by Avery Aames
“Charlotte, cool it. I’m going to stop coming in here if you grill me every time I do.”
“Are you going to avoid me around town, too?” I sassed.
He sighed. “Just once it would be nice if you asked me about my life or the wedding or something other than murder.”
I plopped the sandwiches into a bag and added a fork-knife-napkin package with a thunk. “How are the wedding plans going?”
“Great.”
“How’s your health?”
“Excellent.”
“Super! We got that out of the way. Look, U-ey . . .” I drew in a breath and let it out. “Umberto, I’m allowed to know what’s going on, and—”
“Quigley Pressman thinks he has the scoop,” Urso snapped. “Read his byline.”
“And”—I stressed the word, ignoring his testy interruption—“I’m allowed to tell you what I know. I hope everyone in Providence would do the same. Good citizenship is vital to the strength of a community.”
“Says who?”
“Says my grandmother, the mayor.”
I lasered him with a look. He mimicked me. We held the staring contest a full half minute. I know because I counted off the seconds in my head.
“Go on,” he said, breaking the stalemate, which meant I won.
“Lara and Victor were overheard arguing. He was texting someone. She warned him to stop.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she was jealous. It might have been about his business.”
“Who heard them?”
“Ryan, Lois, and Prudence.”
“I’ve spoken with Mr. Harris.”
“Which means neither Lois or Prudence has touched base with you.” So much for good citizenship, I noted. “If you’ll permit me . . .”
I motioned for him to take a seat. He settled onto one of the ladder-back chairs at the tasting counter. I perched on the other and fleshed out the sketchy details of each account.
“Disagreeing about the way to handle something is not necessarily a reason for murder,” Urso said. “If so, either you or I would be dead.” He offered a bordering-on-nasty grin. “But just to set you straight, no matter what the accounts, Victor Wolfman is cleared because he has an alibi for the time of death, which the coroner has set between ten P.M. and midnight.”
I gaped. “Are you sure about the time? What about Kandice claiming to hear a violin at eleven thirty?”
Urso clicked his tongue to make a point. “That pretty much limits the murder to a half-hour window, don’t you think?”
“Unless the murderer strummed the strings on purpose to set a later time, or plucked the violin accidentally, while escaping.”
“Aye, there’s the rub. Escaping.” He thumped the counter. “In order to escape, one needs to have entered.”
“You still haven’t figured out how the killer got in or out?”
“Nope.” In his tone, I heard a world of weary. “We’ve been over every inch of wall and floor space.”
“Either way, the coroner’s finding rules out Erin as a suspect.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, because Andrew remembers her being in his room at that time.”
“Does he?”
I squirmed. Who knew what Andrew would remember? Up, up, up; down, down, down. Eleven thirty, eleven forty, two, two, two. What was he trying to say? That Erin left the room at one or all of those times?
Reluctant to voice what was cycling through my mind, I said, “It eliminates Ryan as a suspect, I guess. Not only did Rebecca see him in town after eleven, but Kandice heard him returning to the inn after twelve. What is Victor’s alibi?”
“Your grandfather saw him in town at eleven fifty-five.”
“But Victor said he came back to the inn at eleven thirty.”
“He was off by a few minutes. No big deal. What matters is your grandfather came forward with his statement.” Urso stood and pulled out a billfold. He ambled to the register to pay for the sandwiches.
I followed and took his cash.
“He, like you”—Urso winked—“is a concerned citizen.”
“Pépère’s eyesight isn’t that good,” I argued. “Especially late at night. He could have mistaken Victor for the new owner of Café au Lait, William what’s-his-name. They look similar. Their thick dark hair, the way they strut.”
Urso pocketed his wallet and wedged his hat onto his head. “Why do you want Victor to be guilty?”
“Because he’s a fool.”
“Being a fool doesn’t make a person a killer. Otherwise—”
I jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t say it.”
Urso laughed heartily. “Be safe, Charlotte. And call me U-ey.” He strode to the rear door, whipped it open, and bellowed, “Deputy, let’s go!”
CHAPTER
27
Hours later while closing up shop, I had a deep aching need to see Jordan. I didn’t care if he could chat; I simply wanted to glimpse his face. I took Rags home, donned a peacoat, and walked to The White Horse alone. A crisp breeze made me button my coat. Music pealed through the air. Loads of people were still roaming the Street Scene. I spied Rebecca with Devon lingering by the poetry stage. They waved; I returned the greeting. I caught sight of Delilah and Urso strolling through the north gate of the Village Green. Neither saw me; they were deep in conversation. My grandparents were wrapped up in the second round of the cheese competition. I didn’t intrude. Seeing them in their element, surrounded by eager locals and tourists, made me swell with pride.
Near the Free-for-All Stage, where children under sixteen could share any talent—play an instrument, do a dance, you name it—I bumped into Tyanne and her children.
“Stay with us,” Tyanne urged.
Onstage, a bewitching girl about the twins’ age was playing an electric violin while singing a hearty bluegrass-style song.
I begged off and headed into The White Horse. The place was packed, the bar area three-people-thick in some spots. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air. At the far end of the restaurant, two women, one a pianist and the other playing the bass viol, were doing a jazzy rendition of “The Lusty Month of May.” I spotted Jordan standing near the kitchen door with his sister. He noticed me and held up his hand, fingers spread. He mouthed: Five minutes then mimed to get myself a drink.
At one end of the bar, Victor crowded in beside Ryan, who was paying for drinks. Neither talked to the other. Victor was typing something into his cell phone. Was he texting the person whom Lara and he had argued about?
He’s innocent, Charlotte, I reminded myself. Urso confirmed that Victor had an alibi. So why was I itching to find out his secret? I moved in that direction.
“Charlotte!” a woman yelled.
I whirled to my right. Shayna was sitting at one of the bar tables with Erin and Quigley Pressman. Shayna mouthed: Help! and singled out Erin.
Poor Erin, I thought. She had gone out on the town for a brief, well-deserved respite, only to get hornswoggled by the wily reporter. If Rebecca were here, she would nab Quigley by the collar and hustle him out of the bar.
I signaled I would join them soon but continued to approach Victor.
Ryan spun around. We collided. Some of the amber liquid in one of the tumblers he was carrying sloshed over the rim. “Sorry,” he murmured, his mouth grim, his eyes cloudy with fatigue.
“No worries. None splashed me. Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? I’m being held hostage in a small Midwest town, unable to get home. I’m as happy as a clam.” He choked out a laugh. “Truth is, Mama’s sick. My littlest sister is whining that I’m not there to help. I’ve called Chief Urso to plead my case. Of course, he’s out for the evening. A slug of this”—he hoisted one of the drinks—“will help.” He pushed past me to a table where Kandice was
sitting. She watched him expectantly.
I caught a flicker of something in Erin’s eyes as Ryan settled onto his chair and handed Kandice her drink. Did Erin wish she could change seats with Kandice?
Victor, who reeked of cologne, said over his shoulder to me, “This is taking a while. The two bartenders are overextended.”
On occasion, Jordan helped out when the bar was crowded. Whatever Jacky and he were discussing must be urgent.
“Get you something?” Victor set his cell phone on the bar. A text conversation was visible on its screen.
“Sure. Thanks.” Yes, my husband generally comps my drinks, but I didn’t want to turn down Victor’s offer. A guy buying a woman a drink might chat up a storm. My curiosity was stronger than ever. “White wine,” I said and inched closer while shrugging out of my coat. “Are you as upset as Ryan about the police demanding you stay in town?”
Victor hitched a shoulder. “What can a guy do? The law is the law.”
The bartender—newly hired; I didn’t know his name yet—said, “What’ll it be?”
While Victor requested three glasses of white Bordeaux, I peeked at his cell phone. The text was innocent enough. From Victor: Where R U now? Response: Getting cotton candy. Victor: Call me. Response: Come outside. Victor: You come in. I couldn’t read the respondent’s name. The font was too small.
“Got a hot date?” I asked.
Victor glanced between the text readout and me.
I smiled. “You ordered three wines. There are only two of us here. I deduce things.”
Victor tilted his head. “I hear you’ve been asking around about me. It seems you alerted the chief of police that a source told you”—he stressed the words—“that Lara and I argued.”
Urso revealed that to him? Sheesh. On the other hand, it meant he was following up despite the fact that Victor had an alibi. That was something, I guess.
I nodded.
Victor picked up his phone and waggled it at me. “Don’t believe everything you hear. Or see, for that matter. Even if it’s on a cell phone.” He pocketed the device. “Want to know the truth?”
Did I ever!
“Yes, Lara and I argued.”
“You were texting someone. She grabbed the phone.”
“And she saw: When can we meet? If he finds out, he’ll kill me. Us.” Victor clicked his tongue. “You can imagine what Lara read into that exchange.”
“She thought you were having an affair.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“You told her to butt out.”
“To put it mildly.”
“You said she wasn’t the boss of you.”
“Your source had pretty good ears.”
“You were loud.”
Victor snorted. His nostrils flared in an unattractive, piggish way. “You’ve got half of the conversation right. Here’s what went down. See, I was trying to get this woman to help me resolve a dicey issue.”
“With?”
“One of my suppliers. A French cheese maker. The woman’s boss.”
“What was the dicey issue?”
Victor smirked. “Just to be clear, this started out as a prank. All in fun. The supplier is an old friend. He can be a royal pain. He claims his Brie is the best. No one else’s can compare. You know the kind of braggart I mean.”
I cocked my head. Who was calling the kettle black?
“Now, I am the first to admit that what I did wasn’t entirely legit,” Victor continued.
“What did you do?”
Victor shifted feet. “I repackaged an inferior American cheese, a pasteurized Brie, and put his label on it.”
I gawped. I knew someone who had done that sort of thing with wine. “That’s illegal,” I said.
Victor didn’t even have the decency to flinch, the slug. “It was just a couple of packages,” he said. “And I only shipped to people he and I know. Like I said, I did it in fun, but Lara didn’t see it that way. She saw the text exchange. She said putting the ruse in writing meant the executive assistant, if she was a bitter woman and decided to turn the tables—”
“Bitter, why?”
“Because she and I, you know . . .” He chortled. “Hit the hay, as they say. A one-night stand. Anyway, Lara said the woman could publish anything I had written and get me in major hot water. Jail time.”
The bartender set out three empty wineglasses. He poured a swallow into one. Victor took a sip and then indicated the bartender could fill all three glasses.
“I told Lara to back off,” Victor went on, “but she pressed the point. A couple of times.”
“Did she threaten to expose you?”
“No, she did not. It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“She said it could cost you ‘jail time.’”
“Lara was blowing it way out of proportion. Once she learned I intended to admit everything to my pal, she let it go.”
“Just like that?” I snapped my fingers. “Did she give you a deadline, or else?”
Something flickered in Victor’s eyes. A memory? Lara’s last words, pleading for mercy? He quashed whatever was going on inside his brain and held out his cell phone. “Have a look at the conversation. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. I showed the police the text exchange, by the way. They copied it, tracked it. Whatever.”
I didn’t take the cell phone.
Victor hiccupped out a laugh; it sounded forced. “Funny thing about Lara. She could be boorish and in your face, but she had a moral ethic. There was right and there was wrong. You should be punished if you did something wrong. My prank? It didn’t warrant her wrath.” He paid for the beverages, handed me a glass, and smiled easily, like we were having a good old time. “Mmm,” he murmured with his first sip. “This is French. Primarily Sémillon grapes.” He took another sip and said, “As for Kandice”—he peered in the direction of Ryan and Kandice; Ryan was doing all the talking; Kandice was smiling—“she didn’t get so lucky when it came to Lara’s charity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some people think she got fired from her job at the university because she was incompetent.”
“Kandice was fired?”
“Yep.”
“I heard she quit to start a new career.”
“Nope. She was canned. Why? Because Lara let slip to some college bigwig that Kandice was having an affair with a professor.”
“Why would Lara do something like that?”
“Like I told you, she had this thing about right and wrong. As fast as you can say sacked, Kandice was gone, her career ruined. Can you imagine sticking your nose into someone’s life like that?” Victor’s nostrils flared. “Lara didn’t care. She was righteous and overbearing. Everyone had to fight, even me, to keep on equal footing. If you ask me, the police should take a long hard look at Kandice as the killer.”
The door to the restaurant opened. In walked a luscious brunette carrying a cone of pink cotton candy. She was half Victor’s age.
Victor cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but my date has arrived.”
He skulked toward her like he was on the prowl. She didn’t seem to mind. My skin crawled. Truth be told, if Urso hadn’t said the guy’s alibi was valid, I still would’ve thought he was guilty.
I turned my attention to Kandice. Why would Lara have stuck her nose into Kandice’s business? Did Kandice hold a grudge against Lara? Was I wrong about the two of them working together to steal Erin’s violin? Was the violin even an issue in the murder? Maybe Kandice lured Lara to the brain trust with the hope of getting her hands on the violin when all along her goal was to get even with Lara for ending her career.
Jacky joined me at the bar while tucking her long hair behind her ears. “Are you okay? You look lost in thought. Am I interrupting?”
“Heavens no. What were you and Jordan
discussing?”
“Cheese, what else? Affinage, to be specific. I’m going to hire someone to help me with it at Pace Hill. Jordan could do it all by himself, big strong guy that he is, but I can’t. My biceps are killing me, and my knowledge of the process needs honing.” She thumbed in the direction of Victor and his date. “You two were quite chatty.”
I explained our exchange in brief detail. “He swears he didn’t kill Lara.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Urso says he has a pat alibi.”
“Hmm. Maybe he should reconsider.” Jacky opened an application on her phone to reveal an old New York Times news article. “I was going to take this to Urso. Have a look. The other day at the salon, you got me thinking about Victor, so I checked him out. Apparently Lara and he were quite the item. Paparazzi followed them wherever they went. To restaurants. To the theater. When she dropped him, the public display made headlines.”
“Victor said he ended the relationship.”
“He was lying. Lara learned he was stepping out with other women and ditched him over dessert.” Jacky scrolled to a picture where Victor threw wine in Lara’s face. The caption below told the tale. In all capital letters:
FRANCOPHILE NOT HAPPY AT BEING DUMPED
Jacky grinned. “Guess he wasn’t well loved by the press.” She stared harder at her cell phone and her eyes widened. “Wow, is that really the time? I’ve got to go. The babysitter has a final tomorrow.” Jacky had the most adorable little girl. She pocketed her cell phone. “Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you. Jordan is going to be another minute. A vendor showed up.”
“At this hour?”
“My darling brother wants to add more light in here. I told him he should invest in one of those ceiling windows.”
“Do you mean a skylight?”
“That’s it.” She kissed my cheek and hurried off.
I glanced at the ceiling and the wood-beamed rafters, and a notion struck me: the skylight in Lara’s room. Erin claimed all the windows on the attic floor were painted shut, but what if the skylights weren’t? Urso said he and his staff had inspected the floors and walls. He didn’t mention checking out ceilings or overhead windows.
