by Avery Aames
“No. Not for you. Not for me. For Providence. How many murders can this town handle before the tourists are convinced to stay away and the locals are compelled to move? There’s already one Providence in Ohio that’s a ghost town. I don’t want there to be a second.”
“Sweetheart, you know our town is no more dangerous than the next one. We’ve just had our bad luck of it lately.”
“What about your farm? What’s going to happen to it?”
He ran his hand along the back of my head and sighed.
“One day at a time?” I whispered.
He forced a tight smile. “That’s my motto.” He kissed me gently. “Get some sleep. Things will look brighter in the morning. In fact, tomorrow, why don’t you put Rebecca in charge of the shop? Then pick up some of those pastries I like, and come back to the farm. I’ll whip you up breakfast, and we’ll make a new memory.”
CHAPTER
After Jordan left, I called Tyanne. I didn’t want her to hear the news from anyone else. The poor thing burst into heaving sobs. I asked if she wanted company, but she begged off. She would rally, she said. A Southern belle always did. Next, I called Rebecca to fill her in. She, too, broke down. When she regained her composure, I asked her to man the shop in the morning. Her response was so spirited, you would have thought I’d asked her to defend her country. I made two more calls to Delilah and my grandmother, and then I crawled into bed and allowed Rags to cuddle me. However, I didn’t sleep more than a total of fifteen minutes, because I kept having horrid dreams of my wedding day becoming a shambles, or cows attacking trucks, or rivers of milk flooding and destroying Providence.
And I dreamed about finding Tim. Who had killed him and why?
On Friday morning, I awoke feeling parched and irritable. Realizing Jordan was right, we needed time together to mourn, the first thing I did after I went to Fromagerie Bessette to prepare a batch of Bosc pear and ham quiche, was head to Providence Pâtisserie to buy pastries for Jordan and me. The shop opened an hour before we did.
I neared the front door and spotted Dottie Pfeiffer and her husband Ray inside. He seemed to be trying to take a tray of baked goods out of her hands; Dottie was resisting. I remembered my conversation with Violet at the pub last night. She said the Pfeiffers were also at the pub. She claimed Ray could have seen Jawbone Jones chase after Tim. What else might Ray have noticed?
If only I knew what Tim had seen. A pickpocket? A runaway starlet? A drug deal going down? Yes, even in quaint Providence, drugs existed.
I opened the door and entered. Ray, who reminded me of a fitness guru with his ropy muscles, angular features, and thick wavy hair, quickly backed away from Dottie. It never ceased to amaze me how insufficiently dressed he was. Year-round, he only wore jean shorts and a white T-shirt. Brrr. Maybe working in a virtual icebox like The Ice Castle skating rink inured him to cool temperatures. On the other hand, he always wore gloves. I would imagine he donned them to protect his fingertips from what was known as cold burn.
“Ray, hon,” Dottie said. “C’mon.”
Where was Dottie’s assistant, Zach Mueller, the kid that had sped past Deputy O’Shea and me last night?
“Need some help, Dottie?” I asked.
“I’m fine, Charlotte. Thanks.” Prior to buying the pâtisserie, Dottie had owned a modest shop near the grocery store northwest of town. Though her product was always good, she hadn’t had the best location. When she moved and started offering free tastings at her current shop as well as supplying fresh product daily to the police precinct, she won the hearts and minds of Providence.
Ray shuffled away while muttering something that sounded like he wasn’t happy with his wife’s exercise regimen. He added: A woman your age. Dottie, who was a doughy woman with unruly red hair that she kept tucked into a hairnet, couldn’t be much older than forty-five. She looked miffed, but I supposed if she was running shorthanded, she couldn’t shoo away free help.
“It’s so nice to see you, Charlotte. What can I get you?” Dottie asked. “Prune Danish? Cherry?” Deep crevices, created from years of smiling all the time—other than a few seconds ago—formed in her cheeks. “Or have you come in for some of those goat cheese Danishes that Jordan likes? I’ve added a touch of rosemary to switch it up. Think he’ll mind?” Sometimes Dottie and I shared recipes. She was the first to figure out that I added white pepper to the pastry shells for the quiches we made at The Cheese Shop.
“I’m sure he’ll devour them.”
“Ray, fetch me a set of waxed pastry bags, would you? I’m fresh out. That darned Zach.”
“Where is he?” I said.
“He quit on me, the thankless, no good—”
Ray returned and muttered something that sounded like lying thief.
“Now, hon, we don’t know that.” Dottie caressed his bare forearm.
Ray cut Dottie a snide look. To all appearances, he did know, or he certainly wasn’t going to be dissuaded. He tossed a packet of pale-pink waxed bags to her and started to leave. “If there’s nothing else . . .”
“Ray, wait,” I said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Timothy O’Shea was found dead late last night.”
Ray looked stunned.
Dottie covered her mouth. “Heavens.”
Ray said, “Poor guy. What happened? Heart attack?”
“No.” I didn’t think it was my place to go into details. “The police will be forthcoming.”
“The police?” Dottie gasped.
“Was he murdered?” Ray asked.
I nodded. “Sometime between nine and ten P.M.”
“Did Belinda Bell do it?” Dottie asked. “She had a beef with him.”
“Dottie, don’t go spreading rumors,” Ray said.
“She did!” Dottie sliced the air with her hand. “The noise. She couldn’t stand it. She was all over Tim, exactly like she is with us.”
“You,” Ray said.
Dottie glowered. “She also didn’t like the over-imbibing and the drunken behavior on the street.”
I cleared my throat. “I heard you two were at the pub last night.”
“We were.” Dottie blinked back tears. “We saw Tim. He was always so happy, teasing the customers the way he did. Oh my, his poor family.”
“He doesn’t have a family,” Ray said.
“Does too. All those nephews. His brothers.”
“But no wife.”
“Ray, don’t be insensitive.” Dottie bit out the words. “Not everyone is meant to be married. And he was dating that darling Tyanne. Why, she must be distraught.”
“She is,” I said, wondering how my friend had survived the night.
Dottie fluttered her hand in front of her mouth. “Charlotte, what did you want to ask? We’ll do anything to help.”
“Violet Walden was at the pub with Paige Alpaugh, and they said—”
“Paige,” Dottie sniffed. “She should keep her health tips to herself. ‘Sugar is the devil,’ she says. What is wrong with her? Sugar is no worse than anything else in this world. My, oh my, but she’s a nosy-nose sometimes, like that Belinda Bell.”
“Dottie, don’t be mean-spirited,” Ray cut in. “Stay on topic.”
“Yes, hon, of course. Charlotte, I apologize. Do go on. You were talking about Violet and Paige.”
“Violet said Tim drove off in his truck. Not long after, she saw Jawbone Jones speed away in his. She wasn’t sure if Jawbone was chasing Tim. She thought you, Ray, might have seen something, too.”
“Me?”
“You did, hon,” Dottie said. “Remember? When you went outside to get my overcoat.” She punched him lightly and then addressed me. “Ray told me to leave it in the car. It would be warm enough in the pub he said, and I, like an idiot, listened to him. Then, of course, I got cold.” Snuffling, she quickly pulled out a tissue that she’d tuck
ed inside the sleeve of her dress. She blew her nose and promptly spritzed her hands with sanitizer solution. “Charlotte, you said the goat cheese pastries, right? Of course you did. Anyway, hon,” she addressed her husband, “remember when you came back inside a few minutes later?”
Ray scratched his ear and shook his head.
“Yes,” Dottie persisted. “You told me Jawbone confronted Tim or something. Tim tore off, and then Jawbone ground that truck of his into gear. Maybe you don’t remember because we left right after.”
“No, I remember. Sure I do.”
“Now who’s the one that’s dotty?” Dottie jibed, making light of her name.
“Jawbone confronted Tim?” I asked.
“Finger to his chest, that’s what Ray said.” Dottie mimed the gesture. “Typical boorish male behavior. Where do they learn to be so aggressive? If I had boys, they’d be little gentlemen.”
Ray grunted.
I regarded him. “Did you hear what they were arguing about?”
“Nah. I was too far away.”
Using tongs, Dottie lifted two pastries from a tray and set them into a waxed bag. “Charlotte, just so you don’t get the wrong idea and think we have a bone to pick with Jawbone—” She hesitated, apparently realizing the play on words she had made: bone, Jawbone. “He’s a nice enough man. A Good Samaritan, I’d imagine. He donates to the Providence Children’s Fund every time he comes in here.” She pointed to a red donation pot sitting on a table by the exit. The fund benefited kids who needed to attend afterschool programs. “Not that you’d be able to tell by Jawbone’s looks. Scruffy.” She shuddered. “No matter.” She wiggled her fingers. “Like I said, he’s nice enough. He’s always humming whenever he comes into the shop. Yes sirree! He’s a hummer. Come to think of it, maybe he wasn’t poking Tim. What do you think, hon? Maybe Jawbone was giving him something, like a business card. Your eyes aren’t the best, you know.”
“Then why would Jawbone chase Tim?” he asked.
“Got me.”
“What direction did he head, Ray?” I said.
“Jawbone turned right out of the lot.”
Exactly like Violet claimed.
“Huh,” Dottie said. “Doesn’t he live south of town? Not far from your grandparents, Charlotte.”
If Jawbone did live south of town and he went in the other direction, maybe he’d had a reason to follow Tim. Had Jawbone apprehended Tim at Jordan’s farm? Had he confronted him with a gun? Had he forced Tim into the cheese-making facility, knocked him out, and drowned him?
My stomach started to churn. Tamping down the anguish that was climbing up my throat, I thanked Dottie, paid for the pastries, and headed toward the exit.
“If there’s anything we can do,” Dottie added.
“There is. Tell Chief Urso what you saw.”
“Will do.” Dottie nudged Ray. “One last thing, Charlotte. Not that it means anything, but Violet was flirting with Tim something awful.”
“She wasn’t flirting with him,” Ray countered.
“Sure she was, hon. She’s sweet on him. A woman knows.” Dottie gave me a shrewd look. “You might ask her what was bothering Tim. And, in the meantime, you might ask Frank Mueller how he feels about Violet putting the moves on Tim.” Frank Mueller, Zach Mueller’s father, owned Café au Lait. “Frank and Violet, well . . . everyone knows. They’ve been lovers for years.”
“Not true,” Ray said.
“Just saying.” Dottie winked.
CHAPTER
Driving to Pace Hill Farm, I was struck by how peaceful the scenery was. Sunlight glistened on the crystalline snow. A few cows, braving the cold, huddled near a stand of trees. A number of tourists had parked alongside the road to take pictures of the rolling hills. A steady stream of sleighs filled with happy travelers passed by me heading in the opposite direction, toward town.
When I arrived at the farm, the place looked normal. No police cars stood in the parking area. No investigators roamed the grounds. However, the yellow crime scene tape was still in place around the cheese-making facility.
I approached the front door of Jordan’s house and saw a handwritten note addressed to me posted to it. Jordan had filled the note with loving phrases. In closing, he directed me to come to the cheese cave. To get to the cave, I had to head past the house to another building located at the foot of a hill. The building’s reception area was brick and cement. The caves themselves were carved deep beneath the hill. The temperatures within were perfect for aging cheese, naturally staying between forty-two and forty-four degrees Fahrenheit. I remembered the first time I’d entered the caves, thinking how large they were and how marvelous it would be to throw a Christmas party there with carolers and candles.
Jordan must not have heard me enter. I found him rotating wheels of cheese on the shelves.
I set the bag of pastries down on a tasting table and said, “Where’s that breakfast you promised me?”
He turned to face me and my heart wrenched because his cheeks were streaked with tears. I hurried to him and enveloped him in my arms. He wrapped his arms around me, too, and we stood like that, without kissing, without talking, for a long while.
When we broke apart, I said, “I’m so sorry. I know how close you and Tim were.”
Jordan winced. “When he said he didn’t want to come to last night’s party, I’d brushed it off. It was Tim. He had his quirks. If only I’d insisted.”
“He wouldn’t have come.” I explained about Tim’s loathing for celebrations. “It’s not your fault he’s dead.” I traced a finger from his ear to his throat and rested my hand on his chest.
He swallowed hard. His eyes searched mine. Finally, he said, “I think we should postpone the wedding.”
During the few minutes that I’d slept last night, one of my dreams had been about our wedding. The daisies were wilted; the music off-key; people I didn’t know were lying lifeless in the aisles. I’d awakened thinking the dreams—nightmares—were an omen, and I’d wondered whether the Fates were against Jordan and me becoming a permanent couple. Back in October, right when I was ready to set a wedding date, we’d learned that his WITSEC trial had been moved up. I hadn’t thought anything negative about postponing the wedding at that time. When the trial ended in November and Jordan was free to live his life again, we’d set this date: Valentine’s Day, a day we would remember forever.
“Postpone?” I whispered. My throat felt too thick with emotion to say more, but I forced myself to continue. “Yes. You’re right. We—our nuptials—should not be the focus of attention right now.” I swallowed hard. “What do you think Tim’s murder will do to the rest of what’s going on in Providence? Will it cast a pall over the Lovers Trail festivities? This is supposed to be a special time. People have come here as a destination place to get married during the event.”
“Others will go on with their lives. They aren’t us.”
“Us . . . stumbling over dead bodies.”
He sagged; his shoulders curved inward.
I caressed the back of his neck. “What else is going on?”
“I think this might be a sign that it’s time to move on.”
My breath caught in my chest. “You don’t mean move on as in move away, do you?”
“No, we’ll stay in Providence. This is our home.”
I exhaled as energy pumped back through me. He had used the words we and our. We were still a couple. This tragedy was not going to put an end to us. I said, “Then what do you mean?”
“I’m thinking of selling the farm and going back into the restaurant business.”
Anxiety flooded through me. “Won’t becoming a restaurateur put you in jeopardy?”
“How?”
“In WITSEC, don’t CPAs give up doing taxes and singers give up singing? You know, to keep a low profile.”
“Somet
imes.”
A lump crept up my throat. I urged it to retreat. “If you return to the restaurant business, won’t that put a target on your back?”
“Charlotte, sweetheart.” He stroked my arms. “Calm down.”
“I’m calm. I truly am.” Liar.
“Could have fooled me.” Jordan stretched his chin and worked his jaw in a circle. “I heard the La Bella Ristorante might be up for sale.” Delilah’s former boyfriend, who owned La Bella Ristorante, was considering moving to California to be with his grandchildren.
“But you love this farm.”
“True, but a farm must be worked daily.”
“Which you do.”
“It isn’t for the weak of spirit, and having a murder on the property—”
“Especially the murder of a friend—”
“Can dampen the spirit.”
Embarrassment flooded through me. How could I have been so insensitive? Of course he needed change.
Jordan took my hands in his. “The food at La Bella Ristorante is right up my alley. The place has an established clientele. And I have fond memories from there.” He and I had met at the Italian restaurant while taking a cooking class. Ever since Jordan had moved to Providence, he had been aching to get back inside an industrial kitchen.
“Okay,” I said. “If you need to start anew, tackle whatever your heart desires. I’m on your side.” I rolled my lower lip under my teeth, hesitant to ask the next question. But I had to know. “What about us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will we set another date?”
He kissed me on the forehead. “We’ll discuss that soon, okay? I can’t talk about it right now. Do you understand?”
I nodded, but I didn’t understand. His words made my heart go pitter-pat, and not in a good way. Despite my earlier feeling that we, as a couple, would come through the tragedy unscathed, I was worried.
CHAPTER
Canceling the wedding would take a bit of work. There were so many vendors. Neither Jordan nor I were worried about the cost; we could take the financial hit. But the burden for Tyanne . . .