For Cheddar or Worse Page 11

  “She must be in Andrew’s room,” I said and started toward the room marked ~6~.

  Urso cut in front of me. “Charlotte,” he warned.

  “After you.”

  He knocked.

  Erin opened the door a crack. She had thrown a shawl over her shoulders. “What?” She sounded waspish. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Beyond her, I caught a glimpse of the room. Stark. Very little furniture. Andrew was huddled in a corner, the tambourine and drumstick in his hands. He shook the tambourine rhythmically and chanted, “Up, up, up.” He stopped for a moment, then said, “Down, down, down.” He paused again, then resumed chanting, “Up, up, up,” and so forth.

  Urso motioned toward the foyer. “Please show me your room, Erin.”

  Erin jutted her chin. Defiance didn’t suit her. It made her look as vicious as a feral cat. “The door is open.”

  “I’d like you to join us.” Urso couldn’t have sounded more solicitous. “I wish to inspect your violin.”

  Erin grunted. “This way.” She cooed to Andrew that she would be right back. She didn’t touch him. She knew better. He continued to shake the tambourine and recite his mantra.

  Erin slogged forward, keeping close to the hallway wall while eyeing the others. Ryan watched her with concern; Shayna, with pity. Kandice and Victor clearly thought Erin was guilty.

  What a zoo. How I wished I could sling blinders on Erin and protect her from their prying eyes. What would happen to her farm? Would a murder investigation drum up bad publicity? Would the farm deteriorate as a result? Jordan’s farm had undergone intense scrutiny three months ago, after Timothy O’Shea’s death. Luckily Jordan had been strong enough to suffer reporters’ slings and arrows and had built up enough financial cushion to weather the storm. Now under his sister’s watchful guidance, the Pace Hill Farm Double-cream Gouda planned for release in October was selling out in preorders.

  Erin pushed open the door to her room. “Only you can enter,” she said to Urso.

  He stepped inside, arms hanging loosely.

  I remained in the doorway. Jordan pressed in behind me. Ryan mumbled something to Kandice. Victor had Shayna’s ear. I tuned them out.

  The single-hung window in Erin’s room was open. The drapes billowed in the breeze. The bed, similar to the one in our room, was neatly made. Its plush pillows and shams were in place. A scruffy, well-loved teddy bear nestled on the center pillow.

  Erin strode to an antique armoire situated against the far wall. Unlike the ones in the guest rooms that had been hand-painted with images of the countryside, this armoire was made of rich mahogany and painted in an art nouveau style. The mirrors on the doors caught Erin’s reflection as she moved. Her face was taut; her gaze, riveted on her mission. She reached behind the armoire to retrieve something: a key. She returned to the front of the armoire, inserted the key, and twisted. She opened the right-hand door. It squeaked with the effort. She reached inside the armoire and withdrew a black violin-shaped carrying case. She closed the door, crossed to a table, and set down the case. She popped the clamps, opened the case, and pulled out the violin by the neck.

  She displayed it to Urso. “Will you be checking it for fingerprints? Mine are on it.”

  “I would expect as much.” Urso donned a new pair of latex gloves and reached for the violin. “It’s beautiful. I remember when you got this. Your parents gave it to you when you were—”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Before that you had a—”

  “Garage sale violin.” Erin caressed the scroll at the top. “My parents said if a daughter of theirs possessed a gift, then she should be encouraged to shine with a new instrument.” Her smile flickered and faded. “They wanted me to have a career in music, and I did. I taught. But when they died, I moved home to take care of Andrew.”

  What a sad choice she’d had to make. I had seen her playing at the Street Scene. Her face had been lit up with joy. She truly loved her music. The life of a farmer is a calling; not everyone is bred to it.

  “My violin is always in this room, Chief,” Erin added.

  “Chief,” I cut in. “Maybe Lara slipped into Erin’s room, borrowed the violin, and put it back while Erin was with Andrew.”

  Erin shook her head. “I don’t know how she could have known about the violin. Even if she did, I’ve never told anyone where I keep it.” She faced Urso. “Maybe she wasn’t playing the violin. If she had the radio on—”

  “No,” Urso said. “Don’t you remember? My deputy checked out that angle. Where is your old violin?”

  “Long gone. It ended up as tinder in the fireplace. Maybe Lara brought her own violin,” Erin suggested.

  “Didn’t you hear me before? Deputy O’Shea—” Urso pressed his lips together. I could see he was trying to temper his response. “The deputy didn’t find anything in her room. No violin. No DVD player. No cell phone with a music list.”

  That detail struck me as odd. I slipped inside the doorway. “Chief, is Lara’s cell phone missing?”

  “Seems to be. Are you sure she had one?”

  “Yes. I saw her talking on it yesterday.”

  Urso eyed the crowd hovering in the doorway. “Many of you said Lara stormed out of the dining room. Is it possible she left her cell phone behind in her haste?”

  “No,” I said. “She left with her Prada tote in hand.”

  “Hmm.” Urso scratched his chin. “The deputy didn’t mention a purse.”

  Had the murderer stolen it? Why go to the effort of making it look like Lara had died of natural causes and then do something like take her belongings, not to mention return the violin to its proper spot? Something wasn’t adding up.

  Urso jotted a few words on his notepad, slipped the pad into his pocket, and refocused on Erin. “Miss Emerald—”

  “Hey, Erin!” Kandice called from the hallway. “Why is the violin locked up? Is it valuable?”

  Erin’s lip quivered. “I lock up all my personal belongings. I’m not saying people who stay at the inn are thieves, but—”

  “Your room wasn’t secured a second ago,” Kandice said.

  Erin threw her a dismissive look. “That’s because I came in here for a shawl and went immediately to my brother’s room. I was shivering.”

  “Poor girl,” Shayna said under her breath. She was twirling a long curl at the nape of her neck. How did she feel now that her ex-partner was dead?

  I recalled the two of them having an argument yesterday. Afterward, Shayna had been near tears; Lara had appeared triumphant. What had they discussed?

  “Officer,” Victor said above their murmurs.

  “Chief,” Urso corrected him.

  “Yes, of course.” Victor cleared his throat. “Sir, might I see the violin? Perhaps Lara’s interest in it was for aesthetic reasons. After all, according to her, she was adding to her antique collection.”

  “She didn’t mention that she owned fine instruments,” I said.

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t have any,” Victor replied. “I mostly have art and furniture pieces, but I also own a flute from ancient France and a pair of drums from the French Revolution.”

  “For Pete’s sake.” Ryan stepped past me. “Enough about the violin. Lara borrowed it, for whatever reason. She put it back like you said, Charlotte, while Erin was in her brother’s room. End of story.”

  “Or is it?” Victor thrust a finger at Urso. “As I was saying, Chief, if I got a closer look, perhaps I could tell you why Lara might have wanted to hold it.”

  Urso approached the door, violin extended, but he didn’t offer the instrument to Victor. “I can’t let you touch it.”

  “Understood.” Victor inspected the scroll and tuning pegs, the F holes, and the chin rest. “My, my, my.” He wiggled a finger, signaling Urso to reveal the backside. He uttered another chorus of my, my, my. When he
was finished with his assessment, he said, “Do you know what you have here, Erin?”

  “A violin,” she snapped.

  “Au contraire.” Victor’s eyes were gleaming with something just short of awe. “A Nicolo Amati original.”

  “No way,” Erin said.

  “That’s valuable!” I exclaimed.

  “How valuable?” Urso asked.

  “Really, really valuable.” I’d seen a special on television about Amati instruments. Members of the Amati family were the premier violin designers during the seventeenth century. Nicolo was the last of the line. How could Erin possibly own one of them? Weren’t they all in museums? “Are you sure it’s an Amati, Victor?”

  “I am never wrong.” Victor’s fingers were twitching with a desire to grasp the violin.

  “Erin, can you explain?” Urso asked.

  “My parents traveled everywhere. To Europe. To the Orient. They often purchased antiques, like vases and statues. It was their passion. Sometimes they bought other things, like the violin.” Erin swiveled toward me, back to Urso, and then to me again, as if begging for confirmation. “They never said it was worth anything.”

  “Never?” Urso asked.

  “They told me to keep it in a safe place, that’s all.”

  Kandice inched through the doorway and skirted in front of me. “Cut to the chase, Victor. How much is it worth?”

  Boy, I was starting to dislike the woman. Her snippy attitude was just shy of Victor’s snooty one. She no longer reminded me of a sweet cockatoo. With her longish nose and high forehead, she resembled a hawk, ready to consume its prey.

  Urso waved for Victor to proceed.

  Using his pinky, Victor indicated sections of the violin. “Note the inlaid fleur-de-lis design on the back and table, and see the inset gemstones? I believe this is a Louis XIV Amati.”

  Urso tipped back his hat. “How much?”

  Victor grinned. “At least a million. To an avid collector, priceless.”

  Jordan whistled.

  Ryan whispered, “Wow!”

  Wow, indeed. Lara claimed she collected a few things. Paintings. Statues. Some items from the Conquistadors, of all things. Of what interest would Erin’s violin be to her? How could she have known about it? Had she come to the brain trust with the express intent to steal it? She certainly didn’t attend to offer her expertise. Other than grilling Erin and chiding Shayna, she hardly contributed at yesterday’s session. I recalled Lara asking Erin if she was interested in selling the farm. Had Lara hoped to dupe Erin, an innocent from Providence, into selling the farm and every item on the premises just so she could own the violin?

  “Erin,” I said, “did you tell anyone about this violin?”

  Erin didn’t answer; she was pressing her lips together so tightly they had turned gray.

  “Erin, answer me. Did you play it for anyone other than Andrew?”

  “Only h-him,” she stuttered. “Like I said, I d-do so to calm him.”

  “How about the housekeeper? Would she have known about it?”

  “M-m-maybe.” Erin shuddered; her eyes grew teary. “I don’t remember.”

  “The high school orchestra saw the instrument,” Urso stated. “For four years.”

  Erin swallowed hard. “Nobody could have known its worth. I didn’t.”

  Kandice flailed a hand. “Does it matter, Chief? Its value gives Erin motive to have killed Lara. Like I said in the dining room, Erin must have realized Lara stole the violin, so she killed her and took it back.”

  “No!” Erin shouted.

  Kandice whirled to face Erin. “Your farm is struggling. You could sell that violin for enough cash to spruce it up and make it shine.”

  “U-ey,” Erin said, her tone desolate. “I didn’t know how much the violin was worth. Honest.”

  Even if she did, would she sell it? She had kept all the urns, jade, and statues that her parents had collected. Even a clueless person could realize that the commemorative value of the treasures was what mattered most to her.

  “Besides,” Erin went on, “I have an alibi. I was with my brother last night.”

  “From when to when?” Urso asked.

  “From the moment I took him upstairs until breakfast.” Erin’s eyes flickered. Was she holding something back? Could she have slipped into Lara’s room before heading to the kitchen to prepare the morning meal? I heard a door open and close twice in the wee hours of the night.

  “I’d like to speak to Andrew,” Urso said.

  “No, Chief.”

  “Now.”

  Erin worked her lower lip between her teeth. “He won’t remember last night. He forgets major chunks of time.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Victor buddied up to Kandice, his face as judgmental as hers. “You told Lara yesterday that your brother has calendrical autism.”

  “What the heck is that?” Urso asked.

  “He remembers dates”—Victor snapped his fingers—“like that.”

  “But he doesn’t remember huge blocks of real time,” Erin said. “It’s possible he won’t remember me being with him.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  “Everyone, please return to the dining room,” Urso ordered. “I’ll be with you shortly. Nobody leaves. Erin, let’s go see Andrew.”

  Erin gripped my hand. “I want Charlotte to come with us.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is, Chief,” Erin said. “I need someone I trust with me.” She stood as tall as she could, the top of her head inches below mine. “Or I could call our family lawyer. My brother has rights.”

  “Fine.” Urso shrugged. “Charlotte, please join us.”

  Jordan whispered, “Go with her. She’s shaky.”

  “Sure, Erin,” I said. “If you’d like.”

  She walked ahead of me. A person climbing to the platform of a guillotine couldn’t have looked gloomier. Her shoulders were hunched. She heaved with each step. When we arrived at the room, Erin rapped on the door. She didn’t wait for a response. She pushed it open, whispered, “Andrew, sweetheart,” and beckoned us to follow her inside.

  Moments ago, at first glance, I had considered Andrew’s room stark. Now, standing inside it, I realized it was worse than stark. It wasn’t exactly a prison cell, but it was bleak. Bare beige walls, beige carpets, a twin bed covered in beige bedding, a stack of books on the bedside table. Beside the books sat a ream of paper, a pencil, and an empty glass tinged with white film, the remnants of milk, I imagined. A metronome stood on top of the paper. If not for the rocking chair, upon which sat a well-loved teddy bear like Erin’s and a needlepoint pillow decorated with a red, yellow, and blue alphabet, I would have assumed that color distracted or upset Andrew.

  He was sitting cross-legged on the bed. He dwarfed the size of it. Rocking to and fro, he counted by ten. Rapidly. The tambourine and drumstick lay on the floor.

  “Andrew, sweetheart, stop counting, please.”

  Andrew was nearing a thousand.

  Erin strode to the bed and sat beside him. She put her hands down to balance herself, but she didn’t touch her brother. “Andrew, sweetheart, can you stop counting and sit still, please?”

  Either he wouldn’t or couldn’t. The rocking continued a tad more feverishly. His voice rose in pitch.

  “Andrew, sweetheart, when you get to one thousand, I want you to stop counting and sit still.”

  He sped up his count. When he reached the number, he did as told. Wham! Quiet! As if he had gone on automatic shutdown.

  “Look at me,” Erin said gently.

  Again Andrew either wouldn’t or couldn’t. He stared straight ahead, not making eye contact with any of us.

  “Last night, Andrew,” Erin continued, “after that lady named Lara upset you, I brought you to your room. Do you remember?
”

  “Up, up, up.”

  “Yes, we came here, and I tucked you into bed.”

  “Down, down, down.”

  Urso cleared his throat. “Miss Emerald—”

  “U-ey, call me Erin. Please. It will help Andrew.”

  Urso’s forehead creased with tension. After a moment, he sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “Erin, I’m not disputing that you came upstairs or that you retreated to this bedroom. Everyone witnessed that.” He addressed her brother. “Andrew, did your sister stay in the room all night? I need you to answer me.”

  Andrew shuddered and started to count again, by tens, starting at ten. Faster than before.

  Erin put her hand on his arm. “Shh.” Andrew quieted.

  I elbowed Urso and whispered, “You shush, too. Let her ask him.”

  “I’m sorry, Erin,” Urso said. “Continue.”

  “Andrew, sweetheart, do you remember me staying in your room?”

  “My room.”

  “I stayed up all night.”

  “Up, up, up.”

  “I sat over there.” She pointed at the rocking chair. “You wrote your music”—she indicated the ream of paper on the bedside table—“while I read you a story.”

  “The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  A Sherlock Holmes anthology was the topmost book on the stack of books.

  “Bad Stapleton,” Andrew muttered.

  Erin smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Stapleton is the villain in the story. Before you went to sleep, sweetheart, I got you a glass of milk and some cheese and crackers. Do you remember?”

  “Cheese.” A faint smile tugged at Andrew’s mouth. “We make cheese.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, that’s correct. We do make cheese.” Erin petted his arm. He didn’t recoil. “Andrew, you woke up last night a couple of times. Do you remember seeing me dozing in the rocking chair?”

  Andrew swiveled his head. “Teddy.” He reached with two arms.

  Erin fetched the stuffed toy and handed it to her brother. Andrew clutched the bear to his chest and resumed rocking.