Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (19 page)

“Yes,” Rebecca said, “except he wants us to nose out of the investigation. We said we would if he would arrest someone.”

“You know, I can’t get my mind off that Ashley Yeats guy.” Matthew worked a corkscrew into the cork and pulled—
thwup
. “He acts guilty.”

“Of what? Liking your ex-wife?” I teased.

“Something’s off about that.”

“You don’t think Sylvie is loveable?”

“I’m serious.”

Tyanne returned to the counter carrying a load of crackers and jams. “Mrs. Bell forgot to take a shopping basket. Sheesh.” She rounded the register and set the items on the counter.

“I want to check him out,” Matthew said as he twisted the cork off the corkscrew.

“Check who out?” Tyanne asked.

“Ashley Yeats.”

“That journalist?” Tyanne sniffed. “I don’t like him much. He’s dating your ex, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” The snarl in Matthew’s tone was unmistakable. “Where do I start, Charlotte? Should I poke around his garbage or something?”

“Matthew, please. I want you to keep your distance.”

“Why shouldn’t he get involved?” Rebecca said. “Matthew was Noelle’s good friend, and he’s officially part of the club now.”

“What club?” Tyanne asked as she jotted prices for Mrs. Bell’s items on a sales pad.

“The Snoop Club.”

“There is no Snoop Club.” I glared at Rebecca. “Cut it out. Don’t stir up trouble.”

“That Yeats fellow is the one that’s trouble,” Tyanne said. “Why just the other day, I caught him staring at my legs and every other woman’s legs, too. He has no shame.”

“He’s a bum,” Rebecca said.

“C’mon, Charlotte.” Matthew jerked a thumb. “You’re the pro. Tell me how I get the dirt on him.”

Realizing my cousin would not be deterred, but mindful of the customers browsing the shop, I drew Matthew, Tyanne, and Rebecca into a huddle by the entry to the kitchen. “Okay, first, Matthew, you have to drum up telephone records. Maybe you could call Ashley Yeats’s employer and ask about his assignment and his travel schedule. See how other trips might have coincided with Noelle’s.”

Matthew said, “A former employee of mine in Cleveland left the restaurant business. He works at the telephone company.”

“Perfect.”

“I don’t like that Harold Warfield,” Rebecca said. “Especially after he attacked you last night.”

Matthew shot me a look. “He did what?”

I waved for him to relax. “He didn’t lay a finger on me. He harassed me as I was closing up shop. He said I was the one that made Urso interrogate him.”

“He’s got shifty eyes,” Tyanne said.

Rebecca agreed. “I think he’s having an affair. I’m going to tail him.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. Where did she come up with these harebrained ideas? Her MINI Cooper would stick out like a sore thumb.

“Is it okay if I corroborate his alibi?” she asked.

I sighed. “Sure. Call the library.”

“Better yet, I’ll go there after work. What about you? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to attend the twins’ rehearsal.”

“No, really. You’ve got to do something to solve this murder, with or without Chief Urso’s approval. Something’s got you bugged.” She wiggled her pinky. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Honestly? I’m still miffed that I can’t see everything Noelle stored on her computer.”

Rebecca clapped her hands. “I knew it. We should go back and—”

“Not a chance.” I did not want Urso locking us up and throwing away the key.

“Sugar, maybe I could help. I’ve learned a whole ton about the Internet.” Tyanne gripped my wrist. “I bet I could hack into Noelle’s emails. Maybe we could find out with whom she was communicating on a regular basis.”

“Maybe that ex-boyfriend of hers,” Rebecca said.

“Or Shelton Nelson.” Matthew snapped his fingers. “Find out if he sent declarations of love.”

I flashed on the Tupperware containers that held my parents’ letters. One of the containers had been opened, the contents scattered. I didn’t think the other had been disturbed. I remembered mentioning them to Noelle. Had she stored some kind of key in the second container? I hadn’t thought to check. I would bet the police hadn’t thought to, either.

With everyone fixed on a plan of discovery, I hurried home. After settling Rags in the house and turning on Gershwin music to keep him company, I raced down the driveway to my makeshift workshop. I only had a few minutes to spare before I was due at the theater. Given what little time I had spent with the twins lately, I didn’t want to disappoint them by showing up late to rehearsal. But I had to satisfy my curiosity first.

I switched on the garage light and scanned the area. The place appeared to be in order. I didn’t suspect a recent intrusion. I strode to the shelf holding the containers of my parents’ love letters. Would I find Noelle’s elusive key inside? I removed both boxes from the shelf, and ignoring the topmost, knowing that I had replaced the letters inside it while Urso observed me, I peeled back the corner of the lower. It burped open. The scent of aging stationary wafted out. I removed the letters, untied the gold ribbon, and searched between each piece of paper. I wasn’t sure what physical item I was seeking, but I didn’t find a thing: no key or list or record of any kind.

Deflated, I hugged the letters to my chest. What was I missing?

When I had found Noelle, she was lying on her side beyond the secretary desk, her arms and legs at an angle. I recalled the first thing I had detected when entering—the smell of something metallic and marshy. Noelle’s boots had been muddy. She had gone hiking. She had taken a flashlight with her. Where had it disappeared to? I swiveled and stared at the door leading to the backyard. What if Lois was wrong? What if the killer didn’t wait in a car near my house? What if the killer arrived on foot? He might have taken the flashlight when he fled.

With renewed energy, I galloped to the kitchen, flipped on the exterior lights to illuminate the backyard, fetched the flashlight I kept in the drawer by the telephone, and dashed into the night. Arcing the flashlight’s beam across the grass, I searched for signs of the killer’s footprints. Not only had the police, my nieces, and Meredith trampled the area, but the weather hadn’t cooperated, either. The grass was soaked. I flared the flashlight’s beam at the pine needle mulch beneath a group of rose bushes, hoping to find footprints leading away from the garage, but I saw none. I swept the beam along the evergreen hedge and paused. A piece of what appeared to be material was flapping in the breeze. Was it a telltale shred of the killer’s clothing? A swatch of Harold’s tweed jacket or Ashley’s natty plaid blazer? The hedges were so thick that someone trying to slip through would have gotten snagged.

I drew near, but all I spied was a piece of newspaper caught on the thorny leaves. In a huff, I wadded the paper into a miniscule ball and marched back to the house—none the wiser.

• • •

When I arrived at the theater, I noticed actors standing outside in pairs; they were preparing to audition for the winter play. Using the front window of the theater like a mirror, one male actor swiveled his female partner to face the window. He held her firmly by the shoulders as he ordered her to look at his face and then her own. He was a bum, he told her. So was she.

Spying me, the actress broke apart from her audition buddy and giggled self-consciously.

“Don’t stop on account of me,” I said. “Sounds good. But why are you rehearsing outside?”

“There are so many others in the foyer, and it’s almost dinner break for the kids,” the actress said.

“Do you know about the rehearsal room at the rear of the theater?”

“Yeah, but it’s under renovation.”

My grandmother never failed to impress me with her ability to conjure up new funds for the Providence Playhouse.

“Well,
continuez
as my grandmother would say, and break a leg.” I waved good-bye and moved into the foyer. To my surprise I found Amy chasing Clair with a fake roasted turkey leg.

“Run, scaredy cat.” Amy cackled with glee.

Clair, laughing as hard as her sister, dropped to all fours and scrambled beneath the buffet table.

I nabbed Amy by the back of her sweater. She swung around, ready to wallop her attacker with the turkey leg, until she realized who it was. “Oops, sorry.” She threw her arms around me. The turkey leg swatted my backside. “Clair,” she yelled. “Aunt Charlotte’s here.”

Clair crawled from her hiding space and joined the group hug. “You made it.”

I broke free and pointed at the roasted turkey leg. “Where did you get that monstrosity?”

“Mom’s friend Ashley found it at a gag store in Cleveland.” Amy waggled it. “He says pranks make life fun.”

“Does he?”

“He’s funny,” Clair said.

“Funny, ha-ha?” I asked.

“Funny, different. He’s sort of stuck-up. I don’t think he likes us much, and he’s always checking his telephone.”

“It’s like he’s addicted to it.” Amy mimed stabbing her finger on a cell phone keypad.

Hmm. It sounded like the girls were seeing more of Ashley Yeats than I had assumed. Was Sylvie aware they weren’t fond of him?

A whistle blared. Like well-trained soldiers, the twins abandoned me and sped into the theater through the double doors.

“Put the turkey leg on the prop table,” I called.

Delilah, who arrived to set napkins and plates on the buffet table, handed me a bundle of each. “Help me?”

“Sure.”

The meal was potluck, with delicious items provided by the children’s parents—platters filled with finger sandwiches, cold cuts, salads, and vegetables. In addition, there were juice boxes, bottled water, and cupcakes decorated with teensy plastic turkeys.

Delilah said, “By the way, the turkey pizzas you made yesterday were a huge hit. I had a slice. What was the cheese you used?”

“Salted Lioni Mozzarella.”

She rolled her eyes. “
Très
exotic.”

“I added lots of spices.”

“Will you share the recipe? Those ingredients would make a fantastic grilled cheese.”

“You bet.”

She aligned the serving spoons. “Have you heard from Jordan lately?”

“He sent me flowers.”

“Lucky you.”

“And we talked last night.”

“Any chance of seeing him?”

“He said we would meet soon, but you know . . .” My emotions caught in my throat. “Gosh, I miss him.”

She petted my arm in understanding. “Men have no sense of timetables. You never know how soon
soon
might be.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat, but the smile quickly waffled and faded.

“Enough about me,” I said. “How is the play turning out?”

“Excellently.” Delilah drew me to the double doors and pointed. “Your grandmother is so playful with the kids, I barely have to do a thing. Most of them have their lines down. Our preteen duck is getting pretty good in the flying contraption, although he looks like his eyes might pop right out of his head with fear whenever we hook him into it.”

I chuckled.

Grandmère sounded the whistle a second time, and the gaggle of children circled around her. Gripping her skirt in folds so that the children could see her ankles, she said, “Follow me. And a one, two, three.” She marched in place. “Skip hop, skip hop. Do you understand?”

“
Oui
,” the children shouted in unison.

“All right then, repeat the words with me.”

Turkey trot music started to play through the speaker system. Children shouted, “And a one, two, three. Skip hop, skip hop.”

“
De nouveau
,” Grandmère said. “Again.” They obeyed. “Now, follow me in a line.” She clapped a rhythm and the line snaked downstage and then upstage, with a one, two, three, skip hop, skip hop. “
Exactement. Très bien.
”

I elbowed Delilah. “Who had a clue that the Indians and Pilgrims knew the turkey trot?”

She chuckled.

Suddenly the lights went out onstage. The children screamed.

“Lights,” Grandmère yelled.

But no lights switched on. Where had the stage crew gone?

“Bernadette Bessette,” a woman cried via a microphone. The speaker system popped. “You . . . You . . .” A toothpick-thin figure emerged from the wings. In the dim light provided by the twinkling lights surrounding the
Mayflower
and Plymouth Rock backdrop, I made out Prudence Hart in a knit dress, bolero cape, and high heels. She was holding the microphone so close to her mouth I thought she might consume it. “My Realtor said you are spreading lies about me.”

I groaned. Prudence needed a good dose of therapy and perhaps some anti-paranoia drugs. First, she suspected Sylvie was set on destroying her, and now, my grandmother?

“I want it to stop, Bernadette. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and not so clear.” Grandmère clapped her hands. “Children, calmly leave the stage and make your way to the foyer. Dinner.”

“Delilah, follow me,” I yelled. We jogged down the aisle. Over my shoulder, I said, “Prudence must have thrown the main light switch. Can you turn it back on? I’ll corral the kids.”

“I’m on it.” Delilah charged past the children and up the stairs, then disappeared stage left.

“C’mon, kids,” I said, directing the children like a crossing guard. “This way. Go to the foyer.” They complied, but halfway up the aisle, they stopped in a cluster and pivoted to watch the drama unfold.

Prudence skulked toward my grandmother. “How dare you call me a land hog at last night’s city council meeting, Bernadette.”

A land hog? I couldn’t possibly believe those were the words my grandmother used.

“Let us take this discussion to the theater office, Prudence,” Grandmère said.

“No, I want to settle this now,” she sputtered, which made her sound, with the help of the microphone, like a choking car. “First, I am not a land hog.”

The lights on the stage flew on.

“Second, I have every right to purchase businesses in town.”

“And drive them into the ground with your lack of know-how?” Grandmère said. “Not on my watch.”

“I’ll have you know I’m an excellent businesswoman. La Chic Boutique is thriving.”

“It suffers, and you know it. You’ve driven off your best sales associates.”

I cringed. Why was Grandmère inciting Prudence?

“Sylvie is wooing your clients away from you,” Grandmère continued.

Prudence growled in frustration. “My Realtor told me that Councilwoman Bell”—the Cheese Shop customer who resembled her name—“is prying into my finances. Did you put her up to it?”

“I did no such thing.”

“She is asking about my family. My brothers. My business practices.”

“The town council has the right to investigate all hostile takeover activity.”

“Hostile? I’ll show you hostile.”

Prudence sprinted off the stage, and I breathed easier thinking she was leaving the theater to regroup. Perhaps hire an attorney. Was I ever wrong. She returned, having fetched a prop from the prop table—Amy’s fake turkey leg. Brandishing the prop like a medieval mace, she ran at my grandmother. The turkey leg made a goofy thwapping sound. The children mimicked it. Talk about theater of the absurd. Had Prudence lost complete hold of her senses?

Grandmère raised her arms to seize the rubber turkey leg. Her hands missed and caught the ties of Prudence’s cape, unleashing it. The jacket flew backward like an out-of-control umbrella in a windstorm. Grandmère reached again for the turkey leg. She snared Prudence’s pearl necklace. The strand snapped and beads scattered. A split second later, Prudence stepped on a bead. She lurched. Backpedaling while trying to keep her balance, she reeled toward the wings. In a last-ditch effort to save herself, she grabbed hold of a theater cord.

The effort triggered a sandbag overhead. The bag careened to the floor with a thud, and the cord, which happened to belong to the Peter Pan rigging, hoisted Prudence into the air.
Whoosh
. Prudence soared across the stage, kicking her bony legs and squealing with fear. Air caught her skirt; it billowed open. The children burst into laughter.

Grandmère yelled, “Hush,” but the children couldn’t help themselves. “
Chérie
.” Grandmère beckoned me to help her rescue Prudence.

I have to admit that I hesitated for a brief moment. Watching Prudence literally get her comeuppance was deliciously fun.