As Gouda as Dead (3 page)

Delilah instructed O'Shea to change his pose. At the same time, a cell phone buzzed. Everyone's gaze flew to Deputy O'Shea's gym bag.

Rebecca huffed. “Sheesh. Didn't I switch it off? No—”

“That's a message. Let me take a look, Rebecca.” O'Shea didn't wait for her okay. He dashed to his gym bag and pulled out his phone. Crouched low, he pressed a button and listened. “What the—” He glanced at the readout.

A shiver snaked up my spine for the second time that evening. It wasn't related to my parents' crash. Why was I on edge? What was going on? I'd been feeling so confident and settled lately. Was it just pre-wedding jitters?

I rushed to O'Shea. “Is everything all right?”

The deputy had the phone planted against his ear. He jammed a finger into his other ear. A few seconds later, he snapped to a stand. “Dang.”

“What's wrong?” I said.

O'Shea didn't answer. He stabbed in numbers on the cell phone and pressed Send.

“Devon, talk to me.”

“Uncle Tim—”

“Is he okay? Did something happen?”

“I'm not sure. He sounded flustered. He said he heard, no, he
saw
something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He left a message.” O'Shea looked worried. “His voice cut in and out. He didn't sound good. He sounded . . . scared. He said he was going to contact Chief Urso. Just as the call ended, something crashed in the background.”

While apologizing, Deputy O'Shea threw on his shirt, trousers, and shoes. He seized his bag and dashed upstairs. Needless to say, my celebratory good vibrations flew out the window. I tore off my smock, asked everyone to clean up the cellar, grabbed my coat and purse, and raced after him.

Luckily yesterday's snow had melted and the streets were dry. The cold air stung my cheeks. “Where are you going?” I called.

“To the pub.” O'Shea didn't slow down.

“Why are you so worried?”

“It's not like Uncle Tim to—” He shook his head once. Hard. “You know him,” he yelled over his shoulder. “He's not the kind who panics. About anything.”

“And he sounded freaked out?”

“That's the thing. I'm not sure. But I'm going to find out.”

“When did he leave the message?”

“An hour ago.”

Timothy O'Shea's Irish Pub was located at the north end of the Village Green, about a block from Fromagerie Bessette. Deputy O'Shea entered first. I trailed him.

Invariably, O'Shea's was crowded. The pub was the only place at night that had multiple televisions airing sports or highlights, nonstop. When it was time for the three-piece band to play, like now, all the televisions were switched to closed-caption mode. The walls were bare. Tim wouldn't put up the St. Patrick's Day decorations until March; they would stay up until May.

The deputy and I bypassed the hostess's station and headed toward the antique bar. The leader of the band announced that the upcoming song would be their last for a while, and then the band launched into a rousing rendition of “The Irish Rover.”

Deputy O'Shea strode to a red-haired waitress at the far end of the bar. Like all the waitresses, she was fit and bright-eyed. Tim insisted that his waitresses be able to handle any person, drunk or sober. Rowdies, he called them.

O'Shea said, “Where's my uncle?”

“No need to shout, Devon, my darlin'. I can hear just fine, music and all.” The waitress planted a hand on her hip. “Last I saw him, he was shuffling toward the kitchen.” She gestured with a thumb toward the kitchen door.

“When was that?”

“An hour ago. Maybe more. Why?”

“You're not concerned that he's gone?”

“Why would I be? He often leaves and comes back at close of business. He takes walks. It's good for his heart, he says.” She thumped hers. “I figure he stayed out for some fresh air. I wouldn't blame him. It's hot in here.” She loosened the red bandanna around her neck and mopped her forehead with a white bar towel. “I hate when we crank up the heat because it's cold outside. People dress warmly. There's no—”

“Hush.” O'Shea held up a hand.

The waitress grimaced. “What's eating you?”

“Tim called me.”

“That's because you're his favorite nephew. He always has a soft spot—”

“Stop talking. Listen to me. I'm not kidding. I think something might be wrong.”

The waitress, realizing O'Shea was earnest, tried to apologize, but O'Shea didn't respond. He marched ahead. I trailed him through the kitchen to the rear of the restaurant.

“Has anyone seen Tim in the last hour?” O'Shea said to the kitchen staff. He pushed through the back door. I peeked over his shoulder. The alley was empty. No sign of Tim. O'Shea made a U-turn. “Anybody?”

“He went outside a while ago,” said a female sous-chef who was in her mid-thirties, about the same age I was. She continued to stuff potato skins with whipped potatoes. “I don't remember seeing him return. He likes to—”

“Stroll,” a whip-thin waitress said while filling a basket with Parmesan breadsticks.

“Did somebody drop a tray of glassware in the last hour?” O'Shea asked.

A timid dishwasher in a dirty white apron raised a hand. “Me.”

“That means you were outside when my uncle was calling me on his cell phone.”

“No.”

“I heard the glasses shatter.”

The guy blanched. “I mean, yes, I dropped the glasses, but I didn't see Tim. I wasn't outside. I was just inside the door.”

“Where was Tim?”

“I don't know. We had the door wedged open. We just needed some air. I . . .” He shrugged. “I was clumsy. I think I heard him crank up his truck, though. It's got that sputter sound. Like it needs a good tune-up.”

Tim had owned his truck since high school. He loved working on the engine. That didn't mean he was any good at fixing the darned thing.

“Did you see him drive off?” O'Shea asked.

“No. I just heard—”

O'Shea didn't wait for the rest of the guy's explanation. He strode back into the pub and stood with his hands on his hips while scanning the place. Picking a target, he stomped off to talk to a pair of regulars.

Believing that the more news we gleaned the better—especially before anyone left the bar—I chose another twosome to question. Violet Walden, the woman who ran the upscale Violet's Victoriana Inn, was sitting with Paige Alpaugh, a pert, forty-something single mom who reminded me of a show pony with her big jaw, big teeth, and plume of caramel-colored hair.

With no introduction, I slid onto one of the chairs at the women's table and said, “Hey, Violet, I've got that Fromager d'Affinois you like in stock.” The cheese was a delicious French double-cream, similar to Brie in taste, and in my personal opinion, creamier.

“Mmm.” Violet, also mid-thirties, who had a classically pretty face but dyed her shoulder-length hair a ridiculous marshmallow-blonde color, hummed without looking up. She was rummaging in her purse. Out came a lozenge, a folded piece of blue paper, a receipt, and a pack of cigarettes. The latter must have been what she was after. She jammed everything but the pack of cigarettes back inside and began tap-tapping the pack on the tabletop. “I'm off of cheese for a while.”

“Why?” I assessed her. Had she lost weight? Despite the fact that her B&B offered spa cuisine, Violet usually appeared thick. Perhaps it was because she wore clothes that were one size too small. Tonight, however, she looked downright trim in her chic sweater and jeans. “Has Paige ordered you to change your eating habits?”

“It wasn't me,” Paige said, holding her hand up like a Girl Scout ready to take the pledge. “I adore cheese.” A divorcee and mother of two, Paige made her living as a farmer. She was also a foodie blogger who wrote passionately and tirelessly about a well-balanced diet. I couldn't get over the amount of hours she put into her blog. She posted recipes daily and showed every step of preparation. Each post had a chatty story and sometimes a moral or warning to go along with it. “Dairy in the diet is a good thing,” she said. “It's the sugar you have to watch out for. Candy, sodas, pastries.”

“Amen.” Violet gestured with a V sign.

“And the cigarettes.”

Violet threw Paige a nasty look.

“Eat right and you'll make pretty babies,” Paige went on with authority. I was sure she believed what she professed, but, honestly, genetics had a lot to do with beautiful offspring. Paige's eldest daughter had turned out as attractive as Paige; the younger girl had her father's features.

I turned to Violet. “Are you pregnant?”

“No. I'm single. I would never—” She huffed. “I hope to have kids one day. Soon. Paige is just being . . . Paige. In other words, annoying.”

Paige hiccupped a laugh.

“What's up with the deputy?” Violet eyed O'Shea. “He looks like he's on the warpath.”

“His uncle Tim called him.”

“So?” Violet, who was a head taller than I was, shimmied in her chair until she was sitting straight and, I was pretty sure, could look down on me. I wouldn't necessarily call her controlling, simply in need of the upper hand.

“He left a message, which sounded urgent,” I said. “But the reception cut in and out, so the deputy didn't catch all of Tim's message. Now he can't reach him.”

“Typical around here,” Paige said. “All the rolling hills. What we need is a good cell tower.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” Violet gave her the evil eye. “Talk Councilwoman Bell into that. Can you spell eyesore on her precious landscape?”

Not only did the councilwoman dislike noise in our fair town; she disliked any change whatsoever. She owned Memory Lane Collectibles, which was wedged in between the pastry shop and the Revue Movie Theater. Her shop reflected who she was: a woman who wanted things in her life and town to remain quaint and unchanged.

“If she had her way,” Violet went on, “we would return to pioneer days, as long as the showers and plumbing worked.”

Paige let out with a high-pitched whinny of a laugh.

“Have either of you seen Tim?” I asked.

“The last I saw, he was pouring a pitcher of beer for that table over there.” Paige pointed to a group of four. I recognized them. They were California tourists who had come into The Cheese Shop earlier and had bought out my entire assortment of New England cheeses.

“When was that?”

“Over an hour ago.” She snorted again. “We've been here awhile.” She ran a finger along the rim of her glass of beer. “I'm nursing my one and only. A girl's got to party, just not too hearty, don't you think?”

“How about you, Violet?” I noticed the pack of cigarettes she was toying with. A cigarette was missing. Perhaps holding the pack helped her over the hurdle of needing to smoke another. I knew a man who would suck on an unlit cigar all day. Years ago, I'd suggested trying a lollipop, but he wouldn't go for it. I said, “Did you happen to see Tim when you went outside for a smoke?”

“Aha!” Paige
tsk
ed. “That's why you snuck out.” The disappointment in her tone was heavy-handed.

“No. I mean, yes. I had one. Only one.” Violet tucked the cigarettes into her purse, and then leaned toward me. “I'm trying to quit.”

I said, “The kitchen staff said Tim went out back, by the garbage.”

“I wasn't out there. I was in the parking lot.”

“So you didn't see Tim.”

“No.” Violet tapped her manicured fingertips on the table.

“One of the staff thought Tim might have driven off in his truck.”

Violet's eyes brightened. “You know, now that you mention it, I did see Tim. In his truck. Driving away. And I noticed someone else. Jawbone.”

“Jones?”

“How many Jawbones can there be?” she quipped.

The first time I'd met Jawbone Jones, who was the owner of a gun shop, I felt scared down to my toes. His appearance wasn't the typical look people sported in Providence. He shaved his head, he wore a goatee, and he had the word
king
tattooed on his neck. However, over the past year, I had grown to enjoy him. He was a true aficionado of hard cheeses. I remembered how he would wax rhapsodic about Vermont Shepherd Invierno cheese, a sublime mixture of cow and sheep's milk with a mushroomy taste. He would also purchase a huge portion of Jordan's Pace Hill Farm Double-cream Gouda whenever he came in; he said it was his mother's favorite.

“Why did you notice him?” I asked.

“Because he peeled rubber and sped off in his truck, too. Maybe he was chasing Tim.”

“Which way did Jawbone go?”

“He made a right turn.”

That would mean he had headed north.

“Did Tim drive the same direction?”

“I think so.” Violet linked a finger into the hair at the nape of her neck and twirled. “You know, Ray Pfeiffer might have seen him, too.” Ray was the latest owner of The Ice Castle, the rink where I'd learned to skate ages ago. “He was outside fetching something from his car.” She gazed toward the ceiling, as if picturing something in her mind. “Jawbone was definitely in a hurry.”

I scanned the pub. “Is Ray still here?” Maybe he had seen more than Violet had.

“No, he and Dottie left a while ago. You know how it is with Dottie. She's got to hit the hay so she can get up early to make all those pastries of hers.”

“Those sugar-loaded fattening pastries,” Paige said under her breath.

Those
delicious
pastries, I thought, but kept my opinion to myself. Dottie was the owner of the Providence Pâtisserie, from which our shop purchased many of the breads we used to make sandwiches.

I hurried to O'Shea and tapped him on the shoulder. He whipped around.

I apologized to the pub regulars for interrupting. “Violet saw Jawbone Jones tear off in his truck. He headed north. She wasn't sure, but he might have been chasing your uncle. You said Tim wanted to talk to Urso. Maybe he drove to Pace Hill Farm. That's where Urso is. At Jordan's bachelor party.”