Lost and Fondue

by Avery Aames

  Urso said, “Explain, Mr. Nash.”

  “Harker was, like”—Edsel cleared his throat—“spitting mad at that nerd, Bozz.”

  “Where?”

  “On the front porch.” Even standing at attention, Edsel looked sloppy. His shoulders slouched. His eyes grew hooded like a cobra’s. He wiped raggedy strands of hair off his forehead. “He said—”

  “Who said?” Urso cut in.

  “That dork, Bozz,” Dane blurted.

  Urso wheeled on Dane. “You saw this, too?”

  Dane screwed up his mouth. “Uh, no.”

  “Then let Mr. Nash tell the story.” Urso turned his glare on Edsel. “Nash?”

  Edsel licked his lips. “He—Bozz—said, ‘What’s your problem, man? Why are you following me?’ and Harker said, ‘I saw you looking at her.’ And Bozz said, ‘Was not.’ And Harker said, ‘Were, too. I told you to back off.’ Then Harker landed him one right in the jaw.”

  Urso’s face remained impassive. I would bet he had seen his share of fights—seen them, not engaged in them. He was an Eagle Scout through and through. But he had gone away to college and he’d joined a fraternity that favored football players and heavy drinking. An occasional brawl was inevitable.

  After a moment, Urso turned to me. “How does Mr. Bozzuto know Mr. Fontanne?”

  “He doesn’t,” I said. At least I didn’t think he did. Bozz wasn’t working at The Cheese Shop yesterday when the students came in for breakfast.

  “They met tonight,” Rebecca said. “When we drove up. He said Quinn was cute, and—”

  I gripped her wrist to hush her from telling more. “Look, U-ey.” I paused. Swallowed hard. “I mean, Chief. Bozz is the sweetest kid on earth, you know that.”

  Freddy sidled up to Quinn and put a protective, fatherly arm around her shoulders. Winona moved to Quinn’s other side, but her arms remained lank.

  Prudence and her needle-nosed friend clustered behind Freddy, Winona, and Quinn. Each of the women carried a plate of bread chunks dipped into fondue. While popping bites into their mouths, they leaned forward, looking eager to hear the dirt. Inwardly, I groaned. I could just imagine the gossip that would fly around town tomorrow.

  Freddy said, “Bozz might be a nice kid, but I saw the altercation, too.”

  I gaped at him, upset that I couldn’t defend Bozz if two witnesses came forward.

  “Tell the chief what you know, Freddy,” Winona said.

  Urso zeroed his gaze on Freddy. “Got something to say, Mr. Vance? Where were you at the time of the incident?”

  “C’mon, U-ey, you can call me Freddy.”

  “I asked you a question, Mr. Vance.”

  Freddy stretched his neck. His jaw flicked with tension. “I was outside for a smoke.”

  If he’d gone outside for a smoke when Winona had, why hadn’t they gone together? Winona said they had gotten separated. That must have been when Freddy had the fight I’d witnessed with Harker. I thought of the words they’d exchanged. What agreement had Freddy and Harker made? Why was Harker worried that Freddy would renege on it?

  “Outside where, exactly?” Urso said.

  “Over by the Dumpster.” While Freddy plucked strands of hair off Quinn’s shoulders with his right hand, his left hand fidgeted in his pocket, something he used to do back in grade school whenever he was lying. Was he fabricating an alibi for himself? Why would he and Edsel tell the same story about Bozz if it wasn’t true?

  “Did you see Mr. Bozzuto and Mr. Fontanne go down to the cellar together?” Urso asked.

  “They couldn’t have,” I cut in. “Bozz left for the theater with my grandparents.”

  “Charlotte, hush,” Urso said. “He’s your employee.”

  “Does that mean I can’t defend him?”

  Urso glowered at me. “Did you see him leave the premises?”

  “Well ... no.” My arms, down to my fingertips, prickled with anxiety. I shook my hands to clear the uncomfortable feeling, but it was to no avail. “Pépère was looking for him. He wouldn’t have left without him. Bozz is innocent!” I clapped my hand over my mouth, surprised at my outburst; but my Internet guru was no more of a killer than Gandhi was. Bozz listened to inspirational music, he was an eco-nut, and he wrote poetry. Heck, he sneaked little treats to my cat and helped old ladies across the street.

  Urso huffed. Exasperation turned into beads of perspiration. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell me again, Mr. Vance. When did this altercation take place?”

  “A half hour ago.”

  Rebecca elbowed me and twitched her chin toward the staircase. I got the hint. I replayed the scenarios she and I had witnessed while on the hunt. Right at the start, Harker had chased Quinn into the kitchen. About five minutes later, we saw Edsel and Quinn upstairs. Two minutes after that, Harker and Freddy were heard arguing. Had a half hour passed since then?

  I said, “Quinn, where did you go after you and Edsel played Quasimodo upstairs?”

  “Quasi what?” she asked.

  “The candle thing. He was making you laugh.”

  “Oh.” Her breath caught in her chest.

  Was she surprised someone had seen her? Maybe her dalliance with Edsel had made Harker so mad that he’d come after her a second time. Had he chased her to the cellar? Had she lashed out? No, I couldn’t see Quinn having the strength to kill him. Not by strangulation. But it was her scarf that was the murder weapon, and she was the one we found hiding in the coal chute.

  But then I recalled the earlier scuffle between Dane and her, when Dane had tried to force-feed her fondue. She’d abandoned the scarf. Anyone could have picked it up. Even Bozz.

  My shoulders tensed.

  “Don’t worry, Quinnie,” Meredith said. “Charlotte’s not accusing you of being guilty.”

  “I’m just trying to establish everybody’s whereabouts.”

  “That’s what detectives do,” Rebecca chimed in.

  “She’s not a—” Urso didn’t finish the sentence. He pursed his lips with minor annoyance. “I’m going to solve this puzzle right away.” With a crook of his thumb, he rounded up the Road Runner and instructed him to get statements from everyone, then summoned Mr. Nakamura, the owner of Nuts for Nails, to help the deputy. When that was handled, Urso cornered Meredith. “I’m going to the theater to chat with Mr. Bozzuto. You guard the crime scene. Your party, your responsibility. Go.”

  Meredith looked like the world had caved in on her shoulders, but she moved toward the cellar door.

  As Urso marched toward the front door, I said, “I’m going with you.”

  “Moi, aussi!” Rebecca sounded distinctly youthful and unpolished. She was always trying out new French phrases.

  “Me, too.” Matthew hurried to join us.

  “Fine, whatever.” Urso fetched his car keys from his pocket.

  “What about us?” Winona said.

  Freddy grabbed her hand. “We’re staying with Quinn.”

  “And you’ll give statements to my deputy,” Urso said, his tone clipped and authoritative. “I’m not through with anyone here yet.” He eyed Quinn. “Including you, Ms. Vance.”

  Freddy slung his arm around his daughter again. She folded into him.

  As we headed for our respective vehicles, Rebecca scooted to my side and petted my arm. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Grandmère will confirm Bozz’s alibi. You know how she is with her timetables. She’ll know exactly when they left the party and when they arrived at the theater.”

  But what if Bozz hadn’t left with my grandparents?

  CHAPTER 7

  Providence Playhouse boasted a state-of-the-art main stage theater as well as a black-box theater. The black box was compact and accommodated fifty patrons. Urso, Matthew, Rebecca, and I hustled inside and came to a dead stop in the center aisle, nearly crashing into one another. All the lights were out. Not a sound could be heard. The aroma of garlic and herbs suffused the cavelike space. Pépère must have provided the crew with spicy homemade pizza.<
br />
  “Grandmère?” I called.

  “Oui, chérie. Lights!” Grandmère clapped.

  Like magic, the stage working lights snapped on.

  No wonder I hadn’t seen my grandmother. She stood center stage, dressed in a black T-shirt, black leggings, and black work gloves. She twirled in the middle of three striped sofas that formed a U. “Thank you for the silence, everyone. I found it!” she yelled, then explained, “We have been searching for a cricket in the sound system. One’s hearing is so much better in the dark, non?”

  Noise resumed backstage. Hammering, shouting. Lots of people, all out of sight.

  “Come this way, mes amis.” Grandmère beckoned us toward the mini proscenium. “Welcome, welcome.” We moved as a unit and lined up in front of the first row of seats. She eyed me and gestured to the stage. “So, what do you think?”

  She wasn’t kidding when she said she was going to combine No Exit with Poe’s work. In addition to the three sofas, a statue of an oversized papièr-mâché raven occupied the middle of the stage. A silver pendulum made of tinfoil hung overhead, upstage left. Two stark black walls jutted into the limited space.

  “The sofas represent the worlds of our lonely protagonists,” Grandmère said. “You will note that there are no mirrors. The actors must see themselves reflected in the eyes of the other players. The jet-black drapes outlining the stage represent the emptiness beyond.”

  Through a break in the drapes, I caught a glimpse of a snack table backstage. On it, Pépère had laid out sodas, chips, and his yummy pizzas. A couple of crew people were grazing.

  I said, “Grandmère, we’re not here for a tour.”

  Her smile tightened. She pulled off her gloves.

  “Madam Mayor, where is Bozz Bozzuto?” Urso removed his broad-brimmed hat and held it by his thigh.

  Pépère shuffled from behind one of the drapes, a hammer in his hand, a toolkit strapped around his girth. The tail of his striped shirt had come free of his trousers. “What is the matter?”

  “There’s been a murder,” I said. “One of the art students. Harker Fontanne.”

  Grandmère clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “The talented one?” Pépère said. “Mon dieu. His painting at the winery was quite special, with his broad-stroked style and his play with light.”

  Grandmère glanced at him, willing him to be quiet. My grandfather could wax poetic about art. He fancied himself as a student of Renoir, though Grandmère would never let him paint studies of nudes the way Renoir did. Free spirit though she may be, she drew the line at that.

  Urso cleared his throat. “Madam Mayor, I’d like to speak to Mr. Bozzuto.”

  “You cannot think Bozz did this.” Grandmère admonished him with her index finger. “Every man has his fault, and honesty is his,” she said. “Shakespeare.”

  Urso looked unmoved by her literary defense. “I need to speak with Mr. Bozzuto now.”

  A long hiss escaped my grandmother’s lips. “Such formality.” She let her hand fall to her side. “He is in the back fetching a ladder.”

  Pépère said, “I will get him.”

  “Wait,” Urso said. “A few questions first. Can you verify when Mr. Bozzuto arrived to help you?”

  “At the same time we did.” Grandmère stretched her spine to add height to her diminishing frame. “We drove him.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Nine forty-two. On the dot.”

  “Was that when you left the winery or when you arrived here?”

  Grandmère rattled off a string of French words, which meant she didn’t like Urso pressing her. He tilted his head, the epitome of patience. She said, “That is when we arrived.”

  Rebecca whispered, “I told you she’d know.”

  Urso thanked my grandmother and said, “Now, please fetch him.”

  Pépère started to leave, but Grandmère detained him with a steel grip. “I will get him.” She scuttled across the stage and disappeared behind the drapes. Seconds later, she returned with Bozz in tow. Like Grandmère, he wore a black T-shirt that read “Crew” on the back.

  He finger-combed his hair off his face. He liked to wear it almost shoulder-length. No amount of nudging from me would get him to cut it. However, he would comply and wear a hairnet if he helped out at the counter. “Hey, Chief Urso. What’s up?”

  “Where’d you get the fat lip?” Urso asked.

  Bozz’s lower lip was cracked. A thin line of dried blood clung to it. Instinctively he started for it with his forefinger but dropped his hand to his side.

  “Edsel Nash and Freddy Vance said they saw you and Harker Fontanne fight,” Urso continued.

  Bozz’s shoulders caved. “Yeah, we fought. He thought I was making eyes at Quinn. I said she was cute, but I already have a girlfriend.”

  “You do?” I blurted.

  Bozz blushed. He mumbled something like “flibbertigibbet.”

  Rebecca translated in a whisper, “Philby Jebbs, super brainy. Strawberry blonde hair. She’s come into the shop a few times. Likes blue cheese.”

  “Go on, Bozz,” Urso said, his tone gentle, fatherly. I could tell he liked the kid. He’d stopped using Bozz’s surname. “What happened next?”

  “Harker was drunk. He took a swing at me. I stumbled down the stairs.”

  “Is your jaw sore?” Urso said.

  “I’ve been hurt worse in wrestling.” Bozz rubbed his chin. His knuckles didn’t have any bruises on them, but Harker hadn’t died in a fistfight. He’d been strangled. With all the weightlifting Bozz did for wrestling, he was strong enough to have killed Harker. “Look, what’s this about?” Bozz asked. “Is he pressing charges, ’cause I didn’t take a swing at him. I took the high road. Ms. B”—he eyed me—“she’s always saying, ‘To thine own self be true.’”

  I had dozens of books filled with inspirational quotes that Grandmère had given me over the years. She urged me to memorize one a week, saying that I’d never know when one might come in handy.

  “I’m not a fighter,” Bozz said. “I didn’t—”

  “Mr. Fontanne is dead.” Urso paused. He watched Bozz’s eyes. “Strangled.”

  Bozz turned the color of Swiss cheese. “I didn’t do it. No way.” He spun in a circle then rounded on Urso. “You’ve got to believe me, Chief. I would never do something like that. Never!”

  I believed him. Did Urso?

  “Someone must have seen Harker after the fight,” Grandmère said. “Have you asked, Chief? But of course you have. You always ask questions before you make accusations, don’t you?” Her tone was a little snide. Last year, when she was accused of murder, Urso had sort of skipped a few steps in the investigation, which again made me wonder why she’d been pushing Urso on me back at the party. Was she less a fan of Jordan than she was of Urso?

  A burst of laughter from backstage yanked me from my thoughts. The twins, Amy and Clair, scampered onto the stage looking like street urchins in Oliver Twist. In all the confusion, I’d forgotten they’d left the party with my grandparents. They needed to go home and get into bed, not play dress-up with all the extra costumes stored at the theater.

  They stopped, center stage, and glanced to their right. Their faces twisted in panic.

  A scraggly looking person dressed as the pickpocket Fagin darted onto the stage and danced a jig around the twins. I was struck by how much he reminded me of a tourist who’d come into The Cheese Shop back in January, a guy who hadn’t said a word; he’d simply hovered by the cheese counter to snag a free bite of ash-laced cheese.

  Amy said to the Fagin character, “Mum, stop.” She waved a finger, indicating us.

  “Sylvie?” I said, stunned at the transformation.

  Matthew stiffened. “Sylvie, what are you doing here?” With confidence befitting Meryl Streep, Sylvie whipped off the floppy felt hat and phony beard and jutted a hip. “I heard on the radio about the murder. I came straightaway to divert my girlie girls.”

  “Radio?” Ur
so groaned and looked my way.

  I shook my head. I hadn’t heard a thing. On the ride over, I’d driven in silence. I couldn’t imagine who would have called the media. Some yahoo wanting fifteen minutes of fame, no doubt.

  “I had to protect my babies,” Sylvie went on. “After all, they’re living in a town where two murders have happened in less than two years.” She wiggled her fingers and beckoned the twins to her. “Come to Mumsie, girls.”

  Neither Amy nor Clair budged.

  “Come!” Sylvie stomped her foot, but the twins remained huddled together.

  “Let them be,” Grandmère said.

  Sylvie eyed my grandmother with outright disdain. “Who do you think you are, Bernadette, ordering me about? And stop looking like you swallowed a lemon. We haven’t touched the No Exit with Poe costumes.”

  Matthew stepped forward. “Girls, your mother and I need to talk. Please get out of those costumes, put them away properly, then come back to the auditorium.”

  Amy and Clair scooted off the stage.

  “You bet we need to talk!” Sylvie sprinted toward Matthew, claws primed. “You’re obviously poisoning them against me.”

  Urso, who looked red-hot mad because his investigation had gone haywire, stepped in front of her to block her. He gripped her by the wrists.

  Rebecca did a little fist pump beside me and whispered, “All right, Chief.”

  I eyed Bozz, who looked relieved that the focus had been removed from him. Poor kid probably wanted to duck under his bedcovers and hide for a week. At least he had a firm alibi.

  “I’ve got this, Chief,” Matthew said. “Thanks.”

  Urso reluctantly released Sylvie. She snarled at him, but she didn’t do anything more. Smart on her part.

  Matthew sighed. “Sylvie, why do you insist on breaking the rules?”

  She fluffed her hair. “Rules. Tosh! Rules stifle creativity. Our girls need to be creative, not locked up into little cells saying, ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir.’ Look at Clair. She’s as pale as milk and can’t seem to stop crying. And Amy, poor dear, has absolutely no sense of style.”

  “She does, too,” Matthew said.

  “Not worth a grain of salt. She’s gotten into bad habits with her color choices. Do I have Charlotte to thank for that?”