Matthew stepped forward. “Girls, your mother and I need to talk. Please get out of those costumes, put them away properly, then come back to the auditorium.”
Amy and Clair scooted off the stage.
“You bet we need to talk!” Sylvie sprinted toward Matthew, claws primed. “You’re obviously poisoning them against me.”
Urso, who looked red-hot mad because his investigation had gone haywire, stepped in front of her to block her. He gripped her by the wrists.
Rebecca did a little fist pump beside me and whispered, “All right, Chief.”
I eyed Bozz, who looked relieved that the focus had been removed from him. Poor kid probably wanted to duck under his bedcovers and hide for a week. At least he had a firm alibi.
“I’ve got this, Chief,” Matthew said. “Thanks.”
Urso reluctantly released Sylvie. She snarled at him, but she didn’t do anything more. Smart on her part.
Matthew sighed. “Sylvie, why do you insist on breaking the rules?”
She fluffed her hair. “Rules. Tosh! Rules stifle creativity. Our girls need to be creative, not locked up into little cells saying, ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir.’ Look at Clair. She’s as pale as milk and can’t seem to stop crying. And Amy, poor dear, has absolutely no sense of style.”
“She does, too,” Matthew said.
“Not worth a grain of salt. She’s gotten into bad habits with her color choices. Do I have Charlotte to thank for that?”
I nearly choked. If Sylvie didn’t watch out, I was going to haul off and punch her. Even Urso wouldn’t be able to hold me back. Deciding to take a more subtle approach, I said, “What were you doing back at the winery?”
Sylvie faltered. She gave me a scathing look. “I left my purse.”
“Oh, please. Your flashy tote’s so big there’s no way you would have left it behind.”
Sylvie’s hand flew to her chest. “You can’t possibly think that I had anything to do with this boy Harker’s death, Charlotte. I’ve never met him before.”
“You just called him by his first name,” I said.
She threw her shoulders back. “I have ears. Tell me, what’s my motive?”
I couldn’t think of one, but give me long enough ...
I didn’t hate many people, but I truly loathed Sylvie.
“Matthew has more motive than I,” she snapped.
Like a beleaguered umpire caught between two warring team managers, Urso shot a look at Matthew and back at Sylvie. “What does she mean?”
Matthew’s neck and cheeks turned splotchy.
“Matthew?” I said.
Before he could respond, Sylvie said, “When I came back for my purse, I saw Matthew fighting with Harker.” She smiled a sugary smile, the kind that probably worked magic on getting Mumsie and Dad to open their checkbooks. “Did you kill him, love?”
Matthew sputtered then held out his hands, palms up to Urso. “Harker was drunk.”
Sylvie thrashed a sharp fingernail at the air. “Harker accused Matthew of having eyes for Quinn.”
“He did no such thing, you lying—” Matthew’s hands fisted into balls. He blew out a long stream of air to compose himself. “I was in the dining room. Harker stumbled in and knocked over a stack of wineglasses on the tasting table. I pulled him into a corner and politely told him to sober up or leave.”
“You didn’t sound all that polite to me,” Sylvie said.
Urso ran his tongue along his upper teeth and finished with a click. I could almost hear the voice in his mind saying,
Patience, Umberto, patience.
After a long moment, he said, “When was this?”
“Sometime around nine fifteen.” Matthew glanced at his watch as if to confirm it was still ticking. “I have a slew of witnesses. Locals you know and trust.”
Sylvie sniffed, suggesting a slew of witnesses wouldn’t be good enough for her if she were sitting on the jury. “If you don’t believe me, Chief, never mind. Justice will prevail. In the meantime, I have something else that might interest everyone here.” She retrieved her silver tote from a chair in the front row of the auditorium and pulled out an envelope. She slapped it against Matthew’s chest.
He instinctively grabbed the envelope to stop her.
“Matthew, snookums, consider yourself served. I’m suing you for custody.”
CHAPTER 8
Although I was still shell-shocked by the evening’s events, I couldn’t simply go home and go to bed. I needed to return to the winery to clean up. Matthew, who had been driven into an inconsolable funk by Sylvie’s pronouncement, asked if Rebecca and I would bring the extra wine and wineglasses back to the shop. I agreed, and he took the twins home.
An hour later, after stowing utensils, fondue pots, and assorted accoutrements into the gigantic dishwasher in The Cheese Shop’s kitchen, I was too wired to sleep. And too depressed. Granted, I didn’t know Harker Fontanne well. But he was so young, so full of promise, and I couldn’t erase his blue-tinged face from my mind. I asked Rebecca to join me at the Country Kitchen for a soda. The little night owl readily agreed.
The jangle of chimes shaped like Elvis Presley holding a guitar didn’t buoy my spirits as we entered the diner. Neither did the silence.
Rebecca said, “Our favorite table is free.”
We weaved our way to a cheery red booth, each of the booths fitted with a jukebox. As I fished for a quarter in my purse, “Twelve O’Clock Rock” rang out through the speakers around the diner. Per usual when a popular rock song started to play, the waitstaff stopped what they were doing, bounded from the tables they were serving, and marched through the restaurant, singing loudly and proudly—though a little offkey. My friend Delilah, a trained singer, was not among them. She was still at the winery with the other guests being grilled by Urso.
Once seated, I spotted Jordan and Jacky sitting at a booth at the far end of the restaurant. Jacky’s pretty face still looked tear-stained and stressed. Jordan’s mouth was moving, one hand cupped around it to help project his voice over the singing. I was dying to know what they were discussing, but I stayed put. It was none of my business, and I didn’t think mentioning the murder was in good taste.
Seconds after the singing stopped, Rebecca and I ordered sodas. As our waitress brought them, Delilah sashayed into the diner carrying a platter wrapped in tin foil. She made a beeline for our table, her dark curly hair sweeping shoulder to shoulder. A couple of men turned to watch her walk. She didn’t pay them any attention.
She stopped beside our table and whistled softly. “What a night!”
I was surprised to see her so soon. “Urso let you go already?”
“He said a kook like me wasn’t capable of violence.” She set the platter on our table. “If only he knew. We creative types can be pretty hot-tempered.” At one time, for a nanosecond right after Delilah had returned—defeated—from trying to star on Broadway, Urso and she had dated. I would imagine he knew firsthand how hot her temper could get. Nowadays she was interested in Bozz’s uncle, a local fourstar restaurateur. Delilah removed tinfoil from the platter to display leftover grilled cheese sandwiches, cut into triangles. “By the way, Urso’s in a real twist.”
“Why?” Rebecca said.
“Uh-uh. Before I dish the dirt, you’ve got to try the Wensleydale with cranberries and turkey.” Delilah pointed to a sandwich. “A good friend who owns a cheese shop tells me Wensleydale has the texture of Caerphilly, the flavor of wild honey, and melts like a dream. Or try this.” She offered a second choice made with Butterkäse and loaded with jelly, turkey, and ham. “Still crispy. Even lukewarm, it’ll taste great,” she promised.
I wasn’t in the least bit hungry, but I could never resist Butterkäse, which was creamier and less tangy than Havarti. I plucked one of the crispy sandwiches from the platter and bit off the corner. Heaven.
“Rebecca, do you want one?” Delilah said.
“No, thanks.” Unlike me, the skinny snook merely slurped her diet soda. She’d told me on the way over that angst made her appetite disappear. I wished.
“Sit,” I said to Delilah. “Now, tell us why Urso’s upset, other than the obvious—having to solve another murder.”
Delilah glanced over her shoulder at her father, Pops, who was picking up orders at the pass-through counter. He reminded me of a windblown sailor, hair sticking out in all directions, skin weathered from too much sun, ruddily handsome.
“The waitstaff just sang,” I said. “You’re good for at least fifteen to twenty minutes.”
Pops glanced our way, acknowledged Delilah, and indicated with a free elbow that she could give her pals a few minutes. He didn’t own the place anymore—he’d passed it on to Delilah—but she still honored his wishes.
“Okay. Here’s the dirt.” Delilah nestled into the booth beside Rebecca and brushed her raven curls over her shoulder. “Urso’s looking for a couple of suspects.”
“Who?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t say.”
“They weren’t at the winery?”
“I guess they split.” She leaned forward and ticked off points on her fingertips, rapid-fire. “But here’s what I picked up after you left: that Edsel Nash likes Quinn. Dane Cegielski joined the art trip late, just so he could be near Quinn. And Freddy didn’t like Harker—or anybody for that matter— hitting on Quinn. Edsel and Quinn were jealous of Harker’s talent. Dane ... I guess he’s sort of so-so about the whole art thing. And by the by, that gal Winona, what a piece of work she is. She wants to jump Freddy’s bones.” Delilah sat back, smugly satisfied with her sleuthing capabilities. “Oh, yeah, a Eugene O’Neill drama is brewing, if you ask me.”
I cocked my head. “You’ve been writing plays again, haven’t you?” About six months ago, no longer content to simply star in Grandmère’s theater productions, Delilah had taken up writing. About a month ago, she told me she hoped Grandmère would stage one of her works. I glanced at my friend, and a notion struck me like a frying pan to the side of the head. “The Sartre/Poe idea is yours, isn’t it? You’re the playwright.”
She grinned.
“Wow, am I slow,” I added, feeling dumber than a lox for not figuring it out before. “Grandmère loves it.”
Delilah blushed.
“Yoo-hoo.” Rebecca rapped the table with her knuckles. “Back to the murder. Is Urso looking for Dane? I think Dane did it. Remember how Edsel said Harker owed Dane money because of poker? Maybe the stakes for Harker and Dane’s games were jewels.”
“Jewels?” Delilah raised an eyebrow. “Real jewels?”
“The murderer scattered fake jewels around Harker,” I explained.
Delilah tapped the table with her fingernails. “Maybe there was a girl named Jewel.”
I buffed her on the shoulder. “That’s why you’re a playwright. You’re such a romantic.”
“Maybe Harker refused to pay Dane,” Rebecca continued. “Maybe he said, ‘No way, Jose.’”
I stifled a grin. Rebecca often came up with cockamamie expressions that she gleaned from late-night TV.
“So Dane scattered the fake gems symbolically?” Delilah said. “I like the theory.”
“Ahem.” Rebecca pointed discreetly.
Jordan had left his table and was heading my way. My heart flew to my throat. I adored this man. I couldn’t wait for our getaway and wanted to tell him so, but what exactly was proper decorum after a murder? How much time needed to pass before life went back to normal?
Jordan stopped beside our table, acknowledged the three of us, then placed his hand on the back of the booth. His fingertips grazed my shoulder. “Charlotte, I’m so sorry we were interrupted back at the winery, and—”
“Did you hear about the murder?” I blurted.
He hadn’t. I filled him in. He muttered his sympathy, and then his face screwed up. He glanced at his sister, who was staring out the window.
“Is Jacky okay?” I asked.
“She’s fine. Under the weather.” His gaze faltered. He was holding something back, but I kept quiet. “If you’re not busy tomorrow, I thought we might grab a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll be at the shop.”
“Great.”
The Elvis-shaped chimes rang out.
All heads turned as Urso lumbered into the restaurant looking like a defensive lineman too tired to take on the opposing quarterback. He bypassed tables of patrons, stopped beside ours, and removed his hat.
Jordan stepped back to give Urso a wide berth. “Sorry to hear the news.”
Urso said, “You’re not as sorry as Mr. Fontanne’s parents.”
“You notified them already?” I said, feeling slightly ashamed. I hadn’t thought once about Harker’s family. I’d bet they were heartbroken.
Urso nodded. “Seems they’re world travelers. They’re on a trip in the Australian Outback. It could be days before they get here.”
“I’ll leave you to your conversation.” Jordan squeezed my shoulder affectionately, offered a hint of a smile to me, then sauntered back to his sister.
Urso removed his broad-brimmed hat and combed his fingers through his thick hair.
“Sit,” Delilah said.
Urso slumped into the booth beside me.
“Got any DNA on the murderer yet?” Rebecca asked.
Urso gave her a slow, withering glare. “Not yet, Ms. Zook.”
Providence was too small to have its own forensics team. We had only Urso and the Road Runner to process a crime. The last time a murder had occurred in Providence, the Holmes County staff had come to help with the evidence.
“So who do you think killed him?” Rebecca asked. Sometimes she astounded me. She had the bulldog tenacity of an investigative reporter and the subtlety of a hammer.
“Quinn Vance is my bet,” Urso said.
“Shut the front door!” The quaint expression—one my mother had used, according to Grandmère—popped out of my mouth. I couldn’t remember much about my mother except a warm lap and the way she’d twirl my hair around her finger. I pushed the bittersweet memory aside, twisted in the booth, and poked Urso in his chest. “Quinn is not guilty.”
“She and her father are gone,” he said.