Lost and Fondue (8 page)

“I was on the scavenger hunt,” Winona blurted. She fanned her list and jiggled her hunt bag as if to corroborate her story.

“Who are you?”

“Winona Westerton,” she said with perfect operatic pitch. She explained she was a potential donor, as was her companion, Wolford. She had come to the cellar to look for a scavenger hunt item—an empty wine box. “Harker was so ... so ... I can’t believe something like this happened.”

“Where’s Freddy?” I didn’t see him among the crowd. “You and he were partners on the hunt.”

“We got separated when I went outside for a smoke,” Winona said.

I remembered seeing her through the lead-crossed window on the landing. What she didn’t seem to realize was that her story left Freddy in the lurch. Where was he? I’d seen him argue with Harker. Had he killed him? No, I couldn’t believe it. Not Freddy.

“A guest must have seen Harker come downstairs with somebody, U-ey,” I said. “Shouldn’t you question everyone?”

Urso said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle—”

“What’s going on?” Meredith burst through a cluster of people and charged Urso. “What happened? Oh, my!” She shoved a knuckle into her mouth. “Where’s Quinn?”

In my haste to help Harker, I’d forgotten about Quinn being frightened in the dark. Where was she? “Quinn!” I yelled.

“Who’s Quinn?” Urso asked.

“My niece, Quinn Vance,” Meredith said. “My brother Freddy’s daughter. Quinn!”

“Nineteen years old. Redheaded,” I said. “Quinn!” Where was Freddy? Maybe he had found Quinn and was consoling her.

“Quinn!” Meredith echoed, her voice shrill with panic. “Quinn! Sweetheart!”

“Over here,” a tiny voice said.

Like a school of fish, the crowd parted. Urso and I wound through them to the far end of the cellar. We found Quinn hovering in a recess that was filthy with soot. Her arms were wrapped around herself so tightly that I worried she’d squeeze the air from her lungs. Candlelight flickered on her tear-stained face.

Meredith crouched beside Quinn and enveloped her in her arms.

“Is it true?” Quinn asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Is Harker ... ?” She hiccupped.

Meredith nodded. Quinn burst into tears.

“Shhhhh.” Meredith patted her niece’s back.

When Quinn came up for air, she pushed Meredith away and said, “Who would want to hurt him?”

Urso knelt beside them, a knee on the ground, his forearms crisscrossed over his bent leg. “Did you?”

“Me? No!” Quinn rolled her lower lip under her teeth.

Meredith whirled on Urso. “How dare you accuse her!” “She’s obviously scared, Meredith.” Urso’s voice was calm, reassuring. “She saw something. What did you see, Miss Vance?”

“I didn’t see anything,” Quinn cried. “I was hiding.”

“From Mr. Fontanne?” Urso pressed.

“No! I was hiding from ... from everybody.”

She looked to me for support. Why, I wasn’t sure. Maybe because I’d seen her argue with Harker. With my gaze, I urged her to continue.

“I found a door upstairs, and I crawled inside. Before I knew it, I was falling.” She gestured to another recess. “I landed there.”

I squatted and inspected the area. “It looks like an old coal chute.”

“I scrambled out and hid in this nook,” Quinn said.

I couldn’t tell whether Urso believed her or not. His face was as stoic as Mount Rushmore.

“Are you hurt?” Urso asked.

Quinn’s cheeks were scraped, her skin flushed. “I don’t think so.”

“Let’s get you to your feet.” Urso helped her rise then addressed the crowd. “All right, everyone, I’d like you to convene upstairs. I’ll question you there. Try not to touch anything as you head up. Charlotte, please go with them. See to it that nobody leaves the premises until I’ve talked to them.”

I felt honored that he would entrust me with the duty. During last year’s fiasco, he’d made it more than clear that I was intruding on his investigation.

People herded toward the stairs. I led the way up while thanking them for their patience and understanding. Some were crying. Others whispered their shock. As we reached the foyer and the folks moved as groups into the various adjoining rooms, I realized there would be no way for me to corral them all. Would the murderer hightail it? Had he or she already split? And where in the heck was Freddy? Dread seared the edges of my mind as I again recalled the argument he’d had with Harker.

Rebecca rushed to my side. “Tell me every little detail you recall.”

Glad that her heebie-jeebies had vanished but not thrilled with how much she loved being an amateur gumshoe, I said, “Later.”

“At least admit that the story about buried treasure was true.”

“We don’t know that for certain.”

“But the jewels—”

“—are fake.” I wondered again why the killer would leave fake jewels around Harker. I hadn’t seen jewels on the scavenger hunt list.

Rebecca drummed her fingers at the hollow of her neck. “You know, finding Harker tucked behind that wall reminded me of that short story by Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”

I knew the story. In it, the narrator took revenge on a friend who had insulted him. He baited the friend, led him to the catacombs, and buried him alive. I said, “But Harker wasn’t entombed.”

“Your grandmother would say placing him behind that brick wall was allegorical.”

“No, my grandmother would say you’re reaching. You’ve got Poe on the brain because Grandmère’s putting on her quirky show.”

Rebecca mulled that over. “Do you think one of the guests lured Harker to the cellar?”

I glanced at the people who lingered in the hallway. One cluster was making a wager about how long they’d have to wait. I flashed on the conversation yesterday in The Cheese Shop when Edsel had revealed that Harker was a gambler. Did he have debts he couldn’t repay? He owed Dane Cegielski. Did he owe others? Had someone followed him from Cleveland to recoup the money? Had that person lured him into the wine cellar?

From my vantage point in the hall, I could see into a number of rooms. Just inside the living room Winona whispered to Freddy. Although I was glad to see him, he looked wild-eyed. His gaze ping-ponged from Winona and back to the hallway door. Was he worried about his daughter or his alibi? Edsel paced the living room carpet, hands jammed into his pockets. He stopped, kicked an end table with his toe, then started up again, back and forth, as if working out a problem. Where was he at the time of the murder? Harker had verbally abused him at The Cheese Shop. Had Edsel taken all the abuse he could suffer? Had he snapped?

Guests spilled into the hallway from the dining room, some carrying plates of food. Though my appetite was all but squelched, I worried that there wouldn’t be enough fondue to feed the crowd. However, I was not the hostess, and making everyone comfortable was not my problem.

Poor Meredith. She hugged Matthew near the front door, her face awash with tears. Matthew stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. I heard Meredith say, “It’s ruined,” at least three times.

Beyond the opened door, a number of smokers had convened on the front porch, Dane among them. He leaned against a pillar in profile. Wisps of gray smoke spiraled around his head. Had he run past me on the stairs, not in search of Quinn, but because he was running from the crime scene? He cut a look in my direction, as if he knew that I was thinking about him. To my surprise, his somber eyes were pooled with tears.

I spun away, my pulse ticking double-time, and gazed at the door to the cellar. What was taking Urso so long?

A minute later, he lumbered from the stairwell, his beefy hand gripping Quinn’s slim arm. He guided her to a straight-back chair against the wall. She sat, shoulders hunched and trembling.

The trio from the living room hustled to the foyer. The throng from the front porch extinguished their cigarettes and reentered the building.

Dane sprinted to Quinn. Edsel, too. As they squatted beside her, I envisioned the scene in
Gone With the Wind
when Scarlet was besieged by men who wanted to take care of her. Freddy made a move toward Quinn, but Winona stopped him.

Urso clapped his hands. “May I have everyone’s attention, please?”

I perked up my ears, hopeful that Urso would tell us he had found the killer and this horrible ordeal could end right now.

Someone shouted, “Was he really strangled?”

Wolford, who stood beneath the arch leading to the dining room, said, “Is the treasure real?”

Urso raised his hands. The crowd quieted. The hush was disconcerting.

“I’d like to talk to everyone individually,” Urso said. “This could take time.”

The guests groaned in unison.

“Folks, please be patient. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. Kid.” Urso eyed his sole deputy, Rodham, who reminded me of the Road Runner, slim and leggy, with beaky lips and a tuft of funky hair. He had attended the party with his fiancée, a prissy woman who looked less than happy to be detained. “Go downstairs and guard the crime scene.” He turned to Meredith. “Could you round up some paper and pens for me?”

Looking relieved to have a mission, Meredith broke from Matthew and raced off in search of the requested items.

“The rest of you, let’s gather in the dining hall and take a seat. It could be a long night.”

While the crowd obeyed, Quinn broke from Edsel and Dane and dashed toward me. “Charlotte!” She skidded to a stop. “I know who killed Harker. Your assistant, Bozz.”

“Bozz?” I nearly shrieked. “No way.”

Everyone heading for the dining room turned. I caught Prudence Hart leering at me with a tartness usually reserved for vinegar. She whispered to a needle-nosed friend to her right, then snickered. What was Prudence’s problem? Did she blame me for being detained at the event? She certainly couldn’t blame me for her choice of clothing, which was an obnoxious hot pink pantsuit that wouldn’t even look good on a mannequin. Taking over Providence’s only upscale women’s boutique after the owner left town—on what she liked to call a sabbatical—hadn’t improved Prudence’s sense of style one iota. She reminded me of a worn pencil: skinny, hard, and chewed around the edges. I swear she cut her hair with garden shears.

I pushed the catty thoughts from my mind and gripped Quinn by the shoulders. “Bozz is not a killer.”

Matthew, Meredith, and Rebecca hurried to our huddle.

Urso joined us. “What’s this about Mr. Bozzuto?”

Quinn blanched. Her shoulders started to shake. If I didn’t know Urso was a teddy bear to his core, I’d have quavered at his harsh tone, too.

“Bozz and Harker were fighting,” Quinn said.

“Says who?” Urso folded his arms across his massive chest, jaw set, his eyes revealing nothing. If only I could be so implacable.

“Edsel.” Quinn wriggled with discomfort. “He saw Harker push Bozz down the front steps.”

“When?” I demanded. Certainly not when we’d arrived. They had exchanged words, but Bozz had backed off, and Matthew had instantly put him to work carrying crates of wine.

“About a half hour ago,” Quinn said.

“Edsel who?” Urso said.

“Edsel Nash. The guy with the shaggy hair.” Quinn wiggled her index finger.

“Mr. Nash, get over here, now!” Urso jerked a thumb.

Edsel obeyed. Dane, like a shadow, shuffled behind him.

Urso said, “Explain, Mr. Nash.”

“Harker was, like”—Edsel cleared his throat—“spitting mad at that nerd, Bozz.”

“Where?”

“On the front porch.” Even standing at attention, Edsel looked sloppy. His shoulders slouched. His eyes grew hooded like a cobra’s. He wiped raggedy strands of hair off his forehead. “He said—”

“Who said?” Urso cut in.

“That dork, Bozz,” Dane blurted.

Urso wheeled on Dane. “You saw this, too?”

Dane screwed up his mouth. “Uh, no.”

“Then let Mr. Nash tell the story.” Urso turned his glare on Edsel. “Nash?”

Edsel licked his lips. “He—Bozz—said, ‘What’s your problem, man? Why are you following me?’ and Harker said, ‘I saw you looking at her.’ And Bozz said, ‘Was not.’ And Harker said, ‘Were, too. I told you to back off.’ Then Harker landed him one right in the jaw.”

Urso’s face remained impassive. I would bet he had seen his share of fights—seen them, not engaged in them. He was an Eagle Scout through and through. But he had gone away to college and he’d joined a fraternity that favored football players and heavy drinking. An occasional brawl was inevitable.

After a moment, Urso turned to me. “How does Mr. Bozzuto know Mr. Fontanne?”

“He doesn’t,” I said. At least I didn’t think he did. Bozz wasn’t working at The Cheese Shop yesterday when the students came in for breakfast.

“They met tonight,” Rebecca said. “When we drove up. He said Quinn was cute, and—”

I gripped her wrist to hush her from telling more. “Look, U-ey.” I paused. Swallowed hard. “I mean, Chief. Bozz is the sweetest kid on earth, you know that.”

Freddy sidled up to Quinn and put a protective, fatherly arm around her shoulders. Winona moved to Quinn’s other side, but her arms remained lank.

Prudence and her needle-nosed friend clustered behind Freddy, Winona, and Quinn. Each of the women carried a plate of bread chunks dipped into fondue. While popping bites into their mouths, they leaned forward, looking eager to hear the dirt. Inwardly, I groaned. I could just imagine the gossip that would fly around town tomorrow.

Freddy said, “Bozz might be a nice kid, but I saw the altercation, too.”

I gaped at him, upset that I couldn’t defend Bozz if two witnesses came forward.

“Tell the chief what you know, Freddy,” Winona said.

Urso zeroed his gaze on Freddy. “Got something to say, Mr. Vance? Where were you at the time of the incident?”

“C’mon, U-ey, you can call me Freddy.”