Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (13 page)

“Lots of people arrived that day. This is a tourist destination.”

“But—”

“Stop, Charlotte,” Urso said. “Haven’t you got enough to do, running a thriving shop? There are ten customers”—he gestured to the amassing crowd—“who are ready for you to sell them something delectable.”

“They aren’t ready. They’re browsing. C’mon, U-ey, I want to know who your suspects are.” I ticked off the tips of my fingers. “You’ve got Boyd Hellman, Liberty and Shelton Nelson, Harold Warfield, and—”

“Hold on.” Urso raised his palm. “Before I reveal anything, tell me what you know about this Ashley Yeats.”

“You’re getting good at this.”

A twinkle returned to Urso’s eyes. “Don’t believe what they say. You
can
teach an old dog new tricks.”

I breathed easier. He wasn’t shutting me out. “You’re not old. If you are, then I am, and I don’t intend to be old until I’m my grandmother’s age. And even she would claim she was young.” I rang up the purchase and handed him his tote bag.

“Yeats,” Urso repeated. “Why, other than his arrival date, do you think he could be Noelle’s killer?”

“He’s as phony as the day is long.”

“After last month’s run-in, I wouldn’t call you the best judge of character.”

Now, he was being spiteful. I had trusted someone, and that trust had put me in hot water. I stood a little taller—hard to do at five feet and a couple of inches when facing a bull of a man. “I saw Ashley Yeats snooping around Shelton Nelson’s cellar after we took the tour.”

“Reporters snoop. So?”

“When he met Noelle at the winery, he offered her his business card. She didn’t take it. I got the feeling she knew him. He ogled her like she was meat.”

“Men ogle. It’s not appropriate, but they do. She was a beautiful woman.”

“All I’m saying is I think the guy bears a look-see.”

“Is that your gut instinct talking?” Urso smirked.

I fluttered a hand. “Here’s another theory. Last night, when we were playing Bunco—”

“You play Bunco?” Urso sniggered.

“Enough teasing, okay?” I glowered at him. “Last night, someone suggested that Shelton Nelson was in a relationship with Noelle.”

Urso let out a little moan. “Where are we living, Soap Opera City, USA? Charlotte, do your job and stop trying to do mine.” He headed for the front door.

I skirted around the counter and chased after him. “Noelle came to town more often than she let on.”

“Big deal.”

“She kept a couple of journals. Did Deputy O’Shea confiscate them when he took her other things from the guest room?”

“He did.”

“Aha! Caught you out. No, he did not.” I scooched in front of Urso to block him from exiting. “I have them, and I’ve read through them.”

Urso folded his arms across his massive chest. “Where did you find them?”

“In my house.” I hated that I sounded so defensive. “There’s no crime tape. There’s nothing to stop me from—”

Urso held up a hand to stop my diatribe. “All I asked was where did you find them.”

“In the guest room, tucked between the mattresses.”

“Is there anything about this supposed relationship in them?”

“No, but there are pages missing. The dates on the remaining pages end the day before Noelle arrived. I have—”

“Hand them over.” He opened his palm. “And then I want you to stay clear of this investigation.”

“I can’t, U-ey. I’m part of this investigation. My garage was rummaged through again. If the killer—”

“What?” Urso gripped my shoulders; worry lines etched his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I explained how last night, during the plumbing fiasco, Delilah and I had come up with other theories for the meaning of
hell’s key
, so I raced home to search for new clues only to find my garage invaded again. “I called 911, but I hung up when no one answered. I was pretty sure I wasn’t in danger.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, you amaze me.” He dropped his hands to his sides. So much for his brief, albeit sincere, concern over my well-being.

“I don’t believe the intruder entered the house. For all I know, he”—or she, I mused—“found what he was after in the garage and split.”

“I’ll have a deputy come by and do another once-over. Until then, the journals, please. You’ve got them with you.” He held out a hand for the evidence. “You wouldn’t have left them at home if you felt they were important.”

I fetched the journals from the office and returned. “Here.”

Urso took them and placed them in the tote bag with his lunch.

“You’ll fingerprint them?” I said.

He arched an eyebrow. “If you promise to butt out.” He worked his tongue inside his cheek.

I mirrored him. He could freeze in you-know-where before I gave him my promise.

After a long standoff, he said, “Say, did I tell you? My brother is thinking of running for office.”

“That’s great.” And it was. We had arrived at neutral territory.

“He wants me to manage his campaign.”

Some emotion I couldn’t identify lodged in my throat; I swallowed hard. “Would you give up being chief of police?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Doesn’t he live in Virginia?”

“He does.”

“You’d move?”

“Life delivers curveballs all the time. I have to be ready for a changeup pitch.”

I grimaced. I despised baseball metaphors, maybe because I was never allowed to play on the boy’s baseball team even though, as a girl, I had a mean arm. And Urso knew it, the creep.

“See ya.” He offered a single nod, then placed his hat on his head and marched out the door.

“Charlotte.” Matthew passed behind the cheese counter into the annex with a box of wine balanced on his shoulder. “Meredith and I are catching a bite to eat at the diner. Want to join us?”

“Yes,” I said, wishing I had thought to have Matthew view the journals before ceding them to Urso. Should I run after him and offer my cousin as an expert witness? Out the front window, I caught sight of Rebecca and Deputy O’Shea rounding the corner at Cherry Orchard Street. Heedless of the pelting rain, Urso swept up to them, moved the umbrella from O’Shea’s hand to Rebecca’s, and hitched a thumb at O’Shea. Seeing how miffed he was, I nixed my pursue-and-plead plan and stepped outside. From beneath the awning, I yelled, “Rebecca.”

She waved. I tapped my watch then pivoted to return to the shop. Without any warning, Prudence Hart smacked into me. Water scattered off her umbrella.

“Watch it,” she said.

I huffed. She had been the reckless pedestrian. Taking the high road, I said, “I like your raincoat.”

“
Pfft
. This rain is going to turn our streets into rivers if it doesn’t let up.”

Rebecca trotted up to us. “Rivers? Nonsense. This is mild.”

“Rivers, I tell you,” Prudence said. “And then we’ll have riverboats and gambling. You know about the gambling, don’t you?”

“What gambling?” I said.

Prudence rocked onto the heels of her boots and back to her toes. “That reporter Ashley Yeats tells me there are card games going on in this town, and someone’s contemplating putting up a pool hall.”

The lyrics of “Ya Got Trouble” from
The Music Man
rang out in my head.

I smiled. “Prudence, I’m sure Mr. Yeats is exaggerating.”

“He’s a bit of a gossip, don’t you think?” Rebecca closed her umbrella and gave it a little shake.

“A gossip?” Prudence snorted. “Heavens no. He’s got his finger on the pulse of this town.”

“Does he even have a pulse?” Rebecca teased. “I don’t trust him. With that slick dark hair and those shiny teeth, he reminds me of a vampire.”

Prudence threw her a harsh look. “Don’t talk about him like that. Mark my words, you’ll see.” She flounced away in the direction of her dress shop.

“Whew!” Rebecca snickered. “What’s got her in a tizzy?”

“She’s smitten.”

Rebecca guffawed. “Oh, please. Miss Lemon Juice, smitten with that reporter? She’s at least fifteen years older than he is.”

“Age has nothing to do with desire.”

Again I thought of
The Music Man.
Like the leading man, who was a con artist salesman par excellence
,
Ashley Yeats had won over not only Prudence but also Sylvie with his charm. Who was the guy? More importantly, what was his relationship to Noelle, and what was his alibi on the night of the murder?

Before I left the shop to join Matthew and Meredith at the diner, Rebecca nabbed me by the register. She urged me to talk to Matthew about Harold Warfield; her sixth sense was working overtime, she said. I told her I had my own concerns about Ashley Yeats. She made me swear I would fill her in on whatever I discovered.

As I entered the Country Kitchen, I inhaled the zesty aromas. The South of the Border special—baked chicken stuffed with jalapeños, onions, and Great Midwest Habañero Jack cheese—was making patrons clamor for orders. Tourists and parade volunteers, eager for a respite, waited in a line that curved out the door. Thankfully the nasty rain had subsided, although more inclement weather remained in the forecast.

I nestled into the booth with Matthew and Meredith and ordered the special. Minutes later, after I ate a bite of my fiery meal, I moaned with satisfaction, and then loudly enough to be heard above the roar, said to Matthew and Meredith, “Harold Warfield.”

“What about him?” Matthew said.

I glanced at Meredith, who was too busy enjoying her tortilla soup showered in shredded good old-fashioned Wisconsin Cheddar to put the kibosh on discussing Noelle’s murder. Maybe she realized how much solving the crime mattered to Matthew. “Rebecca swears something is different about Harold, and Urso isn’t taking the notion seriously.” I laid down my fork. “That’s not exactly true. U-ey said he would look into all suspects, but I think he has someone particular in mind.”

“Boyd Hellman.”

“Not Boyd.”

“He’s ruled him out?” Matthew said.

“You know U-ey. He can be evasive.”

“Aren’t you the one who told me we had to trust him?”

“Let’s keep focused, one suspect at a time. Harold.” I shifted in my seat. “Tell me what you know about him.”

“He’s different, I’ll grant you that,” Matthew said, “but different doesn’t make someone a killer. He doesn’t come in the shop, but I’ve seen him around. At Café au Lait and the bookstore.”

“And the pet store,” I said, eyeing Meredith. “Last night at Bunco you had suspicions about Harold.”

“I had misgivings for speaking out of turn, too.” Meredith blotted her mouth with a napkin. “I have to agree with Matthew. Different can be a good thing. An artist can open your eyes to a fresh perspective. A writer can open your heart to new thought. A musician can open your ears to innovative sound.”

“Who are you?” I teased. “Our next junior statesman?”

“Very funny. All I’m saying is we were jumping to conclusions last night. Harold might simply be a high-strung individual. I mean, c’mon. He got nervous when I gawked at him buying the dog leash, so he and his friend—”

“A female friend?”

“A guy. Harold poked him and they tore out of the store like teens caught shoplifting.”

“You didn’t mention that last night.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“But you think we should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“He’s never stirred up rumors before.”

I tilted my head, assessing my friend. “No wonder Providence Liberal Arts College hungers to have you as the dean of students. You’re completely unbiased. I love that about you. They’re still wooing you, I assume?”

“I have a meeting with them right after I finish this fabulous soup.”

I drummed the table. “So, if you don’t want to discuss Harold Warfield, let’s talk about the journalist Ashley Yeats.”

“Yeats?” Matthew said. “Why him?”

“He’s a creep who can’t be trusted,” said a man sitting at the counter.

I swiveled to see who had spoken and felt my shoulders go rigid. Boyd Hellman, as flushed as the red wool of his plaid coat, aimed a finger at me. Why hadn’t I seen him when I slipped into the booth? Had he heard all of our conversation? Given what we said, did he think he was no longer a suspect?

“You know Ashley Yeats?” Meredith asked.

“I know
of
him.” Boyd’s lip curved up in an Elvis snarl as he rotated on his stool. “The jerk called Noelle at home. A lot.”

I recalled how wary Noelle had seemed of the journalist. “What did he say?”

“They only talked once. Supposedly he wanted to do an article about her career.” Boyd raised his chin. “After that, she wouldn’t take his calls.”

Why would Noelle have dodged a journalist? Was there something tawdry in her past that Yeats had uncovered? “Can you speculate on what they discussed during that one conversation?”

“Lady”—Boyd slapped his thigh—“I don’t speck-o-late, got me? Never have, never will.”

I wasn’t sure what he thought I meant by
speculate
, but he huffed and spun back toward the counter and yelled, “Hey, Delilah, I’m ready for chow.” Delilah signaled that she saw him and would return. For a split second, I wondered what Noelle had seen in Boyd, but I pushed the thought from my brain. Most women, including myself, had chosen poorly at one time or another. Boyd was good-looking in a guy-who-works-with-his-hands way. What was his occupation?

“Who’s he?” Meredith whispered.

“Noelle’s ex-boyfriend,” Matthew said, keeping his voice low, then added, “Do you really think Urso has ruled him out as a suspect?”

“I didn’t say that.” I told them about my latest encounter with Urso at Fromagerie Bessette and how I wished I had kept the journals and not handed them over.

“She had more than one?” Matthew said.

“Two. One was like an inspirational journal. She wrote all sorts of quotes by famous people.”

“She was always doing that. Her grandfather encouraged her to—” His voice caught.

Meredith rested a reassuring hand on his forearm. “Go on, Charlotte.”

“The other was a record of wines she tasted, with labels and memos about flavors and aromas.”

“Matthew does the same thing,” Meredith said. “He’s got books and books of them. Pretty soon, we’ll need a storage unit to hold them all.”

“I never want to forget a good wine I’ve tasted,” he said. “Noelle was the same. Man, she had a good palate.”

“She had the finest palate ever,” Boyd said, intruding a second time into our conversation. I thought my hearing was good; this guy had radio antennae for ears.

“Ignore him,” I whispered.

Matthew said, “But he’s right. She was a whiz at blind taste testing.”

“She shouldn’t have lowered herself to come here.” Boyd beat his palm with his fist. “You made her do it, Bessette.”

“I did not,” Matthew said. “She created her own job; she convinced Shelton to hire her.”

“Yeah, make excuses, but you know as well as I do that you’re the one who lured her here. You.” Boyd stabbed his forefinger at Matthew then at his own eyes, as if signaling that he was keeping watch on Matthew. Without another word, he swung back to the counter and hunched forward. At the same time Delilah set the daily special in front of him, and he struck up a conversation.

“Odd guy,” Meredith whispered. “Hot temper.”

“He did it, Charlotte,” Matthew said. “I can feel it.”

Meredith clutched his hand. “Feelings aren’t always right.”

“Pages were torn out of the journals,” I said.

“You think he”—Matthew motioned to Boyd—“might have ripped them out?”

“Or Noelle did.”

“Why would she?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “Back to Ashley Yeats. What’s your gut feeling about him?”

“He’s cheap,” Matthew said. “He came to the shop earlier looking to buy an expensive bottle of wine. He wound up buying an inexpensive one. ‘What does it matter?’ he said. ‘All wines taste the same.’ Like he knew the difference, the fraud.”

“That’s what I think he is.” I tapped the table with my fingertip. “A huckster.”

“Like Starbuck in
The Rainmaker
,” Meredith said.

“Exactly. Or Harold Hill in
The Music Man.
”

“Or Dracula,” Matthew grinned. “Did you see that widow’s peak he’s got?”

I smirked. “Rebecca said the same thing. He reminds her of a vampire.”

“I tried to educate him about the complexities of wine,” Matthew continued, “but he wasn’t interested.”

Meredith nudged Matthew with her shoulder. “If you ask me, we have a whole slew of people who aren’t interested in higher learning today.” She nodded toward Boyd, who was suddenly all grins and smiles while chatting up Delilah. She played along; it was her job. “Oh my, look at the time.” Meredith eyed her watch. “I’ve got to split.”

“Remember, you can’t keep one foot in both camps,” Matthew said as Meredith slipped out of the booth. “Elementary school teacher or liberal arts college dean. Make a choice.”

“They haven’t offered the position yet.” Meredith perched her knee on the booth seat, bent forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “See you later, handsome.”

Matthew and I finished our meals in quiet. As a busboy removed our plates, Sylvie waltzed into the diner, dressed in something akin to a safari outfit—hound’s-tooth jacket, jodhpur trousers, stretch poplin shirt, riding boots, and a walking stick. The twins followed her, each looking normal in simple jeans, tee shirts, raincoats, and galoshes.

“Hi, Daddy,” Amy and Clair called. They skipped toward us.

Sylvie peeped over her shoulder like she had lost something. When the door to the diner opened again, I realized she hadn’t lost some
thing
;
she had misplaced some
one.
Ashley Yeats, dressed in similar togs to Sylvie, pushed through the throng. With renewed confidence, Sylvie sashayed toward us. Apparently, she had lassoed a date with the journalist and couldn’t wait to parade the man in front of her ex-husband.

The twins arrived at the booth and flung themselves at their father for a hug.

Matthew said, “Whoa, don’t smother me. Back up.” They obeyed, and he gestured for them to approach him, one at a time, for a hug; Amy first. “Where are you off to in this sluggish weather?”

“Kindred Creek.” Clair flapped a brochure in Matthew’s direction. Dutifully, he took it and browsed the pages.

Amy said, “We came here to show you our outfits.”

More likely, Sylvie wanted to show off hers. That wasn’t exactly fair of me. Sylvie was usually a good mother, and the twins seemed happy whenever they were with her, but I found it curious that she always had to make an appearance before she went somewhere with them, as if she wanted to flaunt what a good mother she was. To Matthew. To me. To the world.

Sylvie came to a stop, jutted a hip, and rested her forearm on it. Had she memorized the pose from some glamour magazine? At any moment, I expected Ashley to swing around in front of her and fix her collar and makeup. With his striking visage, perhaps he had been a model in another life.

“Hello, love,” Sylvie said. “We’re going on the Best of Fall hike.”

Best of Fall was an annual outing led by the Bird Watching Society of Providence.

“Doesn’t it sound fun, Daddy?” Clair said. “We get to pick up leaves . . .”

“. . . and put them in hiking journals that the park provides,” Amy finished.

“And see birds . . .”

“. . . and we can share them in school on Monday.”

“Ashley suggested the idea,” Sylvie said. “You’ve both met Ashley, haven’t you?”

“Of course they have.” Ashley elbowed Sylvie. “Fromagerie Bessette is where I bought the wine for you, love.”

The
cheap
wine, I mused.

“Isn’t it muddy at Kindred Creek?” Matthew said.

“We don’t mind.” Amy twirled in a circle. She was forever spinning. “It’ll be fun. Mud washes off.”

Sylvie wrinkled her nose. I got the distinct feeling she wasn’t going to the creek out of a deep desire to commune with nature. “Let’s go, my girlie-girls. Ta-ta, Matthew.” She slipped her hand around Ashley’s elbow and steered the girls toward the exit. Over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll have them home by eight.”

Matthew turned to me. “I’ll believe that when it happens. The woman doesn’t have a clue when it comes to time of day.”

Whenever Sylvie entered and left a room, I felt depleted, as if she had taken a part of my soul or a smidgen of my life force with her. Matthew looked drained, too.