breathe normally and dashed back to the cellar.

With my flashlight trained on the wall, I peeled away four more façade stones and got a view of the entire wooden door behind them. In one of the slats, there was a finger hole. I slipped my finger through it and tugged. The door opened with a creak and a
whoosh
. Dust poofed out. So did cool air. The door opened to a shaft of some kind. I aimed my flashlight beam at the floor of the shaft.

It was empty. No treasure. No jewels.

Two cords hung down the back of the shaft and were attached to a pulley. Leading with my flashlight, I hunkered low and wriggled my head into the shaft for a peek. Before I could get a good glimpse, I heard another sound.

Footsteps. Stealthy footsteps. In the room directly overhead. I wasn’t conjuring up the sound this time. It was real. Floorboards squeaked.

My insides—already ragged with stress—tightened. I slithered out of the hole and leaped to my feet. I was not a seasoned detective, but I wasn’t a victim, either. I recalled Pépère’s repeated warnings before I went on dates during high school: A good offense is the best defense.

My flashlight was too slender to use as a blunt instrument, and the façade stones were too thin to be of any use, but a full brick might work.

I bashed my flashlight against the brick wall. A corner loosened, which further convinced me that the wall had been recently built—with faulty mortar. I wiggled the bricks back and forth. Two came loose. One would do the trick.

Clutching a brick in my hand, I tore up the stairs.

As I pressed the cellar door open a crack and raised the brick to strike, a hand gripped my wrist.

As the interloper yanked me from the cellar, panic burst up my throat and gushed out in a scream. My captor clapped a hand over my mouth, then spun me to face him and I melted. It was Jordan. Without removing his hand, he flicked his gaze to the right—a silent order for me to listen.

I heard the
click-click
of footsteps. Someone in heels was fleeing toward the back of the house.

A grunt. A rattle of a door. A curse by a female.

Glass shattered. The door the woman had selected must have been locked with a dead-bolt key.

In seconds, I heard the roar of a car engine and the sound of tires peeling off. The woman was getting away.

Before I could ask the identity of the woman, Jordan cupped my head in his hands and kissed me hard. It was the most riveting kiss I’d ever experienced. I pressed into him and kissed back with equal intensity until the immediacy of the situation hit me full force.

I came up for air. “What just happened?”

“Besides us connecting on a deep spiritual level?” he teased.

“Be serious. Who was here? Winona? Prudence?”

“Your cousin’s ex-wife.”

“Sylvie? Why?”

“I’m not sure. While I was standing in front of the hardware store, I overheard her telling Prudence that she was up for a little adventure, but she looked like she had mischief on her mind. So I followed her.”

Mischief was just the right word for what I’d witnessed earlier, when Sylvie was peering into each of the cars along the street. What had she been looking for?

Jordan rubbed my shoulder with his palm. “When she got here, she veered away from the driveway and hid her Lexus behind a stand of bushes on the left. I spotted your car tucked behind the clump on the right.”

And I believed I’d done such a keen job of hiding it. Silly me.

Jordan continued. “I assumed you were up to no good, but I wasn’t sure about her.”

“What scared her off?”

“She must have heard you dashing up the stairs and panicked.” He tapped my nose with his knuckle. “What were you doing here, anyway?”

“Looking for Rebecca.”

“In the cellar?”

“Long story. How did Sylvie sneak inside?”

“Through the front door.”

I groaned. When I’d checked for intruders, I’d seen the spastic shutter, and believing I was safe, had simply closed the door without locking it. What kind of lawbreaker was I? Rebecca would give me a ton of grief if she found out I’d been so careless.

Jordan wrapped a protective arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the front door.

I broke free of his embrace. “What do you think she was after?”

“I assume the treasure.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Her parents are loaded.”

“Treasure hunters aren’t always people who need money.”

He said that like a man who knew. At one time, had he been a treasure hunter? Had his sister’s dilemma cut short his life of carefree living? In the long run, would he, like Creep Chef, be disappointed in me? I was a homebody. I liked my life. My town. My family. I wanted to travel, but I didn’t have wanderlust.

He stopped beside the door, traced a finger down my arm, and let it come to rest at the back of my hand. “Got time for dinner? My place, just the two of us.”

A quiver of desire swept through me.
Yes, yes, yes! Dinner and dessert and ...

Reality blasted me like a cold shower.

“Can’t,” I said. “Grandmère always throws a cast party a few days before opening night. It’s tradition. Want to join us?”

“Dinner with a horde of colorful theater folks?” He grinned. “I’m in.” As he opened the front door, he eyed the brick that I was holding. “Please tell me you didn’t plan to use that as a weapon.”

“It seemed a better bet than my flashlight.” I brandished the slender torch.

“You’ve got hands. They can be lethal.”

“You’re right.” But I wasn’t sure I would ever be calm enough or powerful enough to take down someone who wanted to hurt me without using a weapon of some sort. Take Harker, for example. He hadn’t been able to overcome his attacker, and he was taller and much stronger than I was.

“Why are your fingers rubbed raw?” Jordan asked.

“I almost forgot.” I darted across the foyer, yelling over my shoulder. “I found a shaft in the cellar.”

“What were you doing down there?” He followed me.

I switched on the flashlight, and as I bolted down the stairs, I explained the theory about the murderer setting the scene.

Jordan said, “You’re telling me you think someone built the brick wall as a metaphorical statement?”

“Or as a diversion.”

“For what?”

“To keep us guessing why it was built. I think the shaft leads to the dumbwaiter in the kitchen.” I guided him to the area behind the metal bars and showed him the opening in the wall. “The murderer could have come down the shaft, killed Harker, and escaped back through the shaft unnoticed.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow. “And sealed the shaft with those half-stones after he left?”

I winced, feeling pretty foolish with my assumption. “Okay, what if the killer used the shaft to bring the bricks down to the cellar?”

“Why not use the stairs?”

“Because access to the kitchen is less steep, and he wouldn’t have had to carry the bricks too far. A couple of trips using the dumbwaiter would do the trick.”

Jordan crouched down and inspected the hole I’d created. “Okay, you’ve sold me, but why seal it up?”

“So no one knew he—the murderer—had been there.”

“Except he left a wall as a calling card.”

I gaped at the brick wall and hated to admit that its presence left me stymied. Why had the killer gone to the trouble?

Jordan said, “Call Urso and let him figure out the rest of the puzzle.”

“I can’t let him know I was here.” A rush of fresh warm guilt crept into my cheeks. “He’ll be angry when he learns that I’ve trespassed.”

“Man up.” Jordan grinned and cuffed my shoulder. “The theory about the brick wall should interest him.”

“I’ve left him a message. When he returns the call, I’ll come clean. Until then, will you keep mum?”

Though he didn’t look pleased with my decision, Jordan said he would give me twenty-four hours. After that, he’d feel compelled to do his civic duty.

 

Grandmère met us on her front porch and bussed Jordan on both cheeks. “We’re so glad you came.” The warmth in her tone made me wonder if the other day I had misinterpreted her concern about my dating him. She patted his back and gave him a nudge to enter.

Theater folks, as Jordan called them, filled the house. Grandmère was using sixteen crew people and four actors for this particular production, but others who had performed or helped backstage in previous shows were in attendance, as well. They poured out of the study and living room into the hallway. A pair of crew people, playing a game of rock, paper, scissors, sat on a step halfway up the curved staircase. A cute couple huddled near the bathroom door. He whispered in her ear, then sneaked a kiss. She pushed him away, but her eyes were smiling.

“You’re here!” Amy zigzagged through the crowd and scampered toward us, her royal blue cape billowing behind her, a matching pirate’s hat falling rakishly over one eye. “Clair, Clair! Aunt Charlotte’s here with Mr. Pace!”

Clair, dressed in a less flamboyant pirate’s costume, appeared in the doorway of the study. She held a book tucked under her arm, one of Grandmère’s leather-bound treasures—a century-old version of
Alice in Wonderland
. A tentative smile graced her pixie mouth, but her eyes were moist. Had she been crying again? My heart wrenched at the thought. If only I could swaddle her in a baby blanket and protect her from pain.

“Pépère fixed incredible food.” Amy slipped her hand into Jordan’s and drew him along the hall. “Dr Pepper stew and cheese biscuits that Clair can eat.”

Clair’s diet needed to be gluten-free, which meant no wheat products in her food. Luckily, most cheese was gluten-free. Amy, older by a minute, was always watching out for her
younger
sister.

“And crème brûlée with shaved chocolate on top,” Amy added.

“Sounds delicious,” Jordan said.

“Take your coats off. Stay awhile.” Grandmère waved her hand. “There are drinks in the kitchen. My specialty, of course.” She kissed the tips of her fingers to show her appreciation. Recently she’d switched from her favorite drink, a gin fizz, to a beverage created “south of the border.” Her margaritas packed a punch—only one was allowed per person. “And Matthew has brought some delicious syrah wine. Enjoy!
À votre santé
.”

“À votre santé,”
Amy echoed. “Follow me!” She released Jordan’s hand and sprinted ahead of us.

Grandmère gripped my elbow. “Take a moment to cheer Meredith. She’s very low.”

And why wouldn’t she be? Her niece was in jail.

“Any sign of Sylvie?” I asked, wondering if that was why Clair was teary-eyed.

Grandmère shook her head.
“Dieu merci, non.”

I wondered where Sylvie had gone to after her foray into the winery. Did she know I’d been there, too? Was that why she was keeping her distance from her
girlie-girls
tonight? I didn’t dare tell Grandmère about my breaking-and-entering episode. She’d scold me, although truth be told, she’d probably have done the same thing.

“Movie! Two syllables,” someone shouted from the living room.

As we walked by, I peeked in. New posters for
No Exit with Poe
had been hung beside the other posters that decorated the wall. Actors, playing charades, sat on the Queen Anne chairs or perched on the burgundy sofa, their gazes riveted on the clue-giver who was miming by the fireplace. The group had made themselves signs denoting the two teams’ names—the Ravens and Lenore’s Ladies. Men against women. The stage manager at the theater, a squat woman with burgundy hair and more earrings in her ears than I had in my jewelry box, motioned:
first word.

“
An Affair to Remember
!” a member of the women’s team yelled.

“That’s not two syllables, you ditz,” one of the guys taunted.

“Colorful group,” Jordan said.

“Like Grandmère.” I nudged him at the waist. “Keep going that way.”

We entered the kitchen, which blazed with light. Delilah, Bozz, and the two leads from
No Exit with Poe
huddled near the pass-through counter. On the countertop, Pépère had laid out platters of a selection of cheeses, roasted vegetables, crackers, and pinwheel-shaped appetizers skewered with toothpicks.

Delilah waved a slice of Edam at her audience. “No, no, no. Poe’s parents died when he was young.”

“I heard he was adopted,” Bozz said.

Jordan moseyed to the group. “Actually, the Allans never adopted him. They just took him in. He was born Edgar Poe.”

“Did he really die at the age of forty?” the actor who served as the town’s only plumber asked.

“Sure did,” Bozz answered. “He was a depraved, drugaddled drunk.”

“Not true,” Jordan said while he sandwiched a piece of Brie between Pépère’s zesty three-seed crackers. “That was a lie spread by Rufus Wilmot Griswold, an editor and critic who hated Poe.”

“That’s right,” Delilah said, eyeing Jordan with respect. “The letters that Griswold presented as evidence were later proven forgeries.”