As Gouda as Dead (18 page)

Upon leaving the bookstore, a cool breeze kicked up. I shuddered and buttoned my coat while glancing along the street at the pâtisserie, wishing it were open and wishing even more that Dottie was alive and I could slip inside and have a cup of coffee. We would chat about her latest pastry creation. A recent one that had surprised me was a muffin she'd made with winter squash and brown sugar. True to Dottie's claim, it had been delicious and savory.

Feeling the need to see inside the shop one more time, I hurried north and peered through the window. The display was a beautiful presentation of crystal plates filled with pastries, muffins, and cakes. Tulips that still looked fresh stood in crystal vases. All rested atop a luxurious drape of red satin. Light from spotlights attached to the rim of the window—the lighting system must have been on a timer—made the display glisten. I eyed the counter. Sweets still rested in the trays in the glass case. Loaves of bread jutted from wicker baskets behind the counter. I wondered whether Ray intended to clear out the food before it spoiled. It would be his responsibility, wouldn't it? Would he be open to the suggestion of giving the food to needy families in Providence?

I gazed toward the kitchen. Was it only two days ago that I had passed through that door and found Dottie dead? Had Zach killed her? A chill gripped my insides. If only—

The door to the shop next door opened. Councilwoman Bell was entering Memory Lane Collectibles. I hadn't heard her approach. She huddled forward as if to block the cold and closed the door with a snap. For a moment, I wondered whether Urso had questioned her in relation to Dottie's death. Did he know that Bell was Dottie's landlord? Did he know how much she complained about noise?

Courage welling within me—remembering my Wonder Woman cape had something to do with my pluck—I headed to Memory Lane. I didn't have to return to The Cheese Shop for another fifteen minutes. I had time to shop for a curio for my lover, right?

Shoulders squared and head held high, I strolled into the shop. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bell.”

She had removed her coat and scarf and had hung them on a handsome antique oak coatrack. She spun around, wielding a feather duster like a sword. “Charlotte, you startled me.”

“You're open, aren't you?” I gestured toward the
Open
sign on the door. At that moment, a gentleman entered. I breathed easier knowing we had company.

“Yes, it's, well . . . with Dottie's murder, I'm somewhat breathless to be in the shop by myself.”

Did her fear indicate she was innocent, or was she simply acting?

While the other customer browsed in the front of the store, I drew nearer to Bell. I detected an overly sweet, fruity scent. Was it the perfume that Sylvie had said was so horrific? “How's your daughter?” I asked.

“Thriving in Los Angeles.”

“Do you miss her?”

“More than you know. The house is empty; the silence, unbearable.”

Perhaps in addition to Bell's hearing condition, loneliness was the reason noise irritated her so much; she lived in a quiet home now, and noise of any sort reminded her of how much she missed her ebullient daughter.

I dragged my fingers over the various antique pieces. Every item was set out to make one feel at home: lamps atop desks, quilts on quilt racks, candelabras on top of dining sets. A baker's rack held kitchen items like saltshakers and peppermills, as well as copper pots, molds, and utensils. Tucked in a glass-topped case by the cash register were smaller treasures, such as tooled cigarette cases, letter openers, hunting knives, and hair combs.

A second glass-topped case, fully dedicated to jewelry, stood against the wall behind the register.

Bell moved between the two cases, dusting the glass. “If you see anything you like, let me know.”

Before I knew it, I found myself eyeing the jewelry case to see if the brooch Ray had described to me was within. I didn't spy anything that resembled a cluster of jewels in the shape of a flower, but did I really expect to? If the councilwoman had killed Dottie and stolen the piece, she would have been a fool to set it out at this juncture, and Zach would have been equally reckless to have sold it to a local dealer.

However, something else caught my eye. At the top of the trash bin behind the counter was a wadded-up, pale pink pastry bag out of which protruded half a pastry; it looked strikingly similar to the one the killer had stuffed into Dottie's mouth. Both Delilah and Octavia claimed that Bell would have nothing to do with eating pastries.

“What are you staring at?” Bell demanded.

I pivoted. When I saw that she had opened the glass top and had started to dust the knives and letter openers within the case, a clot of fear crept up my throat. I forced it back down. The gentleman customer was still in the shop. Bell wouldn't attack me with a witness nearby, would she? Besides, although I might be shorter and slighter than her, I am quick, and I would have no compunctions about using one of the items in the store to defend myself. A peppermill or an old-fashioned iron meat grinder would do the trick.

Bell gazed in the direction I had been looking . . .
staring
.

I cleared my throat. “Why do you have a pastry in the wastebasket?” I asked. “I heard you don't eat pastries.”

“I don't.”

“Then why is it there?”

Bell looked at me as if I was nuts. “Because a customer brought it into the store. She was finished and tossed it out. What's the big deal?”

“The pastry shop has been closed since Sunday.”

“And I haven't opened this place since Saturday. I'm only open a few days a week. I've got too much on my plate otherwise. I guess I should have emptied the trash, for fear of ants, but it's cold and ants—” She tilted her head and regarded me with disdain. “Why are you really here, Charlotte?”

“I want a curio for Jordan. A money clip.” I indicated an item in the treasure case. Beside the cigarette holder was a lovely gold-plated clip. A tag read twenty-five dollars.

Belinda fetched it and handed it to me. “Now, tell me the truth. Why are you here?”

I met her gaze. “I'm curious.”

“So I've heard.” Her tone was blatantly snide. Something like dawning recognition spread across her face. “You couldn't possibly think that I—” She gasped. “You do. You think I had something to do with Dottie's death.”

“You didn't like the noise coming from her shop. You filed a formal complaint.”

“I will complain, but I would never murder.”

“You wanted to raise her rent.”

“I repeat: I would never murder. Not for money. Not for any reason. We have the law to contend with such things.”

“Why do you ask your renters to meet at The Country Kitchen?”

“Because the food is delicious and the coffee is excellent,” Bell said. “I happen to like a strong brew. Caffeine is good for you. Did you know that it increases the neuronal firing in the brain and helps release other neurotransmitters?”

“Neurotransmitters?”

“Like dopamine.”

“Are you ill?”

“Hardly. But I can always use something that benefits my reaction time, my memory, and my cognitive function. Can't you?”

I did like a cup of coffee or tea each morning.

“Not everyone gets the shakes from caffeine.” Bell held out her hand. Steady as a rock. She smiled tightly. “Did you have any other questions for me?”

“Where were you Sunday morning?”

“Here.”

“You said you've been closed since Saturday.”

“I come in when it's quiet to repair things. I was fixing a teapot.” She aimed a finger at a Haviland Rose teapot that my neighbor, who collected such items, would give her eyeteeth for.

“So you were alone.”

Bell jammed her hands onto her ample hips. “Yes.”

“Did you hear any screams? Any thuds?”

“How would I have, with that raucous Rolling Stones music playing?”

I again wondered whether Dottie and Tim's deaths were related. “Where were you the night Timothy O'Shea was murdered?”

“Tell me, Charlotte, when did you become an investigator? Oh, that's right, you're not. If you'd like to become one, I know a few who could give you tips to getting your license. But, honestly, don't you have enough to keep you occupied with your business?”

The sarcasm in her tone was meant to throw me off, but it didn't. I stretched my neck and pressed on. “Where were you?”

Bell's nostrils flared. “What day did Tim die?”

“Thursday night.” The night of my party. The night my future with Jordan had changed. We would fix it; we would set a date; all would be right with the world. Soon. “Well?” I asked.

Bell looked upward, as if searching for an answer. “I was meeting with my Realtor.”

“Eddie Townsend.”

“Yes. For almost two hours.”

“In the parking lot outside the pub?”

“Who—” She hesitated. “Someone saw us, I imagine. Oh, how tongues wag. No, we didn't meet outside or inside the pub. I'll have you know that I never go into that place. We met elsewhere. I was dropping Eddie off at his truck.”

Her testimony removed Jawbone Jones from the equation.

“Will Townsend corroborate that?” I asked.

“What business is it of yours? You can't possibly think . . .” Bell ground her teeth together. “Just because I was in the vicinity of the pub doesn't make me—” She hissed air out her nose. “I thought Zach Mueller was the main suspect in Dottie's murder.”

“I don't think Chief Urso has made a definitive call yet. Your daughter Aurora—”

“What about my daughter?”

“She corroborated Zach's alibi.” Okay, she hadn't really, but why else would she have called Delilah?

Bell lasered me with a glare. “What alibi?”

“Zach said he was chatting with his girlfriend on the phone at the time Dottie was killed.”

“It certainly wasn't Aurora. They are no longer an item.”

I shrugged. “You might want to talk to Chief Urso.”

Bell drew taller. “If
he
would like to speak to me, he may do so himself. In the meantime, I'd like you to leave. You are no longer welcome in my shop.” She held out her hand for the money clip and gestured toward the door. “When you contact the chief, which I know you will, tell him that I have nothing to hide.”

When I returned to Fromagerie Bessette, it was almost dusk. I loved the look of the shop in the glow of amber lights. Pépère was working behind the counter. Keeping busy agreed with him. His eyes were bright, his cheeks rosy. He was almost giddy with joy.

“Chérie.”
He welcomed me into a hug. “Rebecca is in the wine annex, setting up decorations for Thursday. She has many good ideas, this girl.” He tapped his temple. “She's put signs on each of the bistro tables with cheese and wine pairings offering a deal: buy two bottles of wine and get a quarter-pound of cheese free. Brilliant. We should have many lovers taking advantage of that kind of offer,
non
? They will coo contentedly.” He linked his arm with mine and nuzzled my cheek. “How are you,
ma
petite-fille
? You have not asked your grandmère
or I for advice. You have not even requested a shoulder to cry upon.”

“No tears required, Pépère. Jordan and I are still getting married. We are setting a date in May.” At this juncture, I figured we'd better pick a specific date so everyone would stop asking. I excused myself and said, “I need to call him.”

I escaped to the office and dialed. I reached Jordan's voice mail and left a message. Then I called U-ey. He had yet to call me back about my previous message. If he answered, would he be teed off that I was contacting him again? Too bad. I needed to find out if he had an inkling about who had killed Dottie Pfeiffer. I also wanted to learn whether he was aware of Belinda Bell's loathing for Dottie. Alas, he too was unavailable.

The moment I rejoined my grandfather at the cheese counter to face a line of last-minute customers before the shop closed, Rebecca slipped in beside us.

“Hey, Charlotte.” She gave me a teensy hug. Energy thrummed inside her.

I pulled apart. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, just pumped up. I love going to rehearsal!”

“To see Devon?”

“And to act. It's so stimulating. So exciting. So fascinating.” She let out a giggle. “Say, I saw Jawbone Jones and Zach's mom a few minutes ago. They were heading into The Country Kitchen. Boy, were they all over each other.” She wrapped her arms around herself and pretended to be two people in a passionate embrace. “‘Get a room,' I wanted to yell, but I didn't.” She tittered again. “This whole town is gooey with love, if you ask me.”

Sure it was, I thought, if you didn't count the hate that went into committing two murders.

Pépère said, “Rebecca, my wife would say you have
Love Letters
on the brain.”

Rebecca grinned. “I can't help it. I'm swept up in this play. The two people are so much in love, but they don't get to be together. Life keeps getting in the way. It's breaking my heart, but it's also making me realize how special it is that I'm in love with someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. Like you and Grandmère and Charlotte and Jordan.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I'm blessed.”

A customer hailed me. Another signaled my grandfather.

“Go, go,” Rebecca said.

My customer, a local artist, asked for suggestions, and I gave him a full accounting of what was good in the winter, suggesting the alpine cheeses, as they typically are the best in the cool months, which was why, historically, they were served warm in dishes like gratin, fondue, and raclette. He ordered a pound of Gruyère, and I rang him up.

When I was once again idle, Rebecca wedged between my grandfather and me and helped us reface or rewrap cheeses. “How was the poetry reading?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“Was Octavia pleased with the turnout?” Pépère said.

“Yes.” I told them about my conversation with Prudence, how she had all but accused Belinda Bell of having motive to kill Dottie, and my follow-up chat with Belinda Bell.

“You went inside her store?” Rebecca said. “Alone?”

“No. There was another customer. You know I wouldn't have taken the risk otherwise.”

“Ha!” Rebecca smirked, as if she'd caught me in a lie, which she sort of had. I'd entered the shop when it was empty. It was only fortune that had brought another customer into the shop seconds behind me. “Tell me what happened?”

I filled them in about the pastry in the trash and Bell's flimsy alibi.

“You know,” Rebecca said, “it still irks me that she and her group plan to oust Grandmère from her position as mayor.”

“
Sacre bleu
,” Pépère muttered. “Say it is not so.”

I sighed. “It is. Prudence confirmed it.”

“Grandmère will be as mad as a hornet,” Rebecca went on. “Which, come to think of it, is how Mrs. Bell is all the time lately. Mad about the noise. Mad about the calories and fats in foods. I wonder if it irritated her that Dottie offered freebies to children.”

“Violet said something along the same line the other day,” I said.

“Hey!” Rebecca held up a finger. “I've got another suspect for you. What if a band of irate mothers led by Paige Alpaugh lashed out at Dottie? Paige can rally the troops better than anyone.”

I thought of the women that had huddled around the kiosk Sunday morning. How long had they been there? Would Paige have been able to skip away unnoticed, slip into the pastry shop, kill Dottie, and return as if nothing had happened?

“If that's true,” I said, “then Dottie and Tim's murders aren't related, because Paige was at the pub at the time Tim died. She has a solid alibi. I saw her. Violet was with her.”

“Unless”—my grandfather held up his hand—“Paige was working with a partner.”

I gaped. “I considered something like that earlier.” I explained the possible matchups I'd concocted, between Bell and Townsend or Bell and Jawbone.

Pépère nodded.
“Oui, exactement.”

“Let's face it,” Rebecca chirped. “The food at the pub isn't that good for people, either. Talk about fats. That makes me think of that movie called
Who Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe?
Did you ever see that?” Within weeks of leaving her Amish community, in addition to becoming addicted to mysteries and thrillers, Rebecca had become a film hound. Over the course of the past few years, she had watched hundreds of award-winning films. Last fall, she had focused her attention on the films of three female stars. Currently, she was devouring comedies. “A gourmand is killing off the chefs because he absolutely has to lose weight or he'll die.”

“But the pub food isn't targeting children,” I said, “and Paige is all about protecting children.”

Tyanne entered the shop and said, “That's an understatement.” Apparently, she had caught the drift of our conversation. “Paige is like a mama bear protecting her cubs. She has all sorts of suggestions for the moms at school. What the lunch menu should be. What we shouldn't include in lunches brought from home.”

Pépère said, “I have heard the same from the twins.”

Tyanne shook her forefinger. “Don't get me started about the school parties. We get printed lists of things not to include, like peanuts and gluten. Some moms really don't like Paige. On the other hand, some people benefit from her advice, like Violet, who looks much better thanks to Paige's dietary plan.”

“Except Dottie wasn't a mother,” I said, which Paige had pointed out to me.

“Are you talking about Paige having it in for Dottie? Oh, sugar, if anyone had it in for someone, it was Dottie wanting a piece of Paige.”

“Why?” Entry forms were poking out of the slot of the satin box. I tried to nudge them inside.

“Dottie accused Paige of swiping a recipe.”

I sputtered. “I can't imagine Paige wanting to make anything Dottie baked.”

“It wasn't a pastry,” Tyanne said. “It was a vegetarian Cheddar cheese dish. Ray had raved about it. One day, at a party at the Pfeiffer house, Paige slipped into the kitchen and filched it.”

Huh. I liked vegetables, but I couldn't imagine stealing a vegetarian recipe. If it was that good, I'd ask politely and hope the cook would share. Most would.

“A recipe, I might add,” Tyanne drawled, “which became the most popular on Paige's blog. Dottie threatened Paige and told her to take it off the site. I still remember the way they were going at it. Paige went semi-ballistic. How dare Dottie challenge her integrity.”

“When you say they were
going at it
”— I succeeded in pushing all the entry forms into the satin box and then squared the edge of the box on the counter—“do you mean they were exchanging blows?”

Tyanne wagged her head. “Heavens no. Words. All words. But Paige was cruel, as she can be sometimes. She said Dottie would have a better figure and longer life if she'd eat less fats and sugar.”

Dottie would have had a longer life if someone hadn't killed her,
I mused.

“
Chérie
,” Pépère said. “Moments ago, on my break, I saw Paige heading into Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe.”

Rebecca nudged me. “Why not go over there and ask for her alibi on Sunday morning?”

“In the meantime,” Pépère said, “think about with whom she might have conspired to kill Tim.” He also prodded me to move.

I hesitated. Was every one of my family and friends thinking like a detective nowadays? Was that my fault, or was it simply a matter of too many murders in one town in such a short time?