Lost and Fondue (35 page)

I had to practice lying more. Maybe a few sessions in front of my mirror would help. “Don’t you have a date with Ipo tonight? You’re going to the pub.”

“Oho! Trying to change the subject, are you?”

Indeed, I was.

“Have you tried the pub’s Brie-stuffed mushrooms topped with herbed crumbs?” I hummed my appreciation. “To die for.”

Rebecca clucked her tongue.

I ignored her curious gaze and stuffed the basket with gold raffia. Next, I inserted balls of crumpled paper. They would serve as props for the cheese. I rewrapped the Camembert and Brie, sealed them with our special gold labels, and positioned them against the crumpled paper just so. I added a box of whole-grain crackers, a jar of raspberry jam—Lois’s husband, the Cube, would appreciate that—and a package of cute cocktail napkins. I tied a mixture of gold and burgundy raffia around the handle and said,
“Voilá
.
”
The result was festive and fun.

“You forgot the gold cellophane.”

“I’ll skip it this time.”

“Who’s it for?”

“Lois.”

“Aha!” Rebecca drummed her nails on the counter as punctuation. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re going back to Lavender and Lace.”

“I’m paying a social visit to Lois.” I pressed my lips together. Hard.

“Hogwash.” Rebecca flicked my arm with her fingernail. “Why are you keeping me in the dark?”

I swooped up the basket and headed for the exit. Rags galloped to catch up with me. “Have a fun time on your date. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m going with you. Ipo will understand.”

“No,” I said firmly.

“You’re investigating something.” She darted around me, locked the door, and flipped the closed sign. Then she faced me, hands on her bony hips. My grandmother couldn’t have struck a more demanding pose. “At least tell me what you’re doing.”

Fully aware that I wasn’t getting out of the shop unless I did, I relayed what I’d learned on the Internet.

She agreed with my deduction. “The mother’s suicide, the bricklayer clues. Oh, yeah. You’ve nailed it. Dane thinks you saw something in his room. Go, go.” She unlocked the front door. “Make sure you look under the bed. And between the mattresses. And don’t forget to check the bottoms of his shoes for trace evidence from the cellar. Urso didn’t think to check our shoes that night.”

“That’s probably because so many of us had been in the cellar.”

“Good point. Oh, don’t forget to check the nooks and crannies.”

“Good night, my little Sherlock.” I scooped up Rags and flew out the door.

As I trotted north toward home, I saw Dane, Edsel, Freddy, and Quinn entering Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, and I nearly cheered out loud. Their little gathering would keep them out of my hair while I snooped. Perfect.

After I fed Rags, I sped next door to Lavender and Lace. The dinner hour hadn’t quite arrived. I heard the lovely strains of “Clair de Lune” playing on the stereo in the great room but saw no one occupying the couches or chairs. I searched for Lois in the kitchen to deliver my basket but didn’t find her. The spicy aroma of cloves mixed with cinnamon drifted from a pot of stew on the stove. A low gas flame fluttered beneath it. Agatha, the Shih Tzu, raised a sleepy head from where she lay on her checkered pillow by the kitchen door. I crouched to scratch her ears, and she settled back down.

“Lois?” I called.

No answer.

As I turned to leave, I noticed a keychain with a purple rabbit’s foot tucked onto a hook in the back of the telephone cubby. Lois’s set of master keys. She’d had them when she’d let us into Harker Fontanne’s room. It was my lucky day. I wouldn’t have to employ the credit-card-entry trick again. I’d been worrying about that all the way over. Dane certainly wouldn’t have left his room door unlocked a second time.

As I reached for the keychain, I heard giggling. My pulse kicked up a notch as I tiptoed to the hall to locate the sound. It was coming from Lois and the Cube’s living quarters. They lived at the rear of the inn. The giggling, both male and female, came from behind a closed door. So did the sound of a shower. Oh, my.

My cheeks grew warm, but I wasn’t one to waste an opportunity.

I snagged the keychain and dashed up the stairs to the second floor. Using the key marked with Dane’s room number—Lois was such a trusting soul—I let myself inside and closed the door. A cool breeze wafted in through the opened window, but it did nothing to calm me. I set my purse, the cheese basket, and the keychain on the dresser, put a hand to my chest to still my beating heart—could it pound any louder?—and surveyed the room.

If I was right and Dane thought I’d seen something, what was it and where was it now?

Nothing on the surface of his bureau or bed or bathroom counter screamed out to me. As before, a stack of receipts was piled on the bureau. This time I fingered through them. None showed that he had visited Providence prior to this visit.

On the floor lay a pair of tennis shoes, moist from rain, but no moss on the soles. Pebbles and what looked like bits of mortar stuck in the grids. Would any of it match the material that I’d chipped out of the cellar wall by the dumbwaiter?

I inspected Dane’s black leather toiletries kit. It contained the usual things. Razor, comb, toothbrush. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I rifled through his suitcase, which was half full. Where were the rest of his clothes? Had I seen something among his laundry? In the top drawer of the dresser, I found a wad of dirty clothes, including the sweater that he’d worn the night of the winery event. There was cheese on the collar, but it was nothing that would incriminate him or get him to confess to murder. I peeked into the remaining drawers, but each was empty.

Working my way around the room, I grew increasingly tense. I felt like I was dallying.
Go, go, go. Time is of the essence.

I clicked my neck to relieve the stress and made another visual tour. What had I missed?
Check the nooks and crannies,
Rebecca had said.

I peered behind the tissue box. Under the bureau. Inside the cabinet beneath the sink. Nothing.

My gaze landed on the mirror and zeroed in on Dane’s toiletries kit from the backside. It had a zipper pocket that I’d missed. Energized with hope, I reached inside and felt the edges of a photograph. It was of Dane and a pretty girl in a blue sweater, mugging for the camera. The girl’s hair swooped like Winona’s. Like the girl in Harker’s paintings. It was Julianne. I flipped the picture over and read in chickenscratch writing:
Frailty, thy name is woman.

A chill scudded through me. Not from the uptick in the breeze from the open window, but because I recognized the line from Shakespeare’s
Hamlet
. At Grandmére’s insistence, I had taken an intensive Shakespeare class in my sophomore year at college. Hamlet was fed up with his mother’s infidelity. Was Dane comparing Julianne to his mother? Had his mother had an affair? Had her lover abandoned her? Was that why she had committed suicide?

I was ready to call Urso, but paused when I saw something knobby protruding at the bottom of the zippered pocket. I set the photograph down on the bathroom counter and rummaged for the item. I found two things—a blue jewel, similar to the fake jewels that had been strewn around Harker Fontanne, and a teeny sapphire ring. Quinn’s ring. He must have stolen the ring from the precinct. I had to call Urso.

But before I could spin around, a strong arm circled me. Yanked me backward. My attacker shoved a wad of something into my mouth—paper towels, if my palate was correct. He snared me with both arms, and squeezing like a boa, said “Gotcha.”

I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror. Dane.

I grasped his biceps and pulled down as I’d been taught in self-defense class, but his hold wouldn’t weaken. He was too powerful.

“Find what you were after?” he hissed.

I cursed inwardly. At the time I’d found the photograph, I’d felt the breeze kick up. Why hadn’t I realized someone had entered the room? Why hadn’t I heard Dane’s footsteps?

“I hoped when you saw me standing outside your house, you’d be scared and back off,” he said. “My mistake.”

I moaned.

“Uh-uh. None of that. Hush!” He strapped his forearm across my neck and jerked.

My breath caught. My knees gave way. A blackness enveloped me.

By the time I came to, he’d lashed my hands behind my back. It didn’t feel like he’d used rope. The material was softer, a silk weave. Maybe a scarf.

“Let’s go.” He yanked me to my feet. The photograph, jewel, and ring had vanished. “Stand up.”

I couldn’t. My knees felt like jelly.

He braced my knees with his. “I’ll sling you over my shoulder if I have to. Nobody’s around.”

I ordered my legs to grow strong. Without the use of my arms, I needed my legs.

“That’s a girl,” he whispered. “I saw you as we were strolling into the pub. You looked like you were up to something. You shouldn’t have pried. You should’ve known better.” He slung his arm around my shoulders like we were best friends. “C’mon, we’re going to take a little trip.”

On the way out the door, he hefted the cheese basket and my purse from the dresser. “We don’t want to leave any evidence behind.”

Dane led me down the hallway toward the rear staircase. I wriggled in protest and tried to jam my heel into his instep, but he was quick and dodged the assault.

“Nice try,” he said. “Downstairs.” He lifted me around the waist. My feet dangled above the steps.

At the exit leading to the parking lot behind Lavender and Lace, he set me down and yanked on the door handle. The door squeaked with a vengeance as it opened, but no one came running to save me. Where was the ever-industrious Cube when I needed him? Playing footsie with Lois in the bedroom, I thought miserably.

Dane peeked outside then shoved me forward. Gravel crunched beneath my feet. A lone Toyota truck was parked in the lot—the same truck that had almost plowed me down in the street the other day. Too intent on catching the B-movie guy who I’d mistakenly thought was stalking Jacky, I hadn’t registered that Dane was the driver of the truck. Had he wanted to kill me then? Did he have a last-minute change of heart? I wished he would this time, too.

“Get in.” He swung open the passenger door and gave me a shove.

I clambered up—hard to do without the use of my hands—and pitched forward. My face smacked the seat. Dang, but it smarted. Blood trickled from my nose. Angry, I kicked backward, but Dane anticipated the attack. He ducked out of range then came at me with a firm hand and pressed me to the floor. “Stay out of sight like a good girl.”

For the first time in my life, I was sorry I was a good girl. Why wasn’t I tougher? Why wasn’t I the female counterpart of James Bond? Oh, to be strong and—

If only I could get my hands free and pull the wad of paper towels from my mouth. I had lungs. I could scream. The fabric handcuffs around my wrists were soaked with perspiration. My first instinct was to stretch the bonds to slip free, but then I recalled Amy at the breakfast table, playing with the Chinese finger puzzle her mother had given her. The more she’d struggled, the tighter the bamboo braid had become. I’d told her to relax and twist. Would that strategy loosen my fabric handcuffs?

Dane opened the driver’s door, tossed my purse and the basket of cheese onto the seat, and slithered in. “Be glad I didn’t dump you in the truck bed.”

Yeah, like he’d do that. I wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t put me in the truck bed because he knew I might roll around and make a ton of noise.

Like a law-abiding citizen, Dane exited the parking lot slowly. He drove with the same caution. No way was he going to get pulled over for a traffic violation.

Inside the truck, light waned. The sun was setting. Dane began to hum a tune that sounded like a dirge. Visions of funerals—mine, in particular—played in my mind like a bad movie. Determined to change my fate, I twisted like a worm until my back faced away from Dane. Next, I squeezed my wrists together. The silky material slipped down an inch. Hallelujah!

Dane glanced at me and grinned. “Getting comfy?”

I grunted.

“Edsel wasn’t as curious as you. He was willing to drink away his sorrow. He actually liked Harker, the dolt. More than liked, if you really want to know.”

I didn’t. I wanted to break free.

“He had the hots for him.” Dane snorted. “Harker missed the signs.”

I had, too. Was he sure?

“Harker was such a jerk. He only cared for himself.”

I worked at my bonds. They felt looser but not lax enough. The wad of paper in my mouth was wetter, though. I tried to compress it and gagged.

“Julianne was my dream,” Dane went on. “My everything. She loved the color blue. Did you know that? Of course you didn’t. You didn’t know her. Nobody did. She liked music by Usher. And dancing. Man, she loved to dance. And then
he
came along. Did I tell you Julianne was an artist?” He glanced at me and back at the road. “Me, I sucked at art.”

On the night of the murder, Harker had teased Dane about not knowing the difference between famous artists and Las Vegas nightclub performers. Why couldn’t I have figured out then that he was a phony?

“I only took up art because of her. But Harker had the chops. He swept her right off her feet. She cried when she dumped me, but she said he was so talented, so clever, so handsome. She couldn’t help herself.”

The way he was talking, I wondered if he’d murdered Julianne and made it look like suicide, but then he slammed the steering wheel with his hand. “She shouldn’t have killed herself! She had me. She could have had me forever. But no. If she couldn’t have him, she didn’t want to live.” He glowered at me. “Do you know how that feels?”