Lost and Fondue (6 page)

“Throw him a bone,” Grandmère said.

Urso was a good man with a firm grip on how to keep the peace. Since the murder of a prominent citizen a few months ago, we hadn’t had as much as a jaywalker. It didn’t hurt that Urso was so big and tall that he looked like he could snap even the heartiest of men in two with his bare hands.

“I’m in a relationship,” I reminded her.

“But of course. I am forgetful.” My grandmother was never forgetful. At the sprightly age of seventy-three—she’d only admit to seventy—she could dance rings around everyone in the brains department. She said, “Is Jordan here?”

I glanced at the terrace. Jordan and Jacky had disappeared. “I think he left,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.

“Ah,
c’est la vie, chérie.
”

Her tone caught me off guard. Didn’t she think Jordan and I were a good fit? She had never mentioned anything to the contrary before. I eyed her and waggled my finger. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re just trying to get my mind off what’s bothering you about this place. C’mon, spill.”

Grandmère sighed. “When we moved to Providence, I met Ziegler’s daughter. Something wasn’t right about her. I worried that she might cause problems, but then she left town. The last I heard, she joined some hippie commune.”

“Having music at the fund-raiser bothered you.”

“No,
chérie
, you got the wrong idea. It is the winery. This place. I must let it go. There has been nothing amiss since, and with this event, Meredith has set my mind to rest.” She brushed off her shoulders to rid herself of bad vibrations—a trick that a gypsy had taught her—then pecked my cheek and waltzed off.

“Charlotte.” Freddy tapped my shoulder. “Which fondue should I have? Champagne or Humboldt Fog?”

“Both. Taste test. That’s always the most fun.”

Freddy loaded a plate with pieces of bread and florets of broccoli, grabbed one of the bamboo skewers that we’d placed in crystal vases, and spooned some of each fondue onto his plate.

“I never eat fondue,” Winona said.

Oh, please.
I bit my tongue. Not the
cheese will make me fat
thing again.

“You’re missing a treat,” Freddy said. “Communal eating is sexy.”

“Communal?”

“I give you a bite, you give me a bite.” He winked. “I love a good bite.”

She tittered.

Get a room, I thought, and then another notion whisked through my mind. Had Winona become a donor so she could put the moves on Freddy, or had Freddy wooed her into becoming a donor because of his sudden single status? Did it matter? She was here. He was loving the attention. And her friend Wolford, from what I could tell, had no apparent interest in her.

“How do I do it?” Winona eyed Freddy with damsel-indistress meekness, which, for an Amazonian-sized woman, was hard to do.

Freddy speared a piece of bread with a skewer, rolled it in the champagne fondue cheese, and fed the bite to Winona. All of the cheese didn’t make it into Winona’s mouth. Freddy used a knuckle to clean her chin and licked the cheese off his finger. Winona moaned with delight.

I reached for a plate, but paused when I heard Quinn yell, “Stop it!”

Dane had trapped her by one of the windows. With one hand, he held fast to the ends of her multicolor scarf. Using his free hand, he tried to feed her fondue. “C’mon, it’s Gruyère de Comté. You’ll like it.” Cheese dripped off the skewer and onto Quinn’s scarf.

Quinn pressed her lips together. Tears pooled in her eyes. She flailed at Dane. A ring on her left hand snagged in the knitted loops of her scarf. But Dane didn’t stop.

“Ah, young love,” Winona cooed. “They’re never happy.”

“They’re not in love,” I said. “He’s being a bully.” I remembered Quinn saying she was allergic to any kind of cheese but goat’s cheese. She was downright scared. Where was Quinn’s knight in shining armor, Harker? “Freddy, if you’re not going to help out, then I will.”

Freddy gripped my arm and chuckled. “You can’t help yourself, can you, Charlotte? Even in grade school, you were a mother hen. Don’t worry about Quinn. She can handle—”

“I said stop it, Cegielski!” Quinn pushed Dane away.

As he stumbled back, melted cheese splattered on his sweater and the skewer of fondue fell from his hand to the floor.

Abandoning her scarf, Quinn darted through the French doors toward the rear of the estate. Dane huffed and tramped in the opposite direction toward the foyer.

The gong of a bell blasted the air.

“Hey, everybody!” Meredith waltzed into the room carrying a metal rod and a cowbell. She clanged the bell a second time. “Yoo-hoo, let’s gather in the foyer.”

Like a majorette, she paraded ahead. Guests set their dinner plates aside and fell in line behind her.

I stood frozen in place, torn about what to do: chase after Quinn or follow the hostess? I chose the latter because Freddy was right. The argument was over, and Quinn was a big girl. She could defend herself.

When the guests had convened in the foyer, the mariachi music faded out and Meredith stopped her clanging. First, she introduced herself, as well as a few townsfolk who were investing in the college and the donors from Cleveland. Next, she offered a few inspiring words about education. Then, she said, “Providence, let’s show our guests how to have a good time! Everyone, grab a partner and take a scavenger hunt list. You’ve got forty-five minutes to find the items. There are thirty total, but there are thirty-six rooms, and some rooms might have more than one item.”

The crowd cooed with appreciation.

“Some things are hiding in plain sight! The first duo back to the dining table with at least seven items wins a wine-and-cheese basket from Fromagerie Bessette.”

Matthew and I had agreed that, in addition to providing a fabulous meal, a prize basket was a great way for The Cheese Shop to advertise. Meredith gestured to the basket, which she’d set on an entry table. A few of the guests oohed. Rebecca, our basket wizard, had created a beribboned showstopper, fitted with a bottle of sauvignon blanc, a bottle of malbec, and rounds of lavender chèvre from Two Plug Nickels Farm, as well as accoutrements like honey and jam.

“Ready, set, go!” Meredith held up a fistful of lists on green paper and a handful of matching green bags.

Freddy grabbed one of each and hurried off with Winona.

Dane broke from the crowd and approached Harker. “Hey, you got a partner, dork? Quinn ditched me.”

Harker’s eyes narrowed, probably wondering why Dane had the gall to think he could pair up with Quinn. But he let the dark moment pass and said, “You don’t really expect me to go on this stupid thing, do you?”

Dane jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “No, guess not.”

“Say, did you see that fake art they hung in the halls?” Harker said. “Klee and Kandinsky have got to be turning over in their graves.”

“Those Vegas entertainers?”

“Very funny. No, you goon. The Expressionists. Does color theory ring a bell?”

“Color theory? What’s that?”

Harker whacked Dane on the shoulder, and the two headed down the hall.

At the same time, Rebecca trotted to my side. “Got a partner?”

Hoping for a miracle, I searched again for Jordan, but it appeared that he and Jacky had left the event altogether.

“C’mon.” Rebecca handed me the list of items to find. “Do you think we’ll stumble upon the treasure while we—?”

“There is no treasure.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s start in the library.”

Like other guests who’d entered the intimate mahoganylined room, we stopped for a moment to admire the students’ artwork. Quinn’s piece—a façade of the winery on the knoll—was fun, flirty. Meredith had pegged it when she said Quinn had a style similar to Matisse. Pastel sheep pranced about the building. Clouds sparkled with glitter. Edsel’s depiction of the winery, which he’d situated on a grim hill, the skies filled with rain-soaked clouds, was uninspired, but his
E. Nash
signature had dramatic flair. Dane’s artwork, a black-and-white portrait of himself standing in the foyer of the house, looked immature but promising. Harker’s artwork was the most unique yet, in its essence, forlorn. He had focused on the winery cellar, most likely because he expected to find the rumored treasure there, but the cellar looked like a hollowed-out cave, lined with gray stone and floating in black nothingness.

Freddy and Winona stood closest to the piece, and I overheard Winona say, “It’s a little disturbing, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer, opting to continue hunting instead. Freddy followed.

Soon after, Winona shouted, “Found one!” She stood across the room brandishing a painter’s palette.

Rebecca peeked behind one of the canvases and discovered a paintbrush. “Me, too! Item number six on the list.” She waved it and dumped it into our bag as she bolted from the room. “C’mon, Charlotte. Tick-tock.”

We scoured the old kitchen, which was empty of other guests.
Vintage Today
had refurbished the kitchen with spanking-new appliances. All for show, I was pretty sure. I doubted the television program’s budget would cover an update to the ancient wiring and plumbing.

A few minutes into our search, we discovered a crocheted pot holder hiding in a storage closet beside the dumbwaiter.

Rebecca said, “Two down, five to go. How about we—?”

“Quinn, wait,” a young man yelled.

Quinn charged into the kitchen, scavenger bag swinging on her arm, and skidded to a stop. She looked left and right, like she needed a place to hide. I jerked my thumb at the dumbwaiter. She tried to yank open the handle, but it stuck. I pointed to the kitchen table tucked into a nook. She dashed toward it. Too late.

Harker ran in and grabbed her by the wrist. He paid no attention to me or Rebecca. We could have been flies on the wall. When had he abandoned Dane and partnered up with Quinn?

“Let me go!” Quinn twisted to free herself.

“Listen to me,” he ordered.

“Young man, let her go,” I said, channeling Meredith and her most authoritative teacher tone.

Harker did, but he jabbed Quinn with his index finger. “Apologize.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. Cegielski came on to me. So did Nash.”

Dane and Edsel knew Quinn and Harker were an item. Why were they hitting on Quinn and pushing Harker’s buttons?

“You’re breaking my heart,” Harker said. He looked like he really meant it.

Quinn sniffed. “Oh, please. You’re the one who goes around breaking hearts.”

Harker jolted as if she’d slapped him.

Taking advantage of his momentary paralysis, Quinn darted out of the kitchen with a quick glance back at me. Was there terror in her eyes?

Harker sprinted after her. “Quinnie, wait, I’m sorry.”

The fact that he was the one doing the apologizing made me breathe easier. Young love was like cheese; it needed time to mature in delicate, controlled conditions.

“We need to find an eight-inch matchstick.” Rebecca pulled out a drawer to search.

“Let’s try the study. I noticed a fireplace in there.”

Vintage Today
had staged the study to look like something out of Providence’s Historical Museum, with a commanding oak desk, comfy chairs, and Tiffany lamps. As Rebecca searched behind drapes and under stacks of books, I was drawn to the lectern standing in the middle of the room. On it lay a document that my grandmother would salivate over, if it was real and not some
Vintage Today
fake. It was a map of Providence in the eighteen hundreds, with lines delineating the various homesteads. According to the map, Ziegler’s Winery went for miles. The Bozzuto, Urso, and Hart properties abutted the Ziegler estate. And the town of Providence consisted of a few cross streets and the Village Green. In the 1950s, Grandmère and Pépère fled France and moved to Providence. She gave up a dream of being a prima ballerina for a chance at a peaceful life. She found that life in Providence, and she would love to own an historic document that would celebrate the town that had embraced her.

“Is a map on our list?” I asked.

“Nope. But I found the matchstick,” Rebecca said. “Now we need a candle. C’mon, let’s go. I want to win.”

I grinned. “I can make you a cheese-and-wine basket, you know.”

“Nah, this is all about winning. We need a candle. How about the ballroom on the third floor?” she said. “Maybe there’s a candelabra up there with real candles.” She raced into the hall and jogged up the refurbished staircase.

As we neared the second floor, we heard a man yell, “Ow!”

I gripped Rebecca’s elbow. “Hold on a sec.”

“Stop!” the man yelled.

Laughter. Male and female.

“Don’t be such a goon,” Quinn said. I only recognized her voice. I couldn’t see her. I stole to the top stair and peeked around the corner.

Where was Harker? I didn’t really care. Quinn was rid of him. Good.

Hunched over and carrying a silver-scrolled candelabra fitted with three flaming candles, Edsel slogged down the hall, dragging one foot behind him. He swung his arm like that ogre in Mel Brooks’s
Young Frankenstein
movie, and said, “This way, mistress. We’re going to the conservatory.”

He lisped his
S
s, which made Quinn laugh harder. She whacked Edsel playfully on the arm. He recoiled. “Ow. Mistress, why do you punish me so?” They disappeared into one of the bedrooms as other party guests exited.

Happy that Quinn was enjoying herself again, I tiptoed back to Rebecca, who was standing at the landing halfway down the stairs, gazing through a lead-crossed window.

I peered over her shoulder.

“Aren’t the grounds pretty?” she said. “The grandeur.”

Moonlight shimmered through the clouds and highlighted the aged grapevines that spilled down the hill in all directions. Taking in the view, I wondered if Meredith and her donors intended to revitalize the vineyard. Maybe a division of the school should be devoted to viticulture. That notion vanished when my attention was drawn to something out of place.