by Avery Aames
“No.”
“What about his references to the numbers eleven thirty or eleven forty or two?”
Erin shook her head.
“Did the police question him?”
“What does it matter? They have Victor in custody. Lara’s murder is solved. When all the guests leave, everything around here will get back to normal.” Erin shuddered, probably realizing that the word normal would never apply to her brother or her life. She rotated her head to loosen knots in her neck. “I don’t mean to be rude, Charlotte, but I need to get Andrew fed and settled so I can rest.”
“I—”
The front door opened and Kandice entered.
Andrew very animatedly said, “Up, up, up!” He clicked his sticks at Kandice.
I eyed her. “Do you know what he’s talking about, Kandice?”
“As if.” She marched up the stairs and disappeared from sight.
“Hungry,” Andrew murmured.
Erin said, “All right, sweetheart. Let’s get some food before we head upstairs.” She directed her brother toward the kitchen. “You’re welcome to join us, Charlotte.”
I started to follow but stopped when Ryan called to me from inside the breakfast room.
“Hey, Charlotte, did you hear about Victor?” He was sitting at a table by the window. Sunlight poured through the window and lit up his face. A glass of iced tea sat untouched in front of him. He was reading a book. Not just any book. Lara’s book. He slapped the book closed, rose to his feet, and gestured to the table.
I murmured to Erin that I would catch up with her and moved toward Ryan.
“Great news, isn’t it? We can finally put this puppy to bed,” Ryan said. “I never did trust that guy, though I have to admit it surprised me. I didn’t think old Vic had it in him. From all I could tell, he was smitten with Lara. What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to Erin, but she’s busy with Andrew.”
“Sit.” Ryan placed a hand on my back to assist me onto the bench opposite him then retook his seat. “If you’re hungry, the housekeeper’s around.”
“I’m not.”
“I hear she’s a good cook. Ah, there she is.”
An elderly, compact woman with wispy hair entered the room whistling. “Hiya, hon. How about some tea? Hot or cold.” She had a subdued Minnesota accent bordering on Canadian. “And a sandwich.”
“Nothing, thanks.”
She tsked. “Do you good. You’re a tad on the thin side.”
I wasn’t, but relative to her I was. “Really. I’m fine.”
She muttered, “Girls these days,” and shambled out of the room while resuming her tune.
I regarded Lara’s book and glanced at Ryan.
“Yeah, you caught me.” Ryan grinned and, using his index finger, twirled the book on the table. “Call me crazy, but I couldn’t resist. She really was knowledgeable. However, if you ask me, she was also certifiable. Have you read her acknowledgments?”
I hadn’t.
“Usually the author puts extensive acknowledgments in a book,” Ryan explained, “to recognize the people who have helped with research or support. Not Lara. One paragraph.” He flipped open to that page to show me. “After that, she made it sound like she did it all herself. No mention of Shayna or anybody.”
“You didn’t like her.”
Ryan shrugged. “Not because she attacked me, but because she was affected and phony, caring for no one but herself. She ended the partnership with Shayna and left the business floundering. How many others did she hurt along the way?” He slugged down some iced tea and smacked his lips. “Speaking of Shayna, I guess it’s okay for me to say this now, seeing as Victor is in custody. You might already know. She lied about her alibi.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I spotted her from my window, sneaking into the inn at two A.M.”
Two, two, two gonged in my head.
“I nearly missed seeing her. She was wearing all black like a jewel thief.”
I thought of the silly movie-title game we had played at the cooking class last Sunday when all of us girls had gone gaga over Cary Grant, master jewel thief, handsome in black. A few moments ago, Andrew had grown agitated seeing Kandice all in black. Had he also seen Shayna at two A.M. on the night Lara was killed? Was that what he had been trying to chant-tell Erin? Did he believe the woman in black had something to do with Lara’s murder?
“I told Shayna I spotted her,” Ryan continued. “She begged me not to tell anyone.”
“Where did she go?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“For a walk?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
“You never told the police?”
“Why would I? Lara was killed before midnight.”
“We didn’t know that right away.”
“No, but it was Shayna. I mean, c’mon, Shayna.”
I got it. He, like I at first, didn’t believe she was capable of murder.
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. “Excuse me.” I pulled it free. Jordan. I pressed ACCEPT. “Hey.”
“Where are you?”
“At Emerald Pastures Inn. Why?”
“Victor Wolfman”—Jordan sounded in a hurry—“has been released. A witness has come forward. A female, a very young female, claimed she spent the night with Victor the night Lara was killed. She was with Victor in his room at the inn all night. They were, in her words, ‘Quite active.’ She left via the back stairs before dawn. She didn’t come forward before now because if her family found out—”
I didn’t hear anything else Jordan said because with Victor exonerated, other scenarios, all involving Shayna, were cycling rapid-fire through my brain. Did Andrew see or hear her go to the rooftop after eleven P.M.? Did he hear her leave the inn a bit after that? And did he see her return after two A.M.?
Where had she gone, to bury the chloroform and any other evidence of the crime?
CHAPTER
30
A desire to revisit Lara’s room zipped through me. Maybe, standing inside the room, I would remember seeing a victorious smile on Shayna’s lips or recall her glancing at the skylight.
I left Ryan to his reading and stole past the living room. The housekeeper stood within, whistling while fluffing the couch pillows. Eluding the woman’s notice, I hurried to the third floor. The door to Lara’s room, although damaged from Jordan’s powerful kicks, had been rehung on its hinges. The crime scene tape had been removed. I slipped in and shut the door.
Standing just inside the doorway, I took in the room. It had been tidied. The pillows, both regular and decorative, had been returned to their rightful places on the bed. The armoire doors were closed, the chair pushed under the escritoire. The food and wine had been removed. Lara’s discarded clothing had been taken—confiscated, I would assume, to test for evidence. Her suitcase was gone as well.
The police had found rope fibers on the inside rim of the skylight, which meant Lara’s assailant hadn’t needed an invitation to enter the room. Perhaps the killer slipped in after Lara fell asleep. Why use chloroform? To ensure she was unconscious and couldn’t put up a fight. Would Victor or Ryan have needed to dose her with a potion? Either man would have been strong enough to pin down a sleeping, drunk woman. I didn’t consider myself sexist, but chloroform seemed like something a female—Shayna or Kandice or, yes, even Erin—might use to get the upper hand.
Returning my focus to the bed, I edged closer and imagined Lara lying there. I pictured when Deputy O’Shea lifted hair samples off the bed. Strands of red and white hair. The white most likely belonged to the cat. The red could have been Lara’s, but then shouldn’t it have been on or near the head of the bed? No, not necessarily. I often found my loose hair around my house in places with no rhyme or reason, possibly tracked there by my shoes or b
y Rags.
Another image flickered in my mind. What if the killer planted the red hair on Lara’s bed to implicate Erin? During the cheese-making session at the brain trust, each of us had been required to wear a hairnet. We discarded them in the trash on the way out. Kandice, who lost an earring, went back to the trash and scrounged through the garbage. Did she deliberately lose the earring so she could pluck a red hair from Erin’s hairnet to place at the murder scene?
I readjusted my thinking. What if Shayna or Ryan had wanted to link Erin to the crime? Each had helped Kandice search for her earring in the garbage bin. Ryan was the one who found it.
And what about the dratted violin? Did it matter in the big scheme of things?
The door to Lara’s room flew open. I whipped around.
Ryan stood in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hallway. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Alarm cut through me. I was alone. At the murder scene. With what could only be described as a fierce-looking man blocking my exit. His hands were flexing and closing. His hair . . .
I hesitated. Was it Ryan’s pewter-colored hair and not the cat’s hair that the deputy had found on Lara’s bed? No, his was more silver than white. Kandice’s bleached hair would have been a better match.
“What are you doing here?” Ryan repeated, an edge to his voice.
I was trapped. The window was painted shut. There was no escape other than through the skylight, which was up, up, up. My adrenaline spiked. The best defense is a good offense, my grandfather often told me.
I squared my shoulders and said, “I should ask you the same thing, Ryan.”
“I was in my room and heard footsteps overhead. I thought Shayna had come back. I’m heading out. I wanted to say good-bye.”
“Oh. Of course.” His explanation sounded reasonable. Shayna’s room was next door. I felt my cheeks warm. Maybe the edge I’d picked up in Ryan’s voice was his fear of me.
“Did you find something?” he asked.
“I was—”
Ryan waved a hand. “You don’t have to answer. I think we all suffer from morbid curiosity. I often returned to the barn where my dad died.”
“You were fourteen, is that right?”
“Good memory.”
“How did he die?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.”
“Ryan—” I thought again of the encounter between Andrew and Kandice on the stairs. Why had Andrew been so upset at the sight of her? Was Kandice the killer and not Shayna? “Did you happen to see Kandice enter Victor’s room after the murder?”
“Can’t say as I did. Why?”
“I was thinking it was mighty convenient finding the skylight remote control hidden in his room. Kandice was hanging outside his room after we discovered Lara dead. On the other hand, why would she implicate Victor? Why not point the finger at Erin, as she had all along?”
“You know, you’re right.” Ryan shifted his weight. “However, Shayna would have had an easier shot at planting it than Kandice, if that’s what you’re intimating, her room being on this floor.”
A door slammed. A woman whistled. The housekeeper. She made quite a clatter as she descended the stairs.
Ryan glimpsed his watch. “Whoa! I’ve got to get going. I promised to do a gig with a band at the Street Scene, then I’m hitting the road. Nice knowing you.” He exited and took the stairs two at a time.
I followed. On the second-floor landing, I spied the housekeeper entering Andrew’s room. She was carrying a small bucket. Cleaning supplies poked out the top. Out of nowhere, Snowball hurtled down the hallway. He came to a screeching halt outside Andrew’s room. The housekeeper said, “Uh-uh, you snip. Don’t even think about it. Private. Keep out! P-r-i-v-a-t-e,” she spelled. “Do you hear me? Scat! Shoo!” The cat scampered off, and the housekeeper slipped inside the room.
As she disappeared, the door to Erin’s room opened. Kandice backed out. She tried to close the door quietly.
“Hey,” I said. “What were you doing in there?”
Kandice whipped around, hand to her chest. Her face flushed a splotchy scarlet. “I . . . I . . .” She was about as deft with a comeback as I was. “I wanted to touch the violin.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. I have an eye for fine things. Lara—”
“Liar. You’ve had it in for Erin from the beginning. You heard Victor was released. You thought you could plant something in Erin’s room to convince the police she’s the killer.”
“No!” Kandice swallowed hard. “I would never—”
“You held a grudge against Lara.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“She got you fired from your job at the university. Lara revealed to your superior that you were having an affair. You hated her for doing that.”
“You’ve got it all wrong.” Kandice’s shoulders sagged; she sank into herself. “I was thankful. Lara saved me. From myself.” She spoke in choppy gasps; her face grew splotchy. “Lara helped me get out of a toxic relationship. The professor was married. But I was in love. I believed . . . what every woman believes . . . that he would leave his wife for me. Yes, Lara changed the course of my life, but I will be forever grateful to her. I love what I’m doing. I never would have found the courage to move on. She wouldn’t let me have a pity party, either.” Kandice rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, as if playing the world’s tiniest violin.
The image caught me up short. “Kandice, wait.” I held up a hand. “What were you going to say about Lara earlier, in regard to the violin?”
“Lara wanted it something fierce.”
“Why?”
“During dinner, when she said she collected a few things, that was an understatement. She owns . . . owned . . . all sorts of antiques. She told you about the Degas and Miró. She didn’t mention the Archipenko sculpture or the Picasso. And books. She had a ton of them, all exquisite first-editions.”
“Did you see these treasures?”
“Yes.”
“She collected cheese-related antiques, like you.”
“Like me? Ha!” She barked out a laugh. “Not on my modest salary. I admire from afar.”
“Did Lara collect instruments?”
“A few. A harp from India. A piccolo from the Civil War. When she saw the picture of Erin with the violin—”
“What picture? Where?”
“On the Internet. In an article about autism. Lara stumbled upon it because she was reading up on her nephew. She knew instantly what Erin possessed.” Kandice fluttered her fingers. “Anyway, Lara begged me to find out if Erin still owned the violin. The timing couldn’t have worked out better. I saw Providence was having its first annual Cheese Festival. I brought the idea of a brain trust to Erin. Under the guise of seeking out locales for the event, I stayed at Emerald Pastures Inn, and as luck would have it, I heard Erin playing the violin that night.”
“You followed her back to her room,” I said, reiterating the scenario I had come up with while talking to Jordan. “You hung outside in the hallway and heard her opening the armoire.”
“Wrong. I saw her. She left the door open a crack.”
“You reported back to Lara, who encouraged you to seal the deal on the brain trust, setting it at Emerald Pastures even though it wasn’t a top-tier farm.”
“Now you understand why I couldn’t admit I knew about the violin’s existence. The police would have thought I killed Lara.”
I squinted one eye. “So you accused Erin and brought up the bit about the violin to implicate her.”
Kandice didn’t deny it.
“Did you or Lara steal the violin?” I asked.
“Lara.”
“Who returned it to Erin’s room?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. I never touched it.”
> “Never?”
“Didn’t you hear me? That’s why I came here—” Kandice hitched her head in the direction of Erin’s room. “To touch it. Lara told me at the Street Scene, after the accident when that tree clobbered me, that she’d taken it.” She screwed up her mouth. “Hey, maybe Shayna put it back. Lara and she were arguing Friday. In the breakfast room. And Shayna said”—Kandice glanced both directions; the hallway was clear—“‘Thanks to social media, you can’t hide it forever.’ Don’t you see? It meant the violin.”
“You were standing clear across the room. How did you hear that?”
“Elephant ears.” She tugged on her right ear. “What if Shayna was warning Lara someone would find out about the theft and post it on the Internet? Lara said something more.”
“What?”
“I missed it.”
“You heard everything else.”
“Not that.” She frowned. “But whatever she said must have been cruel. Shayna looked really upset.” Kandice ducked past me and darted down the stairs.
CHAPTER
31
Shayna, I thought. Did she kill Lara out of revenge and then return the violin to Erin as a final gotcha, knowing Lara had stolen it? Or was Kandice lying?
No longer needing to see Erin or Andrew—I was certain she was innocent and positive I had figured out what his chanting signified—I headed back to town with the plan to pick up Rags and track down Urso.
Navigating the various Street Scene stages was a challenge. It was dusk, that time of day when it was harder to see. Streetlamps didn’t quite do the trick, and visitors were everywhere. The sights and sounds were great.
At stage fifteen, one of the cooks from The Country Kitchen acted as barker, encouraging people to learn how to make the perfect grilled cheese.
On stage eleven, three characters dressed up to look like wedges of cheese were chanting cheese poetry while doing a soft-shoe routine. Audience members clapped in time.
