Lost and Fondue (15 page)

Quinn sighed. “He didn’t like me flirting with other guys.”

It sounded like a continuation of the same argument that Harker and she had when they had run into the kitchen at the mansion. Were they, as Freddy said, always “at it”? Why would Quinn choose someone who treated her badly? Why did so many women do that? Me, included—up until Creep Chef left. For a couple of months after he ditched me, I went to a therapist to figure out why I was attracted to jerks. It turned out that I didn’t think I was worthy of better, something to do with being orphaned as a young girl. I’d vowed, then and there, to change my pattern.

“Were you flirting, Miss Vance?” Urso asked, drawing me back into the conversation at hand.

“Sort of. I mean, yes. Not to make him jealous, though. Just because ... well, it’s what I do. My father does the same thing. He’s not interested in that Westerton lady. But he’s flirting with her. Right, Daddy?” Quinn twisted in her chair and gazed at Freddy, begging him to agree with her. “I mean, you’ve only known her a few days. It’s not like it’s serious or anything, is it, Daddy?”

I wondered if Winona was outside listening at the door to get the scoop. Her ears had to be burning.

“Daddy, answer me.”

Freddy released the chair.

“Oh, Daddy!” Quinn folded her arms on the table and collapsed on top of them in tears.

Urso huffed, probably wondering how he’d allowed his interrogation to turn into a soap opera.

I was wondering the same thing. But I was more curious why Freddy was keeping mute. What hold did Winona Westerton have over him?

Urso patted the table. “Folks, please, can we stay on topic?”

I turned to face him. “Do you have anything else except hearsay?”

“We have an eyewitness who saw Miss Vance and the deceased arguing about a half hour before time of death.”

“Who saw them?”

“Tyanne Taylor.”

Oh, my. Slightly damning. After last year’s fiasco, Tyanne had sworn off lying for life. I’d gotten the impression that she’d wanted to say something to me at The Cheese Shop. I wish she had. I wouldn’t have felt so blindsided now.

“What did Tyanne say they argued about?” I asked.

“She couldn’t be specific.”

Good. That would give a lawyer something to work with. Did Quinn require one? I tried to decipher what was going on in her mind. She was massaging her left wrist, looking like a trapped animal that desperately needed to escape.

Urso referred to his notes again. “Mrs. Taylor believes she heard Miss Vance say that she was going to kill Mr. Fontanne if he kept hounding her.”

“That’s not—” Quinn gulped.

Meredith and Freddy blanched.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I—” Quinn folded her hands in front of her. “Hasn’t anybody here ever said that?”

“I have,” I said.

Urso gave me a baleful look. He knew I was fibbing. On our sole date back in high school, I’d told him a deep, dark secret. The day before my parents died in the car crash, my mother had taken my doll away from me. Even at the tender age of three, I’d learned enough from television to yell, “I’m going to kill you.” How was I supposed to know that she’d simply taken Dollie to wash the jam off of her face? When my mother pushed me from the blazing car, she said, “Don’t watch too much television. Promise.” All these years, I couldn’t help but feel her death was my fault. Why had the car skidded? Had I somehow altered the universe with my petty vow?

“That’s not enough to go on, Chief Urso,” I said. “What else do you have?”

“Plenty.”

“Like what?” I could be tough when necessary. According to Grandmère, I had inherited the stubborn quality from my mother’s Irish side.

“Hard physical evidence,” Urso said, equally obstinate.

“What kind of evidence?”

“A ring.”

“Which ring?” I snapped. Twenty questions was not my favorite game.

“A silver ring with a sapphire in it,” Urso answered. “Inside it reads:
Mine, all mine.
Mrs. Taylor saw Miss Vance throw it at Mr. Fontanne. I discovered it clenched in Mr. Fontanne’s hand.”

I flashed on the moment when Dane was teasing Quinn at the fund-raiser. Her ring had gotten caught in the knitted loops of her multicolored scarf. Was it the ring in question?

Quinn’s face twisted with pain. She pinched her lips together, but she wasn’t strong enough to keep from blurting, “It was my ring ... His ring. The ring he gave me a month ago. We were making plans to get married.”

“Married?” Freddy yelped.

“We were in love. But then he got all bent out of shape, and I got angry, and, well, he started yelling, and I threw the ring at him. He didn’t catch it. He let it fall to the floor.” Quinn swallowed hard. “It wasn’t like it was special or anything. It was a hand-me-down.” She slapped her hand over her mouth and sucked in a sob. “I’m in real trouble, aren’t I?”

Urso nodded.

Meredith ran to me and clutched my hands. “Do something!”

Urso gave a curt shake of his head, warning me off. But I had to do something. Meredith was like family. That made Quinn family, too.

When Urso took Quinn into custody, I provided Meredith and Freddy with the number for Mr. Lincoln, the lawyer who had helped with Grandmère’s defense last year. Clueless as to what else I could do, I returned to the shop. I puttered through the regular closing chores—wrapping cheeses, wiping down the counters, packaging quiches and returning them to the large refrigerator in the kitchen at the rear of the store. And though I wasn’t hungry, I nibbled on a slice of day-old quiche. I needed to keep my brain fueled.

Around six, Rebecca reminded me that it was Girls’ Night Out. I was reluctant to go, but Matthew said he’d take full charge of the twins for dinner, and Rebecca wouldn’t accept no for an answer. Bozz, who looked as pleased as punch because he had deftly handled the few stalwart newshounds who had lingered around until he’d arrived at three thirty, said he would close up shop.

We met Delilah outside Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub at six thirty. Rebecca quickly filled her in on the day’s strange turn of events. She added that Meredith wouldn’t be joining us. Mr. Lincoln had granted Freddy and her a late-night appointment.

“I’ll bet Urso isn’t happy about you wanting to help Quinn,” Delilah said as she pushed open the antique oak door that Tim had bought from some defunct Irish castle.

“That’s an understatement.”

I paused in the entry to let my eyes adjust to the greengelled lighting. Every day was St. Patrick’s Day to Tim. He was proud to tell you that his great-great-great-uncle participated in the first celebration of St. Patrick’s Day in New York City, which was held in 1756 at the Crown and Thistle Tavern. Once a year, Tim decorated for the holiday. He draped crepe paper on the half dozen televisions hanging over the bar, set little green hats on every table, and dangled green and silver tinsel from the wood-beamed ceiling. The décor would stay up for two months, minimum, and acted like a lure for locals and tourists. Everyone enjoyed a party.

In the corner, soulful musicians—one on an electric violin, the other on an electric flute—played Irish rock music.

Off to our right, a group shouted, “Erin Go Bragh!” Another group beyond them sang out, “Ireland forever!” A chorus of “Danny Boy” ensued.

“Where are we going to sit?” Delilah asked. “Looks like the whole town is here.”

“If all else fails, we can join Urso and his parents.” Rebecca elbowed me and sniggered—the imp.

Urso sat at a small table with his mother and father, a devoted couple with a zest for life. They were on their dessert course.

From behind the bar, Tim gave a shout of welcome. His voice, like his body, was husky. “Jacky’s over there, Charlotte.” He flicked his thumb toward the back of the pub.

“Looks like she’s holding a table for us,” Delilah said.

Jacky Peterson sat at a semicircular booth at the far end of the room. She waved and smiled, but her smile didn’t meet her eyes.

The moment we arrived at the booth, Jacky excused herself. “Back in a sec. Nature calls.”

As we scooted into the cushy booth, Rebecca said, “Is she okay? She looks flushed.”

“Maybe she can’t take the loud music,” Delilah said.

I shook my head. “Jordan said she’s a little under the weather.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Delilah grabbed the stand-free appetizer menu. “You know, I saw somebody hanging outside her house the other day.”

I shot her a quick look. “Hanging how?”

“In a car. A blue sedan. Driving slowly. Like he was checking her out on the sly.”

“
On the sly
?” I said.

“Whoops.” Delilah chuckled. “I must be picking up TV jargon from Rebecca.” She scanned the menu front and back, though I knew she had it memorized like I did. The pub offered a wide selection of cocktails and international beers as well as some of the best comfort food appetizers I’d ever tasted—potato skins, macaroni and cheese, and stuffed mushrooms.

A waitress wearing a jaunty green hat offered a list of St. Patrick’s Day specials including a corned beef and Kerrygold Irish Vintage Cheddar sandwich that sounded incredible. If only I hadn’t snacked earlier.

After the waitress took our drink order and left, I said, “Go on, Delilah. The guy in the car outside Jacky’s. Can you describe him?”

“He was sort of shady, know what I mean? But muscular. I got the feeling he wanted to stop and get out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

“Maybe he’s a secret admirer,” Rebecca said.

“Or one of the reporters who needs a homey piece about new businesses in a small town,” I suggested.

Delilah shook her head. “If that was the case, he’d hang around the pottery store and not Jacky’s house, don’t you think?”

An uneasy feeling crept into my psyche. I hadn’t told my friends about Jacky running away from her abusive husband. Was it possible the guy had found her?

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. But I wasn’t sure at all. I desperately wanted to call Jordan and alert him.

“Shhhh,” Rebecca said. “Here she comes.”

Jacky looked tired. Lines creased her pretty forehead. She sidestepped the waitress who had returned and was setting our drinks on the table.

“Things at the Wheel going well?” I said, hoping simple questions might open up a discussion.

“Party-hearty.” Jacky pushed aside the glass of water the waitress had placed in front of her. “Listen, do you mind if I bail?”

Delilah and Rebecca exchanged a look.

Jacky rose from the table. “You won’t boot me out of the group for being a flake, will you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Freckles couldn’t make it either. The baby’s kicking up a storm.”

“What’s she going to do with a teen and an infant?” Rebecca said.

While they talked babies, nagging doubt wormed its way into my mind. I tried to assure myself that Jordan was on top of anything concerning his sister, yet I couldn’t erase the panicked look on Jacky’s face at the winery last night and the pained expression there now. I said, “Is there anything we can do?”

“I ...” Jacky forced a tight smile. “I’ve just been overrun at the pottery shop with birthday parties and such. Thanks for understanding.” She gave the table a quick rap of her knuckles and turned on her heel.

As she exited the pub and another chorus of “Danny Boy” started up, I glanced at Urso.

Rebecca followed my gaze and punched my arm. “The chief looks pretty smug, doesn’t he? Probably thinks he’s solved the crime now that he’s got poor Quinn in custody.” She took a sip of her Cosmo. “But what if he hasn’t? What if the murderer planted Quinn’s ring in Harker’s hand?”

“It’s just like Quinn’s scarf,” Delilah said.

I shook my head. “I’m not following you.”

“The scarf dropped to the floor.” Delilah wadded a cocktail napkin and hid it in her palm, then dropped the napkin into her lap and held up her hands like a successful magician. “Anybody could have picked it up. Same with the ring.”

Rebecca nodded. “Quinn said she threw the ring.”

“What if Harker didn’t retrieve it?” Delilah said.

“Right!” Rebecca thumped the table with her palm.

“Except if I were Harker, I would have put the ring in my pocket,” Delilah said.

“Okay.” Rebecca nodded in agreement. “If that’s what happened, then the killer took it out of Harker’s pocket and planted it in Harker’s hand.”

“To implicate Quinn.”

“Exactly!” Rebecca cried.

They reminded me of a team of rookie investigators excited about working their first crime scene.
Cagney and Lacey, The Younger Years.

“Or ...” Delilah held up a finger. “What if Harker fought his attacker? He wouldn’t have been able to hold on to the ring.”

Good point.

“If he fought, there would be traces of the murderer’s skin stuck under his fingernails.” Rebecca thumped the table with her fist. “That means there’d be DNA.”

Adrenaline mixed with hope percolated through my system. I glanced at Urso chatting amiably with his folks. Did he have the right to a quiet dinner while Quinn was cooped up in jail?

I slid from the booth and hurried to him. “DNA,” I blurted.

“Hello, Charlotte, good to see you, too,” Urso said, the exasperation in his voice impossible to miss.

I turned to address his parents. “Sorry for the intrusion, sir ... ma’am ... but do you mind if I have a word with your son outside?”

“You can speak freely, right here.” Urso folded his napkin and plunked it on the table in front of him.

“Umberto,” his mother said. “Be nice. Charlotte means well.”

“No, she doesn’t, Mama. She’s sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong. Again.”

“C’mon, U-ey ... Chief Urso,” I said, giving him the respect he was due. “Two minutes.”