Lost and Fondue

by Avery Aames

  He stopped beside the door, traced a finger down my arm, and let it come to rest at the back of my hand. “Got time for dinner? My place, just the two of us.”

  A quiver of desire swept through me. Yes, yes, yes! Dinner and dessert and ...

  Reality blasted me like a cold shower.

  “Can’t,” I said. “Grandmère always throws a cast party a few days before opening night. It’s tradition. Want to join us?”

  “Dinner with a horde of colorful theater folks?” He grinned. “I’m in.” As he opened the front door, he eyed the brick that I was holding. “Please tell me you didn’t plan to use that as a weapon.”

  “It seemed a better bet than my flashlight.” I brandished the slender torch.

  “You’ve got hands. They can be lethal.”

  “You’re right.” But I wasn’t sure I would ever be calm enough or powerful enough to take down someone who wanted to hurt me without using a weapon of some sort. Take Harker, for example. He hadn’t been able to overcome his attacker, and he was taller and much stronger than I was.

  “Why are your fingers rubbed raw?” Jordan asked.

  “I almost forgot.” I darted across the foyer, yelling over my shoulder. “I found a shaft in the cellar.”

  “What were you doing down there?” He followed me.

  I switched on the flashlight, and as I bolted down the stairs, I explained the theory about the murderer setting the scene.

  Jordan said, “You’re telling me you think someone built the brick wall as a metaphorical statement?”

  “Or as a diversion.”

  “For what?”

  “To keep us guessing why it was built. I think the shaft leads to the dumbwaiter in the kitchen.” I guided him to the area behind the metal bars and showed him the opening in the wall. “The murderer could have come down the shaft, killed Harker, and escaped back through the shaft unnoticed.”

  Jordan raised an eyebrow. “And sealed the shaft with those half-stones after he left?”

  I winced, feeling pretty foolish with my assumption. “Okay, what if the killer used the shaft to bring the bricks down to the cellar?”

  “Why not use the stairs?”

  “Because access to the kitchen is less steep, and he wouldn’t have had to carry the bricks too far. A couple of trips using the dumbwaiter would do the trick.”

  Jordan crouched down and inspected the hole I’d created. “Okay, you’ve sold me, but why seal it up?”

  “So no one knew he—the murderer—had been there.”

  “Except he left a wall as a calling card.”

  I gaped at the brick wall and hated to admit that its presence left me stymied. Why had the killer gone to the trouble?

  Jordan said, “Call Urso and let him figure out the rest of the puzzle.”

  “I can’t let him know I was here.” A rush of fresh warm guilt crept into my cheeks. “He’ll be angry when he learns that I’ve trespassed.”

  “Man up.” Jordan grinned and cuffed my shoulder. “The theory about the brick wall should interest him.”

  “I’ve left him a message. When he returns the call, I’ll come clean. Until then, will you keep mum?”

  Though he didn’t look pleased with my decision, Jordan said he would give me twenty-four hours. After that, he’d feel compelled to do his civic duty.

  Grandmère met us on her front porch and bussed Jordan on both cheeks. “We’re so glad you came.” The warmth in her tone made me wonder if the other day I had misinterpreted her concern about my dating him. She patted his back and gave him a nudge to enter.

  Theater folks, as Jordan called them, filled the house. Grandmère was using sixteen crew people and four actors for this particular production, but others who had performed or helped backstage in previous shows were in attendance, as well. They poured out of the study and living room into the hallway. A pair of crew people, playing a game of rock, paper, scissors, sat on a step halfway up the curved staircase. A cute couple huddled near the bathroom door. He whispered in her ear, then sneaked a kiss. She pushed him away, but her eyes were smiling.

  “You’re here!” Amy zigzagged through the crowd and scampered toward us, her royal blue cape billowing behind her, a matching pirate’s hat falling rakishly over one eye. “Clair, Clair! Aunt Charlotte’s here with Mr. Pace!”

  Clair, dressed in a less flamboyant pirate’s costume, appeared in the doorway of the study. She held a book tucked under her arm, one of Grandmère’s leather-bound treasures—a century-old version of Alice in Wonderland. A tentative smile graced her pixie mouth, but her eyes were moist. Had she been crying again? My heart wrenched at the thought. If only I could swaddle her in a baby blanket and protect her from pain.

  “Pépère fixed incredible food.” Amy slipped her hand into Jordan’s and drew him along the hall. “Dr Pepper stew and cheese biscuits that Clair can eat.”

  Clair’s diet needed to be gluten-free, which meant no wheat products in her food. Luckily, most cheese was gluten-free. Amy, older by a minute, was always watching out for her younger sister.

  “And crème brûlée with shaved chocolate on top,” Amy added.

  “Sounds delicious,” Jordan said.

  “Take your coats off. Stay awhile.” Grandmère waved her hand. “There are drinks in the kitchen. My specialty, of course.” She kissed the tips of her fingers to show her appreciation. Recently she’d switched from her favorite drink, a gin fizz, to a beverage created “south of the border.” Her margaritas packed a punch—only one was allowed per person. “And Matthew has brought some delicious syrah wine. Enjoy! À votre santé.”

  “À votre santé,” Amy echoed. “Follow me!” She released Jordan’s hand and sprinted ahead of us.

  Grandmère gripped my elbow. “Take a moment to cheer Meredith. She’s very low.”

  And why wouldn’t she be? Her niece was in jail.

  “Any sign of Sylvie?” I asked, wondering if that was why Clair was teary-eyed.

  Grandmère shook her head. “Dieu merci, non.”

  I wondered where Sylvie had gone to after her foray into the winery. Did she know I’d been there, too? Was that why she was keeping her distance from her girlie-girls tonight? I didn’t dare tell Grandmère about my breaking-and-entering episode. She’d scold me, although truth be told, she’d probably have done the same thing.

  “Movie! Two syllables,” someone shouted from the living room.

  As we walked by, I peeked in. New posters for No Exit with Poe had been hung beside the other posters that decorated the wall. Actors, playing charades, sat on the Queen Anne chairs or perched on the burgundy sofa, their gazes riveted on the clue-giver who was miming by the fireplace. The group had made themselves signs denoting the two teams’ names—the Ravens and Lenore’s Ladies. Men against women. The stage manager at the theater, a squat woman with burgundy hair and more earrings in her ears than I had in my jewelry box, motioned: first word.

  “An Affair to Remember!” a member of the women’s team yelled.

  “That’s not two syllables, you ditz,” one of the guys taunted.

  “Colorful group,” Jordan said.

  “Like Grandmère.” I nudged him at the waist. “Keep going that way.”

  We entered the kitchen, which blazed with light. Delilah, Bozz, and the two leads from No Exit with Poe huddled near the pass-through counter. On the countertop, Pépère had laid out platters of a selection of cheeses, roasted vegetables, crackers, and pinwheel-shaped appetizers skewered with toothpicks.

  Delilah waved a slice of Edam at her audience. “No, no, no. Poe’s parents died when he was young.”

  “I heard he was adopted,” Bozz said.

  Jordan moseyed to the group. “Actually, the Allans never adopted him. They just took him in. He was born Edgar Poe.”

  “Did he really die at the age of forty?” the actor who served as the town’s only plumber asked.

  “Sure did,” Bozz answered. “He was a depraved, drugaddled drunk.”
r />   “Not true,” Jordan said while he sandwiched a piece of Brie between Pépère’s zesty three-seed crackers. “That was a lie spread by Rufus Wilmot Griswold, an editor and critic who hated Poe.”

  “That’s right,” Delilah said, eyeing Jordan with respect. “The letters that Griswold presented as evidence were later proven forgeries.”

  Jordan added, “Did you also know that Poe read Shakespeare and Zola and wrote fluently in three languages?”

  I tilted my head, surprised by his knowledge. Perhaps in his former life Jordan had been an English teacher. I was dying to know the truth but afraid to press.

  “No matter what, his words are glorious.” The second actor, a bucktoothed local farmer, struck a pose. “‘All we see or seem is but a dream within a dream,’” he intoned. “Magnificent, don’t you think?”

  I bit back a smile, not sure if he was asking about his performance or Poe’s words.

  Jordan gripped my elbow and whispered, “While they emote, let’s take a little walk outside.”

  He pushed back the kitchen door and let me pass through first. My grandparents’ yard was L-shaped, with a patio that abutted the driveway and a grassy area that ran perpendicular to the rear of the house. Soon dozens of vibrant pink azaleas would blossom. We strolled to the edge of the patio, and he slung an arm around my shoulders.

  “Warm enough?” he asked.

  “Barely.” I was glad that I’d retrieved my rain slicker from the bushes outside the Ziegler mansion. A few weeks hence, Pépère would start his Sunday barbecue tradition. For now, it was too cold to do any grilling.

  “What a night!” Jordan tilted his head backward.

  I copied him. The sky looked like black velvet that had been studded with diamonds. A scent of smoke from a fireplace hung in the air. Before I knew it, he was kissing me. I didn’t resist.

  When we came up for air, he said, “Make a wish.”

  “I have dozens of times.”

  “Make another. Wishes are always worthwhile. Close your eyes.” He swept his fingers over my eyelashes. The musky scent lingering on his hands was intoxicating. “See it,” he said. “Picture it coming true.”

  I imagined our trip to Europe, the two of us sitting at a café table, Jordan telling me all his secrets. He balked at one. My eyes fluttered open.

  “Why the pinched forehead?” he said.

  “Were you married before?” Over the past few months, I’d asked him all sorts of questions, but not that. Never that. At one time, I’d worried that Jacky was his wife, until I’d found out that she was his sister.

  His gaze flickered. “Almost.”

  “What happened?”

  “Let’s just say I didn’t do my homework.” His mouth twitched with humor. “I was twenty and reckless. I met her at a beach resort. We had a bit too much to drink. I thought I was in love.”

  “I’m picturing a scene from the movie Ten.”

  “You’re not far off the mark. She turned out to be married, on holiday for a little fling before”—he laughed hard—“before she settled down to have kids.”

  I gaped. “Are you telling the truth?”

  He crossed his heart and pulled me to him. “Always the truth with you.”

  Hushed whispers growing louder kept us from succumbing to another round of passionate kissing.

  I pressed away from Jordan and spied Matthew and Meredith rounding the corner from the rear yard. In the moonlight, Matthew looked wan and shaky. Meredith appeared equally haggard, nearly impossible for a woman who was so pretty. She held Matthew’s hand between both of hers. I doubted either had the wherewithal to console the other.

  Remembering Grandmère’s appeal to cheer up my friend, I said, “Jordan, Matthew. Would you guys get us a couple of glasses of wine?”

  They eyed each other and shrugged. Neither of them was stupid.

  While they headed into the house together discussing the Cleveland Indians’ potential this season, I guided Meredith to the swing on the porch. The striped canvas cushions felt cold beneath my trousers but not unbearable.

  “What’s bothering you?” I asked. It was an insipid question, given the circumstances. “Is it Quinn?”

  “Yes ... No. It’s Clair.”

  “Clair?”

  Meredith drew in a shallow breath. “She’s so brittle. She’s crying in the classroom.”

  The thought of my niece hurting gave my stomach a twist.

  “And she yelled at somebody who was taunting her on the playground today. She never yells.” Meredith’s lower lip trembled. “They think they want to be with their mother, but after being with Sylvie for any length of time, they’re tense and grumpy. She’s like an evil spirit or something. I wish I could drive her away, but I don’t know how.” Meredith let out a tiny sob. She laid a hand on her chest to calm herself. “Oh, Charlotte, what are we going to do?”

  “I saw her this afternoon.”

  “Sylvie?”

  “She was at the winery.”

  “Why was she there, for heaven’s sake?”

  “For the treasure, I think. Matthew must have told her about the folk legend. What if she doesn’t want custody of the twins? What if she came to town to sneak into the winery but needed a cover?”

  A burst of laughter came from the kitchen. I glanced through the window and saw Jordan and Matthew standing amidst the huddle of actors. Jordan buffed Matthew goodnaturedly on the shoulder. The sight warmed me to my toes. Chip had never liked anyone in my family. Jordan enjoyed all of them, including Rags and the twins.

  “Wait a second,” Meredith said, drawing me back to our conversation. “Do you think Sylvie might have killed Harker Fontanne? She couldn’t have. She left the winery that night, remember? She showed up with the girls, and Matthew shooed her away.”

  “But she returned, ostensibly to retrieve her purse,” I said. “She could have slinked into the cellar, surprised Harker, killed him, and hurried to the theater to establish her alibi. At the theater, when I told Urso I’d seen Sylvie’s car on the winery property, Sylvie looked like she wanted to strangle me.”

  A shiver snaked up my neck. Had Sylvie shown up at the winery earlier to do just that? Kill me?

  “Speak of the devil!” Meredith leapt to her feet. “Isn’t that her in the driveway?”

  Sylvie scrambled out of her rented silver Lexus and slammed the door. At the same time, as if tuned in by genetic code, Amy and Clair burst from the kitchen. They flew toward their mother like little birds seeking shelter. Sylvie swooped through the white picket gate and gathered up her girls.

  “My babies!” With her feral gaze and the flaps of her coat opened like wings, she reminded me of a sharp-shinned hawk. “We’re going for ice cream.” She steered a withering glance in my direction. “Try to stop me.”

  I wouldn’t. Not this time. But I’d keep a steady eye on her. If she wasn’t restrained on a tight leash, she might devour her young.

  CHAPTER 17

  The following afternoon, when I’d finished putting together the trays of cheeses that the pastor had ordered, I helped Matthew in the wine annex. His mood was as dark as the clouds gathering in the sky. Noisily he unpacked crates of wine while I wiped down the mosaic tables in preparation for the evening’s wine tasting. We’d had a rave response to the invitation. More than thirty people would be attending. Five of those reservations had come in since lunchtime.

  “Sylvie’s got to be stopped,” Matthew said as he set a variety of pinot noir wines on the counter. He wasn’t trying to start a conversation. It was the third time he’d made the pronouncement since Sylvie’s arrival at my grandparents’ house last night.

  After Sylvie whisked the girls away from the house for a spur-of-the-moment ice cream, I told Matthew about Sylvie’s raid into the winery. As much as he didn’t like her, he couldn’t believe she was guilty of murder. He said she wasn’t a physical type of person. In the past, I would’ve agreed. I’d always thought she’d acted coolly toward the twins. But since
she’d arrived, Sylvie couldn’t seem to stop hugging them and kissing them. Was it all an act?

  “What do you think she’s up to?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. She was always into get-rich-quick schemes. The first year we were married, she almost wiped us out by investing in a junk-hauling franchise.”

  “I remember.”

  Grandmère had been appalled. She’d ranted for days on end that her grandson, an honored sommelier, should not lower himself to the level of a garbage collector. Numerous times, I’d had to remind her that garbage collectors made good money, and junk haulers did even better.

  “The next year was hedge funds,” Matthew said. “The year after that, a miracle cream that would erase wrinkles.”

  That memory from four years ago made me wince. Sylvie had urged me, at the age of thirty, to buy a case of the cream, which, of course, made me peer into the mirror to see if wrinkles had invaded my face. They hadn’t then, and still hadn’t now.

  “No matter how many times I told her to stop investing in these schemes, Sylvie did what she liked,” Matthew said. “She’s impulsive and out of control, but I still can’t believe she could strangle someone. Though she’s threatened to choke me a time or two.” He offered a wry smile. “She’s never put a hand on me, not so much as a slap. And yet ...”

  “Yet what?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that I remembered seeing her talking to Harker on the day of the murder. They were standing on the sidewalk. The rain had let up. She had the twins with her, so I didn’t think much of it. Harker was showing them his paint palette.” He scuffed his chin with a knuckle. “Why had she singled him out? Quinn was around. Wouldn’t the girls have enjoyed hearing about painting from another girl and not a boy?”

  “Good point. Do you think Sylvie knew Harker?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll see if I can find out,” I said. “In the meantime, what did Mr. Nakamura say about your custody issue?” Matthew had called the lawyer-slash-hardware storeowner first thing that morning.