Lost and Fondue (28 page)

“We don’t have snow. You mean mud.”

In addition to running Le Chic Boutique, Prudence had put herself in charge of our local museum. It was a privately owned museum with mementoes from our town’s illustrious, albeit quaint history. The owner, Lois Smith’s sister and one of Prudence’s best friends, had taken an extended vacation. Lois had no desire to manage the museum. The B&B kept her busy twenty-four hours a day. Out of the goodness of her pretentious heart, Prudence had taken the helm and was running the museum with a steel grip.

Prudence waved an agitated hand. “They’re so scruffy. The language they use. And they finger everything.”

“Everything,” her friend echoed.

“It’s not a hands-on museum,” Prudence continued. “It’s for viewing purposes only. Their behavior is disrespectful.”

I sighed. “Prudence, there are hundreds of books and photograph albums in the museum. What do you expect visitors to do? Stare at the covers? They’re curious.”

“I want them to put on Latex gloves, of course. We provide them. They’re right by the front door as you walk inside.”

I laughed. I couldn’t imagine college students donning gloves to tour a museum.

“Tell her about the hot dogs,” Prudence’s friend prompted.

“My lord. They were eating in the study, gobbling down food.” Prudence’s nose thinned, as if she’d taken a whiff of something rancid. “Hot dogs smothered with cheese and baked beans that they’d bought at the diner. Delilah knows better than to let them do that.”

“I’m sure Delilah didn’t know they were heading to the museum.” I checked my watch, itching to get back inside. How much longer did I have to listen to this tripe? My arms were cold. Wisps of hair clung to my face. A drowned rat probably looked better. Hopefully Jordan wouldn’t put in a surprise appearance. “Look, Prudence, why don’t you complain to my grandmother? She’s the mayor.”
And she would tell your sweet sorry—

I snipped off the thought. At times, I wished I had my grandmother’s courage and could say what I felt. She’d tell Prudence in no uncertain terms to back off, and she’d rest easy at night. According to my grandmother, I had ended up with my mother’s “nice genes,” the genes that made me want to fix people’s lives without hurting their feelings. An impossible task, she advised me, one that would leave me with burning indigestion if I wasn’t careful. At night, I practiced saying bad things that cycled through my head in front of my bathroom mirror. I found it quite therapeutic.

“Your grandmother? Bah!” Prudence snorted. “She’s too busy with that ... that production of hers. What a farce!”

“Actually, it’s a satire about an absurd play,” I corrected.

“Absurd is right. It’s a joke. Why our taxpayer money goes to support such junk is beyond me.” She clucked her tongue. “She has absolutely no taste.”

“No taste,” her friend concurred.

My hands balled into fists. Prudence and her pal were going too far. Nobody questioned my grandmother’s artistic vision. Luckily for Prudence, a knot of my friends were walking en masse toward us. If Tyanne, Freckles, and Octavia hadn’t appeared, I might have punched Prudence in the nose and cheered my spontaneity.

“Hi-yo,” Freckles yelled.

“Hey, Sugar,” Tyanne said.

Octavia eyed my fisted hands. “Problem?”

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “Prudence is worried that having a college nearby will destroy our fair town.”

“I think it’s fabulous to have so many young people in Providence,” Octavia said.

“Me, too.” Freckles giggled. “They’re so energetic. So curious.”

“Pfft,” Prudence muttered.

“Why, if we have a college here,” Octavia went on, “it will give this town an injection of intellectual zing. More books, more discussion.”

“My Thomas and Tisha can stay close to home,” Tyanne said.

“So can my Frenchie.” Freckles grabbed Tyanne’s hand and squeezed, mothers-in-arms.

Prudence said, “You’re hopeless. All of you.”

Her friend echoed her yet again, making me wonder if she ever had any actual thoughts of her own.

“If I wanted to,” Prudence went on, “I’d buy that Ziegler property and end this fiasco waiting to happen.”

“I heard you were already trying to buy it,” I said.

“You heard wrong.”

“What about your brothers?” I said. Octavia tilted her head, as if telling me we’d already covered this territory, but I still had my suspicions about the Harts. There was no time like the present to snoop. “The Ziegler Winery used to abut your property, Prudence. Rumor is that the Zieglers pushed your family off the land. I’ll bet your family was upset about that.”

“That’s a lie,” Prudence said.

“Maybe your brothers want to get it back.”

“Prudence’s brothers wouldn’t move back to Providence for all the rice in China,” Prudence’s friend blurted.

Prudence looked at the woman as though she’d been thoroughly betrayed. She licked her lips. After a long moment, she said, “We don’t speak.” Her face grew pale, almost porcelain, as if the reminder of the feud was sucking the life out of her.

The urge to reach out and comfort her welled up inside me.

“Charlotte!” Delilah rushed across the street, dragging Wolford Langdon by the wrist. Where had Winona gone to? “You won’t believe this.” Delilah prodded the man to speak. “Tell her, Wolford.”

He drew his chin down and arms to his chest, like a wimpy fighter protecting his core.

“Go on, tell her.” When he didn’t, Delilah said, “I overheard him talking to these tourists. You know, the one with the scraggly red hair and the other one with the bottle-top glasses? They were in here the other day.”

Their faces sprang to mind. I nodded.

“Anyway, they were talking, and you know how I have an ear for gossip.”

“It’s not gossip,” Wolford said.

“Tell her the story.” Delilah tugged on his sleeve then ogled me. “It’s about Winona.”

“Weren’t you at the diner with Winona?” I asked him.

“She left right away,” Delilah cut in. “She bought a to-go milkshake and dashed out, like she had an appointment. Go on, Wolford. Spill.”

Wolford drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the air escaping through the space in his upper teeth. Whatever he had to say was making him highly uncomfortable. “Winona Westerton’s sister dated Harker Fontanne.”

“And ...” Delilah twirled her hand, encouraging him to continue.

“And they broke up.”

“And ...”

“And her sister committed suicide.”

The collective group gasped. Freddy’s words came back to me in a rush. Harker
loved ’em and left ’em
. Why hadn’t Winona told Urso? Because if he found out, he’d consider her suspect number one.

“Why did you keep this a secret until now, Wolford?” I asked.

He sniffed. “Because I hadn’t put it together before.”

“Winona and her sister had different last names,” Delilah explained. “Ever since Wolford signed on as a potential donor, he has been racking his brain trying to figure out how he knew her. See, he knew about the suicide.”

“It was in all the papers,” he said.

“Harker Fontanne was cleared of all responsibility,” Delilah said.

“I’d put the memory behind me.” Wolford worried his hands together. “It was such a tragic death.”

“But here’s the kicker.” Delilah nudged Wolford to continue. “C’mon, tell her the capper.”

He shuffled his feet. “Winona’s sister’s name was Julianne.”

Big deal. I knew that from the Internet search I’d done. She and her sister had won ballroom dancing competitions.

Delilah spread her palms. “Her nickname was Jules.”

Jules.
Jewels.
Winona had spread the jewels around Harker as a reminder of what he’d done to her sister. He broke her heart. She took her own life. And Winona, exacting vengeance of the worst kind, took his.

“I’ll bet Winona suspected you were on to her,” I said to Wolford. Delilah nodded her agreement. “She’s probably at the bed-and-breakfast packing up.”

I excused myself from the group that was huddled beneath the awning in front of The Cheese Shop, taking pains to ignore Prudence’s prune-faced disapproval, and hurried inside. I retrieved my purse and cell phone and called Urso. The precinct clerk answered and said Chief Urso was indisposed. The rains were flooding his family’s farm—rains tumbling down Ziegler Winery hillsides, to be exact. I asked for the deputy but was informed that his sister was at the hospital having her first baby. I begged the clerk to contact Urso and tell him to meet me at the B&B, then stabbed END on the cell phone.

Rebecca said, “What’s got you so hot under the collar?”

I filled her in. “I’ve got to stop Winona from leaving town.”

“I’m going with you.” She started to untie her apron.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “I need you to make sure tonight’s tasting runs like clockwork.”

“It’s not safe for you to go alone.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll”—I glanced outside—“I’ll take Octavia with me.” Delilah was on her way to rehearsal at the theater. Tyanne and Freckles needed to go home to their families.

Rebecca pouted.

I hugged her. “This is not a showdown with Winona, okay? I’m simply going to detain her until Urso arrives. You aren’t missing a thing. Slap a smile on that pretty face and get to work.”

“But—”

The chimes over the front door rang out.

Rebecca wiggled her fingers with glee. “Oh, look, there’s your grandfather.”

Brushing rain off his slicker, Pépère bustled into The Cheese Shop and made a beeline for us.

“Is everything okay?” My stomach did a dive. With all the tension in the air, I instantly imagined another accident at the theater. “Is Grandmère—?”

“Your grandmother is cuckoo. Someone said ‘Macbeth’ at the theater.”

“Oh, no!” Rebecca clapped a hand over her mouth, then removed it and whispered, “Is that bad?”

Pépère said, “It is a long story, but it has something to do with Shakespeare and making fun of witches when he wrote
Macbeth
. Supposedly saying the name Macbeth inside a theater brings bad luck, not just to the play but to anyone acting in it.”

“The only exception is when the word is spoken as a line in the play,” I added.

“In order to change the luck,” Pépère continued, “the person who said the word has to exit the theater, spin around three times while swearing, and ask for permission to return. Of course, your grandmother is beside herself, and I am the first target. Mind if I watch the counter?”

“Perfect.” Rebecca whipped off her apron and thrust it at him. “Charlotte and I have an errand to run. C’mon, Charlotte, let’s grab Octavia and go.”

“Why are you taking Octavia?” Pépère raised an eyebrow.

“Um, it’s an errand for the library,” Rebecca said.

I gawked, amazed at the little scamp’s ability to lie.

 

On the way to Lavender and Lace, I called Lois to confirm that Winona was at the inn. She was. Lois and her Shih Tzu greeted Rebecca, Octavia, and me on the front porch as we were folding our umbrellas. The strains of Beethoven’s
Eroica
symphony floated from the speakers in the great room. The spicy scent of lasagna permeated the air. Every night, Lois prepared a modest dinner for guests who didn’t want to venture out for a meal.

Lois leaned in. “I used that Mozzarella Company cheese you recommended, don’t you know.”

The raw milk cheese from Texas had the proper chew and stretch, with papery thin layers and a mild dose of salty flavor.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Lois asked.

Agatha barked her approval.

“By the by, Miss Westerton is still in her room.”

Taking the lead, I traipsed into the bed-and-breakfast and up the stairs. The other two followed me, Octavia tapping on her iPhone with lightning speed.

As we reached the second floor, Octavia held up her iPhone for inspection. “FYI, Winona Westerton is worth more than a million dollars.” Octavia was incredible with research, but then what librarian wasn’t?

“Do you think she’ll attack us?” Rebecca asked.

“Not a chance. There are three of us, and we’re in a busy place,” I said.

“Being in a busy place didn’t help Harker,” Rebecca said.

A lump the size of a chestnut lodged in my throat. She had a point. Winona had lured Harker to the cellar and strangled him when there were dozens of people milling about the winery.

Doing my best to look confident, I marched along the lavender runner. A couple of guests walked along the hall toward us. I nodded a greeting. One of the men returned a clipped hello. I paused in front of the door to Winona’s room, hand raised to knock. Was I being bold when I should have been frightened to death? What if she had a weapon? Just because she’d used a scarf on Harker didn’t mean she wasn’t packing a gun in her purse. Would she shoot all three of us? I considered not knocking and simply standing guard outside her room, ready to delay her if she tried to make a run for it. But what if she chose to make an escape via the trellis as I had?

Someone cleared a throat. I spied Lois and her husband on the landing and felt it was safe to continue with my plan. Expert snoops that they were, they wouldn’t leave the area until they knew what was going on. Five against one felt like good odds. Safety in numbers, as the saying went.

I rapped on the door.

“Who is it?” Winona said from inside the room.

“Charlotte Bessette.”

“I’m a little busy.”

“This will just take a second,” I lied.

I heard the sound of a zipper and a thud and a jangle of something that sounded like wind chimes. Footsteps followed, and the door opened.

In a black wool dress, one hand wedged on her hip, Winona reminded me of a human Grecian urn. “What do you want?”

Not ready to alert her to our intent, I pushed past her into the room that looked like all the others in the inn—floral and cozy and furnished with beautiful antiques. I stopped in the center of the woven carpet, and in my friendliest tone, said, “May we come in?”