For Cheddar or Worse (13 page)

CHAPTER

Jordan rushed to the foyer and out the front door. I followed. A man in a yellow plaid jacket darted around the corner of the inn. Quigley Pressman. Of course. Who else would own such a garish piece of clothing? How long had he been hanging outside? What had he heard? An engine sputtered to life, and seconds later Quigley zipped down the driveway in his black smart car.

“Jordan, what should we do?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We can't fight the freedom of the press.”

“Quigley sure as heck won't get an interview out of me now.”

Jordan wrapped an arm around me. “I never thought he would.”

***

Because we lived in town, Jordan and I packed our things to return home. The thought of staying at the inn another night made me edgy. I felt sorry for the out-of-towners, but what could they do? They had nowhere else to stay. The rest
of the B&Bs and quaint hotels in town were booked due to the Cheese Festival and Street Scene.

Before leaving, I assured Erin I would touch base with her tomorrow. I could not accept that she was the killer. Call it gut instinct or a total commitment to a friend, but I simply didn't believe it. I wouldn't. Erin barely heard me. Andrew was anxiously clacking the tambourine on the floor above while chanting:
up, up, up
or
down, down, down
loudly enough for all to hear.

On the drive back to town, I kept cycling the events through my brain. Lara's was a closed-room murder. There was no way in or out, so how had the killer gotten into and out of Lara's room undetected? Why had he or she moved the violin back to Erin's room if, indeed, that was what happened? There was no proof that Lara had been playing Erin's violin. True, Kandice claimed she heard the strains of a violin, but she couldn't convince me it was Erin's instrument, yet no alternative instrument had been found. The other niggling point was why Lara had played the violin in the first place? Near midnight? Had she stolen it and accidentally plucked it while trying to find a place to hide it?

Jordan and I swung by Matthew's house to fetch Rags. Amy and Clair, Matthew's preteen twins, met us at the door. Both were blossoming into lovely young ladies. Amy had grown another inch in the past month, nearly catching up to her older-by-a-few-minutes twin. Her dark hair had grown, too. She was wearing it swept into a ponytail. Clair still had her blonde hair styled in a bob. A blue ribbon held back the bangs that she was growing out. Six months ago, the girls would have tugged us into the kitchen for cookies and milk; now they hugged us for a nanosecond and tore off to watch a television show about a teenage detective.

“Meredith's asleep,” Amy yelled over her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time. “The animals are with her. Dad is making tea.”

I was surprised to find Matthew at home on a Saturday. He explained that he had wanted to check in on Meredith.
Even though Urso instructed us not to discuss the details of the murder, both Jordan and I felt we should let Matthew in on the drama. He would keep the news to himself.

While he poured us each a cup of Darjeeling tea, I did most of the talking.
Poor Erin
, he said a number of times. Meredith would be upset to hear. She had performed in the high school orchestra alongside Erin. Meredith had played the cello.

An hour later, we headed home. The first thing I did was open windows and let in a fresh breeze, anything to remind me that I was alive and breathing and life was continuing with gusto. Then I retreated to the kitchen. I fed Rags and puttered around for a few hours by cleaning cupboards and counters. I wasn't expected at the shop.

Close to dusk, I poured a couple of glasses of Chianti and pulled a bag of homemade spaghetti sauce from the freezer; I always froze the sauce if I had an amount left over in the initial batch. I made a simple meal of pasta and Solo di Bruna Parmigiano Reggiano, a mouthwatering cheese made by one of four cheese makers who draw their milk solely from brown cows. Even though the dinner was one of our favorites, neither Jordan nor I had much of an appetite.

Rags, as if he sensed he was supposed to have boarded with Rocket for the entire weekend, acted quite concerned to be home a day early. He repeatedly circled our ankles, swatting us with his tail while meowing. I tried to tell him there was nothing wrong, but he knew better.

Before going to bed, I called Rebecca to inform her of the change of plans. I would be available for work tomorrow, Sunday. I would open the store; she could sleep in. I also called my grandfather and let him know he didn't need to come to work at all. I was glad to have reached both of their voice mail recordings. The two of them were curious sorts. They would have begged to know what was up. I did not tell either about the murder. I wanted to explain in person.

***

The next morning around dawn, after a restless sleep—if Jordan hadn't encouraged me to stay under the covers, I swear I would have paced all night—I fetched Rags and headed to Fromagerie Bessette. He, like I, seemed thankful for the routine.

Walking to the shop took work. There was no spring in my step. My shoulders hung low, burdened by the memory of the events from the day before: finding Lara; the arguments that ensued among the guests; everyone on edge. I did my best to shake off my unease but failed.

Only a few people were up as early as I was. Some were walking their dogs. Others were exercising. Many were carrying out ordinary chores like delivering newspapers or slipping flyers under shop doors. Rags had no trouble keeping up with my sluggish pace.

As I opened the front door to The Cheese Shop, church bells pealed out. I startled, but then for some reason the chimes centered me, perhaps because I knew I could count on them to ring every Sunday morning, a steady reminder that there was more to life than, well,
death
. We all had responsibilities. People relied on us. We showed up and did our jobs.

“Time's a-wasting, Charlotte,” I whispered and hurried inside.

I settled Rags in the office and donned an apron. Afterward, I prepared the daily quiche, a combo of ham, bacon, olives, and Cheddar, using Golden Glen Creamery River Cheddar, the Washington creamery's double-cream signature cheese. It smelled so fragrant that I cut myself a slice. I set my breakfast on the tasting counter, grabbed a fork, settled onto a ladder-back stool, and dove in.

Hot but delightful! Just what the doctor ordered.
I fetched a glass of milk, and as I devoured the remainder of my meal, I revisited yesterday's interrogation.

Everyone had an alibi of sorts, but none could be corroborated. Shayna: knitting; Kandice: reviewing her schedule; Ryan: in town; Victor: the same as Ryan. All were asleep soon after midnight. By now, Urso had to know what
time Lara had died. Would he reveal his findings? Would the time convict Erin, who had been out and about at four
A.M.
?

While washing and drying my dishes, I mulled over the violin that Lara had played . . . plucked . . .
whatever
. Was it Erin's? Had Lara borrowed or stolen it? Why, why, why was she toying with it so late at night?

I wrung the towel free of water. I hung it on its hook and noticed the sign I'd posted a year ago:
Your mother isn't here, so clean up after yourself!

Following my own lead, I put away supplies for the quiche. As I did, I thought more about Lara and the violin. How could she have known the instrument was an Amati when Erin didn't even know its value? Had Lara seen it somewhere? Impossible. Erin played it solely for her brother.

I paused. That wasn't entirely correct. Erin had played it in high school. What if a friend of Erin's from back then had recognized its value and had mentioned it to Lara or to an acquaintance of Lara's? Better yet, maybe an image of the high school orchestra made it into a newspaper, and from there, onto the Internet. The group had been outstanding. It had performed at numerous events around the state. I remembered going to Cleveland to watch the orchestra play. I stayed in a hotel room with Meredith. We engaged in a pillow fight the first night that lasted two hours. Erin, as lead violinist, would have been in the forefront of any orchestra photograph.

What about Victor? Was he lying about Lara coveting the violin? Using the same scenario as above, had he learned of the instrument before seeing it? Maybe he stole the violin and hid it in Lara's room with the intention of retrieving it before Lara realized what he'd done.

I headed to the office. Rags stirred, but I instructed him to lie down. At my desk, I opened my computer browser and typed in Amati violin > image.

Hundreds of photographs came up. I perused pages of them. Most were close-ups of the instruments; the artistry was incredible. A few photos included noted musicians
playing a similar instrument. I didn't see any high school pictures or Erin's face among the pack.

Discouraged, I returned to the kitchen and started toting the quiches to the cheese counter while considering my first notion. Did Lara invite Erin to her room? Did she order Erin—she wouldn't have asked nicely—to sell the violin? Did Erin go nuts and shove Lara onto the bed?

Erin was small; Lara had been tall and well built. Even though Erin had slugged the bully years ago, I didn't believe she was strong enough to hold a pillow over Lara's mouth for the time it would have taken to cut off her air. If she had, there should have been evidence of a struggle. Lying prone on the bed, Lara had looked downright peaceful.

“Hello-o-o!” someone called from the main shop.

I raced out of the office while smoothing my apron.

A seriously cone-headed man, made more prominent because he had shaved his head, grinned at me. I recognized him as one of the cheese poets. He wasn't a local.

“That cheese!” He motioned to a display of sheep's cheese made by a group called Bleating Heart Cheese. “Is that really its name?”

Fat Bottom Girl was indeed the name of the cheese he was indicating. The cheese monger, a newbie when she'd first created the cheese, had not only been inspired by a Queen song when making the first batch, but in a serendipitous accident, she had forgotten to flip the cheeses after removing them from their forms, thus creating the irregular or
spread
bottoms. No two cheeses were shaped alike.

The poet placed a hand over his heart and intoned: “Fat Bottom Girl. Delight of my soul. You make me whole. If only to taste. But never in haste. I hope you will love me and not go to my waist.”

I applauded.

He pretended to doff a hat and take a bow. “A half pound of cheese. Please.”

I prepared his order and met him at the register.

“Thank you, fair maid. See, you are paid.”

He offered cash, and I made change, after which he skipped out of the shop. Odd but sweet.

The rear door to the shop opened, and Rebecca trotted in. “I'm so glad you're here,” she said. “Today's the day!”

I did a double take, having forgotten how short she had cut her hair. She looked adorable and so radiant that I couldn't possibly tell her about the murder, not until she shared her good news.

“Today's the day for what?” I arranged the quiches in the glass-enclosed case, prettiest side forward. “Jordan's cooking class?”

About a month ago, Matthew and I made a pact to take off every other Sunday. I chose the even days; he opted for the odd.
All work and no play
was no fun, especially now that both of us were married. Often on my free Sundays, I would spend the day with Amy and Clair. They would sleep over, and I would drive them to school the next morning. Today was supposed to be my day; however, their mother had begged to take them on an adventure. Knowing the brain trust would conclude by nightfall, I had signed up for a cooking class tonight at Jordan's new restaurant.

“No, silly,” Rebecca said. “Today's the day I take control. Forever. I made a vow this morning that after I get my next paycheck, I'm depositing it directly into the bank, and from there, paying off my very last credit card. Whee!” She did a twirl. “No more hyped-up interest. No more worry. I'm paying cash for everything from now on. I'm getting all my finances in order.”

“Good for you.”

“Devon is helping me keep blinders on.” Devon O'Shea. Her boyfriend. The deputy who had assisted Urso at the inn. “He's very savvy when it comes to money,” Rebecca went on. “He saves twenty percent of whatever he earns. Isn't that amazing?”

“It sure is.”

Rebecca hung up her purse and slipped an apron over her frilly white blouse and skirt, an outfit I'd seen her wear
numerous times. The first year she had worked at the shop, she must have worn a different getup every day. When you added in all the Victoria's Secret items she had purchased as well, it was no wonder she had gone into debt.

“Why did you stop doing the brain trust?” Rebecca asked. “Didn't you like it? I mean, sure, some of the personalities are a little gung ho—”