by Avery Aames
“His samples,” I said.
“That’s right. In return, I wouldn’t give him a rough time about dating Quinn.”
“Other than school protocol, why would you give him a rough time?” I asked.
“He had a bad rep with girls. He loved ’em and left ’em. I didn’t want that for Quinn. She throws herself into a relationship heart and soul, like”—his shoulders slumped forward—“like me. I was afraid he’d break her heart.”
“But in the end, you agreed to let them date,” I said, guiding him to the truth. “They became a couple. They fell in love.”
“And look what happened.” Freddy sucked back a sob.
“Quinn did not kill Harker,” Meredith said, her voice sharp, tense. “I’m sure of it.”
I eyed Freddy. “Did you kill him?”
“I wanted to.”
Meredith thumped Freddy’s arm with a fierceness I’d never seen from her. “Don’t say such a thing!”
A stark silence fell between us. Freddy jammed his left hand into his pocket. Within seconds, his fingers started worrying the lining, just like before, and a jolt of suspicion shot through me. Whenever I fibbed, my mouth fell open a teensy bit and my eyes turned dull. Bad habits are like chains that are too light to feel until they are too heavy to carry, Warren Buffett claimed—a quote from one of the inspirational books my grandmother had given me, though why it was inspirational was beyond me.
I said, “Freddy, on the night of the murder, you lied at the winery when Urso questioned you.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“When you lie, you do that thing with your hand. You’re doing it now.”
With a shrug of surrender, he wiggled his cell phone out of his jeans pocket and held it out to me. “I play with my phone. Sue me.”
“C’mon, Freddy, be straight,” Meredith said.
“I am being straight.”
“You don’t want me to call the boys,” she threatened. The boys were her other brothers—both younger, both meatier than Freddy. Did she consider them enforcers? Could they bully Freddy into a confession?
“Did you lie at the winery?” I said. “Did you really see Harker fight with Bozz or were you someplace else?”
“You mean, was I lurking in the cellar?” Freddy asked through tight teeth. “Waiting for my chance to kill him? C’mon, Charlotte. You sound like a dime store novelist.” He stretched his jaw. “No, I did not build the frigging wall. Yes, I saw Bozz and Harker fight. After my argument with Harker, I went out for a smoke. I called my wife—my ex. Check the times. I don’t erase calls. We must have talked for forty-five minutes.”
“That’s not a good enough alibi,” I said. “You could have dialed your wife, reached her answering machine, and left your telephone on.”
“She has one of those machines that cuts off after thirty seconds of talking,” he said. “She doesn’t like someone who chatters.”
“He’s telling the truth about that,” Meredith said. “The machine cut me off last week when I was leaving a message for her.”
Freddy swiveled his head. “You still talk to her?”
“Sometimes.”
His eyes grew moist. “Look, Charlotte, if you don’t believe me or the telephone company, ask the pastor. He saw me walking the grounds with the cell phone plastered to my ear. He’s right over there.”
The group of teenagers that had passed us had joined up with a dozen others on the Congregational Church lawn. Pastor Hildegard was hustling toward them, waving his hands and pointing at the sky. The pastor was one of the most honest men in the world. Would Freddy have singled him out if he didn’t feel absolutely sure his story would hold up?
As if he knew we were talking about him, Pastor Hildegard stopped shepherding the chatty teens into the church and turned. He nodded his chin in greeting.
“Well?” Freddy said. “Are you going to grill him or believe me?”
I swiveled back to face Freddy, who was gnawing the corner of his mouth, and another wave of distrust coursed through me. I felt like I was peeling back the layers of a very rotten onion. “Why didn’t you tell Urso all of this up front?”
“Did you know that U-ey used to tease me in high school?”
“We were all friends.”
“No, he was your friend and I was your friend. We did things together, but we were never friends. I was a gymnast. He was on the football team. He teased me a lot.”
“Did he bully you?”
Freddy shook his head. “But if he found out that I was begging my wife to take me back now, he would call me a wimp.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” I couldn’t imagine Urso making fun of anyone, but people were different in high school. “Just so you know, a few years back, Urso was in the same situation as you. He wanted to reunite with his wife for a long time. I would imagine some pleading was involved.”
Freddy worked his tongue along the inside of his cheek.
Meredith glanced at her watch. “Visiting hours are almost up. Let’s walk and talk at the same time.”
We turned the corner and headed toward the precinct, keeping to the sidewalk. Steady traffic prevented us from crossing the street.
“What if I had told the truth?” Freddy said. “I wasn’t Urso’s prime suspect. Quinn was.”
“Urso wasn’t considering Quinn at the time,” I said. “You and the others had put the blame on Bozz.”
“She’s right,” Meredith said. “You should have mentioned the artwork samples to Urso.”
“If I had, Urso would have stopped looking for the art portfolio.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “One truth does not discount the other.”
Freddy huffed. “Look, if Harker didn’t toss all the artwork, then someone took it. Not Quinn. Not me. Maybe the real murderer. Maybe that’s your motive.”
Rebecca had suggested the same.
“I’ve really botched things, haven’t I?” Freddy’s face grew tight, as if he was straining to keep himself in check. “If only I’d been with Quinn after she split from Edsel at the fund-raiser. I’d be her alibi.”
And she’d be yours, I thought, but his words gave me pause. Something he’d said at the winery that night gnawed at the edges of my mind.
I pulled in front of him on the sidewalk and held up my palm. “Hold it. You said your wife left you for a nine-to-fiver because she wanted someone with a steady paycheck. Truth or lie?”
“Truth.”
“Then why call her? Why plead with her? You’re not going to change.”
“She hasn’t remarried yet. I thought ...” Freddy stretched his neck. “I wanted to hear her voice. I miss her so much.”
Meredith exhaled. “Tell Charlotte what really happened.”
Freddy looked blankly at her.
“It’s going to come out,” she said.
“What’s going to come out?” I demanded, wishing I didn’t sound like a browbeating prosecutor, but what could I do? I had a reluctant witness.
“I have anger management issues.” Freddy’s shoulders sagged.
I gasped. “You hit your wife?”
“No! I hit a wall. Repeatedly.”
His brothers were brawlers, too.
“Why did you hit the wall?”
“Because I couldn’t stand the art I was putting out, okay? Because I was frustrated. I think I should have more talent than I do, but I don’t. I’ve resigned myself to it now, but then ... then I let things bottle up inside me and ...” He rubbed his jaw. “I broke bones in my right hand.” He held it out. A thin scar ran down the back of it. His knuckles looked oversized as if the swelling hadn’t gone down completely. “That’s why I borrowed Harker’s artwork. I couldn’t paint for two months. I needed samples to teach certain styles.” He heaved a sigh. “My wife left me because she couldn’t handle not knowing when I might explode again. I called her to apologize. To tell her I’ve changed.” Freddy rolled his shoulders back and clicked his neck right, then left. “I’m in therapy.
”
“Meredith, why did you keep quiet about Freddy’s problem? Why—” I halted as the reason dawned on me. “You did it because you thought the truth about the anger issue wouldn’t help Quinn’s case.”
Meredith slipped her hand through the crook of her brother’s elbow. “Urso would reason that Quinn had the same impulses as Freddy and my brothers. Or he would accuse Freddy of losing his temper and killing Harker. I couldn’t risk telling you.”
My heart felt heavy for her, for Freddy, and for Quinn. But if Freddy didn’t kill Harker, who did?
As we neared the precinct, Dane trotted down the front steps, bouncing a set of keys in his palm. Had he gone to see Quinn? He looked upbeat, as if she had embraced his visit. He shrugged on his leather jacket, crossed the street, and strolled into the Village Green using the north path.
Right after his departure, Winona exited the building with Wolford Langdon. I was surprised to see him still in town. Had Winona encouraged him to get better acquainted with Providence? With her? They scanned what looked like a city map obtained from the Tourist Information Center, and without glancing in our direction, proceeded south. As flirtatious as Winona was, I wondered again about her relationship with Harker. I recalled the know-it-all wink she’d thrown him that first day in The Cheese Shop. There had been an intimacy between them I didn’t understand.
“Freddy, talk to me about Winona.”
“She’s big, brassy, and bossy.”
“But you like her.”
“Yeah, she’s okay. Look, it’s not what you think between us. My wife—” Freddy wedged his left hand into his pocket, glanced at me, and quickly pulled his hand back out, shaking his fingers as if trying to break himself of the habit. “My wife always wanted me to learn to dance. I wasn’t willing. But I thought if I showed her some good faith, she might reconsider. Like I said, she hasn’t married the guy yet.” His face pinched with pain. “Winona won some dance competitions. She offered to help me.”
“She has designs on you,” Meredith said.
“Nah. She’s a tease. She comes on to lots of men. Look.” He pointed.
Even at a distance, I could see Winona had looped her hand around Wolford’s elbow. She teasingly tapped the handle of her red umbrella on his arm and tilted her head toward his.
“What else do you know about her?” I said.
Freddy smoothed his hair, clearly uncomfortable. “At one time she was an actress, working in Chicago. I don’t think she was very successful.”
“How does she have enough money to be a donor?”
“When she turned twenty-five, she came into family money.”
That tidbit caught me off guard. “Were there any, you know, odd circumstances regarding the inheritance?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, did she inherit because somebody died suddenly?”
“Ah, c’mon, Charlotte,” Freddy blurted. “You can’t possibly think she’s a murderer. No, she isn’t. I can’t believe it.”
Deep down, yes, I could.
CHAPTER 23
I left Freddy and Meredith at the precinct and returned to The Cheese Shop. My timing was fortuitous. Seconds after I entered, the storm arrived. Luckily, weather wasn’t putting a damper on the evening’s wine tasting. Customers crowded the shop. More filled the wine annex.
Using a dry towel, I blotted moisture from my hair and clothing. Then I strolled to the archway leading to the annex and listened as Matthew gave his opening spiel. I saw no sign of Sylvie and began to wonder if she had hightailed it out of town to avoid further scrutiny. Like Matthew, I couldn’t picture her as a murderer, but Lizzie Borden had fooled a lot of people.
“Ohio does not have the showiness of Napa,” Matthew said in response to a question from the crowd. “Or the panache of Europe, but we are a blossoming wine culture. Our vintners are bursting with a passion to learn. You’ll taste some mature pinot noirs from California tonight, as well as some youthful and unapologetic pinots from around here.”
Among the crowd, I spotted Dane leaning against the wine bottle cubbies near the window. Was he over twentyone? He had to be. Matthew wouldn’t have let him enter without carding him. He was strict about liquor rules. I scanned the room for his buddy, Edsel, curious whether he’d tried to sneak in. By my estimation, he was definitely underage, but I also thought women who were forty looked thirty and girls who were twelve appeared twenty. At the age of thirty-four, I wasn’t sure I looked much older than twenty-nine, but I was probably kidding myself.
Dane swiveled and peered out the window, fixated on something on the street. I gazed where he was staring. Outside the Country Kitchen, Winona stood with Wolford beneath Winona’s bright red umbrella. She laughed at something Wolford said. Dane scowled. What was Winona’s and his story? I didn’t think they were lovers or even former lovers, but there was something between them.
“Charlotte, can you help?” Rebecca tapped my shoulder. “We’re swamped.”
I peered through the archway. A troop of customers stood in line by the cheese counter. For the past year, I hadn’t wanted to resort to using a number system, but with the crowds The Cheese Shop was drawing lately, I needed to reconsider the idea.
“Sure,” I said. “Matthew’s on firm ground.”
Before I’d had time to sling on my apron, I heard a woman shriek, “Charlotte Bessette!”
Prudence Hart jabbed an umbrella into the container by the door and marched toward me. The bouffant skirt of her throwback-to-the-fifties floral taffeta dress swished noisily. I shivered at the sight of her. Wasn’t she cold? The rain had turned the temperature outside to a brisk forty-two. All in the name of fashion, I guessed.
Accompanying Prudence was a reed-thin woman I recognized as the head of the Providence Garden Society, voted in because, at one time, she had been a landscape designer in Dayton. A title didn’t necessarily mean she had talent, a number of people in town had confided. Prudence’s friend also wore a vintage dress, no doubt pressed upon her by Prudence—hers was green-striped and too low-cut for a woman with practically no breasts.
Prudence pushed through the knot of people standing in front of the counter and wagged a finger at me. “Charlotte, this riffraff, this college influence, has got to go.”
“Got to go,” her friend echoed.
“Now isn’t a good time, Prudence,” I said. With all my might, I mentally telegraphed her the idea to leave of her own accord, but she didn’t pick up on the signal.
“Now is the only time. You must control Meredith and that committee of hers.”
“I must do no such thing. Talk to the town council.”
“But you have to.” Prudence’s voice soared an octave.
“You have to!” her friend repeated.
I advised Rebecca that I would return in a second and hustled from behind the counter. Gripping Prudence and her friend by the elbows, I shuttled them outside the shop.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Prudence sputtered, obviously surprised by my strength and determination.
I steered them away from the front door but remained beneath the awning. Prudence and her friend huddled together to stay dry as rain continued to spill over the edges of the awning. The nip in the air cut through my button-down shirt, but I refused to show any sign of weakness.
Gritting my teeth together to keep them from chattering, I said, “I will not have you disrupt Matthew’s event. He has worked so hard to develop a clientele.” When Matthew gave up his career as a sommelier, he worried that moving to a small town like Providence would affect how people viewed him. Since his arrival, he had toiled endlessly to keep up his relationships with wineries worldwide as well as the local wineries. One bad night could thwart his progress. “Before you go, let me add that I want you to cease and desist with the Boycott Fromagerie Bessette posters.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Prudence sniffed.
Her friend copied the sniff.
“You’ve been postin
g them all over town,” I said.
“I’ve done no such thing.”
“Let’s make a pact. I won’t buy anything in your store, and you won’t buy anything in mine. I won’t boycott your store, and you—”
“My boutique,” Prudence hissed.
A car veered to the curb, splashing up rainwater. Prudence scooted out of the way, accidentally pushing her friend from beneath the protection of the awning. Her friend shoved back. Like a slapstick duo in an old-time movie, they swatted each other until they realized I wasn’t the only one observing them. A pair of patrons clucked their tongues as they entered the shop.
Taking the highest of the low roads, Prudence’s friend smoothed her dress and said, “Prudence, dear, you’re getting off track. The college people. The riffraff. The museum.”
Prudence snapped her attention back to me. “That’s right! Charlotte, these college folk have ruined the Providence Historical Museum. They’re traipsing in snow.”
“We don’t have snow. You mean mud.”
In addition to running Le Chic Boutique, Prudence had put herself in charge of our local museum. It was a privately owned museum with mementoes from our town’s illustrious, albeit quaint history. The owner, Lois Smith’s sister and one of Prudence’s best friends, had taken an extended vacation. Lois had no desire to manage the museum. The B&B kept her busy twenty-four hours a day. Out of the goodness of her pretentious heart, Prudence had taken the helm and was running the museum with a steel grip.
Prudence waved an agitated hand. “They’re so scruffy. The language they use. And they finger everything.”
“Everything,” her friend echoed.
“It’s not a hands-on museum,” Prudence continued. “It’s for viewing purposes only. Their behavior is disrespectful.”
I sighed. “Prudence, there are hundreds of books and photograph albums in the museum. What do you expect visitors to do? Stare at the covers? They’re curious.”
“I want them to put on Latex gloves, of course. We provide them. They’re right by the front door as you walk inside.”
