The Long Quiche Goodbye (14 page)

His skin was warm when we shook hands. I didn’t want to let go. But I did. In a respectably short time, I might add.

“Are you busy?” I asked, every fiber inside me aching to know what his relationship was with Mystery Woman. I didn’t have the guts to ask.

“Just completing loan papers to upgrade the facilities.”

“Oho! So you’re sticking around,” I teased. When he first took over the farm, he confided that he had a five-year plan.

“Indefinitely.” He grinned, and my stomach did a flip-flop. Did he know how much I wanted to hear about his past? About how he came to Providence? About what he had left behind? I urged myself to get a grip.

“So, what’s up?” I said.

“I should be asking you the same thing.” He jammed his right hand into his jeans and gestured with the left toward the comfortable-looking leather chairs on the far side of the room by the fireplace.

I declined, too antsy to sit. “You know me. I like to peek in on the operation every few months.” I cozied up to the window and looked at the view. “It’s so beautiful here.”

Jordan came up behind me, standing close enough that I could feel heat peeling off of him. “Yes, it is.”

I spun around, my heart pounding beneath my skin. I hoped he couldn’t see the fabric of my sheath heaving. Big giveaway, if he could. I drew in a long, calming breath and said, “Why don’t you offer me an up-to-date tour?”

One of the joys of my job was getting an intimate insider’s look into the world of cheese making. I had taken over this particular duty from Pépère a few years ago. Jordan’s farm was the largest in the area and the first to offer an
affinage
center, a concrete structure buried into the hillside where Jordan and his staff took on the aging process for some of the smaller farms’ premium cheeses. Not every farm had the facilities for the task. It said a lot about Jordan that other Ohio cheese makers entrusted the care of their cheeses to him.

“My pleasure.”

We exited the office’s side door, crossed a covered walkway, and ambled into a new brick and cement building. Inside was a vast aging room, with multiple man-made caves that pushed farther into the hills. I had stood in the aging room before, but this time I looked at it with a different eye. It was large enough for a party to celebrate all the orders we would get once the website was up and running. Maybe I’d throw a yuletide bash with carolers. Their voices would echo off the ceilings and walls. Grandmère could help organize it—if she wasn’t in jail. My heart wrenched at the thought. What could I do to get my investigation cooking?

Jordan fetched two sets of paper booties and two hair-nets from a basket hanging on the wall and handed one set to me.

“For sanitary purposes,” he said.

We put them on, then he pushed through a set of multiple doors, and we tramped into a cave. The floors were slick with water to help keep the area humid. I loved the dank smell of the various caves—the soft-ripened room, the washed rind room, the pressed cheese room. Each was brightly lit, with a new trolley system to help transport large quantities of cheese. Every cheese was labeled. There were aging charts in every room with schedules for maintenance.

“What are those?” I pointed at a trolley of steel shelving, new since my last visit.

“Turning mechanisms.” He grinned. “Yep, that’s the technical term. Anyway, each will help with the flipping of the wheels. Ten can be turned at a time.”

“Wow!” In the past, all the wheels of cheese would have required turning by hand. The rinds looked perfectly dusty yet moist.

“Each batch of Gouda is made by hand daily,” he explained as we continued our tour.

I adored the Gouda that came from Pace Hill Farms. It was earthy and creamy, with a fudgy texture that melted in your mouth.

“From fresh milk with no growth hormones,” he went on.

I nodded. This was all information that I had heard before, but I listened attentively because many of my customers expected me to educate them about the histories of the cheeses they bought. Pace Hill Farm’s cows were milked twice daily, the milk so fresh that it often came from the cows within the hour. The grass that the cows grazed on was from pastures free of pesticides, herbicides, and chemical fertilizers.

We sauntered into cave after cave, with Jordan enlightening me about each of the cheeses. One, from the neighboring sheep farmer, was new, a yogurty cheese called Kindred Brebis, with hints of caramel, pasture, and clover.

As we returned to the office, Jordan said, “How’s your grandmother doing?”

“She’s hanging in, but the lawyer hasn’t been able to lift the house arrest.”

“And your grandfather?”

“Not well. He’s so stressed. I worry that he’s not eating enough.” I roamed the office, taking in the various awards Pace Hill had won for excellence and the photographs of Jordan shaking hands with a number of Ohio’s celebrities. There were no photographs of him from prior to his move here. For all I knew, he was in a witness protection program and had restarted his life. The thought sent a ripple of excitement as well as fear through me.

“Charlotte,” he said. “I asked you a question.”

I spun around, my cheeks flushed. I had to stop wondering about him. When he was ready to tell me, he would. Jordan perched a hip on his desk and folded his arms across his chest.

“Sorry. What did you—?”

“How’s business?”

“It’s good. It’s—” I sidled toward him. “Actually, it’s not. I met with my Realtor yesterday. I was trying to buy the building that we lease. Anonymously. As a corporation.” I flushed. “Anyway, Ed put the building up for sale before he . . . died, but it seems someone outbid me.”

“Ownership isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“But a new landlord could kick us out.”

“I doubt they’d want to do that.”

I stopped a couple feet shy of Jordan, and for a moment we simply stared at each other. He, with his head tilted, a sly smile on his face. Me, my head tilted the other way, probably looking starstruck. Pinching myself to rouse from my daydream would have been a dead giveaway. I took a step back and hitched a thumb toward the door. “Well, I should get going. Thanks for the tour. Can’t wait to tout your latest successes.”

“Hold on a sec.” He closed the gap and put his hand on my arm. His face grew serious. He drew in a long breath. Was he bracing to tell me bad news? I couldn’t handle it if he did. “Would you like to, you know, go—?”

“Jordan!”

Mystery Woman appeared in the doorway.

CHAPTER 15

I glanced from Mystery Woman to Jordan and back to Mystery Woman, who looked dynamite in a slinky tank top and wraparound skirt, her left arm raised, hand propped on the doorjamb, dark hair tousled just so. Cue the wind machines and a model in
Vogue
magazine couldn’t have looked more seductive. I would never measure up.

But that wasn’t what really sent my get-the-heck-out-of-here signals on full alert. It was the glistening diamond ring on the fourth finger of her raised hand. Was she Jordan’s wife? His ex-wife? Her gaze seemed so familiar, so intimate. With her well-toned physique, she looked like a perfect match for him.

“Sorry to barge in, but we need to talk about the loan.” She broke her pose and rifled through her oversized designer purse. Her hand emerged with a document.

Jordan eyed the papers on his desk, then looked at me. Had he bought the house next to my grandparents for Mystery Woman? Was he planning on moving in with her?

I blurted, “I’ve got to go. I’ll . . . be in touch . . . okay?”

I rushed past Mystery Woman and out of the office. As I drove from the farm, the skies opened up and rain teemed down, mirroring the tears streaming down my face. I wanted to kick myself for being jealous, but dang, I liked Jordan, secrets and all. By the time I returned to The Cheese Shop, the rain had stopped and my mood had elevated to something better than bleak. Only slightly better.

I slapped a smile on my face that probably didn’t reach my eyes and told Rebecca to grab some fresh air while the sun broke through the clouds. We had one customer, Ipo Ho, the Hawaiian beekeeper whom I had visited earlier in the afternoon. He didn’t seem to notice my arrival, too intent on reading the labels of every condiment jar in the shop.

“Where’s Matthew?” I asked as I tossed on an apron.

“Out.”

“Out, as in outside in the garden, or out as in gone?”

“Gone.” Rebecca hung her apron on the hook and plucked the front of her light blue blouse to align the buttons. A new blouse, I noted, and wondered whether I should talk to her about managing her finances. Another day, I thought, too weary to have the conversation, not to mention it was none of my business.

“Do you know where he went?” I was a little concerned. Not that Rebecca couldn’t handle a swarm of customers on her own, but Matthew and I had agreed that we would try to have two people in the shop at all times. With Pépère attending to Grandmère, we were a little shorthanded.

“Shopping,” Rebecca said.

My mouth fell open. We weren’t serving any appetizers with the wine tasting. We had plenty of napkins with our brown and gold logo on them. I strode to the arch and peered into the annex. Matthew had set up the bar, and he had put out tasting glasses. Cards identifying the different wines we were offering sat stacked on one of the mosaic tables. Matthew hadn’t neglected his duties. I gave up worrying about him and returned to the cheese counter to inspect the appearance of our wares.

As I did, the grape-leaf-shaped chimes jingled, and Vivian glided into the shop, a dry umbrella in one hand, a number of festive bags looped over her left arm. “Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re here.” She slotted her umbrella into the brass stand by the door, then sailed to the cheese counter and set her purchases on the floor. “What’s with Meredith Vance?”

“What do you mean?” I kept my face impartial, despite my current distress with Meredith.

“She snubbed me.”

My ears perked up. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one on Meredith’s ex-friend list.

Rebecca scooted in beside me at the counter and said, “Why don’t I stick around until Matthew returns?” Apparently gossip held a bigger appeal than a well-deserved break.

“I was helping out the economy a tad . . .” Vivian confessed.

Everybody except me seemed to be spending the fruits of their labors. Perhaps a day of shopping therapy should go on my agenda.

“. . . and I stopped into the Silver Trader,” Vivian went on. “Meredith was at the counter. The clerk was wrapping up some kind of locket, putting it in one of their pretty silver boxes. You know the one, with the luxurious bow?”

I nodded, wishing she would hurry to the end of her story.

“I said hello, and Meredith whipped around like I had caught her with her hand in the till. She didn’t say a word, grabbed her bag, and red-faced, sprinted out of the store. It’s as if she didn’t want me to know what she had purchased.”

“Or what she had been given.” Rebecca lowered her voice. “I heard a rumor. From him.” She gave her head a quick tilt, indicating Ipo, who was still studying labels. “He said that Ed Woodhouse was involved in some unsavory real estate dealings—leasing projects that were making a ton of money. And he had a partner who was his lover.”

“Lover?” Vivian gasped. “Are you sure?”

“Meredith is not Ed’s lover,” I blurted.

“No? Get this.” Rebecca tapped a fingernail on the counter to make her point. “Ed was buying his lover lots of little trinkets.”

“You can’t possibly think Meredith was his lover,” Vivian said. “Why, she’s young enough to be his daughter.”

“No way Meredith was involved with Ed,” I repeated, prepared to defend my friend to the end, except a chilly tingle shot up my spine. Could that be why she had been avoiding me? Was she embarrassed about her association with Ed? I flashed on Ed at the gala event, slithering up beside Meredith. He had placed his hand on her rear end, and she had rebuffed him. At the time, I hadn’t even considered there was something between them.

No, no, no!
I still wouldn’t.

“Ipo,” Rebecca called.

He had iPod buds plugged into his ears, the cord from the earplugs leading to his pocket.

“Oh, Ipo, yoo-hoo!” Rebecca flipped her hair over her shoulders and grinned. Ipo looked our way. Her dulcet voice must have cut through his iPod-o-sphere. “His name means
daring
in Hawaiian. Isn’t that sweet?” she confided, then smiled brighter, like an actress auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. “Ipo, do you have a second?”

Ipo was a big, brawny guy who used to twirl fire batons at luaus, but when he looked at Rebecca right then, he reminded me of a puppy hungry for a lap to crawl into. Hers. How I wished Jordan Pace would look at me that way. Ipo unhooked the iPod buds and traipsed to us, his meaty thumbs slung into the pockets of his jeans.

“Hey, Rebecca,” he said, his voice a husky sexy. “You look, really . . . you know, cool.”

“Tell them what you told me about Ed Woodhouse. You know, when we were talking about that episode of
Murder, She Wrote.
” Rebecca tapped Ipo once on his shoulder, using her index finger like a magic wand.

He brushed a curl of black hair off his forehead and started in. “Oh, yeah, well, I was just saying that people think a beekeeper doesn’t hear things, you know, with the hood on and all. Like it’s made of metal or something. Anyway, like, I was at the farm and Lois, you know, from the B&B, comes over. She had to restock her honey. She’s serving high tea nowadays.” Once he got going, he couldn’t seem to stop talking. His words ran together. “Anyway she was, like, in a rush, and—”

“Ipo.” Rebecca cut him off. “The point.”

“Oh, yeah, right, cool. See, Lois was with this other gal. Swoozie something from Cleveland.”

The voluptuous tour guide who favored tight T-shirts and strands of silver necklaces.

“Lois was, like, giving her a tour of my farm, and they were talking about Ed and his partner and how they had some not-so-legit real estate deals in Cleveland.”

“Not so legit?” I asked.

“They were landlords who gouged the renters,” Ipo explained.

“He and his partner made tons of money.” Rebecca rubbed her fingers together like a moneylender. “Not to mention, Ed was giving the partner”—she paused for effect—“aka
lover
, extra tokens of his appreciation.”

Ipo nodded. “Swoozie told Lois to warn her sister because, like, see . . . Miss Hassleton had some business deal with Ed.”

The museum donations, I’d bet.

“Swoozie didn’t mention who the business partner was, but there you have it.” Rebecca extended her hands like a magician encouraging Vivian and me to applaud her wizardry. “Meredith was Ed’s partner.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Meredith has lots of new jewelry and new clothes,” Rebecca countered.

“She doesn’t make that kind of money, does she? For all we know, the partner could be Kristine,” I said.

Vivian snorted. “I can’t see Lois referring to Kristine as Ed’s lover.”

“What about the tour guide herself?” I said, desperate to divert suspicion from my friend. “Or Felicia? Maybe she already knew about Ed’s lease-gouging practices and was in on it.”

“But why kill him?” Vivian said.

“Because he was going to end the relationship and end the partnership,” I explained. “He was selling off assets. This building. Yours.”

Ipo shifted feet. “I saw on
Law & Order
where this woman killed her business partner because, like, he got the partnership invalidated.”

“Invalidated?” Vivian said.

“That wasn’t
Law & Order
.” Rebecca huffed. “That was—”

“There are lawyers who handle those kinds of disputes,” I cut in.

Rebecca raised a finger. “What if Meredith killed him because she’s a teacher and she wanted to preserve her reputation?”

“Oh, please.”

“Maybe she wanted to end their affair, and Ed threatened to tell the world that she was involved in dirty business,” Rebecca said. “Can you imagine the headlines?”

“Ridiculous!”

“How else can you explain Meredith’s odd behavior since Ed’s murder?” Rebecca went on. “She hasn’t returned your phone calls. She’s raced away from Miss Williams. And she wore diamond studs to Fromagerie Bessette’s gala event. Studs she couldn’t have afforded on her teacher’s salary.”

I flashed on Meredith clapping her hand over the sapphire necklace when I’d asked about it at the Country Kitchen.

“And what about her new, expensive, off-the-rack clothes?” Rebecca said, cross-examining with the flamboyant flair of a TV attorney.

She had me there. To maintain her budget, Meredith sewed her own clothes. She was a master seamstress with a Singer. So, why had she purchased so many new clothes?

“It’s not possible,” I muttered.

“I agree.” Vivian gripped my elbow. “Meredith is not a cold-blooded killer. You’ve got to look at Kristine as your suspect. If Ed had that many lovers, she might have killed him out of jealousy.”

“Broken vows and distrust can drive a woman mad,” Rebecca said, as if quoting from a
TV Guide
. “Why don’t you go to Meredith’s house and ask her, Charlotte? Isn’t she home by this time?”

“Yes, but—”

The three of them stared at me like I held the key to some ancient treasure-filled tomb. If I wanted answers, I had to act.

I smacked my hands together. “Rebecca, you man the shop. Vivian—”

“I’ll come with you,” Vivian said. “I’m not letting you approach a murderer alone.”

Didn’t she just swear Meredith was not a murderer?

I whipped off my apron and grabbed my purse. “Rebecca, call Matthew. Better yet, see if he’s hanging out at Providence Patisserie. If he is, let him know where I’m headed.”

“What about Chief Urso?” Vivian fished in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “Should I call him?”

The front door of the shop opened and Jordan hustled in. He looked flushed, as if he had run the ten miles from his farm to town. “Can we talk?”

“Sorry. I’m on my way out.” I started past him, but he clutched my elbow.

“You sped off before I could—”

“I can’t talk, Jordan. Later, please?” My love life wasn’t important right now. Meredith was.

“What about calling Urso?” Vivian wiggled her cell phone.

“Why do you need to call Chief Urso?” Jordan released my arm and looked from me to Vivian and back again, his forehead creased with concern.

“No, Vivian, don’t call him,” I said. “Not yet. We don’t have any proof.”

I strode out the door. Vivian fetched her packages and umbrella and scuttled behind me.

Jordan followed us both to the sidewalk. “What’s going on? Where are you headed?”

I hurried along the sidewalk, which was still damp with rainwater, and veered south on Cherry Orchard. Meredith didn’t live far from my grandparents. Jordan kept pace.

“Charlotte, talk to me!”

Vivian filled Jordan in on what Ipo had said at the shop.

“Nonsense,” Jordan countered. “Meredith is no more a killer than I am. You’re jumping to conclusions. Did you ever consider that Ed’s partner could have been a man?”

I gaped at Jordan. Maybe I hadn’t considered all the people who had motive to kill Ed. Lois could have gotten her information wrong. Perhaps Ed’s partner in his unsavory business deals was a man. Maybe the lover issue was a moot point. What did I know about Jordan? Everything about him was a mystery. His past. Everything.

Stop it, I told myself. Jordan was not a killer.

And neither is Meredith!
a voice inside my mind shouted.

But something was up, and I intended to get to the bottom of it.