Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (17 page)

As I wound through the tables, purposely sweeping past Ashley Yeats, I glanced at his phone. He was either texting someone or doing email. As if sensing me spying on him, he clicked the application closed. His abrupt halt to his activities sent spirals of suspicion through me. I glanced at Urso, who frowned and hitched his head for me to skedaddle. I made a face back at him, giving him my best it’s-a-free-world look, and moved to the counter.

After stating Rebecca’s order and opting for a cheese plate with Camembert and apricot jam for myself—Lois’s scone hadn’t quite quenched my appetite—I pulled my cell phone from my purse, intent on finding out more about Ashley Yeats. I opened my browser and typed his name into the search line. A website page emerged that read:
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
. If Yeats was a legitimate journalist, shouldn’t he have had an up-and-running website?

The legs of a chair scraped along the tile floor. Shelton Nelson rose from his table and sauntered to Ashley Yeats. The journalist gestured for Shelton to join him as he whipped out a tape recorder.

During the time I waited for our cocoas and treats, Rebecca had finagled a table near the twosome.

“How did you snare this?” I set a tray holding two cups of cocoa, our desserts, and silverware on the table.

“It’s all about timing. I saw the couple packing up, so I dawdled until they left.”

Rebecca picked up her cup of cocoa and licked off the whipped cream. I sat down and did the same, while peeking at Ashley and Shelton. The acoustics were great.

Ashley said, “. . . and that leads me to my next point. Your wine collection is famous.”

Shelton chuckled. “It’s not that renowned, except maybe to a few friends who like to drop in for a taste of Pétrus.”

“Don’t be modest. Tell me how you got started collecting.”

“As you know, I began my career as a litigation attorney, but I tired of that quickly. Don’t get me wrong. I loved helping the destitute, but at the end of the day, I looked forward to a sip of the grape. On weekends, I would invite in friends. Many were collectors. Thanks to them, my thirst for knowledge grew. I was thirty when I had an epiphany and realized my destiny was wine. One must have passion to find joy in a career. That’s the key to everything. I convinced my then-wife to move to Providence.” He sat back in his chair. “The rest, as they say, is history. I began to invest. First with a single case, then two cases, then ten. I sold some of the wines I owned at a profit to obtain others. It’s like gold, once you get the hang of it. Some people are willing to pay anything for an exquisite bottle.”

“And yet you have so much in stock. When will you ever drink it all?”

Shelton chuckled. “My daughter hopes I won’t be able to. Have I told you the story about the man who owned the French vineyard and feared his daughter wanted to take it over?”

The offhand comment made me sit taller. Did Liberty covet her father’s wine cellar? Was that what her argument with her father had been about? Were Noelle’s last words,
hell’s key
, really
Shel’s key
because he knew his daughter’s intention and his testimony would be essential? If that were the case, wouldn’t Liberty have done away with her father and not Noelle? I stiffened. Did I really believe Liberty, who was slated to marry a devout man, was capable of murder?

A wall of warm air closed in behind me; I swiveled in my chair.

“Are you two eavesdropping?” Urso said.

“No, we . . .” I straightened my back. “We’re enjoying a cup of cocoa and a fabulous Old Chatham Hudson Valley Camembert from New York. Want a taste?”

He frowned.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re a hard cheese devotee,” I teased. Boy, I could be semi-glib when I was on my game.

Taking the counteroffensive, Rebecca said, “What are you and Delilah doing, Chief? Spying on us?”

Urso said, “We were here first.”

“Humph,” Rebecca said. “Everyone knows that the best spy is the one who anticipates his enemy’s actions.”

“Where did you learn that, Miss Zook? By watching
The Bourne Identity
? And exactly when did I become your enemy?”

The door to the café flew open. “Nelson!” Boyd Hellman tramped in, his face a blaze of red. Drops of rain frosted his hair and clothes. He rushed toward Shelton.

Urso dodged me to thwart Boyd’s advance, but Boyd was surprisingly fleet.

He skidded to a stop by Shelton Nelson’s table. “You . . . You . . . You lured Noelle to this sty of a town.”

Shelton rose to his feet. “I did no such—”

Boyd threw a punch and connected with Shelton’s ear. The man fell sideways but gripped the edge of the table. Ashley steadied his side of the table, which kept Shelton from plunging to the floor.

Urso, who was bigger than Boyd by a head and a good fifty pounds heavier, grabbed Boyd from behind and held tight. “Enough, Hellman.”

Boyd kicked at Shelton but missed.

In a split second, Urso whipped out a zip tie and secured Boyd’s wrists. “Cool it, fella. You’re going to jail to sober up.”

As Urso muscled Boyd from the café, Rebecca said to me, “Did you get a whiff of Hellman? He was drunker than a sailor on shore leave.”

Her remark made me refocus on Boyd Hellman. He had blamed Shelton for persuading Noelle to move to Providence for business and leaving him behind, but he had never accused Shelton of murdering her. Was that because he knew that he, and not Shelton, was the killer?

All the way home, though I was exhausted and in dire need of a good night’s sleep, I pondered Boyd’s impetuous behavior. He had to have killed Noelle. He was hotheaded enough to have turned my workshop upside down. He seemed the type who would’ve plunged a corkscrew into her neck. With him in Urso’s custody, I felt a whole lot safer walking up my front path.

When I reached the door, I was met with a huge surprise. Sitting beside the doormat was a vase filled with the most beautiful autumn-colored flowers: gerberas, mums, and fragrant lilies. Under the glow of the porch light, I read the note attached:

My love, I miss you more than life itself. I can’t wait until this all ends and we can be together. J.

My soul did a happy dance. I raced inside, gathered Rags in a celebratory hug, and called Jordan’s handler. Of course, he didn’t answer, so I left a syrupy message of thanks to the love of my life and hung up.

Hungrier than I could remember—thanks to Boyd’s sudden appearance, I hadn’t eaten my cheese or finished my hot chocolate—I hurried to the kitchen. I fixed Rags a quick treat then made myself an appetizer of melted Roquefort and mascarpone cheese on a whole wheat English muffin. I topped the concoction with slices of mango and poured myself a glass of Château Labégorce wine—a luscious red that Matthew said was subtle with alluring exotic notes.

Taking my feast and Rags up to my bedroom, I spread a blanket on the floor and pretended that Jordan and I were having one of our intimate picnics. He would have teased me about the simplicity of the outing; he preferred to do things a bit more elaborately in the culinary department, which made me fantasize about our future. Would he want to continue as a farmer, or would he return to the restaurant business, his first love, once this WITSEC nonsense was over? Maybe he would have an interest in buying La Bella Ristorante. A customer told me yesterday that Luigi Bozzuto was considering selling. I wondered if his breakup with Delilah had anything to do with the decision.

When I didn’t hear back from Jordan or his handler and I was sufficiently blue to the point of distraction, I bussed my empty dishes back to the kitchen and prepared for bed. As I lay there, bathed in the heavenly scent coming from the flowers on the nightstand, a deep sense of longing overtook me. Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to talk to Jordan so badly. I wanted to kiss him and tell him I loved him and make mad passionate love. I wanted to spill everything about the murder—my concerns about who did it and my worry that I had misjudged Noelle in our brief encounter. Doubt pressed on my rib cage and made it hard to breathe. I anticipated having to post another flurry of positive-thinking sticky notes on my computer and around The Cheese Shop. Picturing the notes boomeranged my thoughts back to Noelle’s diary—the one inscribed with inspirational sayings. The quote by Einstein had urged her to learn the rules of the game. The quote by Churchill had suggested she see the opportunity in difficulty. Another quote had reminded her to keep herself bolstered for action and focused on a task. What had that task been? Was it the investigation to which Lois had alluded?

In the gloom, I grew aware of how silent the house was. The heater kicked on with a moan. A shutter clacked against the exterior. When the wind gusted outside and tree branches scratched the windows, I couldn’t lie still any longer. I leaped out of bed and paced the room. Rags vaulted to the floor and paced beside me. He yowled and head-butted my calf as if asking:
What’s wrong?

“I’m scared, Ragsie. Worried that I can’t see the whole picture. Annoyed that I might have missed a vital clue. What if the killer thinks I’m onto him . . . or her . . . even though I’m not?”

The phone jingled. Pinpoints of angst zipped through me. I snatched up the receiver. My voice quavered as I said, “Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” Jordan said.

I felt so relieved I could barely speak.

“Charlotte? Can you hear me? Did I lose the connection?”

“I’m here. And I’m awake. I was . . .” I stopped short of blurting out that I had been conjuring up scenarios of a break-in or worse.

We talked for nearly fifteen minutes about nothing special—the weather, the latest cheese on the market, the twins’ play.

And then Jordan said, “When are you going to fess up?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not on a desert island. And I do have a sister and employees that reside in Providence. Talk to me. There was another murder. In your house.”

“My workshop.”

“Talk to me.”

In one long stream, I told him about Noelle and how much I had liked her. I consolidated the list of suspects: her boss who might or might not have been in a relationship with her and might or might not be in financial straits, his jealous wardrobe-challenged daughter, the shady journalist who resembled a vampire, the hot-tempered winery overseer who had badgered me as I closed up shop, and Noelle’s ex-boyfriend who had a serious drinking problem.

When I finished, he said, “You’re missing your calling, sweetheart.”

“How’s that?”

“You shouldn’t be running a cheese shop. You should be writing a novel. Add some steamy sex and you could conquer the romance market.” His words sounded playful, but the concern in his voice was palpable. “Whatever you do, be careful. I want you in one piece and breathing the next time I see you.”

“Heavily breathing?”

“Preferably.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon.”

I made him promise.

When I hung up, I double-checked the windows and doors to make sure they were secure, then I crept back into bed, snuggled my cat, and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

• • •

The next morning at ten
A.M.
, Matthew and I went to the Country Kitchen for coffee. The temperature outside was cold; a stiff wind had kicked up. Most often I loved autumn, but I didn’t appreciate the bitter days.

“Boy, I needed this.” I took a sip of my to-go coffee laced with vanilla syrup as I exited the diner. “Why is it that every day, midmorning, I need a sugar fix?”

“Because you’ve been going strong since six
A.M.
,” my cousin said. “For most of the population, four hours after rising would be lunchtime. You know, you could sleep in occasionally, now that the girls and I have moved out.”

“I’ve tried. My internal clock won’t let me. Where are the twins, by the way?”

“Still with Sylvie. She called last night, long after their trek to Kindred Creek, and asked to keep them. I heard them giggling hysterically in the background.” He shrugged. “What could I say without sounding like a mean father? It was a weekend night, after all.”

“Don’t look now, but I think Sylvie is parking up the street. And I think Ashley Yeats is with her.”

The moment Sylvie turned off her Mercedes, the twins bolted from the backseat. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Aunt Charlotte. We went to church. Now, Mum is buying us breakfast.” They darted past us and straight into the diner. The Country Kitchen always had a selection of donuts, pastries, and muffins on hand. Amy invariably chose a cheese croissant. Clair’s latest favorite was the banana and chocolate chip gluten-free muffin.

“They look tired.” Matthew groused. “Their mother lets them stay up until all hours. If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a thousand times—”

“Relax. Their speed was supersonic.”

From the car, Rocket barked. I turned.

Standing beside the rear seat with the door open wide, Sylvie, who had dressed in a low-cut sweater, swirly skirt, and spiky heels—hardly church-appropriate attire; hardly warm enough for the weather—struggled to get a leash around Rocket’s neck while trying to keep her skirt from flying up in the wind. Rocket moved his massive head back and forth, which threw Sylvie off balance. She pitched forward, hitting her knees on the threshold of the car, and let out a yelp. Ashley Yeats hurried out of the car and inserted himself into the scuffle, but Rocket snarled, and the journalist heeded the warning.

Matthew muttered, “That Yeats guy had better not have spent the night. I don’t want the girls exposed to . . . you know.”

“He didn’t. At least I don’t think he did. I saw him last night at Café au Lait.” I told Matthew about the interview that Ashley had conducted with Shelton and the ensuing brawl with Boyd Hellman.

“That doesn’t mean Yeats didn’t drop by Sylvie’s place afterward. I think it’s time for a chat about parental rules.” He tramped toward Sylvie, yelling to me over his shoulder, “Watch the girls when they exit the diner, would you?”

The girls would be dandy. I was more worried about Matthew hauling off and socking Ashley. When buying my coffee, I had spotted Urso in the diner. Given his current penchant for locking up disorderly guys, I sprinted after Matthew.

Before Matthew could reach the Mercedes, Ashley bussed Sylvie on the cheek and headed off in the opposite direction. At the same time, Rocket sprang from the car, his leash trailing behind him. Heading toward me, he nearly crashed into Matthew, who dodged right and kept marching. I grabbed hold of Rocket’s collar and knelt on one knee. He licked my face and whimpered a merry hello.

“Yeah, I’ve missed you, too,” I crooned while scrubbing his ears and muzzle.

Sylvie pivoted and, spying Matthew, pinned her skirt against her thighs and tugged up the top of her sweater. I smirked. No matter how hard she tried, she wouldn’t be able to hide the deep cleavage. “Hello, love.”

“What was that about?” Matthew demanded.

“What was what about?” Strands of acid white hair blew around Sylvie’s cheeks. She tried to extract a piece that, thanks to the wind, had stuck to her lipstick, but to no avail.

“That guy Yeats,” Matthew said. “Did he stay the night?”

“Why, Matthew, love, are you jealous?”

“Did he?” Matthew advanced on Sylvie. “I will take you back to court if I have to and prove you are an unfit mother.”

She faltered. “No, he did not stay the night. I would never do that. Amy and Clair come first. Always.”

“What do you know about him?” Matthew demanded.

“Whatever can you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. You and he went on a hike at Kindred Creek.”

“We did and it was so pleasant. No mud. No slip and slide. The trees with their falling leaves smelled musty and—”

“Stop with the tour guide bit. Who is he? What did you find out about him on your outing?”

“You want his bio? Fine. He’s from England.” Sylvie ticked off the answers on her pointy fingernails. “He always wanted to be an on-camera journalist in the States, but he hasn’t received an opportunity yet. He’s a freelancer and needs stories—content, he calls it—so he’s been scouring the globe for good ones.”

Was that why he had been hounding Noelle? Did he know for a fact that she had some story to impart? Was it tawdry? Did it involve her parents? Maybe her refusal to give Yeats a scoop angered him enough to lash out.

“He has a luscious voice, don’t you think, love? Like a radio announcer.”

Matthew grimaced. “I think he looks like a bloodsucking creep.”

“Matthew Bessette, those
are
the words of a jealous man. How delicious.” Sylvie released her skirt. Maybe she thought a Marilyn Monroe moment of allowing the breeze to flute up her skirt and expose her legs would diminish Matthew’s anger, but it didn’t. A few tourists and parade volunteers got an eyeful, though.

“Does he have an alibi for the night of the murder?” Matthew asked.

“Tosh. Why would he need an alibi?”

“He knew Noelle.”

“Says who?”

“Her ex. And Yeats came to town on the same day as Noelle.”

“You are overreacting.” Sylvie stroked Matthew’s arm. He recoiled as if her hand were a blowtorch. “Ashley Yeats had nothing to do with Noelle Adams, I assure you.”

“According to Noelle’s ex,” Matthew countered, “Ashley Yeats was calling Noelle on a regular basis and hounding her.”

“What?” Sylvie shrieked as if she had been two-timed. “I have to go. I have business to attend to.” She pushed past him and held out her hand for Rocket’s leash. “If you don’t mind, Charlotte.”

At the same time that I relinquished control of the strap, Prudence rounded the corner. She was tilted forward to protect a pink-striped cake box from the wind. As she plowed past us, Rocket woofed. Prudence recoiled and bobbled the cake box. I lunged to help, but I wasn’t quick enough. The box flew from her hands and landed with a thwack on the sidewalk. The box burst and the cake splattered. Prudence froze, her mouth agape. I hurried to clean up the mess before Rocket made it his breakfast. He loved sweets, and occasionally I had given him a bite of a sugar cookie, but chocolate was a no-no.