As Gouda as Dead

by Avery Aames

  She settled into the chair opposite me. “We should let the tea steep. Dig into the cheese, though. I bought it at your shop yesterday. Rebecca is some salesperson.” She took a slice and nibbled the corners.

  I did the same. “I thought Dottie was wrong about you being interested in Tim. Ray told her she was, too.”

  “Ray was at the bakery? He doesn’t even like her pastry.”

  “He was helping out. I guess Dottie lost her assistant, Zach.”

  “That boy. Talk about a bad apple.” Violet rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He sure doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Zach’s father Frank is, simply put, a cad.”

  “Are you and he dating?”

  “We did. A long time ago. Not anymore.” She sniffed; her upper lip rose in a sneer. “He stepped out on me with a toad of a woman. He said I was getting too trim for him. Humph.”

  “I’d noticed you’d slimmed down. Are you on a new regimen?”

  “For life. My goal, from this day forward, is to be the best me I can possibly be. It’s about time I get some control. Okay, I’m already controlling.” She offered a wink. I guess she was keen to her reputation. “But I have no self-control when it comes to what I put into my body. I’m pushing thirty-five. My child-bearing years will be gone soon. Got to keep healthy if I want kids.”

  A pang of regret whooshed through me. I was the same age as Violet. Would I miss out on children if Jordan and I waited too much longer to get married? Could I have children? I’d never asked my doctor to do any tests.

  I took another slice of the cheese, intent on eating away my worry. Life was great; cheese made it better. “So, if you weren’t dating Tim and you aren’t dating Frank—”

  “Definitely not him.”

  “Is there someone else in your life?” I asked. If she wanted children, and unless she wanted to go through parenthood alone, I would imagine someone was in the picture.

  “We’re not officially dating. We’re waiting to see where it goes. Oho!” She aimed her index finger at me. “I know what you’re thinking. I caught that look in your eyes. No, I’m not pregnant, no matter what Paige hinted at last night. She can be such a royal pain.” Violet assessed the tea. “It’s ready. May I pour you some?” She didn’t wait for a response. She dispensed steaming tea into the china cups. The sweet aroma of almonds and vanilla wafted upward. Violet nudged the natural sweetener in my direction. “Who are the police looking at as a suspect?”

  “Jawbone Jones.”

  “Based on my statement to you?”

  “Yours and Ray Pfeiffer’s.”

  “You questioned Ray?” She shook her head apologetically. “Of course you did. You said earlier that you saw him and Dottie. What did he say?”

  “Like you, Ray said he saw Jawbone tear out of the lot, heading north. Ray also said he saw Jawbone poke Tim in the chest. He thinks they were having an argument. Did you see that?”

  “Now that you mention it, I did.”

  “So you saw Tim outside of his truck.”

  “Yes. But I couldn’t hear what they were saying.” She took a sip of tea.

  “What do you know about Jawbone?”

  “Not much. He’s sort of scary-looking. That bald head.” Violet fanned her hand over her own head and fluttered her fingers beside her neck. “Those tattoos. I heard he plays in a band, but I wouldn’t know for sure. The only music I listen to is music like this.” She twirled a hand; Beethoven’s “Pathetique” was playing. “And, of course, whatever I hear at the pub. I love Irish music.”

  “Speaking of that, Dottie also suggested that Belinda Bell had it in for Tim because of the noise factor created at the pub. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Belinda.” Violet snorted. “She’s all puff and no air. I’ve seen her lay into lots of people in town. She throws those massive hips around, but she never follows through with her threats. On the other hand, it’s exactly those types that surprise us, isn’t it?” She took another sip of tea. “Ah, Tim. He’ll be missed.”

  “Yes, he will.” For so many reasons. I felt tears brimming in the corners of my eyes and blinked them away.

  “In my opinion, Jawbone doesn’t really fit in, in Providence,” Violet said.

  Apparently we had left the topic of Belinda Bell behind.

  “He doesn’t even try to fit in,” she continued. “That gun shop of his does really well, though. He has a ton of customers. We’ve got a lot of hunters in the area. Many stay here, which surprises me. I usually think of hunters holing up in a rustic lodge, but so many of them are into their fitness programs.” Violet leaned forward and whispered, “Between you and me, I think many are trying to prove their masculinity. They act macho. Some even pretend they’re big shots in the military.” She laughed, the sound reminding me of an orangutan, breathing and panting all at the same time. “You know, that argument between Tim and Jawbone . . .”

  I swirled the spoon in my tea, hoping she would continue.

  “One night at the pub I heard the two of them talking.” Violet hesitated. “Yelling is more like it. Jawbone said he wanted to buy the place. Tim swore he was never going to sell. ‘Never!’” She raised her voice, acting out the drama. “Actually, there were quite a few of us there that night. Tim thought Jawbone was way out of line for suggesting it. Jawbone didn’t take kindly to Tim’s tone. He was lit. He’d had way too much whiskey. He probably wouldn’t remember that he threatened Tim.”

  “Threatened him how?”

  “He said that if Tim didn’t sell, he’d get him.”

  “He said those words: Get him?”

  “Jawbone swore that if he couldn’t own the pub, nobody would.”

  “That sounds like a pretty big threat. Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “Maybe not in those exact words.”

  Was she making up this story? Why? To cast suspicion on Jawbone instead of on someone else, namely herself? Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte. She was at the pub with Paige.

  “I think he wanted a place in town to perform his music,” Violet added.

  “When did this happen? Recently?”

  “A year ago.”

  “That’s an awful long time to carry a grudge.”

  “Yes, but when someone says he’s going to get you, you sleep with one eye open. You know what I mean?” Violet finished her tea and set the cup down with a clatter. “I’ve seen Jawbone make threats before. At other places. He seems to pop off his mouth as if it were a pistol. Maybe he gets that way when the liquor is talking. Maybe it’s idle threats, but still . . .”

  I understood what she left unsaid: Maybe this time Jawbone’s threats weren’t idle.

  CHAPTER

  I left the inn feeling an incredible urge to sprint to the police precinct to bring Urso up to date with my findings. Granted, he rarely appreciated my unsolicited input, but with one deputy benched for the remainder of the investigation and the other unavailable because his wife was giving birth, I was willing to risk Urso’s wrath.

  Despite the chilly weather, vendors were out in droves along the north edge of the Village Green. They were offering everything from candy to handmade jewelry. One vendor was luring a flurry of people with tastings of hot cocoa. A couple singing a vintage Beatles’ love song at the top of their lungs skipped to the end of that line. A group of teens nearly twirled into me while trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

  I spotted Ray Pfeiffer among the crowd, taping something to a kiosk, most likely a flyer for the ice-skating rink’s upcoming Lovers Trail event. When he finished, he joined a few other guys who were standing in line to purchase flowers. One of the guys offered Ray a cigarette. He lit up. However, when he realized Zach Mueller, the rangy young man who’d recently quit the pastry shop,
was also in line, Ray dropped the cigarette to the ground, demolished it with his boot heel, and glowered at the kid. If looks could kill.

  Zach caught sight of Ray. His lip twitched in a snarl, but he made tracks in the opposite direction, right past a balloon artist at a pushcart. Thanks to the force of Zach’s departure, Mylar balloons, in the shapes of wedding bells or hearts, bopped against one another. The balloon artist shouted something at Zach, who made a rude gesture and ran straight at me, almost knocking me down. I eeked. He swooped his shaggy bangs out of his eyes, but he didn’t offer an apology. No oops. Nothing.

  Nice, I mused.

  Deputy O’Shea, who was standing in line for a balloon, caught sight of me and yelled, “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. He moved ahead to receive a balloon and held a finger to his mouth. I winked, offering my silent pledge that I would not tell Rebecca anything about the gift I was certain she was going to receive.

  Inside the Victorian house that served as the Providence Precinct—the Tourist Information Center shared the foyer space—I saw a group of women huddling in the corner. They looked sly, like they were keeping the world’s greatest secret. When a toothy redhead spotted me, she tapped another’s elbow. I knew the redhead—her name started with an S. She was always complaining, upset with a homeowner’s board or the PTA. One by one, her pals turned to gawk at me.

  Ah, if only I had the nerve to do something risqué and shock them all.

  Instead, I strode to the clerk, a gray-haired woman with a heart-shaped face. I explained my mission and was instantly permitted access to Chief Urso.

  I found him in his office, sitting behind his desk. He was outlined by a halo of sunlight that filtered through the Levelor blinds covering the window behind him. The sandwich he’d received earlier at the shop sat uneaten on his desk, the wrapper still sealed with stickers.

  Urso rose slightly.

  I waved him to sit back down. “Don’t stand on my account.”

  “What’s up?” He guiltily eyeballed his uneaten sandwich.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not offended,” I said. “My appetite is at an all-time low, too. I simply stopped in to give you an update on something I learned.”

  He heaved a sigh. “You’re not actively pursuing—”

  “No. Well, not on purpose. Rebecca’s right. You could temporarily deputize me.”

  “Charlotte—”

  “Tim was my friend, U-ey. I’m going to ask questions.” I sat in the chair opposite his desk like an equal. He didn’t boot me out, so I continued. “Something Dottie Pfeiffer said made me want to follow up. Did she or Ray come in and talk to you?”

  “No.”

  I told him about Dottie inferring that Violet had a thing for Tim. “She said they flirted that night. So, wondering whether Violet had an inkling about what Tim might have seen, I decided to contact her.”

  “You what?”

  “Don’t raise your voice. I visited her at the inn. I asked a few questions. Nothing official.”

  He scowled at me.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “She denied flirting with Tim. In fact, she denied any relationship at all.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Yes, which means I can cross Frank Mueller off my list of suspects.”

  “Your list?”

  I ignored the snarky remark. “According to Dottie, Frank was carrying a torch for Violet, but if Violet wasn’t interested in Tim, then—”

  “You can rule out Frank either way. He has a solid alibi. He was at Jordan’s party. With me.”

  “I missed seeing him there.”

  “He was.”

  “Great,” I said. Case solved. “Moving on . . . I asked Violet about Jawbone Jones again. Remember, she was the one who had seen him drive off.” I filled Urso in on Violet’s claim that Jawbone threatened to get Tim if he didn’t sell the pub.

  Urso said, “However, as Violet said, that happened over a year ago, and Jawbone didn’t lash out. Maybe she’s casting suspicion on someone else to take the focus off of her.”

  “I thought the same thing, except she was at the pub. With Paige. No matter what, perhaps you should question Jawbone again.”

  “I will.”

  “If you’d like me to accompany you—”

  “No. You have a business to run, and don’t you have a wedding on Sunday?”

  I shifted in my chair. “I guess Tyanne hasn’t called you yet. We’re going to postpone the wedding.”

  “Really?” Urso raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t showing a renewed interest in me. A few months ago, he had finally given up trying to woo me. He realized that I was truly in love with Jordan and would never change my mind about marrying him, the current postponement notwithstanding.

  “With Tim murdered at the site . . .” I licked my lips. “A wedding on Jordan’s farm didn’t feel right.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you or anyone to feel pity for me . . . for us. Jordan and I will set another date.” I felt the sudden urge to speak to Jordan. I’d forgotten to call him on my break. Would he have time to talk now? He had so many issues to deal with: his employees, his product, and the fate of his farm—to sell or not to sell.

  Deputy O’Shea rapped on the doorjamb. His cheeks look blistered from the cold. “Chief.” The balloon he’d purchased bobbed merrily beside his head. “I’m going out for some air.”

  “You do that.”

  O’Shea disappeared and I said to Urso, “I’m worried about him. He looks frail. Has he eaten anything?”

  “I’m watching out for him.”

  “The same way that you’re looking out for yourself?” I motioned toward his uneaten meal.

  He opened the wrapper and took a bite of the sandwich. “Happy?” he asked while chewing.

  “Overjoyed.”

  He glanced at the clock on the wall and his eyes brightened. He stood up and pushed the sandwich aside. “Sorry to cut this short. I’ve got to go.”

  I rose to my feet. “You know, U-ey, I’ve been dying to ask you something.”

  “Can it wait?” He fetched his overcoat and hurried toward the door.

  Actually, it couldn’t. I followed. “I was wondering whether you’ve decided to run your brother’s campaign in Virginia or not.” A few months ago, his brother, a budding politician, had started to pursue Urso. If he took the job, he would leave Providence.

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “I’m staying here.”

  “You are? That’s great.” A rush of relief washed over me. I appreciated my friend and didn’t want to see him relocate; not to mention we needed someone with his integrity and wits as our chief of police. “What made you decide—”

  “I can’t talk now.”

  Cavalierly, he gestured that I should move through the doorway first. That was when I became aware of something I hadn’t picked up on earlier. Despite the tragic loss of a dear friend, Urso seemed lighter and more at ease with himself. Was he, like so many others in Providence, enjoying the season of love?

  “Got a hot date?” I teased.

  “Maybe.”

  I nearly cheered. Urso, above all, deserved happiness. He saluted as he exited toward the parking lot. I left through the foyer.

  On my way, I sneaked to the buffet table that held the daily delivery of pastries from Providence Pâtisserie. As I plucked a bite-sized raspberry crème fraîche turnover from the tray, I heard some chatter.

  Councilwoman Bell, a towering pear-shaped woman in her early fifties with a cap of black hair and a grimace that cut a slash across the lower portion of her broad face, had joined the mix of conspiratorial women. Prudence Hart, a sour dress-shop owner, looking as lean as ever in a lemon-colored winter coat—the color made my mouth pucker—had also linked up with the group.


  The ladies strolled toward the clerk, who sat taller in her chair.

  Uh-oh.

  Bell took the lead. “We have a complaint.”

  “You always do,” the clerk quipped.

  “Three things. One. The noise level around town has got to be reduced,” Bell said in a booming tone that suggested she could out-noise any noise level. “Two. What is it with all of these vendors in the streets? Who authorized them to park helter-skelter? And three. Have you seen the public display of singing and dancing?”

  I was astonished that Bell would be upset with general frivolity. Her daughter was an actress in Los Angeles; she had recently won the starring role in a television series. I remembered how the girl, back when she was in high school, would parade around town singing or emoting at the top of her lungs. She had performed at the Providence Playhouse a couple of times. She was very talented, if a bit precocious.

  “Now, Belinda,” the clerk said. “This is a merry time. People are in love. They’re celebrating. Cut them a little slack.”

  “Cut them—” Bell sputtered. “I . . . we”—she twirled a finger in the air to include her band of complainers—“are standing firm. Claim form, please.”

  “Councilwoman, be reasonable.”

  Bell exhaled with force, which caused her entire frame to wobble.

  “Fine.” The clerk, who had a bit of the devil in her, took a moment to tuck some of her wispy hair back into her bun with a bobby pin, then she rose and shuffled to a file cabinet. Leisurely—could she move any slower? I wondered with amusement—she withdrew a form from a drawer.

  “Hurry up,” Bell ordered. She looked like a human geyser. Any minute, she would boil over and steam would burst out the top of her head in one long spew. I flashed on Dottie and Violet’s assessments of the councilwoman. Could she have seen Tim drive away from the pub and, in a fit of rage, chased after him? Had she caught up to him at Jordan’s farm?

  “Here you are.” The clerk extended her arm and waved the form. “Fill this out to your heart’s content. When you’re done, put it in my inbox, which you can see is pretty darned full, but I’m sure I’ll have time to attend to it in the next century.”