Lost and Fondue by Avery Aames

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.
    “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