As Gouda as Dead (15 page)

“No. Just wrap up a portion. And this?” She leaned closer to the glass case and wiggled a finger. “Read that one in the back to me. The one with the specks of red spice.” Was her eyesight getting weak? She was pushing forty.

The door to the shop opened and Tyanne entered.

“C'mon, love, read,” Sylvie ordered.

I obliged. “‘No Woman cheese: The perfect cheese if you need to spice up your life.'”

“Ooh. I like the sound of that one. What fun.”

“Perhaps it's too spicy for you,” Tyanne quipped.

Sylvie offered a sour look, but when she realized it was Tyanne speaking, the look vanished and she smiled. She actually liked Tyanne. I'd never heard her say a rude thing about her. As for me? She'd said plenty. But I was inured to her caustic charm. “Good morning, love. How are you holding up?”

Tyanne shrugged. “I'm keeping it together. I almost lost it at the weddings for the two non-local couples I put together at the last minute yesterday and today, but I didn't. I am woman; hear me
meow
.”

“I have just the thing at my shop if you do become a puffy-eyed mess,” Sylvie said. “It's a detox cream. Icy cold when applied. You should try it. Complimentary.”

“Perhaps I will.”

“Come by the shop today. You too, Charlotte, if you can break free. Your love life could use a lingerie pick-me-up, if you know what I mean.”

“No, Sylvie, I don't.” Of course, I did. She was being insulting, inferring that Jordan and I weren't getting married because our relationship suffered in the sex department. It didn't. We were a great match. I'd never met a more attentive, loving, romantic man.

“But you called off the wedding, love.”

Tyanne jumped in. “She didn't call it off. She's postponing.”

I added, “We didn't think it was appropriate to get married at Jordan's farm within days of Timothy O'Shea's death. And now with Dottie—”

“About that.” Sylvie ran a tongue along her lips. She peeked over her shoulder, as if looking for someone to be listening in. No one was. She swiveled back to us. “Councilwoman Bell was in my shop yesterday afternoon. That woman. She has no decorum.”

This coming from the woman whose picture might accompany the definition of
no decorum
in a dictionary. Sylvie barged in wherever she wanted. She had crashed the taste-testing at the venue for Matthew and Meredith's wedding. She had arrived uninvited at Matthew and Meredith's rehearsal dinner. She invariably tried to horn in on an outing with the twins when it was clearly Matthew's, Meredith's, or my turn to have them. She was a good mother, frequently gushing over her
girlie girls
, but she defied logic when it came to social correctness.

“What did Belinda Bell do?” I said, knowing Sylvie wouldn't leave until she had imparted her bit of gossip.

Sylvie lowered her voice and said, “Gather around.”

Rebecca slipped up beside me at the cheese counter, eager to glean whatever gossip Sylvie might share.

“Belinda Bell was whispering with a few of her cronies,” Sylvie said. “But I sidled close to listen in.”

I would have expected no less. Listening in on another conversation had helped Sylvie discover a long lost treasure buried in the bowels of an old winery cellar in Providence.

“Bell was wearing a horrid perfume,” Sylvie went on. “Cloying and cheap, like what teenagers douse themselves with. How ever does she hope to woo a man smelling like that?”

Did Councilwoman Bell want a man? Her husband had died ten years ago—heart attack. She'd raised her daughter on her own. Maybe, as Tyanne had suggested the other night, Belinda Bell was lonely now that her daughter had moved to Los Angeles and become a star. Perhaps she visited her daughter's room and sampled her fragrances. There was nothing wrong with that; it showed how much she loved her daughter.

“And don't get me started about the outfit Bell was wearing,” Sylvie continued. “She certainly didn't purchase it at my store. Ruffles and more ruffles. Way too many for her pear-shaped frame. I could teach her a thing or two about taste. Her daughter, too. Did you see the photo spread of Aurora in the latest
People
? The girl looked positively deranged, dressed as she was in Goth black with a double-dose of black eye makeup. Whatever happened to the girl who looked like the morning goddess, her strawberry-blonde hair lustrous, her eyes wide with innocence? Talk about a disaster.” Sylvie lowered her voice. “I think she might be doing—” She tapped her nose and sniffed to make her point.

I spanked the cheese counter. “Sylvie, what did the councilwoman say?”

“Oh, right-o. Bell said she wasn't in the least sorry that Dottie died.”

Rebecca gasped. So did Tyanne.

“Well, perhaps she wasn't that blunt,” Sylvie revised. “But she did say that she and all of Dottie's neighbors wouldn't miss the pastry shop.”

I said, “Surrounding business owners didn't like Dottie?”

“She played that blasted rock-and-roll music at all hours of the night.”

I remembered hearing a Rolling Stones song when I'd entered the shop. Had Dottie's penchant for loud music made someone—like Bell—snap? On the other hand, would a killer utter that kind of hateful statement so openly?

“By the way,” Sylvie went on, “Bell sounded excited that she would be able to find a new tenant for the pastry shop.”

I gaped. “She's the landlord?”

“Yes, and you remember, from personal experience, how mean landlords can be, don't you, Charlotte?”

I did my best to ignore the taunt, but it still stung. Our previous landlord, a bitter miserable man, was murdered nearly two years ago during the re-opening party for Fromagerie Bessette. Grandmère had become the leading suspect in his murder because she was found clutching the cheese knife that the killer had used to stab him. Our new landlord was Jordan, or rather Providence Arts and Creative Enterprises, the specially constructed acronym, or
backronym
, using the letters of Jordan's last name: Pace.

I said, “That's a blast from my past that I'd soon enough forget.”

“I'll bet you would.” Sylvie snorted.

“What else did you learn from Councilwoman Bell?”

“This should really infuriate you. I heard that she and others are planning to oust your grandmother as mayor if she can't get the noise pollution under control.”

“Not again,” I said. The spiteful wife of our former landlord had tried to force my grandmother out of politics with lies and innuendoes. I thought back to my visit to the precinct the other day. Bell and her pals had been filing a complaint about noise. Were she and her posse going to ride roughshod over our fair town, demanding their way or the highway? Was murder an option if someone didn't comply?

Sylvie continued. “Maybe Belinda Bell is making a stink about noise simply because she wants to empty all her buildings of tenants so she can free up the rental space and raise the rent. I'd do that if I could get away with it, but all my tenants and neighbors are as quiet as church mice.”

The door to the shop opened and Urso entered, hat tucked under his arm. “Good morning, ladies.”

“Chief,” I said. “Is it lunchtime already?” The wall clock read ten to noon. Time was speeding by.

He regarded the group. “What are you conspiring about?”

“Nothing,” Sylvie said a trifle too quickly. She wasn't nearly as skilled at keeping secrets as Rebecca, Tyanne, and I, who a few months ago, at Rebecca's insistence, had formed The Snoop Club. Silly nonsense, and yet by sleuthing together, we had come up with clues that helped figure out who had killed a charming sommelier.

While I prepared a platter of cheeses for Sylvie's order, Rebecca tended to Urso's sandwich. None were made yet. She needed to concoct a fresh one: salami, mozzarella, and pepperoncinis. He'd asked to include the last item.

Rebecca teased him. “Hoping to score points with Delilah, chief? She's the only one in town who likes those pepper thingies.”

Urso shot her a wry look. Like he would tell her anything about his personal life.

As Rebecca wrapped the sandwich, she informed Urso that Deputy O'Shea was cast in the play. “Don't worry. It's only a week's commitment.”

“It'll do him good,” Urso said.

“He—” Rebecca stopped herself. I could see in her eyes that she'd almost blabbed that her beau was investigating on his own. Had O'Shea learned anything? Was he tailing Jawbone? Might he get himself in trouble? Would he tell Urso if he discovered anything pertinent to the case?

Rebecca cleared her throat and beamed. “You'll come to the play, won't you, chief?”

“Wouldn't miss it. By the way, have you seen Devon this morning?”

“No, why?” Rebecca gulped—hard.

“He hasn't checked in at the precinct.”

Sylvie waved her hand. “I saw him.” She flounced toward the register to pay for her platter. “He was wandering outside Providence Pâtisserie. He seemed to be inspecting the crime scene tape. When he saw me eyeing him, he pretended like he was headed to All Booked Up down the street, but I think he was trying to decide whether to enter the pastry shop.”

“Did you ban him from that investigation, too?” I asked Urso.

“I don't think he's ready for anything other than precinct work. He's emotionally raw.”

“Maybe he would heal faster if he could focus on another case. Did you get my messages?”

He nodded curtly.

“Do you think the two murders are related?”

“Not based on the theories you've offered. Cheese and a cleanup job? Thin.”

I bobbed my head. He was right.

Rebecca handed Urso a bag with his sandwich tucked inside. “Do you want anything to drink? How about a bottle of wine for your dinner tonight?”

That made me think about the wine tasting I'd gone to with Jordan. “Chief, I meant to mention that I had a suspicion about Jawbone Jones again. I—”

Urso held up a hand to stop me. “I spoke to him about the altercation with Tim. He said he was arguing about a bill. He said Tim overcharged him for a beer.”

“A beer?” I raised an eyebrow. “According to Violet Walden, Jawbone drinks rye. Too much rye.”

Urso sighed and turned toward the door. I asked Rebecca to finish up with Sylvie and hurried around the register to Urso.

I tapped his forearm. “Hey, U-ey. Are you okay? You look pale and wrung out.”

“Charlotte, there have been two—”

“Murders inside of a week. I know. What is our town coming to?”

He didn't answer. He moved toward the door. How I ached for him. I'd never seen him so defeated. If he couldn't get these murders solved in a timely manner, would he give up on Providence? Would he change his mind and take the job his brother had offered on his campaign, after all?

Something on the street caught Urso's attention, and his whole demeanor changed. He drew tall, shoulders back; his eyes lit up with good humor. He sped out the door and headed across the street toward The Country Kitchen.

I peered out the window looking for what had fascinated him. Delilah stood on a ladder, changing out the letters on the sign above the diner. So far, it said:
Delicious food, made with
 . . . I suspected
love
would finish the slogan. Paige Alpaugh and a pair of thirtysomething women that owned one of the children's stores in town scooted behind the ladder and entered the restaurant. Had one of them sparked Urso's interest? He was strutting like a man in love, which made me much less fearful that he would split town. Not yet, anyway.

Monday evening was typically girls' night out. Occasionally my friends and I would attend a yoga class or a self-defense class. Most often, however, we wound up at Timothy O'Shea's Irish Pub and sipped beer and snacked on tasty appetizers while catching up, which was what we'd decided to do tonight. After I dropped Rags and Rocket back at the house, I headed to the pub. The moment I entered, I sensed the gloom. Whereas usually a trio performed boisterous Irish music, tonight a solo pianist—the same from the theater the other night—was playing a mournful “As Time Goes By.” There were no sports programs airing on the TVs. No Cleveland Cavaliers basketball, no Columbus Blue Jackets hockey. The bar was only half full. The pair of Tim's brothers, who had come to town to run the pub to keep it afloat until the family decided what to do with it, stood behind the bar pouring drinks, but they didn't seem to have their hearts in their work. They didn't smile and chat with the customers like Tim had. They merely poured and moved on. It was hard to be charming when grieving.

Delilah had arrived at the pub early to make sure our table was secured. She was sitting on the far side of the booth, texting on her cell phone. Tyanne was there, as well. She looked blue. It didn't help that she was dressed in a drab blue shirt and matching scarf—a hip color in a magazine; not so good on a person in mourning.

I arrived at the booth, and Tyanne said, “Delilah ordered the mini-macaroni and cheese appetizer and some veggies with blue cheese dip.”

I loved the mini-macs. The recipe included wine and a savory complement of spices.

“Oh, and she has some news.” Tyanne's tone was flat and uninvolved.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Tyanne looked at me blankly, then tears sprang to her eyes. “You know what? No. I'm not feeling so hot. I'm going to go home and crawl in bed.” She scrambled off the bench.

I reached for her, but she pulled free.

“I'll be fine,” she said. “Don't worry.”

I did and I would continue to do so. I didn't have sisters. My girlfriends were my extended family. I hated that Tyanne was in pain. I wanted her to feel better. Fast. But what could I do? I slid in beside Delilah.

At the same time, a waitress appeared with a couple of beers. She placed them in front of Delilah and me, said she'd run a tab, and sauntered away.

Delilah set aside her cell phone and said, “How are
you
doing?”

“Better than Tyanne.” I fingered the moisture on my glass of beer. “The love of my life is still alive.”

Delilah offered a consoling smile. “Have you reset the wedding date?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“He's deliberating a career change.”

“He'll sell the farm?”

“Maybe.”

Delilah took a sip of her beer. She licked the foam off her lip. “Where's Rebecca?”

“At rehearsal. She got the part in
Love Letters
. She performs it this Friday.”

“I'd heard your grandmother was planning to do that. Daring. And where are Jacky and Freckles?”

“Freckles had another blogger moms meeting. I'm not sure about Jacky”—Jordan's sister—“but it looks like it's just you and me. So, spill. What's your news?”

She pushed her glass aside and leaned forward on both elbows. “I'm in love.”

I grasped her forearms and squeezed. “About time you told me.”

“You knew?”

“Jordan mentioned it. He heard from—” I waved a hand. “Never mind. Who's the lucky guy?”

“I can't say.”

“What?” I squeaked and spanked her arms. “I'm your best friend. You'd better blab.”

“I don't want to jinx it.”

“Telling me won't—” I paused. “Aha! I get it. You're afraid I'm going to run to him and ask him how he feels about you. Do you know the answer?” I felt like we were back in high school talking about the boys in our English class. She'd had such a crush on a couple of them. She had liked Jerry because he was a real cutup in a Robin Williams way. She'd adored U-ey because he had a quick, incisive mind, and he could hold his own on the dance floor. She had swooned over Vic because of his Nordic good looks and his beautiful bold baritone. “C'mon, tell me. I promise I won't tell a soul, cross my heart”—I made the gesture—“hope to die.”

Delilah shook her head vehemently, but her eyes twinkled with delight. “We're taking it slowly.”

Was everyone doing that nowadays? Violet had said the same thing. A fertility clock started to
ticktock
loudly in my mind.

“But I know it's forever this time,” Delilah added.

“At least tell me this, is he someone I know?”

“Yes.”

“Have you known him for a long time?”

“Yes.”

“Is he tall, dark, and handsome, or short, light, and clever?”

“Yes.”

“You!” I reached for her cell phone. “Who were you texting? Him?”

She nabbed it and clasped it with both hands.

“No fair,” I said.

“Soon. Let me make sure we're working.”

“You said it's for forever.”

“For me. One day at a time. We reconnected in a magical way.”

“Reconnected. Aha! That means you were a couple before.”

“Not necessarily. We might have dated once.” She grinned.

“Uh-uh.” I wagged a finger. “You can't put one over on me. I'm an ace sleuth, or so my sweet assistant tells me. Do you know she actually tried to pitch me to U-ey to be a temporary deputy?”

“She didn't.”

“Yep. He's shorthanded because Rodham's wife gave birth and Devon O'Shea is not functioning on all emotional cylinders. O'Shea is going to be acting in the play this week, too.”

“I heard. Rebecca must be agog about that.”

“She is. She's hoping the play will give Devon something to concentrate on other than his uncle's death.”

“Hard to do, but one can hope.” Delilah took a sip of beer. “Did Urso jump at the idea of you and him working together?”

“Hardly.”

“Do you want to help?”

“That's a given.” I couldn't stop reworking theories in my mind.

“I'll talk to him.”

“Don't antagonize him.”

“Don't worry. He's become quite partial to the diner's chicken potpie, packed with crisp veggies, a luscious sauce, and a butter-laden crust.” She sniggered. “I'm not averse to withholding satisfaction. Pinky swear.” She held out her baby finger; I latched on. We squeezed then released. “Now, what do you know about Dottie's murder? I heard you found her.” She shook her head. “You certainly have bad timing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Or Fate is keeping you in the loop regarding murders around here because you're good at solving them.”

I moaned. “Now you sound like your mother.” Delilah's quixotic mother had shown up a few months ago, out of the blue. They'd been estranged for quite a long time. A believer in the mystical, her mother would have been all over the coincidence of me finding victims.
It's your karma,
she would have cried. She wouldn't have been able to tell me
why
, just that it
was
. I pressed the thought from my mind and recapped the scene at Providence Pâtisserie. “I can only come up with a few suspects at this time. Zach Mueller.” I explained his possible motives. “And Belinda Bell, who clearly didn't like the noise that Dottie created at the pastry shop.” I repeated Sylvie's account as well as the incident with Bell that I'd witnessed at the precinct.

“Why were you at the precinct?” Delilah asked.

“To speak to our illustrious chief of police.”

“You see?” Delilah grinned. “You're already helping him.”

“He told me to butt out.”

“Forget him. Back to Belinda Bell. Is it possible, as the owner of the building, that she intends to clear out all the neighboring businesses so she can renew the leases at higher prices or even sell the building?”

“Sylvie suggested the same.”

“Great minds.
Not
.” Delilah snorted. She didn't like Sylvie in the least.

Our appetizers arrived. I gobbled down the mini-macaroni and craved another. When had I last eaten? I took a sip of beer then said, “I've got this nagging suspicion that Dottie and Tim's murders are related.” I explained the coincidence of Pace Hill Farm Double-cream Gouda being present at both scenes. “I mean, why choke Dottie with a pastry? A rag or towel would have done the same thing. And faster. I truly believe the pastry is significant.”

“Not necessarily. What if Bell slipped down the alleyway behind that row of buildings? She stole into the kitchen. Dottie wouldn't have heard her with that music playing. Bell wasn't quite sure what she was going to do. She might have come in to rant at Dottie. But then she saw Dottie dancing around, like she did, probably lip-synching to some song while holding a spatula to her mouth—I've seen her do that.”

“Me too.”

“And Bell lost it. The first thing Bell spotted was the cheese Danish. She snatched it and ran at Dottie. Bell is nearly twice Dottie's size. She knocked her flat and crammed the pastry into her mouth. Dottie fought, but she wasn't strong enough.”

I held up both hands. “Okay, I'll concede that the Gouda cheese might be coincidental.”

Delilah took a sip of her beer. “You know, come to think of it, Bell has a lot of noise issues. She's complained to me about the music here. She loathes when the waitstaff sings and dances. Do you think she might have a hearing problem? Maybe it's painful when she hears loud noises.”

“I wonder if Tim said he ‘heard, no saw' something because he was trying to clue in Deputy O'Shea that Bell, who has a problem with noise, was the killer.”

Delilah squinched her mouth and nose. “Then why not come right out and say it was Bell?”

“Because he was afraid that whoever he'd overheard would hear him.”

“Ha! Not Bell, if our theory is correct. And why would Tim be so cryptic?”

Tim hadn't been cryptic; the cell phone reception had cut out. Even still, why hadn't he blurted out a name? Dang! One name could have solved everything.

Delilah said, “What would Bell have had against Tim?”

“Not only was she upset with the noise from the pub, but according to Dottie, Bell was also upset with the people wandering the streets drunk. A pub owner is responsible for the inebriated state of its clientele.”

“Is Bell a teetotaler? Because if she is, why would she hang out with that Realtor that's a sot? You know the one I mean, with the beard”—she drew her fingers along her chin then waggled them above her head—“and the scruffy hair.” She was describing Eddie Townsend, Bell's companion at the Bozzuto Winery. “They were in the diner the other night chowing down on turkey and vegetables, deep in conversation. Bell was stabbing the table with her fork to make each point.”

“They're both members of the city council. Maybe—” I balked. “Maybe Townsend is one of the people who is going to join Bell's quest to oust my grandmother as mayor.”

“Bell wouldn't dare.”

“Yes, she would. Sylvie told me. Hey!” I jutted a finger in the air. “Maybe Tim heard Bell and Townsend plotting the uprising.”

“And Bell went after him to silence him? Nah, I don't buy it. Would you kill someone to keep that kind of secret? I wouldn't. I mean, it's local politics. Big deal. And let's face it, Bell might be big and rather hippy, but I don't think she could have overpowered Tim. He was a scrapper.” Delilah eyed her cell phone.

“What if Bell drugged Tim?” I said, reiterating Tyanne's theory. She'd seen Bell leaving the pharmacy with a veritable drugstore in hand. I paused.
A veritable drugstore.
“What if the drugs Bell was buying contained pseudoephedrine, used to make crystal meth?”

“Ew.”

“Providence isn't immune.”

Delilah frowned. “Do you hear yourself? You're constructing conspiracy theories out of thin air.”

I laughed. “I'm being out-of-my-mind ridiculous, aren't I? The next thing you know—”

Someone rapped on the wooden back of our booth.