by Avery Aames
“Were hacks.” Dane’s face twisted with pain.
Edsel nodded. “Yeah. Were.”
“Quinn’s talented.” Dane took a sandwich and stared at the different angles of it as if studying a piece of sculpture. “But Harker had the chops.”
Urso pulled a notepad from his hip pocket. “What was your relationship with Harker Fontanne . . .” He consulted the pad. “. . . Mr. Cegielski?”
“We were friends.”
“And poker buddies,” Edsel said. “Harker owed Dane a wad of cash.”
Urso’s gaze sharpened with interest. “How much?”
“Five hundred,” Edsel said.
“Liar!” Dane abandoned his sandwich. “We never bet that—”
“Chief Urso!” Lois, the owner of Lavender and Lace, darted down the aisle between the booths and counter. The hem of her purple poncho fluted up like an umbrella to reveal the lavender sweater and purple calf-length skirt she wore beneath. “Chief Urso! There you are. And Mr. Cegielski and Mr. Nash. Oh, my! I heard the news. Oh, my.”
Freddy, Winona, and the artists were staying at Lois’s bed-and-breakfast.
“Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my.” Lois placed a bony hand on her narrow chest.
Urso rushed to her and steadied her by the shoulders. “Breathe, Mrs. Smith. What’s the problem?”
“It’s lost. Mr. Fontanne’s art.” Lois’s partially blind eye fluttered open-shut, open-shut. “It’s gone!”
CHAPTER 9
Lois talked nonstop from the diner to Lavender and Lace, covering the same ground. The artwork was gone, stolen. She couldn’t imagine how a thief had gotten into her place. Her husband, a man whom I’d dubbed the Cube because of his solid, square stature, was home night and day and always watchful, she told the group of us who had accompanied Urso.
After fetching a set of master keys from the kitchen, Lois bustled up the stairs. The purple rabbit’s foot on the keychain bounced in rhythm. She entered Harker Fontanne’s room ahead of us. Her Shih Tzu, Agatha, bolted out of nowhere, weaved around our legs, and scuttled to her mistress’s side. Without a command from Lois, Agatha sat on her rump and panted, totally attentive to the serious nature of the business.
Urso paused in the doorway, making it difficult for the rest of us to see past him. Rebecca and I stood on tiptoe for a peek. Dane and Edsel hung back. I could hear them fidgeting.
Lois stopped beside the four-poster bed and folded her hands beneath her poncho. “Here we are.”
Harker’s room, like every other room at the B&B, was decorated in shades of lavender: floral bedspread, lavender pillow shams, sprigs of silk lavender in lavender-glazed flower vases. Light from a streetlamp glinted through the sheer curtains that tiered behind the brocade lavender drapes and created a path on the carpet. In every guest’s room, Lois had set up a showcase of her collectible teacups on a floating bookshelf. Other homey touches included the makings of a fire in the hearth, ready to go with a single match, and a hurricane candle on top of the antique bureau. Two scones sat on a lavender-rimmed china plate beside the candle.
A few things looked out of place in the tidy room: Harker’s jeans, socks, and paint-splattered work shirt were strewn on the easy chair; his mess of toiletries was scattered on the counter by the antique sink; his clothing spilled out of a suitcase that was tucked into the corner of the room.
“Are all the students rooming alone?” Urso asked.
“Mr. Cegielski and Mr. Nash are together,” Lois said. “The others chose singles, don’t you know. Anyway, as I said, I cleaned this room yesterday and then again today, and, well, I’m a snoop. I admit it. Terrible habit. But I am.” She crossed to the pillows on the bed and automatically fluffed them. Agatha jumped to her feet and followed, her ID tags jingling merrily. “Anyway, I was cleaning yesterday and I saw Mr. Fontanne’s . . . Oh, what do you call it?” Lois snapped her fingers. After a brief moment, she tapped her head. “Aha! Portfolio. He has this portfolio.” She pulled a black leather case, which was about three feet by two feet with a finger-grip handle, from beneath the bed.
A number of artists I’d known at OSU had carried similar art cases, large enough to hold works in progress.
“Yesterday, I peeked inside,” Lois went on. “His work was beautiful. Portraits and landscapes. And now it’s gone, don’t you know.”
Urso strolled into the room to inspect the portfolio, giving Rebecca and me a chance to slip in, too. Eager to see the evidence, I set my purse on the mahogany ladder chair to the left of the door and started toward the bed.
“Stay back, Charlotte,” Urso said, deducing my intention. He unfolded the case on the bed and thumbed through the cellophane sleeves.
Lois said, “See? Empty. There were paintings and sketches in it.” She shook her head, obviously distraught with the circumstances. Without another word, she shuffled away and fussed with the drapes.
As I watched her, a prickle of curiosity nipped me. Had someone climbed the trellis outside and crept in through the window? Would there be fingerprints on the sill? I heard Dane and Edsel whispering and looked over my shoulder. They sealed their lips, and like men on a chessboard, advanced one pace forward.
It didn’t take long for me to learn what they were whispering about. Quinn. She was hurrying down the hallway. Relief swept over me. She was alive, and she hadn’t run away. She wedged through the boys and slipped into the room, her face blotchy, her red hair knotted and tangled.
“What’s going on?” she demanded.
I crossed to her and gripped her shoulders. “Are you okay? Where have you been?”
“I was ...” She sucked in a breath. “I was ... walking.” Tears pushed at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Charlotte, I can’t believe Harker’s gone. Dead. I can’t believe it. I ...” She curled into my arms and rested her head on my shoulder. After a moment, she pulled away from me. “What’s everyone doing here?”
“Harker’s artwork is missing,” I said.
“Can’t be,” Quinn said. “He carried his portfolio everywhere. It was never out of his sight. He didn’t want anyone to see what he was working on.”
Except he hadn’t carried it everywhere, I mused. He hadn’t taken it to the water-balloon fight or to The Cheese Shop or to the fund-raiser.
“Was anything else stored in here?” Urso cocked his head. “Anything at all?”
“You mean like drugs?” Edsel edged closer.
“Harker didn’t do drugs,” Quinn said, her voice rising in pitch. “He rarely drank.”
Except he had earlier. Matthew had spoken to him about overindulging. Had Harker discovered that his artwork was missing? Was that why he’d been drinking?
“He was very territorial about his work,” Edsel added.
To my mind, Harker had been quite territorial about all of his possessions, including Quinn.
“Where’s your father?” I asked.
“I don’t have a clue. Doesn’t that Winona know?” Quinn said, evidently not pleased that Winona was pursuing Freddy. But then what nineteen-year-old was happy with change? Quinn probably adored her mother. Freddy dating anyone but her mother would be considered a betrayal.
Urso moved closer, his size making Quinn cower ever so slightly. “You and your father disappeared from the winery when I gave strict instructions for everyone to stick around.”
“I told you, I went walking. Not a very good alibi, I guess.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her shoulders shuddered in distress. “I just couldn’t handle being around so many people ... I needed time to think.” She hiccupped. “I’m so sorry.” She jammed her knuckles into her mouth. “Ohmigod, Harker’s really dead. I loved him so much.”
Urso didn’t look moved in the least. Did he still suspect Quinn was the murderer? He turned back to Lois. “Can you tell us what some of the art looked like?”
The Shih Tzu yipped.
“Hush!” Lois scooped the pup off the floor and petted her head. “There was a painting of a sunset, and another of toweri
ng buildings, and another of birds flying. A few of them were portraits of a pretty girl’s face. No full figures.”
Quinn said, “Harker didn’t do torsos well. He had trouble with hands. They always turned into claws.” The memory brought a pained smile to her face. She whispered, “Did you see what he painted at the winery? Masterful.”
Dane stifled a snicker. Edsel slugged him with an elbow. Were they callous or jealous?
I remembered thinking Harker’s artwork of the cellar in a black sea seemed forlorn. Had he foreseen his own fate?
A door slammed at the front of the bed-and-breakfast. Footsteps grew louder as the guests climbed the stairs. A man spoke—something low, unintelligible.
Rebecca said, “Sounds like your father, Quinn.” I swear she had elephant ears sometimes.
“Daddy!” Quinn raced toward the door. Dane and Edsel parted to let her pass.
Rebecca nudged me. We popped into the hallway for a peek. Freddy and Winona halted at the top of the stairs. Winona looked flushed, windblown. A raincoat hung over one arm. Her tight gold dress had inched up around her thighs. She tugged the seams to draw the clingy material down.
Quinn threw herself into her father’s arms. “Daddy, it’s gone. Harker’s art is gone. Stolen.”
When confronted by his tearful daughter, Freddy reminded me of a punk being brought up on charges—shoulders taut, eyes wary. He patted her back stiffly.
What was up with that? The girl was heartbroken. Hug her, for heaven’s sakes.
They shared a muffled exchange, then Quinn broke free and glowered at Winona. “What’s she doing here?”
“Quinn, don’t be rude,” Freddy said.
“I’ll be what I want.” She aimed a stern finger at her father and then at Winona. “You don’t belong here.”
“Actually, I do, dear.” Winona plucked a key from her purse and wiggled it.
“You should be with the other donors at Violet’s Victoriana Inn,” Quinn said. More tears erupted from her eyes. She tore past Winona and Freddy, rushed into a room, and slammed the door.
Winona smirked.
Lois, who’d sneaked into the hallway with Agatha for an eyeful, clucked her tongue. “Sad to lose the love of your life so young,” she said, a wistfulness in her voice that I didn’t understand. Was it born from experience? I didn’t know much about Lois. I didn’t know how she’d lost the eye, didn’t know why she loved lavender. I was her neighbor, and yet I knew nothing about her. A knot of guilt caught in my throat and made it hard for me to swallow, but I couldn’t address that right now. I was too concerned with Freddy and Quinn’s situation. Why had he been so cold toward her? Was his stiffupper-lip act meant to impress Winona? And what was Winona doing at the B&B instead of staying with the other donors?
As if sensing my agitation, Winona raised her chin, defying me to question her relationship with Freddy. “So-o-o-o.” The way she dragged out the word, I expected her to break into an aria. “What are you all doing here?”
Dane said, “We’re staying here, or did you forget?”
Winona narrowed one eye to admonish him—or was she winking at him, too? “I wasn’t addressing you. Them.” She gazed at me with malice. Did she view me as competition? Did she think I was vying for Freddy’s affections?
“We’re helping out Chief Urso,” Rebecca explained. “Finding out who filched the art might be a clue. Whoever took it might be the killer.” She looked to me to confirm her theory.
The timing of the theft did seem suspicious.
Freddy glanced over his shoulder toward Quinn’s room. Was he regretting his behavior toward his daughter? Did he have to ditch Winona before he could deal with Quinn? He caught me watching him, offered a miserable shrug, and put his hands into his pockets.
“How can you be so sure the artwork was stolen?” Winona resumed smoothing the wrinkles from her stretchy sheath. “Maybe Harker threw it away.”
“It was too good to throw away,” Lois said.
“And how exactly did you see it, Mrs. Smith?” Winona asked.
I didn’t appreciate the frosty prosecutorial tone she was using to grill Lois. I said, “It was in his portfolio.”
Winona raised an eyebrow. “What portfolio?”
“The one Harker kept under his bed,” Rebecca said. “There was artwork in it. Now it’s gone.”
“What does it matter who took the art?” Winona asked. “The murder didn’t occur here.”
“Maybe whoever made off with the art wanted the theft kept secret,” Rebecca said. “What do you think about that theory, Chief?”
Urso loomed in the doorway. What had he been doing all this time in Harker’s room? Hopefully a little sleuthing without Lois hanging around. He ignored Rebecca’s question and eyed Freddy. “Where have you been, Mr. Vance?”
Freddy whipped his hands out of his pockets and snapped to attention, a reaction that looked like a holdover from his days as a gymnast. He’d never been in the army. “I was upset. I needed some air.”
“Why didn’t you return to the winery?” Urso asked.
“He told you,” Winona cut in. “He needed air. I found him taking a walk and having a smoke. I told him that you wouldn’t mind if he came back here, since he didn’t kill Harker.”
Urso looked annoyed by her presumption.
I would be, too. How could she act so smug? Maybe she’d made her wealth working as a mind reader, I thought with a tinge of snarkiness.
“As long as he didn’t leave town, of course,” Winona hurried to add.
Another malicious thought flitted through my mind, but I erased it. Just because Winona sounded hip to the methods of the police didn’t mean she was a criminal. She could come by that information the same way Rebecca did—by watching television—but her snooty attitude did make me wonder.
“Was I wrong to do that?” Winona asked.
Wait for it. Wait for it. I didn’t have to wait long. Winona batted her eyelashes.
Urso sighed. He wasn’t a pushover for a pretty woman’s ploys. “Look, we’re all tired.” He addressed Freddy. “First thing in the morning, you and I powwow, Mr. Vance. Good night.” Urso marched past them and headed for the stairs.
Dane and Edsel pivoted and entered a room down the hall.
“Wait, Chief.” Rebecca ran after Urso. “You can’t leave. Isn’t this a crime scene?”
Urso glanced over his shoulder. “Mrs. Smith, please shut Mr. Fontanne’s door and lock it. I’ll review the crime scene again in the morning.”
Rebecca said, “But—”
“No, Ms. Zook. It’s time to go home. Sleep could do us all a world of good.” Urso tapped the brim of his hat as a farewell and proceeded downstairs.
Rebecca sputtered and posed, fists planted on her hips. She looked about as mighty as a moth.
“C’mon, Super Girl,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“I’m mad,” she hissed.
“Got that.”
“The least we should do is guard the room.”
“Don’t worry,” Lois said. “I’ll set up a cot outside, don’t you know.” She looked more eager than Rebecca to get to the bottom of this.
I groaned inwardly. Just what Urso needed, another budding detective in town.
“Good night, Charlotte.” Freddy pressed Winona at the small of her back. She moved forward, unlocked her door, demurely kissed Freddy on the cheek, and slipped inside. The door shut with a click.
Freddy did a U-turn and headed back to the room next to his daughter’s. With his hand on the doorknob, he glanced wistfully at Quinn’s door, but he didn’t break stride. He entered his room and closed the door quietly.
In the gloomy silence, fatigue crept into my bones. I thanked Lois for her help, accompanied Rebecca downstairs, and we went our separate ways. I had made it as far as the front stoop of my house next door when I realized I’d left my purse sitting on the ladder-back chair in Harker’s room.
I hurried to Lavender and Lace, slipped through the front
door, which Lois never locked, and paused. She never locks the door. Anyone could have come into the bed-and-breakfast, stolen into Harker’s room, and taken his things. Anyone. I’d bet the Cube was not as attentive as Lois had made out. I made a mental note to tell Urso in the morning.
In the meantime, I dashed upstairs. Lois had yet to set up camp, and—surprise, surprise!—she hadn’t followed Urso’s orders and locked Harker’s door yet. I retrieved my purse, and as I returned down the hall, I paused outside Freddy’s door, wondering whether I should talk to him about Quinn. I raised my hand to knock but realized his door was slightly ajar.
I heard him muttering to himself. I couldn’t make out the words, but he clearly wasn’t happy.
Ever so silently, I toed the door open. Peeking in through the three-inch slit I’d created, I watched as Freddy placed a large manila envelope—large enough to hold Harker’s artwork—into the opened suitcase that sat on the four-poster bed.
CHAPTER 10
Sleep did not come quickly, but dawn did. I roused the twins and prepared one of their favorite breakfasts—omelets with fresh herbs that I’d plucked from the windowsill garden. I added their preferred cheeses. For Amy, Maple Leaf’s Smoked Gouda. For Clair, Two Plug Nickels’ Lavender Goat Cheese. Unfortunately, my attempt to spoil them didn’t lighten their grumpy moods. They were snapping at each other, accusing the other of hiding a shoe or a sock, as if poison had been injected into them. In a way, it had. Not through a glass of orange juice but by the presence of their mother. Sylvie was such a negative force. I had to do something to remove her from their lives, but what?
“Why are Daddy and Mum angry at each other?” Clair said as she clambered into her spot at the breakfast table.
Amy said, “Because they’re meeting with attorneys, that’s why.” She stood beside the table, toying with a Chinese finger puzzle that her mother had brought her. She had her index fingers stuck into two ends of the bamboo braid and was pulling, which made the braid tighten, trapping her fingers inside. “Shoot, shoot, shoot.” She grumbled her frustration. “I hate this game. Hate it!”