by Avery Aames
“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.
CHAPTER 12
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 tab
le 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.”
Without rising, he pulled an empty chair away from the table and gestured for me to sit. His gaze seared me like a hot poker. “Ask away.”
I perched on the front edge of the chair. “I know you said that the Holmes County staff can’t get results fast, but did Harker struggle? Was there skin under his fingernails?”
Urso nodded.
“It would have been hard to hold on to Quinn’s ring and fight, don’t you think?”
Urso tilted his head, as if he were truly interested.
“What if Harker tucked the ring into his pocket, and the murderer found it and put it in Harker’s hand? What if the killer is trying to pin the murder on Quinn?”
“Who would do that?”
“I don’t know.” I couldn’t imagine Quinn had enemies, except the one she was making in Winona because of her disapproval of Winona’s relationship with Freddy.
A waitress dressed in the pub’s uniform of jeans, work shirt, and a kerchief set a bill on the table.
“Don’t go away.” Urso reviewed the charges then handed the waitress a credit card.
As she sashayed off, I noted the color of her kerchief—green, in honor of St. Patrick—and an idea surfaced. I said, “Quinn’s scarf.”
“What about it?” Urso snapped.
His mother cleared her throat. She patted his hand, like Grandmère would do to me.
Urso snatched his hand away and folded his arms across his massive chest. “Please continue, Charlotte.”
“The ring is like Quinn’s scarf.” I explained Rebecca and Delilah’s deduction.
“Not enough to go on.”
“Freddy,” I said.
“What about him?”
I bit my tongue. Could I accuse Freddy of something I couldn’t confirm? That wasn’t fair. But Urso was being so prickly and making me antsy to come up with something that would force him to release Quinn.
Even still, I chose the high road. “Freddy’s so upset.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Urso rose from the table and pulled back his mother’s chair. “Let’s go, Mama. Pop.”
Desperate to do something, I said, “You said the jewels were paste.”
“So?” He helped his mother into her coat.
“Why were they there? More specifically, why would Quinn put them there?”
He didn’t answer.
“U-ey, why would she do that?”
Urso escorted his parents away. Over his shoulder, he said, “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
By the time I returned to the booth, Rebecca and Delilah had nearly finished a plate of goat-cheese-smothered potato skins. As I took my seat, they peppered me with questions. I started to tell them about almost implicating Freddy, but stopped when I spotted Winona and Freddy walking in the front door of the pub. A rash of guilt spread up my chest at the sight of him. His gaze met mine, and as if he knew that I’d contemplated throwing him to the police in lieu of his daughter, he made a beeline for me. Winona followed.
“Charlotte, thank you. The lawyer was great,” Freddy said. “He’s going to get Quinn out on bail.”
“He’ll try-y-y-y,” Winona said, dragging out the word in that irritating way she had. She was a real Miss Know-It-All. I’d bet she was the girl in grade school who always stuck her hand up before anyone else. She glanced at her watch. I expected a testy tap of her foot any second. What did Freddy appreciate about her, other than her luscious Rubenesque body? Or was he simply courting her to dig up more money for Meredith’s project? A project that soon could be defunct.
“Hey, Mr. Vance,” someone called.
Edsel and Dane shambled toward the group.
“Sheesh, is everybody in town here tonight?” Rebecca whispered.
Delilah said, “I don’t see Ipo Ho.”
Rebecca blushed. She had a little crush on our Hawaiiangrown honeybee farmer. I think he reciprocated the feelings, though they hadn’t had a date yet. At least, not to my knowledge.
“Maybe I should consider having a St. Patrick’s Day tradition at the diner,” Delilah added.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Edsel. He looked taller, less sullen, as if he’d mystically cast off his Quasimodo demeanor. Had he learned the beauty of meditation? Or had he come to grips with Harker’s death? In contrast, Dane looked miffed. He glanced at Winona, who didn’t seem to want to make eye contact. I wondered again about their spat on the street. What was going on between them?
“How’s Quinn holding up?” Edsel said, his words clipped, tense.
“Not well,” Freddy said. “Meredith is taking Quinn some books to read.”
“That reminds me.” Edsel snapped his fingers. “Something came to me around two A.M. There was this poem we read in English last semester. We were discussing imagery, and you know how Harker was hidden behind that brick wall? Well, in the poem, there was this brick wall built around the hero, and it stood for his emotional barriers. Think someone built it specifically for Harker?”
“The wall did look new,” Rebecca said.
Edsel agreed. “You know, you’re right.”
I understood Rebecca knowing something like that; she’d toiled on an Amish farm her whole life. But how would Edsel know? “Was it there when you went to paint the winery?” I asked.
“Who knows?�
�� Edsel said. “None of us went down there.”
“But Harker’s painting,” I said. “The one hanging in the observatory at the winery. It’s a floating replica of the cellar with the metal bars and the same stones.”
Edsel shrugged. “Maybe he sneaked down or saw a photograph or something.”
“There’s no brick wall in his painting,” I said.
“Maybe he exercised artistic license and left it out,” Edsel offered.
“My parents never mentioned a brick wall in the cellar,” Dane said.
Edsel quirked an eyebrow. “Why would they?”
“They’re Ohio history and architecture buffs. They know everything about the building. I told you, you dolt.”
“You never told me, bro.”
“Yes, I did, you dork.”
“I’m telling you, you didn’t.”
I recalled Dane mentioning that tidbit to the group at the fund-raiser, but now wasn’t the time to correct Edsel.
“Fellas, that’s enough.” Freddy stretched his neck, as if uncomfortable with the size of his shirt collar.
“Maybe the wall is symbolic,” Rebecca said. “The wall and the jewels.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Zook,” Winona said in a tone louder than necessary, as if she were trying to project to the rear row of a theater.
“I’m not being ridiculous,” Rebecca countered, sitting taller and throwing her shoulders back to stress the point. “Every murderer leaves lots of clues.”
“Is that so?” Winona’s tone dripped with sarcasm.
I blocked their exchange from my mind and pictured the crime scene. If the jewels were symbolic, it made sense that the wall was symbolic, as well. Could the mention of imagery hurt Quinn’s case? A psychiatrist might suggest that she built the wall to make a statement about how shut down Harker was. But how could she have built it? She had arrived in town only two days ago.
“Say, did the police ever find Harker’s artwork?” Dane asked.
“I think whoever took it killed him,” Rebecca said.
