Lost and Fondue

by Avery Aames

  Or better yet, had Dane come to town with someone else and pretended to be Edsel? That would have been the sly thing to do. Although he was smooth-faced, I remembered thinking a few days ago that, with a little makeup, he might look like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. Scruffy. Had he plotted Harker’s death back in January? Given his volunteer experience, he could have learned how to put together a brick wall.

  I replayed a conversation between the students at the onset of the event at the winery. To defuse Harker’s anger at Bozz, Dane had suggested they take a tour of the mansion. He told Harker that he’d heard the layout was cool. When Harker asked how he knew that, Dane replied that his parents were Ohio architecture buffs. What if he had lied about that to cover up the fact that he was personally intimate with the winery’s structure? Except at the pub, when a group of us were discussing that the wall looked new, Dane hadn’t played it down. He’d reiterated that his parents knew the ins and outs of the structure. Had he hoped his openness would deflect suspicion from him?

  I flashed on something else. The stranger who had come into The Cheese Shop in January had tasted the Morbier. The first day that Freddy and the students had visited Fromagerie Bessette, Dane had asked for Morbier. It was an unusual request.

  As I moved my finger, ready to close the Internet page, I paused yet again, my gaze riveted by the picture of volunteers. I zeroed in on Dane. As I peered at his somber face, I stiffened. I’d seen eyes like his before. In a portrait. At the Ziegler Winery. Zachariah Ziegler’s eyes and his son’s eyes were like Dane’s. Deep-set and dark.

  Could it be? Was Dane a Ziegler?

  I worked through the theory. He said he was from New York, but he also said his parents were originally from Ohio. In the 1950s, Ziegler’s daughter Cecilia had moved to New York. Had she married someone named Cegielski? Dane would be about the right age to be her grandson.

  A genealogy search like Bozz’s was in order. I typed the name Cecilia Ziegler into a Google search line, added a plus sign, and typed ancestry. Up came Zachariah and his wife as Cecilia’s parents. Cecilia married in the 1960s, but like many hippies, she kept the maiden name of Ziegler. She bore one child, whom she named Zeb. She died in the 1970s. There was no mention of anyone named Cegielski.

  I typed Dane Cegielski into a search line. Over two hundred thousand Cegielski references emerged. The first specific one for Dane Cegielski was the same article that Bozz had found about volunteering for Habitat for Humanity. I was ready to dig deeper, when I noticed another article, about halfway down the first page of search items, that read: Cegielski: surname. The first line of the article: Cegielski, in Polish, means tiler or bricklayer.

  The killer liked leaving clues. Had Dane built the wall to telegraph that he was the killer?

  Fingertips tingling with excitement, I double-clicked the article and couldn’t believe what I found. According to the website, during the Middle Ages, as people moved north, surnames adapted to the languages of the people. Cegielski, a Polish name, became Ziegler in Germany. Was Dane the grandson of Cecilia Ziegler? The son of Zeb? Had he changed his name to Cegielski to hide his identity? Had he come to the winery to claim the treasure that he believed was rightfully his?

  I typed Dane Ziegler plus ancestry into a Google search. A host of articles appeared. One made my teeth tingle. Dane’s mother had committed suicide. The journalist who wrote the article noted that Dane’s great-grandmother had committed suicide after killing her son. The journalist added that, of course, a history of insanity could not be concluded because Dane’s mother was not a Ziegler. But the coincidence was bizarre.

  I sat back in the chair, my breathing shallow, certain that Dane killed Harker. But why? I couldn’t chalk it up to mere family insanity. By my estimation, there was a tremendous amount of premeditation. One: Dane came to town in January. He stole the bricks in small increments—possible because snowfall had hidden the theft. Two: He built the wall. Three: On the night of the event, Dane toyed with Quinn. He tried to get her to taste the fondue. He must have known about her allergy. He purposely dripped cheese on the scarf, hoping she’d abandon it. All along, he planned to use her scarf in the murder. Four: He placed fake jewels around Harker. That was the capper. If they’d been real because he’d been searching for treasure, I could have seen Dane leaving them in haste. But the jewels were fake. That made them significant. I believe they represented Harker’s ex-fiancée: Jules. Dane had known about her.

  A tremor of anxiety shot through me as I realized Dane could have been the stranger who had stood outside my house. He might have thought that I had put two and two together. He would have been wrong, of course, unless he believed I’d seen something when I’d stolen through his room to get to Freddy’s—something linking him to Harker’s murder.

  Rags yowled his I’m starved squall.

  I scratched his ears and whispered, “Good idea. I’ll take you home and feed you. Then I’m going next door to snoop, okay?”

  To make my visit to the B&B look legitimate, I would take a basket of cheese for Lois.

  CHAPTER 29

  With Rags trailing me, I raced from the office and fetched a basket from the shelves behind the cheese counter.

  “Whatcha doing?” Rebecca strode from the kitchen with a fresh white towel to clean the counters. Soft afternoon light bathed her in a radiant glow.

  “I’m making a basket.” My voice sounded a little too singsong. I cleared my throat.

  “I can see that.”

  “Time to close up.”

  “I’m on it.” She waggled the towel.

  “Of course you are.” I set the basket on the cutting board and swiped rounds of Camembert and Brie from the cheese display. Lois preferred soft cheeses.

  The Cheese Shop was empty of customers. So was the annex. I spotted Meredith and Matthew sitting at a booth in the Country Kitchen across the street. Jordan and his sister sat in the booth next to them. As if sensing me watching him, Jordan looked up and smiled in my direction. I remembered our last delicious kiss in the co-op garden, and my insides turned warm, like the center of a molten lava cake made doubly rich with a powdered sugar and crème fraîche center.

  Soon, I reminded myself. We would leave for our getaway soon.

  “Where’s Pépère?” I asked.

  “He went back to the theater,” Rebecca said. “What’s up? You’re acting funny.”

  “Nothing’s up.”

  “Liar.”

  How could she tell? I was the model of calm. Chin high, shoulders back. My hands weren’t even trembling.

  “You’re doing that lip thing. And your eyes ...” She twirled a finger. “They’re all glazed over. You’re keeping something from me.”

  I had to practice lying more. Maybe a few sessions in front of my mirror would help. “Don’t you have a date with Ipo tonight? You’re going to the pub.”

  “Oho! Trying to change the subject, are you?”

  Indeed, I was.

  “Have you tried the pub’s Brie-stuffed mushrooms topped with herbed crumbs?” I hummed my appreciation. “To die for.”

  Rebecca clucked her tongue.

  I ignored her curious gaze and stuffed the basket with gold raffia. Next, I inserted balls of crumpled paper. They would serve as props for the cheese. I rewrapped the Camembert and Brie, sealed them with our special gold labels, and positioned them against the crumpled paper just so. I added a box of whole-grain crackers, a jar of raspberry jam—Lois’s husband, the Cube, would appreciate that—and a package of cute cocktail napkins. I tied a mixture of gold and burgundy raffia around the handle and said, “Voilá.” The result was festive and fun.

  “You forgot the gold cellophane.”

  “I’ll skip it this time.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “Lois.”

  “Aha!” Rebecca drummed her nails on the counter as punctuation. “I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “You’re going back to Lavender and Lace.
”

  “I’m paying a social visit to Lois.” I pressed my lips together. Hard.

  “Hogwash.” Rebecca flicked my arm with her fingernail. “Why are you keeping me in the dark?”

  I swooped up the basket and headed for the exit. Rags galloped to catch up with me. “Have a fun time on your date. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’m going with you. Ipo will understand.”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “You’re investigating something.” She darted around me, locked the door, and flipped the closed sign. Then she faced me, hands on her bony hips. My grandmother couldn’t have struck a more demanding pose. “At least tell me what you’re doing.”

  Fully aware that I wasn’t getting out of the shop unless I did, I relayed what I’d learned on the Internet.

  She agreed with my deduction. “The mother’s suicide, the bricklayer clues. Oh, yeah. You’ve nailed it. Dane thinks you saw something in his room. Go, go.” She unlocked the front door. “Make sure you look under the bed. And between the mattresses. And don’t forget to check the bottoms of his shoes for trace evidence from the cellar. Urso didn’t think to check our shoes that night.”

  “That’s probably because so many of us had been in the cellar.”

  “Good point. Oh, don’t forget to check the nooks and crannies.”

  “Good night, my little Sherlock.” I scooped up Rags and flew out the door.

  As I trotted north toward home, I saw Dane, Edsel, Freddy, and Quinn entering Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, and I nearly cheered out loud. Their little gathering would keep them out of my hair while I snooped. Perfect.

  After I fed Rags, I sped next door to Lavender and Lace. The dinner hour hadn’t quite arrived. I heard the lovely strains of “Clair de Lune” playing on the stereo in the great room but saw no one occupying the couches or chairs. I searched for Lois in the kitchen to deliver my basket but didn’t find her. The spicy aroma of cloves mixed with cinnamon drifted from a pot of stew on the stove. A low gas flame fluttered beneath it. Agatha, the Shih Tzu, raised a sleepy head from where she lay on her checkered pillow by the kitchen door. I crouched to scratch her ears, and she settled back down.

  “Lois?” I called.

  No answer.

  As I turned to leave, I noticed a keychain with a purple rabbit’s foot tucked onto a hook in the back of the telephone cubby. Lois’s set of master keys. She’d had them when she’d let us into Harker Fontanne’s room. It was my lucky day. I wouldn’t have to employ the credit-card-entry trick again. I’d been worrying about that all the way over. Dane certainly wouldn’t have left his room door unlocked a second time.

  As I reached for the keychain, I heard giggling. My pulse kicked up a notch as I tiptoed to the hall to locate the sound. It was coming from Lois and the Cube’s living quarters. They lived at the rear of the inn. The giggling, both male and female, came from behind a closed door. So did the sound of a shower. Oh, my.

  My cheeks grew warm, but I wasn’t one to waste an opportunity.

  I snagged the keychain and dashed up the stairs to the second floor. Using the key marked with Dane’s room number—Lois was such a trusting soul—I let myself inside and closed the door. A cool breeze wafted in through the opened window, but it did nothing to calm me. I set my purse, the cheese basket, and the keychain on the dresser, put a hand to my chest to still my beating heart—could it pound any louder?—and surveyed the room.

  If I was right and Dane thought I’d seen something, what was it and where was it now?

  Nothing on the surface of his bureau or bed or bathroom counter screamed out to me. As before, a stack of receipts was piled on the bureau. This time I fingered through them. None showed that he had visited Providence prior to this visit.

  On the floor lay a pair of tennis shoes, moist from rain, but no moss on the soles. Pebbles and what looked like bits of mortar stuck in the grids. Would any of it match the material that I’d chipped out of the cellar wall by the dumbwaiter?

  That’s a reach, Charlotte. Move on.

  I inspected Dane’s black leather toiletries kit. It contained the usual things. Razor, comb, toothbrush. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  I rifled through his suitcase, which was half full. Where were the rest of his clothes? Had I seen something among his laundry? In the top drawer of the dresser, I found a wad of dirty clothes, including the sweater that he’d worn the night of the winery event. There was cheese on the collar, but it was nothing that would incriminate him or get him to confess to murder. I peeked into the remaining drawers, but each was empty.

  Working my way around the room, I grew increasingly tense. I felt like I was dallying. Go, go, go. Time is of the essence.

  I clicked my neck to relieve the stress and made another visual tour. What had I missed? Check the nooks and crannies, Rebecca had said.

  I peered behind the tissue box. Under the bureau. Inside the cabinet beneath the sink. Nothing.

  My gaze landed on the mirror and zeroed in on Dane’s toiletries kit from the backside. It had a zipper pocket that I’d missed. Energized with hope, I reached inside and felt the edges of a photograph. It was of Dane and a pretty girl in a blue sweater, mugging for the camera. The girl’s hair swooped like Winona’s. Like the girl in Harker’s paintings. It was Julianne. I flipped the picture over and read in chickenscratch writing: Frailty, thy name is woman.

  A chill scudded through me. Not from the uptick in the breeze from the open window, but because I recognized the line from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. At Grandmére’s insistence, I had taken an intensive Shakespeare class in my sophomore year at college. Hamlet was fed up with his mother’s infidelity. Was Dane comparing Julianne to his mother? Had his mother had an affair? Had her lover abandoned her? Was that why she had committed suicide?

  I was ready to call Urso, but paused when I saw something knobby protruding at the bottom of the zippered pocket. I set the photograph down on the bathroom counter and rummaged for the item. I found two things—a blue jewel, similar to the fake jewels that had been strewn around Harker Fontanne, and a teeny sapphire ring. Quinn’s ring. He must have stolen the ring from the precinct. I had to call Urso.

  But before I could spin around, a strong arm circled me. Yanked me backward. My attacker shoved a wad of something into my mouth—paper towels, if my palate was correct. He snared me with both arms, and squeezing like a boa, said “Gotcha.”

  I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror. Dane.

  I grasped his biceps and pulled down as I’d been taught in self-defense class, but his hold wouldn’t weaken. He was too powerful.

  “Find what you were after?” he hissed.

  I cursed inwardly. At the time I’d found the photograph, I’d felt the breeze kick up. Why hadn’t I realized someone had entered the room? Why hadn’t I heard Dane’s footsteps?

  “I hoped when you saw me standing outside your house, you’d be scared and back off,” he said. “My mistake.”

  I moaned.

  “Uh-uh. None of that. Hush!” He strapped his forearm across my neck and jerked.

  My breath caught. My knees gave way. A blackness enveloped me.

  By the time I came to, he’d lashed my hands behind my back. It didn’t feel like he’d used rope. The material was softer, a silk weave. Maybe a scarf.

  “Let’s go.” He yanked me to my feet. The photograph, jewel, and ring had vanished. “Stand up.”

  I couldn’t. My knees felt like jelly.

  He braced my knees with his. “I’ll sling you over my shoulder if I have to. Nobody’s around.”

  I ordered my legs to grow strong. Without the use of my arms, I needed my legs.

  “That’s a girl,” he whispered. “I saw you as we were strolling into the pub. You looked like you were up to something. You shouldn’t have pried. You should’ve known better.” He slung his arm around my shoulders like we were best friends. “C’mon, we’re going to take a little trip.”

  On the way out the door,
he hefted the cheese basket and my purse from the dresser. “We don’t want to leave any evidence behind.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Dane led me down the hallway toward the rear staircase. I wriggled in protest and tried to jam my heel into his instep, but he was quick and dodged the assault.

  “Nice try,” he said. “Downstairs.” He lifted me around the waist. My feet dangled above the steps.

  At the exit leading to the parking lot behind Lavender and Lace, he set me down and yanked on the door handle. The door squeaked with a vengeance as it opened, but no one came running to save me. Where was the ever-industrious Cube when I needed him? Playing footsie with Lois in the bedroom, I thought miserably.

  Dane peeked outside then shoved me forward. Gravel crunched beneath my feet. A lone Toyota truck was parked in the lot—the same truck that had almost plowed me down in the street the other day. Too intent on catching the B-movie guy who I’d mistakenly thought was stalking Jacky, I hadn’t registered that Dane was the driver of the truck. Had he wanted to kill me then? Did he have a last-minute change of heart? I wished he would this time, too.

  “Get in.” He swung open the passenger door and gave me a shove.

  I clambered up—hard to do without the use of my hands—and pitched forward. My face smacked the seat. Dang, but it smarted. Blood trickled from my nose. Angry, I kicked backward, but Dane anticipated the attack. He ducked out of range then came at me with a firm hand and pressed me to the floor. “Stay out of sight like a good girl.”

  For the first time in my life, I was sorry I was a good girl. Why wasn’t I tougher? Why wasn’t I the female counterpart of James Bond? Oh, to be strong and—