Lost and Fondue (14 page)

Tyanne returned to our little huddle and flipped her cell phone closed. “Doc can’t come. He’s delivering a baby.”

“Shoot.” I inflated the paper bag, twisted its neck, and held the opening to Prudence’s mouth.

Prudence shoved the bag away, then me. “Just as well,” she muttered.

It was well known that Prudence didn’t trust either of the two doctors in Providence. She went to Cleveland for all her checkups. I gazed at her again and wondered whether, on one of those trips, she had met some out-of-towner who’d wanted to foil the conversion of the winery into a college.

Prudence struggled to rise. “I’m fine. Let me up.” God forbid she look fragile in front of me or anyone. She teetered as she stood but found her balance. With her chin thrust upward, she grabbed Tyanne’s hand.

Tyanne peered at me. Her mouth opened but no words came out, and again, I got the distinct feeling she’d wanted to say something. She didn’t have time. Prudence tugged her out of the shop.

Needing a break from all the drama, I retreated to the wine annex to unpack the extra boxes of wine that we’d received earlier. Matthew planned to have a wine-tasting event in two days. He was focusing on the pinot noir wines of Ohio and California.

As I was setting a bottle on one of the mosaic café tables near the display window, I paused. On the sidewalk near What’s In Store, an
everything
shop with the most wonderful knickknacks and gift items, I spotted Winona talking heatedly to Dane. She thrust her index finger into his chest. He knocked it away then spun on a heel and stormed off. It didn’t seem like dialogue between strangers. Had they known each other before coming on the trip? Had one discovered something about the other that could be pertinent to the murder? Seconds later, Freddy emerged from What’s In Store carrying one of the store’s cherry red bags. He asked Winona a question, and she twirled one hand in the air, as if to say, “Who knows?” then she leaned in for a kiss. It wasn’t passionate; more of a peck. I wondered if Freddy had been as curious about Winona and Dane’s exchange as I’d been.

As they wandered off together, my gaze was drawn to Sylvie, who was skulking down the sidewalk, furtively peering into each car as she passed.

I felt the urge to rush to the street and confront her about the scene she’d made at the theater, but I couldn’t because Meredith was charging down the street, her face racked with pain, mascara tears streaking her cheeks. She veered into Fromagerie Bessette. I raced across the annex and met her in the archway between the shop and the annex, my heart doing a triple-time step inside my chest.

“He’s got her,” she rasped. “He’s got Quinn.”

“Somebody kidnapped her?”

“No.” Meredith took her hand away. “Chief Urso.” She sobbed, shoulders heaving. “He took her in for questioning.”

“Calm down. Questioning is normal. He hasn’t arrested her.” My heart rate settled down to a moderate shuffle-hopstep. I gripped Meredith’s shoulders. “It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not. Someone overheard Harker dumping Quinn at the party.”

“
Dumping her
, as in they broke up? So what? Kids break up all the time.”

“There’s more. Urso found out that Quinn takes karate classes.”

“You and I take self-defense classes. That doesn’t make us murderers.”

Meredith shook her head. “You don’t understand. Quinn has won competitions. She’s strong.” She gulped in air. “Strong enough to have choked Harker.”

Meredith said, “Please, Charlotte, you’ve got to help me pry Quinn from Urso’s evil clutches.”

How could I refuse? I glanced at Pépère and Rebecca.

“Go,” they said. They could handle the flow at the shop.

Minutes later, Meredith was prodding me up the slate path to the Providence Precinct, which was located in a quaint Victorian house at the north end of the Village Green.

“Urso always listens to you,” she said as she opened the front door.

Not always, I thought, but it was worth a try.

We took our first step onto the hardwood floor of the precinct’s foyer and stopped short. As usual, the scent of cinnamon and coffee hung in the air, and also as usual, a platter of iced cinnamon rolls from Providence Patisserie sat on a side table. But unlike every other day, the place was busy—busier than I’d ever seen—probably because the precinct had started sharing space with the Tourist Information Center.

At one end of the room, a pack of tourists huddled near an antique oak desk, all vying for the attention of Gretel, the pastor’s wife. Gretel was the reason that Providence had a Tourist Information Center. How else, she’d argued, was our burgeoning tourist population going to know about the treasures in our sweet town? With infinite wisdom, the town council had carved a space for the TIC at the precinct and put Gretel in charge.

“Where’s Kindred Creek?” said a man wearing a fishing hat studded with travel pins.

“What’re the best hiking trails?” asked a woman holding a toddler.

“I’m looking for the history museum,” said an elderly gentleman.

Gretel, a dollop of a woman with wholesome good looks and the patience of Job, smiled sweetly at each and gestured to a rack of numbers. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Whenever I saw Gretel, I had fond memories of the librarian who had introduced me to the wonderful world of books. She had the gift of being able to single out one child among a squadron of eager children and making her feel special and
heard.

“When I call your number, folks, I will be glad to answer your questions. Promise.” Gretel wiggled her fingertips at the toddler, who cooed with glee. “Meanwhile, take a brochure and thumb through it. We have so many fun things to do in Providence.”

The tourists grumbled something that sounded like “watermelon, watermelon,” then quieted.

At the other end of the reception area, a dozen pet owners and their pets were not so silent. They seemed to be trying to out-shriek a group of complainants, headed up by crotchety Arlo MacMillan, who owned a chicken farm on the fringe of town. On more than one occasion, Grandmère had asked Arlo, who was pasty-skinned and had a nose like a vulture’s beak, to play Scrooge in her annual winter production of
A Christmas Carol
. Needless to say, he hadn’t taken kindly to any of her offers. Arlo made no bones about wanting pets banned from the Village Green. The pet owners, led by our local pet rescuer, wanted the same privileges allotted to all Providence citizens—freedom to roam the outdoors. Theirs was an ongoing battle. I sided with the pet owners. I didn’t like anybody—especially Arlo—limiting a four-legged creature’s right to frolic. On a leash, of course. Even I got spooked by big dogs rushing up to me for what their owners called a friendly sniff.

The receptionist, who wore a headset—I would imagine to block out the meowing, yipping, and sniping—was perched on a swivel chair, her back to the horde. She typed nonstop on her ancient Selectric typewriter.

Meredith circumvented the group and said to the receptionist, “Where’s Chief Urso?”

The receptionist spun in her chair, and my mouth fell open. It was Freckles, the owner of Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe, who was usually as slim as a prepubescent gymnast, but not today. She was in her sixth month of pregnancy and glowing.

She removed her headset and beamed at us. “Hi, ladies.”

“We need to see Chief Urso,” Meredith said.

“What are you doing here, Freckles?” I asked. “Where’s your daughter?”

Freckles and her husband homeschooled their twelve-year-old.

“She and her dad are watching the shop for the A.M. My pal—the clerk—got sick. I offered to step in. What was I thinking? Look at this mob.” She snorted. Freckles finished every thought with a laugh. Nobody seemed to enjoy life more than her.

“Urso,” Meredith repeated. “Can we see him?”

The roar of the feuding crowd grew by a decibel.

Freckles patted her bulging stomach. “There, there, munchkin. The noisy people will go away soon.” She glanced at the antique clock on the wall. “Though not soon enough, I’m afraid.” She tittered again. “Oh, Charlotte, isn’t it wonderful? We’re going to have a college nearby.”

Not if the crime put a damper on the college’s financial prospects.

“Our daughter won’t have to move away from home.”

I’d never tell Freckles, but I’d bet her little darling, come college age, would ache for a chance to fly the coop. Most kids did. I had, and I had adored my grandparents.

“We’ve got to see Urso,” Meredith said, visibly at her wits’ end.

“Oh, sure. He’s in the interrogation room.”

“My niece—”

“I know, poor dear. Her father arrived a few minutes ago. He’s in back. Why don’t you join him?” Freckles pressed a button under the antique desk and a buzzer sounded. “I’m sure Chief Urso won’t mind.”

I was pretty sure he would mind, but I wouldn’t be the one to put on the brakes. Taking advantage of Freckles’s beleaguered state, I opened the door leading to the hallway and nudged Meredith ahead of me.

In ten feet, the hall dead-ended and split in two directions. One hall led to the holding cells; the other went to Urso’s office and the interrogation room.

As we drew nearer, I saw Winona Westerton sipping from a water fountain by the ladies’ room.

“Sheesh,” Meredith whispered. “She’s like a shadow Freddy can’t shake.”

“What’s your take on her?” I whispered back.

“I don’t trust her. It’s something about that swoop of her hair. So deliberate,” Meredith said. “On the other hand, she can’t be after him for his money. He doesn’t have a dime to spare.”

A shout from behind the interrogation door drew us back to our task.

“Read Quinn her rights again!” Freddy ordered, his voice unmistakable.

“Don’t have to,” Urso snapped.

Winona didn’t even look up. She continued to sip water.

I put my hand on the doorknob and glanced at Meredith. “Remember, take it easy with U-ey. He doesn’t like confrontation. You’ll trap more bees with honey, Grandmère says.”

Meredith adjusted the collar of her blouse, smoothed the front of her jacket, and licked her lips. When she nodded that she was ready, I opened the door and we entered.

Without missing a beat, Meredith charged Urso. “Release Quinn at once.”

So much for trapping bees with honey, I thought. How I wished I could rein her in. Urso looked peeved.

“What the heck?” He glowered at me. “How’d you get—?”

“It’s not Freckles’s fault, U-ey.” Heat suffused my cheeks. I hated bucking rules and regulations. But I also hated injustice. And I couldn’t, for the life of me, believe Quinn was guilty of murder, no matter how physically strong she was. “It’s pretty busy out front.”

“Out. Both of you, get out!”

Meredith stiffened. “We’ll do nothing of the sort.”

Quinn sat hunched in a straight-backed chair at the distressed oak table. She looked fragile. Her skin was as pale as her snow-white sweater, her hair uncombed and straggly. With concentrated ferocity, she worried her fingers in her lap.

Freddy stood behind her, his right hand gripping the upper rim of Quinn’s chair so tightly that his knuckles appeared drained of blood.

Meredith scooted to Quinn, bussed her on the cheek, and smoothed her hair, then she slid an arm around her brother’s shoulders. “Chief, you can’t possibly think Quinn killed Harker Fontanne. Okay, she’s earned a black belt. I’m trained in karate, too.”

“Me, too,” I chimed in. The more the merrier, right? I didn’t have a black belt. I only knew how to take down an attacker with a knee to his groin or a heel to his instep—not that I’d ever had to. I’d been warned it wasn’t as easy as it looked. I added, “You don’t think either of us killed Harker, do you?”

“She’s got motive.” Urso’s gaze was hard, as if his mind were made up.

“So he broke up with her. So what?” Meredith said. “Lots of guys break up with lots of girls.”

I liked that she was using my reasoning.

“They have for centuries,” Meredith went on. “It’s a timeworn tradition. They don’t end up killing each other.”

Urso eyed Freddy. “Mr. Vance, just this morning—”

“It’s Freddy, U-ey.”

Urso pursed his lips. “You said, Mr. Vance, that your daughter and Mr. Fontanne were always ...” He consulted his notepad. “‘At it.’ They were at it ‘like cats and dogs.’”

“That’s not what I said,” Freddy protested.

“Verbatim.”

“No, I said they
liked
cats and dogs.”

Urso frowned. “Do I look like a fool? I’m sorry if you don’t like having your daughter hear your opinion, but there it is. Black and white.” He flipped his notepad closed and sat in the chair opposite Quinn. “Seems like we have a crowd, Miss Vance, but we might as well go through this together. One question at a time. Are you ready to answer my questions?”

“Quinnie, you don’t need to,” Freddy said.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Quinn said, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m innocent.”

Why wasn’t that enough for Urso? It was enough for me.

“You were seen fighting with Mr. Fontanne around ...” Urso consulted his notes again. “Eight forty-five P.M.”

She’d had a second fight? Oh, my. What had prompted the confrontation? If only she’d stayed with Edsel.

Quinn mumbled something.

“Give me a yes or no, Miss Vance,” Urso said, his voice firm and coaxing.

Quinn looked up at him through tear-soaked lashes. “Yes.”

“What were you arguing about?”

“I want a lawyer,” Freddy yelled.

“For yourself or your daughter?” Urso said.

“For Quinn.”

“She’s not under arrest.” Urso eyed Quinn. “Do you want a lawyer? Do you want to go that route?”

Quinn sat as tall as she could. “I don’t need one.”

Urso looked triumphant. “Go on, then. The argument.”