As Gouda as Dead (14 page)

“That's a stretch. Not to mention, I've seen Zach. He's slim, almost slight. He might have been able to overpower Dottie, but not Tim.”

“Zach used to wrestle in high school. He's got to be as strong as Bozz.” My young Internet guru who was currently keeping his nose to the grindstone at junior college.

Jordan rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought Jawbone Jones topped your suspect list for Tim's murder.”

I flashed on the diamond ring that Jawbone's fiancée—or whatever her significance might be to him—was wearing the day I'd seen them at the winery. What if Jawbone was a jewelry thief? What if he'd known about the brooch in Dottie's safe? I said as much to Jordan.

He didn't agree. “Jawbone makes a good living. Have you seen what guns go for nowadays? A decent shotgun starts at upward of a thousand dollars.”

I wriggled my nose. “I hate guns.”

“So do I, but that doesn't mean Jawbone is a bad guy.”

Tim
saw
something the night he died. I said, “What if Jawbone was doing something illegal outside the pub, you know, like buying stolen guns?” The deputy had floated that theory the other day in the shop. “If Jawbone would buy stolen guns, he might steal jewelry. His girlfriend looks like she could be a seller or go-between.”

“Right out of central casting,” Jordan joked. “Charlotte, c'mon.”

“You're right. I shouldn't stereotype.”

He drew me into his arms. “Sweetheart, it's possible the two murders aren't related, but to be safe, tell your concerns to Urso.”

Tears flooded the corners of my eyes. “I still see Dottie lying on the floor, and I see Tim, and . . .” I blotted the tears with my fingertips. “I can't rest until these murders are solved. For both of them and their loved ones.”

Jordan kissed my forehead. “For you, too.”

Needless to say, I didn't sleep well Sunday night. Even with Rags and Rocket at the foot of my bed, I heard creaks and sounds. My dreams were filled with clanging church bells and people choking. I awoke coughing and feeling like a head cold was ready to attack.

In the kitchen, I downed a lot of zinc and vitamin C, drank a strong cup of Earl Gray tea laced with honey, and ate a breakfast heavy on fats because that was what my grandmother would have recommended—she swore fats kept a person's energy up so the body had enough oomph to beat a bug. And then I called Urso. He wasn't in yet. I left a message with my suspicions, as flimsy as my proof was, about how both murders were related.

By the time I arrived at The Cheese Shop, Rebecca was in the kitchen kneading dough vigorously. Despite the chilly weather, she was wearing a short skirt and short-sleeved blouse. The makings for chicken-pecan quiche sat on the counter, as well as the ingredients for biscuits using Gorgonzola Dolce from Lombardy, a blue-veined cheese with a nice bite.

“Are we selling biscuits now?” I asked.

“Those are for me. I have a craving.”

“Why are you so pumped up?”

She spun around, a huge grin on her face. “I got it. I got the role in the play.”

“You did? Congratulations!”

“I heard last night at ten. Your grandmother called me. But I didn't want to telephone you and wake you. You'd had such a tough day.”

Dottie Pfeiffer had a tougher day, I thought, and bit my lip to keep fresh tears from falling. Poor Dottie. Who had killed her? Why? How could I help Urso solve the crime other than by providing the information I'd already given him?

“Guess what?” Rebecca continued, with no awareness of my inner turmoil. Her excitement was too lively to contain. “Deputy O'Shea is going to play the role opposite me. We're going to act together. We perform this Friday.”

“Friday? That's so soon,” I said. Grandmère usually rehearses her actors for a minimum of three weeks. She likes the material to sweep them up and take them to a new world of emotion.

“There's nothing to memorize and no blocking to speak of,” Rebecca said. “We read directly from the letters. Grandmère has cast another set of actors in the roles for the following two weeks. Isn't that shrewd? That means there will be six different actors. The whole town should come out to see the play, don't you think? People will have their favorite actors, of course. I hope they'll come to see me.”

“I'm sure you'll have a packed house. Jordan and I will be there, and Matthew and Meredith will be back in town by then. And Deputy O'Shea has lots of friends.”

“I'm so excited.” Rebecca divided the dough into twelve portions, one for each of twelve quiches, then dusted a rolling pin and started to roll out one crust. “I hope I don't get nervous. I mean, with all those people watching, I'm bound to get a little nervous, but I hope I can contain it. The play is so intimate. Did you know I have to cry at one point? I think I can do it. We're rehearsing every night this week.” She stopped mid-roll. “Is that okay?”

“Sure. We don't have any evening obligations at the shop other than the Lovers Trail event. I can cover that.” I had set limited hours for the shop this coming week because of Jordan's and my wedding and because of our honeymoon plans. I thought limited hours would help Rebecca and my part-timers manage on their own. The wine-and-cheese-pairing event at the shop on Thursday evening was the one exception. Now, with me in town and Matthew due back by then, I didn't need Rebecca to shoulder the burden.

Rebecca sighed. “Do you think acting in a play will pull Deputy O'Shea out of his funk? He's miserable. I think he wants to cry, but he won't.”

“I'm sure the play will give him something else to focus on.”

“Did you know he's investigating his uncle's death on his own?”

As I'd guessed. “He shouldn't.”

Rebecca scoffed. “Do you think I can stop him? Not on a bet.” She peeled the crust off the cutting board, placed it into an aluminum pie pan, and crimped the edges. “And, honestly, he ought to investigate. Tim was his favorite uncle. They were very close. Devon is dead set on Jawbone being the culprit. He said he's had run-ins with Jawbone before. Jawbone drinks, and when he drinks, he gets feisty.”

But did he get violent was the question. Had Tim seen him doing something illegal? Had Jawbone chased Tim down? Had he attacked Tim and, after a struggle, dumped him into the cheese vat to keep the secret?

Rebecca rolled out another crust. “I overheard you talking to Jordan yesterday.”

I cocked my head. “How? We were in the kitchen, far away from you.”

“I tiptoed close so I could listen in.” She spun the cutting board to roll the dough in the opposite direction. “Do you really think Tim and Dottie's murders could be related?”

“It's only a theory. I've called U-ey, but he hasn't returned my call.” I would wager Urso had been too busy this morning to breathe, let alone call me. He had no deputies, no backup. How I wished he would turn to me for help.

“Why would Jawbone Jones want to kill Dottie?” Rebecca asked.

“I have no idea, unless Dottie caught him stealing the brooch.” Had Urso followed up on that angle? Was the brooch really missing?

“Jawbone walked by the store earlier with Zach Mueller's mom.”

“I don't think I've ever met her.”

“She has fringed hair and—” Rebecca waggled her finger down the nape of her neck to demonstrate.

“A rattail?” I asked. Rebecca was describing the woman I thought was Jawbone's fiancée. “She's Zach's mother?”

“Yep.”

“How did I not realize that?”

“Do you know everyone in town?”

“Everyone who is a local and comes into the shop.”

“I don't think she's ever come in here,” Rebecca said. “Maybe she's lactose intolerant.”

“We sell wine.”

Rebecca smirked. “She looks like hard liquor might be her beverage of choice.”

I had to agree. “How did you find out she was Zach's mom?”

“Tyanne was in the store at the time. She told me that Ilona—that's the woman's name—ended the marriage when Zach was two. I only mention it because Jawbone gave me the willies. He looked sort of alien-creepy, all bundled in a peacoat and scarf, with only that bald head of his poking out. Doesn't he need a hat or something?”

Recalling how scared I'd felt when I'd questioned him in the parking lot at the Bozzuto Winery and suddenly feeling queasy from all the stress and sorrow, I held up a hand and said, “Let's not discuss the murders right now.”

“But—”

“No. We have so much to do to prepare for this week's event. I'd like to concentrate on the positive.”

Rebecca bristled. “I wasn't going to discuss the murders. I simply mentioned seeing Jawbone because then I waved and they waved back and smiled, and the willies went away.”

I fetched a pad and pencil and started writing a list of the cheeses needed for our Lovers Trail event on Thursday. All of the neighboring shops on Hope Street were participating in Thursday's festivities, too. La Chic Boutique was having a fashion show. The Country Kitchen was offering a
Savor the Love
food tasting, which would include ten mouthwatering desserts. Delilah had told me about the triple-chocolate pudding she was whipping up. It was laced with espresso coffee. Yum. I couldn't wait to try it. At Sew Inspired, Freckles intended to teach customers how to stitch a heart-shaped pillow. And we at Fromagerie Bessette were offering tastings throughout the store. I planned to set out more than a dozen platters of cheeses. For the wine—

I tapped the end of my pencil on the paper. “Rebecca, can you remember the name of the California champagne Matthew selected for Thursday's event?”

“Oh no, no, no. Don't call it champagne,” she cautioned me. “You know better.”

I did. Matthew had been adamant that I learn. Back in 1919, during the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, the French ordained that the word
Champagne
could only refer to bubbly wines made using age-old methods and grapes grown in the Champagne region of France. Except somehow the United States found a loophole. So, in 2006, the United States, as a show of good faith, signed a wine trade agreement with the European Union, not to use terms that were semi-generic, like Champagne, Burgundy, Chianti, et cetera. Of course, if a vineyard had an approved label, that vineyard could be grandfathered in. But Champagne in the U.S. was now called sparkling wine. On the upside, many considered American sparkling wines to be sunnier and less earthy than Champagnes and exceedingly more affordable.
C'est la vie!

“Fine,” I conceded. “What was the name of the sparkling wine?”

“Roederer Estate Brut Anderson Valley L'Ermitage 2003,” she said, the name tripping off her tongue. Maybe she did know more about wine than I gave her credit for. She was an eager student. “It's the same wine we were serving at your—” She halted and cut me a regretful look. “Sorry.”

“My bachelorette party.”

She jammed her lips together and nodded.

“You don't need to pussyfoot around that,” I said. “It was fun while it lasted.” I still couldn't forget how quickly the fun had fizzled, and I couldn't erase from my mind the string of events that had occurred after Deputy O'Shea listened to Tim's message: the panic on his face; the race to the pub; the sprint to the deputy's car; the mad dash to Jordan's farm. Finding Tim.

Suddenly, everything started to move in slow motion.

“Charlotte, are you all right? You look pookie.”

“I'm fine.” I wasn't dizzy, but in my mind, I had zoomed back to yesterday morning when I'd entered the pastry shop and found Dottie. I pictured the body, the Danish, Jordan's cheese, the spatula, the flour. Was my gut instinct right? Were the two crimes related? Who would want to kill both Dottie and Tim? Jawbone Jones had a slim motive to kill Tim, but I couldn't imagine, other than robbery, that he had one for Dottie. Belinda Bell wanted both Tim and Dottie to stop with the noise. Zach Mueller, if Ray Pfeiffer's assertion was right, had stolen Dottie's brooch. Tim had
seen
something. Had he seen Zach stealing something at the pub? And what about Ray Pfeiffer? He might have had a motive to kill his wife. Did he have a motive to kill Tim?

I considered Jawbone's girlfriend—Zach's mother, Ilona. What light might she be able to shed on Jawbone's activities? Had she abetted him? Would she confess if a non-threat like me approached her?

“Yoo-hoo, Charlotte love, are you there?” Sylvie Bessette, my cousin's British ex-wife, appeared in the doorway. She had abandoned Matthew and the twins years ago, but had moved to Providence to rebuild the fractured relationships. Sylvie never failed to amaze me with her offbeat style choices. Today, she wore a snow-white fake fur over black stockings and black boots. If she'd dared to dye half of her ice-white hair back to its original black, she would have been the spitting image of Cruella de Vil, an evil character from Disney's
101 Dalmatians
.

“Oh, there you are.” Sylvie wiggled her high-gloss fingernails. “I saw the shop was empty, and I started to worry, what with Dottie Pfeiffer meeting an untimely death. I'm so glad to see you're alive.”

“Me too,” Rebecca whispered.

I swatted her.

“I have a quick order, if you don't mind,” Sylvie continued. “I want to offer a cheese platter at today's event.” She owned an upscale dress boutique and spa around the corner. She and her neighboring businesses were part of today's Lovers Trail festivities. “We don't want the people coming in for the lingerie show to go away hungry, do we?”

My grandmother had protested Sylvie's lingerie show decision, but Sylvie wouldn't budge. She swore that locals and tourists alike would be thrilled to have a sexy soiree to attend, not like those boring
do
's that the other shops were offering. According to Sylvie, love required passion to light the flame.

“Come.” Sylvie beckoned me with her forefinger.

Far be it from me to keep her waiting. I set aside my paperwork, threw on an apron, and met her by the cheese counter.

“Hard cheeses only. None of those gooey messes.” She pointed to the Colston Bassett Stilton, imported from the UK.

“Good choice,” I said. “It's smooth and creamy with a mellow flavor. No acid bite.”

“Of course it's delicious. It's from the area in England where I was born. What's this?” She pointed to the Cypress Grove Chevre Bermuda Triangle, and read the cheese flag out loud: “‘If you're feeling vulnerable, then definitely don't taste a morsel of this deliciousness. Truly, you will become a slave to its allure.' Are you saying it's divine?”

No one could put anything over on Sylvie. “Want a taste?” I asked. “It's tart and tangy with notes of pepper.”