by Avery Aames
When we reached the bottom, shouts swelled to our right. I held the candle out. Its flame cast a soft arc of light across the flagstone floor. With Rebecca still gripping my sweater, I followed the sound, passing huge oak vats and deteriorating winepresses, until I reached a knot of people hovering in the far corner. They circled a stone wine cellar that was guarded by metal bars.
I ordered Rebecca to stay put, then pushed through the crowd. When I caught a glimpse of what they were staring at, my stomach knotted up.
A partial brick wall stood in the middle of the wine cellar. The tail of a multicolored knit scarf poked out from behind the wall.
Quinn’s scarf.
CHAPTER 5
“Quinn!” I yelled. My voice echoed off the cellar walls. So did the gasps of the crowd. “Quinn!” I repeated.
Maybe she’d fainted.
I skirted the brick wall and stopped in my tracks. Quinn wasn’t lying on the flagstone floor; Harker was, with Quinn’s scarf pulled tightly around his neck. I darted to his side. In the dim light, his face looked the color of an overripe blue cheese. I loosened the scarf and pressed my fingertips to his neck. No pulse.
In the past few years, I’d started to worry about my grandparents’ health. Though they were spry and sassy, I had taken some CPR classes in order to be prepared for an emergency. I straddled Harker, placed palm over palm on his sternum, and thrust hard in an effort to force breath back into him. Ten thrusts. He didn’t budge. I pinched his nose and blew into his mouth. Three quick bursts. I sat back and listened for breathing. Nothing.
I repeated the process but, no matter how I tried, I couldn’t revive him.
Coated with perspiration and riddled with sadness, I stumbled to my feet and fell backward. Rebecca braced me.
“Is Mr. Harker dead?”
“His name’s Harker Fontanne.” I recalled seeing his last name in his signature on the painting in the library. “And, yes, he’s dead.”
“What’re those rocks on the ground?” she asked.
In my haste, I hadn’t noticed them, but they looked like jewels. Emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. Six to ten of them. They lay near Harker’s hands. Had Harker discovered the rumored treasure, or had he interrupted someone else’s search? I scanned the crowd that swarmed the area to get a view beyond the brick wall. Was the murderer among them? Winona and Wolford hovered at the forefront, each holding a candle. The flames danced and flickered in front of their faces. Winona’s mouth was working, but I couldn’t catch what she was saying. Dane had slipped in on the other side of her. His eyes fluttered, like he wanted to shut them to block out the sight. Other guests stood near them, mouths hanging open, all of them reminding me of the sufferers in Rodin’s astounding sculpture The Gates of Hell.
Edsel pushed past the front row of people and swallowed back a groan. “Oh, man, no!”
I broke free from Rebecca and said, “Somebody find Chief Urso.”
“Don’t bother, I’m here,” Urso said. “Back up, people, to the edges of the room.” His footsteps resonated as he crossed the flagstone. He marched around the brick wall to the body, crouched down, and checked for a pulse. He eyed me with concern, stood up, and grazed the sleeve of my sweater with his fingertips. “You okay?”
My mouth and chin started to quiver. No, I wasn’t okay. I was horrified.
Urso gave a little nod. He understood my silence. “What happened? Take it slow. Who is this?”
“Harker Fontanne.” It hit me that the artwork upstairs would be Harker’s last piece, and a wave of sorrow rolled through me. I took a deep breath and worked my tongue around the inside of my mouth. When I calmed, I told Urso about the lights going out, Dane running past looking for Quinn, the scream, finding Harker. Once I started, the words wouldn’t stop.
“There’s a breeze coming from that stone wall, Chief,” Rebecca cut in.
“What’s your point, Miss Zook?” Urso preferred using surnames when conducting an investigation. He felt it helped him maintain objectivity.
Rebecca toyed with her ponytail. She wanted to be bold around Urso, but she told me in private that his mere size cowed her. “I’m just saying it might be worth checking out. See, I saw this TV show, Bones, and there were hidden compartments behind some walls—”
Urso held up a hand to stop her. Treading lightly, he moved beyond Harker and peered at the wall. I gazed back at the iron bars that protected the space. Why were they there? Maybe stealing wine had been a problem back in the late eighteen hundreds or during Prohibition. The thought gave me a jolt.
Urso fingered the wall. He tried to wiggle a stone free. None of them budged. He found a chunk of loose mortar on the floor and used it to draw an outline around the crime scene, then radioed his deputy.
Rebecca scooted beside me. “Poor Meredith,” she murmured.
My heart ached for my friend. Meredith’s hopes for making the winery into a new college would be dashed when news of the murder got out. Donors would withdraw funding. No one would want to send a kid to school here. Our current self-appointed society goddess, Prudence Hart, who wanted to micromanage every facet of the locals’ lives, would relish the failure. If she didn’t come up with the idea, it wasn’t an idea worthy of Providence.
Urso returned to my side.
“What about the jewels?” I asked. “Do you think they’re part of the treasure?”
Urso knew about the rumored treasure. He’d been one of the kids in high school who’d dared me to steal inside the winery. He peered down at me. He couldn’t help himself; he was a whole head taller. He said, “Do you think Mr. Fontanne found it?”
“And someone murdered him to get it.”
“But left some?” Urso shook his head. “That’s a little sloppy.”
“There were lots of people moving about on the scavenger hunt. Maybe he or she was in a hurry.”
“If the killer was a she, she would have had to be pretty darned strong. Mr. Fontanne looks buff.” Urso bent to retrieve one of the jewels and pinched it between two fingers. “Hmm. Paste.”
He would know if the jewels were real or crafted. In high school during the summer, he’d helped out at the Silver Trader, an eclectic jewelry store in Providence.
“Why would the killer strew cut glass around Harker’s head?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.” Urso rose to his full height and faced the crowd. “Anybody see anything?”
“I was on the scavenger hunt,” Winona blurted. She fanned her list and jiggled her hunt bag as if to corroborate her story.
“Who are you?”
“Winona Westerton,” she said with perfect operatic pitch. She explained she was a potential donor, as was her companion, Wolford. She had come to the cellar to look for a scavenger hunt item—an empty wine box. “Harker was so ... so ... I can’t believe something like this happened.”
“Where’s Freddy?” I didn’t see him among the crowd. “You and he were partners on the hunt.”
“We got separated when I went outside for a smoke,” Winona said.
I remembered seeing her through the lead-crossed window on the landing. What she didn’t seem to realize was that her story left Freddy in the lurch. Where was he? I’d seen him argue with Harker. Had he killed him? No, I couldn’t believe it. Not Freddy.
“A guest must have seen Harker come downstairs with somebody, U-ey,” I said. “Shouldn’t you question everyone?”
Urso said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle—”
“What’s going on?” Meredith burst through a cluster of people and charged Urso. “What happened? Oh, my!” She shoved a knuckle into her mouth. “Where’s Quinn?”
In my haste to help Harker, I’d forgotten about Quinn being frightened in the dark. Where was she? “Quinn!” I yelled.
“Who’s Quinn?” Urso asked.
“My niece, Quinn Vance,” Meredith said. “My brother Freddy’s daughter. Quinn!”
“Nineteen years old. Redheaded,” I said. “Quinn!” Where was Freddy? Mayb
e he had found Quinn and was consoling her.
“Quinn!” Meredith echoed, her voice shrill with panic. “Quinn! Sweetheart!”
“Over here,” a tiny voice said.
Like a school of fish, the crowd parted. Urso and I wound through them to the far end of the cellar. We found Quinn hovering in a recess that was filthy with soot. Her arms were wrapped around herself so tightly that I worried she’d squeeze the air from her lungs. Candlelight flickered on her tear-stained face.
Meredith crouched beside Quinn and enveloped her in her arms.
“Is it true?” Quinn asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Is Harker ... ?” She hiccupped.
Meredith nodded. Quinn burst into tears.
“Shhhhh.” Meredith patted her niece’s back.
When Quinn came up for air, she pushed Meredith away and said, “Who would want to hurt him?”
Urso knelt beside them, a knee on the ground, his forearms crisscrossed over his bent leg. “Did you?”
“Me? No!” Quinn rolled her lower lip under her teeth.
Meredith whirled on Urso. “How dare you accuse her!” “She’s obviously scared, Meredith.” Urso’s voice was calm, reassuring. “She saw something. What did you see, Miss Vance?”
“I didn’t see anything,” Quinn cried. “I was hiding.”
“From Mr. Fontanne?” Urso pressed.
“No! I was hiding from ... from everybody.”
She looked to me for support. Why, I wasn’t sure. Maybe because I’d seen her argue with Harker. With my gaze, I urged her to continue.
“I found a door upstairs, and I crawled inside. Before I knew it, I was falling.” She gestured to another recess. “I landed there.”
I squatted and inspected the area. “It looks like an old coal chute.”
“I scrambled out and hid in this nook,” Quinn said.
I couldn’t tell whether Urso believed her or not. His face was as stoic as Mount Rushmore.
“Are you hurt?” Urso asked.
Quinn’s cheeks were scraped, her skin flushed. “I don’t think so.”
“Let’s get you to your feet.” Urso helped her rise then addressed the crowd. “All right, everyone, I’d like you to convene upstairs. I’ll question you there. Try not to touch anything as you head up. Charlotte, please go with them. See to it that nobody leaves the premises until I’ve talked to them.”
I felt honored that he would entrust me with the duty. During last year’s fiasco, he’d made it more than clear that I was intruding on his investigation.
People herded toward the stairs. I led the way up while thanking them for their patience and understanding. Some were crying. Others whispered their shock. As we reached the foyer and the folks moved as groups into the various adjoining rooms, I realized there would be no way for me to corral them all. Would the murderer hightail it? Had he or she already split? And where in the heck was Freddy? Dread seared the edges of my mind as I again recalled the argument he’d had with Harker.
Rebecca rushed to my side. “Tell me every little detail you recall.”
Glad that her heebie-jeebies had vanished but not thrilled with how much she loved being an amateur gumshoe, I said, “Later.”
“At least admit that the story about buried treasure was true.”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
“But the jewels—”
“—are fake.” I wondered again why the killer would leave fake jewels around Harker. I hadn’t seen jewels on the scavenger hunt list.
Rebecca drummed her fingers at the hollow of her neck. “You know, finding Harker tucked behind that wall reminded me of that short story by Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”
I knew the story. In it, the narrator took revenge on a friend who had insulted him. He baited the friend, led him to the catacombs, and buried him alive. I said, “But Harker wasn’t entombed.”
“Your grandmother would say placing him behind that brick wall was allegorical.”
“No, my grandmother would say you’re reaching. You’ve got Poe on the brain because Grandmère’s putting on her quirky show.”
Rebecca mulled that over. “Do you think one of the guests lured Harker to the cellar?”
I glanced at the people who lingered in the hallway. One cluster was making a wager about how long they’d have to wait. I flashed on the conversation yesterday in The Cheese Shop when Edsel had revealed that Harker was a gambler. Did he have debts he couldn’t repay? He owed Dane Cegielski. Did he owe others? Had someone followed him from Cleveland to recoup the money? Had that person lured him into the wine cellar?
From my vantage point in the hall, I could see into a number of rooms. Just inside the living room Winona whispered to Freddy. Although I was glad to see him, he looked wild-eyed. His gaze ping-ponged from Winona and back to the hallway door. Was he worried about his daughter or his alibi? Edsel paced the living room carpet, hands jammed into his pockets. He stopped, kicked an end table with his toe, then started up again, back and forth, as if working out a problem. Where was he at the time of the murder? Harker had verbally abused him at The Cheese Shop. Had Edsel taken all the abuse he could suffer? Had he snapped?
Guests spilled into the hallway from the dining room, some carrying plates of food. Though my appetite was all but squelched, I worried that there wouldn’t be enough fondue to feed the crowd. However, I was not the hostess, and making everyone comfortable was not my problem.
Poor Meredith. She hugged Matthew near the front door, her face awash with tears. Matthew stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. I heard Meredith say, “It’s ruined,” at least three times.
Beyond the opened door, a number of smokers had convened on the front porch, Dane among them. He leaned against a pillar in profile. Wisps of gray smoke spiraled around his head. Had he run past me on the stairs, not in search of Quinn, but because he was running from the crime scene? He cut a look in my direction, as if he knew that I was thinking about him. To my surprise, his somber eyes were pooled with tears.
I spun away, my pulse ticking double-time, and gazed at the door to the cellar. What was taking Urso so long?
A minute later, he lumbered from the stairwell, his beefy hand gripping Quinn’s slim arm. He guided her to a straight-back chair against the wall. She sat, shoulders hunched and trembling.
The trio from the living room hustled to the foyer. The throng from the front porch extinguished their cigarettes and reentered the building.
Dane sprinted to Quinn. Edsel, too. As they squatted beside her, I envisioned the scene in Gone With the Wind when Scarlet was besieged by men who wanted to take care of her. Freddy made a move toward Quinn, but Winona stopped him.
Urso clapped his hands. “May I have everyone’s attention, please?”
I perked up my ears, hopeful that Urso would tell us he had found the killer and this horrible ordeal could end right now.
Someone shouted, “Was he really strangled?”
Wolford, who stood beneath the arch leading to the dining room, said, “Is the treasure real?”
Urso raised his hands. The crowd quieted. The hush was disconcerting.
“I’d like to talk to everyone individually,” Urso said. “This could take time.”
The guests groaned in unison.
“Folks, please be patient. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. Kid.” Urso eyed his sole deputy, Rodham, who reminded me of the Road Runner, slim and leggy, with beaky lips and a tuft of funky hair. He had attended the party with his fiancée, a prissy woman who looked less than happy to be detained. “Go downstairs and guard the crime scene.” He turned to Meredith. “Could you round up some paper and pens for me?”
Looking relieved to have a mission, Meredith broke from Matthew and raced off in search of the requested items.
“The rest of you, let’s gather in the dining hall and take a seat. It could be a long night.”
While the crowd obeyed, Quinn broke from Edsel and Dane and dashed toward m
e. “Charlotte!” She skidded to a stop. “I know who killed Harker. Your assistant, Bozz.”
CHAPTER 6
“Bozz?” I nearly shrieked. “No way.”
Everyone heading for the dining room turned. I caught Prudence Hart leering at me with a tartness usually reserved for vinegar. She whispered to a needle-nosed friend to her right, then snickered. What was Prudence’s problem? Did she blame me for being detained at the event? She certainly couldn’t blame me for her choice of clothing, which was an obnoxious hot pink pantsuit that wouldn’t even look good on a mannequin. Taking over Providence’s only upscale women’s boutique after the owner left town—on what she liked to call a sabbatical—hadn’t improved Prudence’s sense of style one iota. She reminded me of a worn pencil: skinny, hard, and chewed around the edges. I swear she cut her hair with garden shears.
I pushed the catty thoughts from my mind and gripped Quinn by the shoulders. “Bozz is not a killer.”
Matthew, Meredith, and Rebecca hurried to our huddle.
Urso joined us. “What’s this about Mr. Bozzuto?”
Quinn blanched. Her shoulders started to shake. If I didn’t know Urso was a teddy bear to his core, I’d have quavered at his harsh tone, too.
“Bozz and Harker were fighting,” Quinn said.
“Says who?” Urso folded his arms across his massive chest, jaw set, his eyes revealing nothing. If only I could be so implacable.
“Edsel.” Quinn wriggled with discomfort. “He saw Harker push Bozz down the front steps.”
“When?” I demanded. Certainly not when we’d arrived. They had exchanged words, but Bozz had backed off, and Matthew had instantly put him to work carrying crates of wine.
“About a half hour ago,” Quinn said.
“Edsel who?” Urso said.
“Edsel Nash. The guy with the shaggy hair.” Quinn wiggled her index finger.
“Mr. Nash, get over here, now!” Urso jerked a thumb.
Edsel obeyed. Dane, like a shadow, shuffled behind him.
