Lost and Fondue (31 page)

I scurried to my desk and pulled out the pair of binoculars that I used to bird-watch, but by the time I got the focus right for a view of the sidewalk, the stranger was gone.

Fear—stronger than before, if that were possible—pummeled my rib cage. Where had he disappeared to? Was he touring the property, hoping to break in?

I raced down the hall and rapped on Matthew’s door. No answer. I rapped again. Louder.

He shuffled to the door and opened it a crack. His hair was tousled, eyes hangdog. I’d roused him from a deep sleep. “What’s wrong?”

I explained, including the bit about seeing something glimmer by the stranger’s face.

Like the hero I knew he was, Matthew’s brain cleared quickly. He donned a robe and tennis shoes, fetched a flashlight from the drawer beside his bed, and hustled down the mahogany stairs in front of me. “Let’s make sure the firstfloor doors and windows are secure.”

In less than two minutes, we toured the interior and made certain that the house was as tight as Tut’s tomb. Next, we raced to the front door.

Matthew grabbed an umbrella from the brass stand and wielded it like a sword. “I’m going outside. Stay here.”

“Not on your life. I’m coming with you.”

Rags wailed from the landing.

“I’ll return, fella,” I promised. I hoped I wasn’t lying.

Matthew switched on the flashlight, and together we checked out the exterior of the house. As far as we could tell, the stranger wasn’t lurking in the bushes.

When we returned to the front stoop, Matthew said, “I think we’re safe. The guy was probably just a passerby who’d stopped to light up.”

“Wait. The cigarette butt—”

“—unless it was a doused match.”

“Fine,” I said, not meaning to sound exasperated. “If it was a cigarette butt, do you think we could determine the brand?”

Being a good sport, Matthew sped across the street. He stooped down and inspected something with his flashlight. He scooped it up and called out, “It’s nothing. Just a Hershey’s Kiss wrapper.”

Hershey’s Kisses were my favorite candy.

The next morning, though the rain had fled, clouds filled the sky and a gray gloom hovered over Providence. Inside The Cheese Shop, however, spring had arrived. I had tweaked the display in the front window by circling a stack of golden wheels of cheese with spring-themed paper chicks and bunnies. The woman who managed Emerald Pastures had suggested I add a small aquarium filled with eggs, warmed by a heat lamp to lure new customers. Soon baby chicks would hatch. I didn’t have to do a thing, she assured me. She would take care of the hatchlings, and at the appropriate time, move them to her farm.

I lined a white porcelain bowl with green raffia and handed it to Rebecca.

“My money’s still on Winona,” she said as she nested colored hard-boiled eggs and small wedges of plastic-wrapped cheese on top of the raffia. We’d been discussing yesterday’s events for the last half hour.

“You think she was the stranger outside my house?”

“Freddy said Winona was an actress.”

“She’d know how to dress up in costumes. Maybe Urso can prove it was her. Matthew took the candy wrapper to the precinct.”

Rebecca snuffled. “It’s got to be near impossible to get fingerprints off one of those little foil things, not to mention the fingerprint would have to be in the system. And remember what Urso said about getting DNA results? Weeks.” She held up one of the bowls she had created and, with a sculptor’s critical eye, tweaked the raffia. “Winona said Edsel asked for a couple thousand dollars. Why would he settle for such a paltry amount?”

“You’re right,” I said. “He must know she has more money.”

“If I were blackmailing her, I would have asked for a hundred thousand. I think she’s lying about being blackmailed.”

Rebecca toured the shop and set the bowls we’d arranged among the jars of jams and boxes of crackers. I followed and placed a one-pound chocolate bunny beside each.

“I’ll bet your grandmother would know if Winona was lying,” Rebecca said. “She has that sixth sense. You should tell Urso to consult with her.”

I chuckled. “Oh, yeah, that’d go over well.” With exaggerated politeness, I said, “‘Urso, your instincts stink. My grandmother could do better.’ Uh-uh, no way am I having that conversation.”

I returned to the cheese counter and sliced open a wheel of Wisconsin Cheddar. As I drank in the scent of roasted nuts and hay, I remembered, as I often did, my first day behind the counter. It was a Friday. I was eleven, and Pépère handed me a knife. “Tend to the customer,
chérie
. Say ‘
Bon soir
, what will it be?’” We were playacting, of course. No customer stood before me. He coached me for hours. On Saturday, when he unleashed me on the real customers, our sales had risen dramatically. Pépère said it was because I had a passion for cheese.

“Charlotte.” Rebecca took up her post beside me and nudged me with her hip. “Don’t forget about the jewels. The killer placed jewels on the cellar floor as a sign that he knew about Julianne, which means if Winona isn’t the killer, then it’s Dane.”

“Not so fast.” I cut a wedge of the Cheddar. “Dane, or Harker himself, could have told Edsel or Freddy about the relationship with Julianne.” I recalled Edsel taunting Dane outside the shop and twisting an imaginary key to his lips. Was blackmail the secret he’d ordered Dane to keep?

“You said you saw Freddy in his room dancing the tango at the time your stranger appeared last night.”

“I saw someone milling around his room, but the angle was funky. For all I know it could have been Lois.”

“Cleaning that late at night?”

“She is a neat-freak. Lois and her broom are mythic.”

Rebecca nodded. “Quinn probably knew about Julianne. But I don’t believe for a second she killed Harker. She’s just too darned nice. Besides, he left Julianne for her.”

“Hey, Miss B.” Bozz poked his head in the front door.

“What’re you doing here?” I said. “Don’t you have school?”

“I forgot to print out my homework. It’s on the computer in the office.” He scuttled across the floor. “You mind?”

I smiled. “Give Rags a nuzzle.”

“Will do.” He disappeared, and not long after, I heard the printer whirring.

The grape-leaf-shaped chimes over the door jingled the entrance of our first customers of the day.

Pépère traipsed in after them carrying a cup of coffee from the Country Kitchen.
“Votre grandmère est folle.”
He twirled a finger beside his head signaling just how crazy she was. “Keep a wide berth. If it’s all right, I’m going to the kitchen to do inventory.”

I never said no to an offer like that. I hated doing inventory.

As he disappeared, Gretel Hildegard bustled into the store, her braids bouncing on her shoulders. “Hello, Charlotte. I know it’s early, but I need a basket of good cheer for the church receptionist. She’s taken ill.”

“Not seriously, I hope.”

“The flu. My dear husband is having a mini meltdown without her to do his bidding.” She grinned. “Men. How about a selection of three cheeses? You’ll deliver it, right?”

“Of course.”

“How about that one with the ash?”

“Taleggio?”

“No, the other one.”

“Morbier.”

“That’s it, and a half pound of the Guggisberg Baby Swiss for my hubby,” Gretel added. “That’s the cheese you told me about, right? The family that came to America from Switzerland.”

“Good memory.” Back in the 1960s, the Guggisbergs settled in Charm, Ohio, because Amish farmers needed someone to preserve the milk from their cows, and the Guggisbergs wanted to create a Swiss cheese like the one they’d had in their homeland. It was called Baby Swiss because Mrs. Guggisberg said that, compared to regular Swiss cheeses, the wheels they’d created looked like babies
.
It was soft in texture with a buttery, yummy taste.

As I carved the Baby Swiss, the chimes jingled again and Meredith entered. With Quinn.

“Yahoo!” Rebecca clapped her hands. “She’s free, Charlotte. Quinn’s free.”

Quinn looked like a frightened deer, ready to bolt if anyone in the shop, including me, approached her.

In contrast, Meredith looked elated, like she was dwelling on a cloud, and if she wasn’t anchored, a stiff breeze might blow her to the neighboring county. I believed Quinn’s release was the reason, until I saw something sparkling on the fourth finger of my friend’s left hand. Despite all the upset with Sylvie this week, Matthew had asked Meredith to marry him. Hallelujah! Hope reigned supreme.

Meredith released Quinn and dashed to the counter. “We’re engaged.”

“I can see that.” After an apology to Gretel and quick instructions to Rebecca to wrap up Gretel’s order, I skirted around the counter to give my best friend a squeeze. “Congratulations.”

“Matthew said that having Sylvie in town made him realize how much he loved me.”

“Small favors.” I grinned.

“And, to add to my joy”—Meredith returned to the front door, and folding an arm around her niece, ushered Quinn toward the rest of us—“our Quinnie has been released. Mr. Lincoln got her out on bail. After the to-do with Winona Westerton, I think Urso has his doubts. He didn’t put up a fight.”

“But he’s reserving judgment,” Quinn said, the pain in her voice palpable. Up close, she looked haggard, like she hadn’t slept at all since her incarceration. “I didn’t do it.”

“We know you didn’t, sweetheart.” Meredith petted Quinn’s arm. “I feel badly about being this happy, with everything that’s going on, you know.”

“Don’t feel guilty,” I said. “You deserve every ounce of happiness. Did you set a date?”

“Not yet. It’s too soon for that. Is Matthew here?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, my. He’s not facing off with Sylvie again, is he?”

“He’s visiting clients.”

“Thank heavens.”

“Speaking of Sylvie, have you seen her?” I asked.

“Missing in action. I hope she’s slithered under the log she crawled out from.”

Gretel giggled. “Meredith,” she said in a mock-reproachful tone.

Meredith laughed, too.

“So how did Matthew propose?” Rebecca asked.

While Meredith described how Matthew took her to the wishing well at the center of the Village Green and got down on one knee, a sense of foreboding niggled its way into my mind. Had something happened to Sylvie? She’d acted quite desperate yesterday. As impulsive as she was, had she gone back to the Ziegler Winery to search for the treasure and met with an accident? Should authorities be alerted? I was about ready to dial Urso when I spotted an acid-white-haired woman in an ocelot coat exiting the boutique across the street, her arms loaded with bags. Prudence followed her out, handed her a small one, and blew her an air kiss. What was up with that? The bags Jordan had seen Sylvie carrying might have been empty, but these definitely weren’t. The drag on Sylvie’s arms was unmistakable.

My mouth fell open. Matthew had canceled his credit cards. No way could Sylvie have used them. She’d flat-out lied. She wasn’t broke. Not in the least.

“Got it!” Bozz trotted out of the office, sheets of paper in his hand. “See you later.”

Spying Bozz at the same time as Sylvie gave me an idea. Naughty, impulsive, but necessary. I snagged him and steered him to the archway between the wine annex and the shop. “Bozz, before you go, do me a favor. Go back to the computer and check out Sylvie’s parents on the Internet. Find out what their financial situation is, if you can. Ascertain whether she’s lying about them going belly up. If she’s lying about that, she could be lying about a host of other things.” Like why she had been checking out the winery.

“Last name?” Bozz asked.

“Jamison. Jamison and Gemma Jamison.”

He snorted. “Can’t be too many of those.”

“J.J. to his friends.”

“I’m on it.” Bozz jogged back to the office.

“Charlotte,” Meredith said. “Matthew wanted us to share the news with the twins today. How do you think they will react?”

I rejoined the group by the cheese counter. “I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic.” I would make doubly certain that they were.

“Ladies, I need to get back to the church.” As Gretel spirited away with a gold bag swinging on her arm, Delilah pranced into the shop wearing a bunny costume and waving flyers over her head.

I flipped a hand over my mouth to keep from bursting out in laughter. “Oh, my gosh. Have you glanced in a mirror?” At best, Delilah looked like a forlorn clown bunny at a circus. The whiskers sticking out of her plastic pink nose were nearly poking out her eyeballs, and the floppy ears, well, flopped.

Delilah glowered at me.

“Why are you wearing that silly getup?” I asked.

“It’s a marketing ploy.” She thrust her chin in the air. “May I post these on your windows? Our ticket sales are down. Your window display is drawing interest.”

Indeed, a crowd of children and parents had gathered to watch the eggs mature, even though all of them were crackless. Watching water boil would be more exciting, in my humble opinion, but I wouldn’t turn away potential customers. If even ten percent came inside, the display had succeeded.

“If we post these on the front door, we’ll get some action.” Delilah thrust them into my hand. “Please? You’ll be at opening night, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” I set the posters by the cash register. I’d hang them later.

“I’ve got to run.” Delilah glanced at Quinn, nodded a hello, and then pushed her whiskers away from her eyes and took a better look. “It’s you. You’re out!” She eyed me. “Ask her about the brick wall.”

One thing I could say about my energy-charged friend was that she didn’t have a subtle bone in her body. Perhaps that was why Delilah and Grandmère had hit it off. She hippety-hopped out of the shop, sticking a theater notice on the door before skipping east.