Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (20 page)

“
Chérie
,” Grandmère commanded.

I saluted and dashed past the children. We caught hold of Prudence’s ankles and pulled her back to earth.

Red-faced with embarrassment and angrier than I had ever seen her, Prudence stamped out of the theater yelling over her shoulder, “You’ll get the lowdown on my finances, Bernadette, when hell freezes over.”

Grandmère said, “Charlotte, let us keep quiet about all of this. There is no need to spread gossip about Prudence. She is obviously distraught.”

“What about the children? They’ll tell their folks.”

“I will tend to them. Fetch Delilah and reset the rigging.
Merci
.”

While Delilah and I recoiled the rope and anchored it with the sandbag, something triggered in my mind.

Delilah gave me a sideways glance. “What’s with the serious face? You look like you’re trying to solve a crossword puzzle without writing down a letter.”

“Prudence’s words as she hurried away made me think about something Shelton Nelson said when he and Liberty were talking with Matthew the other day. Liberty thought
hell’s key
sounded religious. Shelton said that maybe Noelle’s last breath was about needing some spiritual key to avoid going to hell. Noelle was raised in a Catholic orphanage.”

“But why would she need a spiritual key? She seemed so nice. I sure hope I don’t need one. I’ve certainly racked up my share of sins.”

I told her about Noelle’s parents being grifters.

“Aha. Do you think Noelle felt remorseful about being involved in her parents’ scams?”

“Possibly. But I can’t imagine why, after all these years, she would think that she needed to atone for what they made her do as a child, unless she was running a scam now.” I mentioned the journal pages that were missing and Lois’s account of Noelle hiding her camera’s memory card.

Delilah said, “Do you think Noelle felt guilty about what she photographed?”

“Guilty enough to worry as she lay dying that she would go to hell? That seems unlikely.” I felt like I was trying to make a complicated recipe and skipping a vital step.

“Find the missing pages and memory card, and I guarantee you’ll find the killer.” Delilah drew the rope around the sandbag into a knot. “Voilà. Problem solved.”

But the problem wasn’t solved. Not by a long shot.

• • •

As I drove home, taking a circuitous route so I could drink in the glow of the decorative window displays, the sparkling array of parade decorations, and the twinkling lights that had recently been added to the clock tower in the Village Green, I tried to create a list of motives for murder that made sense.

One: Liberty Nelson, despite her devout transformation, wanted Noelle out of the picture to clear a path to her father’s love.

Two: Harold Warfield killed Noelle to keep an affair a secret or to protect his position at the winery.

Three: Boyd Hellman murdered her because she rejected him.

Four: Ashley Yeats—

I paused. He was a wild card, but he had a secret. What was it? I was determined to find out.

Five: Shelton Nelson—

I halted again. Other than Noelle discovering a possible financial shortfall that might predict SNW’s future, I couldn’t figure out a motive for Shelton. He seemed thrilled to have brought Noelle into the fold.

When I arrived home, the telephone was ringing. I snatched up the receiver.

Delilah said, “It took you long enough to get there. Where have you been?”

“Wandering the town. Were we having a race?” During high school, we often challenged each other. The first to class treated the other to a soda at the diner. The first to the parking lot after the last bell rang bought burgers.

“No, we weren’t racing,” she said.

“Then what? Oh no, don’t tell me. Our quick fix on the theater’s rigging didn’t work. You need me to return.”

“Nope. The rigging works. The duck will fly again. This call is all about me. I need a night on the town.”

I glanced at my watch. Nearly nine. I loved my friend and I felt her pain about ending her relationship, but I was too tired to go to the pub. “I can’t. I have a full day planned tomorrow at the shop. Vendors are coming in the morning, and in the afternoon I intend to catch up on back orders, not to mention I’ve got to tackle all the marketing stuff that has to get done online, which will take a long time. I am no Internet guru.”

“C’mon. Just stop in next door at Lavender and Lace for a quick cup of tea. I’m already here. See me?”

I walked outside and around the side of the wraparound porch.

Delilah, with her cell phone pressed to her ear, waved to me from the B&B. “I’m wound up after the Prudence incident. Pretty please with a cherry on top? You can bring Rags.”

I chuckled. “Okay.” I hung up and rounded up my sweet pet.

As I headed toward Lavender and Lace, I spied a figure in a cloak racing along the gravel driveway. The figure disappeared behind the house. Was it the same woman I had seen the other day? A frisson of alarm coiled up my spine. Rags worked his head into my chest as if he sensed something was wrong, too. Who was she? Why was Lois hiding her? Did she have something to do with Noelle? The timing of the woman’s arrival in town was too coincidental.

I jogged up the stairs and spotted Lois standing at the far end of the heated porch, chatting with a pair of guests at the inn. Agatha galloped circles around Lois’s ankles.

Before I could draw near to say hello, Delilah flew through the screen door and whispered, “Psst.” She hooked a finger to follow her inside. Something was up.

I edged past the screen door into the warmth of the inn’s foyer and said, “Did you see that woman?”

“Shh.”

“Did you see her, the one in the cloak?”

“Shh.”

“What’s with the hush-hush act? Who is she?”

“Who?”

“The woman in the cloak.”

“What are you talking about?”

I told her my concern.

“I’ll bet it’s Lois’s sister,” Delilah said. “She left town under a cloud of suspicion. If I were her, I’d like to keep on the down-low, too.” She clutched my elbow and dragged me toward the kitchen. “Let’s go.”

“Why are you acting so weirdly?”

“Me?”

“And why are we whispering?” Had the incident at the theater made Delilah loopy?

She didn’t answer.

“Where are we going?” I demanded.

“I set up tea in the back. We have to talk. Well, you need to talk,” she said, emphasizing the word
you.

Something in my gut twisted. Did she think I was withholding information from her? Had Urso put her up to this charade? Was he sitting in the inn’s kitchen ready to grill me? Would he cuff me in order to make me blab?

A few feet short of the kitchen, I dug in my heels. “Uh-uh. I’m not going into that kitchen until you tell me what’s going on.”

Rags yowled his agreement.

Delilah released my elbow. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t go all Scarlett O’Hara innocent on me. You’re acting like a goof. Who’s back there?”

The door to the kitchen opened. A man stood in the archway, backlit in a soft glow.

“Give me Rags,” Delilah ordered.

I obeyed and raced into Jordan’s arms. He swept me into the kitchen and closed the door. I heard Delilah coo to Rags, and then heard her footsteps retreat.

“This way,” Jordan said, drawing me by the hand to the guest room at the rear of the inn. It used to be Lois and her husband’s suite, but she had changed rooms the day she booted him out.

“What are you . . .” I stammered. “How— ”

Jordan closed the guest room door, threw his arms around me, and lavished me with kisses. On my mouth, my cheeks, my neck, and back to my mouth. I could barely catch my breath and didn’t want to.

“My handler drove me to town,” Jordan whispered. “He’ll return before dawn. We have the night.” He drew me to the floral-covered queen-sized bed. We perched on the edge holding hands.

“I didn’t dress for the occasion,” I blurted. I had dreamed of the next time I would see him and how romantic it would be. I had set aside a lace peignoir, and I had purchased vanilla candles and new perfume.

“You look beautiful.”

I plucked at strands of my hair. “I forgot to brush my teeth.”

“Champagne washes away all sins.” He nodded to the bottle and elegantly carved glasses sitting atop a silver tray on the bureau. Beside that was a simple cheese platter consisting of a large wedge of Jordan’s Pace Hill Farm triple-cream Gouda, green grapes, and round crackers.

“How did you plan this?”

“My handler called my sister. Jacky called Delilah.” Like me, Jordan’s sister didn’t know where he was being held during the trial. Jordan ran his fingers through my hair. “How I’ve missed you.”

“Why now?” A panic cut through me. “You’ve come to see me because you’ll never be able to come back. That’s it, right? Oh no.”

He put a finger to my lips. “I’m here because I missed you like crazy.”

Phew.
I hooked my finger with his and drew his hand to my chest. “How much longer will you be gone?”

“Four weeks. Six at the max.”

I ran my tongue along my upper lip as I deliberated what I would say next. “I want to set a date now.”

“We’re on a date.”

“No, silly. I know we talked about getting married and setting a date, and we almost did—on my parents’ anniversary—but then the trial was moved up. I want to set a firm date. Let’s make a vow.”

“Valentine’s Day.”

“You romantic devil, you.”

He grinned a smile that melted my heart then kissed my ears and murmured, “We’ll follow that with a two-month trip to Europe.”

“Two months?” My adrenaline kicked into overdrive. Yes, I wanted to see the world, but two months? “I can’t. I’d need to plan. There’s so much to do here.”

“Keep calm. Breathe.”

How well he knew me.

He traced a fingertip along my jaw. “You
can
do it. Matthew and your grandfather and all of your coworkers will manage Fromagerie Bessette, I promise you. Two months is a blink in the big scheme of things. We’ll go to every cheese shop and cheese farm that you’ve ever wanted to visit.”

A panoply of picture postcards shuffled through my brain. Where would we start? I would call all my cheese suppliers for recommendations. I would make cheese in France. Milk cows in the Pyrenees. Run my fingers through the
terroir
of Italy.

Suddenly, my breathing grew steady and my passion soared. The next few hours were magical. Jordan and I sipped champagne. We nibbled on cheese and fruit. And then we devoured each other. Inch by every glorious inch.

After we made love, we planned our honeymoon. And talked about having children. We agreed that I would have to be extra diligent with my health as I was approaching the delicate age of thirty-five.

Around three
A.M.
, when the night cooled to a chilly temperature, we lay on our backs in bed with our faces pointed toward the ceiling, neither of us able or willing to sleep, and the conversation turned to darker fare. We discussed Jordan’s trial and how his lawyer was reducing the opposing council to mush, and then we discussed Noelle’s murder. Jordan asked me to replay the list of suspects. On the telephone the other night, we had only touched on the subject briefly. I included the nameless, faceless ones that might dwell in Cleveland. Jordan said he believed that money, jealousy, or revenge were the three primary motivators.

“Really, Mr. Detective?” I teased. “That’s the best you can come up with? Those are Rebecca’s top three, too.”

He drew me closer. “I wish you wouldn’t get involved.”

“And I wish you never had.” I was referring to the incident that had brought him to this point in his life. He had been a chef and owner of a fancy restaurant in upstate New York. One night, when he went outside for a smoke, he saw two thugs with knives attack a third man. Without hesitating, Jordan, a former military man, sprang to the third man’s defense. The struggle turned bloody. Jordan stabbed and killed one of the two thugs; the other got away. The third man died. Jordan learned that the thugs were the lynchpins of a gambling ring, and days later, he entered the WITSEC Program to testify against the survivor.