As Gouda as Dead (22 page)

Rebecca reached for another goodie from the chocolate-cheese platter.

I swung the platter away and said, “Uh-uh. No more chocolate. You're revved up enough.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Just watching out for you.” I deposited the platter in the walk-in refrigerator and returned to the counter.

Through the picture window, I saw Aurora Bell sitting inside The Country Kitchen. She didn't look nearly as radiant and upbeat as she had the last time I'd seen her. Then I spied Urso squeezing past her and her admiring fans, and I wondered, number one, if I'd mentally summoned him the way I'd conjured up Zach Mueller outside the jewelry store, and number two, why he hadn't returned my calls.

I told Rebecca I'd return and hurried across the street.

Like Urso, I edged around the line of fans and entered the diner. The alluring scent of onion soup rich with Gruyère cheese made me inhale deeply. Ah, if only aromas could satisfy one's appetite, dieters would have a lot more success.

I caught sight of Bell, her daughter, and Townsend. All three looked on edge, but I couldn't focus on them. I spotted Urso sitting in a booth at the rear of the restaurant. Seated opposite him was Delilah. She was leaning forward, the light in her eyes so brilliant that I wondered if she'd been struck by a lightning bolt.

That was when I had a
duh
moment.

Urso was the one for whom Delilah had fallen. Again. They had dated a while back, but the romance hadn't taken off. Because both of them were strong-willed people, they had sniped at each other repeatedly, and in the end, Urso admitted he was still in love with me. Why were they back together now? Was it due to the season? Or was it because Jordan and I were supposed to have tied the knot this past weekend, so Urso finally found the courage to give up on me and move on? It didn't matter. I was too excited for both of my pals to care. Way back in high school, I'd believed they belonged together. Was I upset that neither felt they could tell me? Sure. But I'd get over it.

Delilah leaned forward and intertwined her fingers with Urso's.

Rather than interrupt—I wanted them to have a few stolen moments alone; I could share the latest theories concocted between Rebecca and me after I picked up Rocket at Tailwaggers—I retreated out the door, returned to The Cheese Shop, fetched Rags, and hurried to the north of town.

Rocket was delirious to see me. Had he really thought I wouldn't come back? He'd had a bath more than a dozen times since he'd become part of the family. What kind of pea-brain memory did he have?
Not nice, Charlotte.
I scruffed his neck and ears and assured him all was well, hitched him to his leash, and the three of us trotted outside.

For the first part of the walk to Matthew and Meredith's house, there were lots of people on the streets. Many strolled arm in arm. A few folks walking solo looked on with undisguised jealousy. During February, it seemed everyone wanted to be in a duo.

Not far from the house was a fenced dog park where Rocket liked to run free. He let out with three sharp yips and tugged me toward it.

“Hold on, fella.”

The center of the park was grass and dirt; the outlying area was an oval-shaped path set up with benches. Though usually brightly lit by streetlamps, the park tonight was ominously dark. At least three lamps were out of commission. Grandmère had told me that the lighting system throughout Providence needed an overhaul. The weather could erode the wiring. It was on her list of things to discuss at the next board meeting.

Rocket barked and yanked again.

Although I was uneasy with the lack of foot traffic—as in, there were no people around; zilch—I said, “Okay, fine. I don't need Councilwoman Bell declaring you to be a yapping nuisance. Five minutes.”

We entered the park, and I unhooked his leash. He dashed off. With Rags in tow, I meandered toward a bench. I dusted off a layer of snow, prepared to sit. Rags meowed, indicating he wanted me to pick him up. I obliged. “Have you been putting on weight, kitty cat?” I teased. He hadn't. I was diligent about his diet. No pet needed to be overfed.

He mewled again and rubbed his head against the underside of my chin.

“I know. You're hungry. We'll just be here a few—”

Bushes crackled. Footsteps.

I whipped around.

A figure in black—black jacket, black pants, black ski mask—sprinted toward me. I didn't recognize the eyes. He was about a half a head taller than me, maybe five-feet-ten. He aimed something at me. At first I couldn't make out what it was, but then it glinted. A knife. Nothing special, the kind often found in a kitchen. But highly lethal. Any professional or home chef owned something similar.

I backed up.

“Give it to me,” my assailant grunted, voice low and altered. “Now!”

“Give you what?” My throat felt as dry as sand.

He lunged but didn't strike. “Your ring. Give it to me, or you'll regret it. Now!”

With Rags tucked in my arms, I struggled to wriggle off my engagement ring, which was a half-carat diamond bordered by two rows of smaller diamonds. Two thousand dollars retail.

“Hurry.”

“C'mon,” I urged the ring. Usually, in cold weather, the ring was easier to remove, but not tonight.
Of course, not tonight.

“Faster,” my attacker ordered.

I yanked the ring off, bruising my knuckle.

My assailant snatched the ring and fled.

At that moment, Rocket must have caught sight of him. Yapping, he barreled toward the stranger at full speed.

“Rocket, no!” I yelled.

But he didn't listen. He dove at the thief. He must have made contact, because I heard a human yelp, followed quickly by a canine yelp.

“No!” I shouted. “Somebody, anyone, help!”

The assailant scrambled to a stand and sprinted out of view. He must have darted through the bushes and leaped over the fence.

I raced to Rocket. He lay sprawled on the ground. “Rocket? Are you okay, boy?”

Before I reached him, he roused and lurched to his feet. He jogged to me and tucked his head beneath my outstretched hand while woofing an apology.

“No worries, fella. He didn't hurt me.” Well, maybe my pride was hurt. I knew a few defensive moves. I should have used them, but at the time of the attack, I couldn't. Not with a cat in my arms. Not in the dark. I was lucky to escape unscathed. Rocket, too.

Hurriedly, I re-leashed him and we zoomed out of the park. Back to the lit street. Back to safety in numbers.

Who was the attacker? A tourist? One of the riffraff, as Prudence called them? Or was it someone I knew? I shuddered to think I might have been his specific target.

I recalled a faint whiff of whiskey. Jawbone Jones was an imbiber, but so were many others. Could it have been Zach Mueller? Did his mother tell him I suspected him of murder? Had he tailed me from The Cheese Shop? Maybe he saw me approach the diner with the intent of touching base with Urso. Maybe he thought I knew something that could implicate him. If so, why not kill me? He'd had a weapon. Was his intent to scare me into silence?

I paused. Why would the attacker carry around a ski mask? Possibly because he had stolen things or mugged people on more than one occasion. Ray claimed Zach was a thief. Did Zach rob me so he could pawn my ring? Why take the risk when the eyes of the law had to be all over him? Did he think he could scare me and prevent me from digging further into his motive for killing Dottie or Tim?

“This way, Rocket.” Shakily, I steered him in a U-turn, and we hurried back to the diner to talk to Urso.

When I arrived, I peered through the window. Urso wasn't in the booth where I'd seen him earlier. Remaining outside with the animals in tow, I poked my head in and beckoned Delilah.

She dodged the line of fans and exited. “What's up?” She rubbed her bare arms to warm her from the cold.

“I know about you and U-ey.”

“Huh?”

“Don't act dumb. I saw you two. Entrenched in romantic conversation.”

She reddened. “I was going to tell you—”

“I'm thrilled. Don't get me wrong. However, at the moment, I need to talk to him. I was mugged.”

She seized me by the shoulders. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine. Where's U-ey?”

“The precinct.”

I told her I'd be in touch and sprinted north with the animals.

When I arrived at the precinct, however, Urso wasn't there, either. He had left to deal with a fire at the movie theater. The clerk directed me to Deputy O'Shea. I was surprised that he was at work. I would have thought he'd have rehearsals, like Rebecca. The clerk, an old hand at performing at the theater, reminded me that my grandmother liked to rehearse one actor at a time so she could help the actor, or in this case actress, delve deeper into her emotional reality.

Deputy O'Shea's office was similar to Urso's, only smaller. Neat desk, file cabinet, Levelors on the windows. He looked healthier than he had the other day. His skin had color, his hair was combed.

Rising from his chair, he directed me to sit. He was receptive to my complaint. I replayed the scenario, and he filled out a report, which I signed. He promised to let local pawn shops know of the theft. He asked if I had a picture of the ring and whether it was covered by insurance. I told him I didn't care about the monetary value; I wanted it back because of its sentimental value.

“Are you sure you can't ID the thief?” he asked.

“I suspect it was Zach Mueller. He's about the right height, but there are so many in town about his size, including Jawbone Jones.”

O'Shea's eyes brightened.

I said, “Do you know something about Jawbone that I should know?”

“No, ma'am.”

“You don't have to hide anything from me. I know you've been investigating.”

He frowned.

I assured him Rebecca hadn't said a word to me. “But I know the kind of person you are. You're like me. You won't rest until justice is served. Now, what have you learned?”

“I've been tailing Jawbone, keeping an eye out, hoping to see him trip up. He hasn't. He goes to work. He meets with his music partner. I think he knows I'm watching.”

“I did detect a hint of alcohol on the assailant's breath.”

“Perfect. I'll question him about his whereabouts tonight. Don't you worry. We'll solve this.” O'Shea rose and asked if I was going to be okay.

I told him yes, but I wasn't. I was shaky. And mad. And determined to take more self-defense classes.

Matthew and Meredith wouldn't let me go home after I dropped off Rocket. They demanded I sleep in the guest room. I was too tired to refuse. I sat on the edge of the guest bed with Rags tucked beside me, and I called Jordan; the call went immediately to voice mail. I told him what had happened and that I was safe; he didn't need to call me back. Then I lay back on the pillows. I barely slept a wink. Rags didn't do much better than I did, digging into me with restless regularity every few minutes.

Just before dawn, I returned with Rags to my house. The second I stepped out of the shower, I heard the doorbell. Once. Twice. Then someone pounded on the front door. Swell. I threw on my favorite mint green terry robe and while finger-drying my hair scurried downstairs. Rags trailed me. I peeked through the sidelight window and saw Urso and Jordan standing side by side on my porch. Jordan's eyes blazed with concern. Urso looked grim and stoic.

Feeling sheepish for no good reason, I slowly opened the door.

Jordan strode into the foyer and took me in his arms. “Are you all right?”

Urso stepped inside as well.

I pressed apart from Jordan and addressed both. “I was scared, but I wasn't harmed in any way.” In fact the more I thought about the incident, I felt that other than taking my ring, the culprit's main objective had been to scare the pants off me. Did that mean the thief was Jawbone? He had taunted me at the winery. Was this another of his attempts to get me to back off asking questions? He had a confirmed alibi now. Why would he do that?

Jordan said, “Tell me what happened.”

I recapped the attack then thrust my bare left hand at him. “He demanded my ring.” I added, “And I forked it over.”

“The ring doesn't matter as long as you're all right. We'll get another one. A larger one.”

“I don't need larger.”

Jordan looked as if he wanted to hug me again but restrained himself.

Urso said, “Deputy O'Shea tells me you suspect either Zach Mueller or Jawbone Jones.”

“How do you figure that?” Jordan asked.

“Height, weight”—I eyed Urso—“woman's intuition?”

Urso grunted. “Any distinguishing marks?”

“It was dark; he was wearing all black. Didn't you read O'Shea's report?”

“I did, but sometimes, hours after a crime, a victim remembers something more.”

A
victim
. I hated that I was, yet again, prey to a criminal's whim. Guilt—no,
anxiety
—skated across my skin and gave me goose bumps. If my sheer brawn wasn't enough to protect me, did I need to learn to shoot a gun? Did I need a permit to carry?
No, never.
I would not become a nervous Nellie.

“Charlotte?” Urso said. “Do you remember anything more?”

“Nothing. I can't remember his gait, and he disguised his voice.”

“Could it have been a woman?” Urso asked.

“I suppose.” I tried to picture the attacker. Larger than me overall. Knife in hand. Barking out orders. “Rocket!” I blurted. “He attacked the person. He went for the calf with his teeth. There might be bite marks.”

“Only if the dog was able to nip through the fabric,” Urso cautioned. “Winter clothes are much thicker.”

“Maybe Rocket left a bruise. Maybe the mugger is limping.”

Urso smiled. “I'll assign this to O'Shea and Rodham.”

“How're his wife and baby doing?”

“Super. They went home yesterday. Rodham's back on the job and handing out bubble gum cigars.”

Jordan said, “Then you don't need Charlotte.”

“I never said I did. On that point”—Urso glowered at me—“I know you're trying to help by investigating.”

“I'm not investigating.”

“What would you call it, butting in?”

“I didn't butt—”

“You questioned Belinda Bell.” His tone was sharp and disapproving.

I lifted my chin. “She hated the noise Dottie made. She wanted to raise Dottie's rent. I went to Memory Lane to, yes, snoop, and I saw evidence that I thought was suspicious.”

“What evidence?”

I told him about the pastry wrapper in Bell's shop. “Believing that Dottie and Tim's murders might have been done by the same person—”

“Why would you think that?”

“C'mon, U-ey, two murders inside of a few days. Are you going to tell me you're not thinking along the same lines?”

Jordan said, “I happen to agree with Charlotte.”

“Based on what?” Urso asked.

Jordan smirked. “Woman's intuition?”

Urso groused and pointed at me. “Go on.”

“Violet saw Belinda Bell outside the pub the night Tim was murdered. She was meeting with Councilman Townsend. What if Tim saw them together and figured out they were plotting to kill Dottie?”

“Plotting?”

“They've met together numerous times since.”

“We saw them at the Bozzuto Winery,” Jordan said.

“And you must have seen them at the diner with Bell's daughter, Aurora,” I added.

Urso shrugged. “Maybe they're dating. This is the week of love.”

“Prudence assures me they're not.”

Urso glowered. “Prudence Hart? Have you drawn her into your investigation?”

I held up a hand to stop him. “Okay, if not Belinda Bell, who else do you suspect? Do you believe Zach Mueller's alibi that he was talking to Pixie Alpaugh? Violet saw the two of them . . .” I hesitated. “Well, she
thinks
she might have seen them in the parking lot that night. Zach and Pixie could have been planning to elope, and if Tim overheard them—”

“Charlotte, stop.”

“U-ey, I care about this town, and I care about my friends and family. I know you don't take me seriously—”

“I do take you seriously.”

“You do?” My breath caught in my chest. “Really?”

Urso rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Yes. It bothers me, but you're good at this. Mind you, you're better at selling cheese, but you do understand people, and you see through lies.”

I took a moment to glow beneath his praise. “What do you know about Ray Pfeiffer's finances? Is his business suffering? What if he killed Dottie to get the insurance?”

Urso sighed. “I've checked. He didn't. They had no insurance policies. The pastry business won't sell for much. It would be different, of course, if he owned the building, but he doesn't.”

“Which brings us back to Belinda Bell,” I said. “She's the landlord.”

Urso held up his hands. “Okay, got it. I'll check her out. No more theorizing.”

Jordan spun me to face him. “Get dressed. It's time for you to take the day off.”

“I can't. I've got the Lovers Trail event tonight.”

“You can and you will.”

Doing my best not to bristle, I said, “Don't manage me.”

Jordan laughed. “Like anyone could. Please take the day off? I'm sure Rebecca can handle everything at the shop. We'll call your grandfather to help out, too.”

“Half a day,” I said.

“Deal. Anything to spend time with you.”

“By the way, U-ey.” I aimed a finger at him. “When were you going to tell me that you and Delilah are a couple?”

“They are?” Jordan said. “You dog.”

“Yes. I caught them holding hands at the diner.” I focused on Urso. “Did you think I would tease, taunt, and bring up the past?”

Urso worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

“I won't.” I held up three fingers in a salute. “Scout's honor. I'm happy for both of you. It's about time. She'll make you laugh, and you could use some of that.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I could.”

***

The Ice Castle, an imposing edifice nearly a block long, was located near the mini-mall that held the grocery store and bank. The royal blue and white interior looked freshly painted. Around the rink itself, a matching blue stripe lined the guardrail below the Plexiglas window. In addition to ice-skating and hockey, on Sundays and only Sundays, the rink offered bumper cars on ice and birthday parties. The music piped through the overhead speakers varied from hour to hour: sometimes classical; at other times, like now, rock and roll. A rousing rendition of Bill Haley's “Rock Around the Clock” was playing.

While lacing up our rental skates, Jordan and I perched on narrow benches. The metal sent a chill through me. Despite my hyper-warm leggings, mittens, and three upper layers, I shivered.

“Are you okay?” Jordan asked.

“Fine.” I finished double-knotting the laces and smacked my hands together, a dull sound thanks to the mittens.

“So, you didn't answer my question.”

“I'm not following. Which question?”

“Perhaps it wasn't formal enough in a note.” He lowered himself to one knee and took my hands in his. “Charlotte Erin Bessette, will you marry me on May first?”

I yanked free of his hands and rummaged in the pocket of my parka. I pulled out the heart-shaped origami and spread it open. Beneath his question, I had written:
Yes!!

He drew me into a hug and we kissed. When we broke apart, he said, “Unless, of course, we have occasion to get married earlier and the timing is right.”

“You mean, elope? I couldn't. I want my family and friends . . . No.” I shook my head emphatically. “Let's do it the right way. I'll get Tyanne on board.”

“I've already alerted her. You have enough to cope with.” He kissed me again. “How long has it been since you last skated?”

“A year. You?”

“At least a year. I'm sure my ankles will protest tomorrow.”

I giggled. “I'm certain my thighs will.”

Offering his hand, Jordan pulled me to a stand, and we tottered on the thick rubber mats toward the rink. We stepped onto the icy expanse and skated around the perimeter.

Jordan said, “You're pretty good.”

I'd forgotten how much I loved to skate. As a girl, I'd skated in this arena—way before Ray Pfeiffer owned it—at least once a week. I hadn't done more than single loops or lutzes, but I'd loved to pattern dance, and I'd adored gliding with one leg in the air, arms wide. In addition, my high school boyfriend, who later became my fiancé, had played hockey. Long story short, he'd wanted to be the best player ever and had pleaded with me to play one-on-one with him. I would chuck a puck to him, and he would hit it into the goal. Occasionally, he would bodycheck me against the wall to steal a kiss.

“Charlotte?” Jordan said. “Did you hear me?”

I hadn't, but I was embarrassed to say where my mind had gone. Jordan held no affection for my ex. Neither did I.

“I'm proud of you for not fighting the thief,” he said.

“If I had, I might be dead.”

“Exactly.”

“I think he wielded the knife purely to get me to obey.”

“Which worked.”

“Hey, do you think if I can come up with a visual image of the knife, the police could figure out who owned it?”

Jordan shook his head. “I doubt it, unless it was some unique hunting-style knife.”

“It wasn't.”

After a half hour of skating, I suggested we take a break.

The Ice Castle featured a work-a-raunt café, meaning
serve yourself
. As I perused the menu, I wondered if Paige Alpaugh had a hand in crafting it. Almost everything was a healthy snack: fruit, juice, raisins, protein bars, and nuts. Any sweet options were made with coconut or maple syrup; no processed white flour was used in any of the preparations. The one non-healthy item the café offered was hot cocoa.

We ordered two cups and took them to a white and blue Formica table. I wrapped my hands around the old-fashioned childproof mug to warm my hands. Sitting there, gazing at all the children with parents, a feeling of angst started to well up within me. I sipped and sipped until I'd finished the entire cup without really tasting a drop. I pushed the mug aside.

“Wow, you drank that fast,” Jordan said. “Are you okay?” He looked at me with knowing eyes. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Let's skate some more.” I lumbered to a stance, took my mug to a dish depository, and scuttled to the ice. Blades are never easy to walk on.

Jordan followed. In minutes, we were arm in arm, skating the cha-cha to a song called “Telephone” by Lady Gaga. The words made me laugh. Lady Gaga didn't want to be bothered by her boyfriend's phone call because she was busy dancing.

“You're smiling again,” Jordan said. “I like it.”

“Was I frowning earlier?”

“Back there.” He hitched his head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Truth?”

“Always.”

“I'm getting old.”

“You're thirty-hmm-hmm.” He mumbled my age on purpose as he guided me in a twirl under his arm. “Big deal.” He swooped me into a hold and skated me backward. One, two, three, cha-cha.