by Avery Aames
“Those are for me. I have a craving.”
“Why are you so pumped up?”
She spun around, a huge grin on her face. “I got it. I got the role in the play.”
“You did? Congratulations!”
“I heard last night at ten. Your grandmother called me. But I didn’t want to telephone you and wake you. You’d had such a tough day.”
Dottie Pfeiffer had a tougher day, I thought, and bit my lip to keep fresh tears from falling. Poor Dottie. Who had killed her? Why? How could I help Urso solve the crime other than by providing the information I’d already given him?
“Guess what?” Rebecca continued, with no awareness of my inner turmoil. Her excitement was too lively to contain. “Deputy O’Shea is going to play the role opposite me. We’re going to act together. We perform this Friday.”
“Friday? That’s so soon,” I said. Grandmère usually rehearses her actors for a minimum of three weeks. She likes the material to sweep them up and take them to a new world of emotion.
“There’s nothing to memorize and no blocking to speak of,” Rebecca said. “We read directly from the letters. Grandmère has cast another set of actors in the roles for the following two weeks. Isn’t that shrewd? That means there will be six different actors. The whole town should come out to see the play, don’t you think? People will have their favorite actors, of course. I hope they’ll come to see me.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a packed house. Jordan and I will be there, and Matthew and Meredith will be back in town by then. And Deputy O’Shea has lots of friends.”
“I’m so excited.” Rebecca divided the dough into twelve portions, one for each of twelve quiches, then dusted a rolling pin and started to roll out one crust. “I hope I don’t get nervous. I mean, with all those people watching, I’m bound to get a little nervous, but I hope I can contain it. The play is so intimate. Did you know I have to cry at one point? I think I can do it. We’re rehearsing every night this week.” She stopped mid-roll. “Is that okay?”
“Sure. We don’t have any evening obligations at the shop other than the Lovers Trail event. I can cover that.” I had set limited hours for the shop this coming week because of Jordan’s and my wedding and because of our honeymoon plans. I thought limited hours would help Rebecca and my part-timers manage on their own. The wine-and-cheese-pairing event at the shop on Thursday evening was the one exception. Now, with me in town and Matthew due back by then, I didn’t need Rebecca to shoulder the burden.
Rebecca sighed. “Do you think acting in a play will pull Deputy O’Shea out of his funk? He’s miserable. I think he wants to cry, but he won’t.”
“I’m sure the play will give him something else to focus on.”
“Did you know he’s investigating his uncle’s death on his own?”
As I’d guessed. “He shouldn’t.”
Rebecca scoffed. “Do you think I can stop him? Not on a bet.” She peeled the crust off the cutting board, placed it into an aluminum pie pan, and crimped the edges. “And, honestly, he ought to investigate. Tim was his favorite uncle. They were very close. Devon is dead set on Jawbone being the culprit. He said he’s had run-ins with Jawbone before. Jawbone drinks, and when he drinks, he gets feisty.”
But did he get violent was the question. Had Tim seen him doing something illegal? Had Jawbone chased Tim down? Had he attacked Tim and, after a struggle, dumped him into the cheese vat to keep the secret?
Rebecca rolled out another crust. “I overheard you talking to Jordan yesterday.”
I cocked my head. “How? We were in the kitchen, far away from you.”
“I tiptoed close so I could listen in.” She spun the cutting board to roll the dough in the opposite direction. “Do you really think Tim and Dottie’s murders could be related?”
“It’s only a theory. I’ve called U-ey, but he hasn’t returned my call.” I would wager Urso had been too busy this morning to breathe, let alone call me. He had no deputies, no backup. How I wished he would turn to me for help.
“Why would Jawbone Jones want to kill Dottie?” Rebecca asked.
“I have no idea, unless Dottie caught him stealing the brooch.” Had Urso followed up on that angle? Was the brooch really missing?
“Jawbone walked by the store earlier with Zach Mueller’s mom.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met her.”
“She has fringed hair and—” Rebecca waggled her finger down the nape of her neck to demonstrate.
“A rattail?” I asked. Rebecca was describing the woman I thought was Jawbone’s fiancée. “She’s Zach’s mother?”
“Yep.”
“How did I not realize that?”
“Do you know everyone in town?”
“Everyone who is a local and comes into the shop.”
“I don’t think she’s ever come in here,” Rebecca said. “Maybe she’s lactose intolerant.”
“We sell wine.”
Rebecca smirked. “She looks like hard liquor might be her beverage of choice.”
I had to agree. “How did you find out she was Zach’s mom?”
“Tyanne was in the store at the time. She told me that Ilona—that’s the woman’s name—ended the marriage when Zach was two. I only mention it because Jawbone gave me the willies. He looked sort of alien-creepy, all bundled in a peacoat and scarf, with only that bald head of his poking out. Doesn’t he need a hat or something?”
Recalling how scared I’d felt when I’d questioned him in the parking lot at the Bozzuto Winery and suddenly feeling queasy from all the stress and sorrow, I held up a hand and said, “Let’s not discuss the murders right now.”
“But—”
“No. We have so much to do to prepare for this week’s event. I’d like to concentrate on the positive.”
Rebecca bristled. “I wasn’t going to discuss the murders. I simply mentioned seeing Jawbone because then I waved and they waved back and smiled, and the willies went away.”
I fetched a pad and pencil and started writing a list of the cheeses needed for our Lovers Trail event on Thursday. All of the neighboring shops on Hope Street were participating in Thursday’s festivities, too. La Chic Boutique was having a fashion show. The Country Kitchen was offering a Savor the Love food tasting, which would include ten mouthwatering desserts. Delilah had told me about the triple-chocolate pudding she was whipping up. It was laced with espresso coffee. Yum. I couldn’t wait to try it. At Sew Inspired, Freckles intended to teach customers how to stitch a heart-shaped pillow. And we at Fromagerie Bessette were offering tastings throughout the store. I planned to set out more than a dozen platters of cheeses. For the wine—
I tapped the end of my pencil on the paper. “Rebecca, can you remember the name of the California champagne Matthew selected for Thursday’s event?”
“Oh no, no, no. Don’t call it champagne,” she cautioned me. “You know better.”
I did. Matthew had been adamant that I learn. Back in 1919, during the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, the French ordained that the word Champagne could only refer to bubbly wines made using age-old methods and grapes grown in the Champagne region of France. Except somehow the United States found a loophole. So, in 2006, the United States, as a show of good faith, signed a wine trade agreement with the European Union, not to use terms that were semi-generic, like Champagne, Burgundy, Chianti, et cetera. Of course, if a vineyard had an approved label, that vineyard could be grandfathered in. But Champagne in the U.S. was now called sparkling wine. On the upside, many considered American sparkling wines to be sunnier and less earthy than Champagnes and exceedingly more affordable. C’est la vie!
“Fine,” I conceded. “What was the name of the sparkling wine?”
“Roederer Estate Brut Anderson Valley L’Ermitage 2003,” she said, the name tripping off her tongue. Maybe she did know more about wine
than I gave her credit for. She was an eager student. “It’s the same wine we were serving at your—” She halted and cut me a regretful look. “Sorry.”
“My bachelorette party.”
She jammed her lips together and nodded.
“You don’t need to pussyfoot around that,” I said. “It was fun while it lasted.” I still couldn’t forget how quickly the fun had fizzled, and I couldn’t erase from my mind the string of events that had occurred after Deputy O’Shea listened to Tim’s message: the panic on his face; the race to the pub; the sprint to the deputy’s car; the mad dash to Jordan’s farm. Finding Tim.
Suddenly, everything started to move in slow motion.
“Charlotte, are you all right? You look pookie.”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t dizzy, but in my mind, I had zoomed back to yesterday morning when I’d entered the pastry shop and found Dottie. I pictured the body, the Danish, Jordan’s cheese, the spatula, the flour. Was my gut instinct right? Were the two crimes related? Who would want to kill both Dottie and Tim? Jawbone Jones had a slim motive to kill Tim, but I couldn’t imagine, other than robbery, that he had one for Dottie. Belinda Bell wanted both Tim and Dottie to stop with the noise. Zach Mueller, if Ray Pfeiffer’s assertion was right, had stolen Dottie’s brooch. Tim had seen something. Had he seen Zach stealing something at the pub? And what about Ray Pfeiffer? He might have had a motive to kill his wife. Did he have a motive to kill Tim?
I considered Jawbone’s girlfriend—Zach’s mother, Ilona. What light might she be able to shed on Jawbone’s activities? Had she abetted him? Would she confess if a non-threat like me approached her?
“Yoo-hoo, Charlotte love, are you there?” Sylvie Bessette, my cousin’s British ex-wife, appeared in the doorway. She had abandoned Matthew and the twins years ago, but had moved to Providence to rebuild the fractured relationships. Sylvie never failed to amaze me with her offbeat style choices. Today, she wore a snow-white fake fur over black stockings and black boots. If she’d dared to dye half of her ice-white hair back to its original black, she would have been the spitting image of Cruella de Vil, an evil character from Disney’s 101 Dalmatians.
“Oh, there you are.” Sylvie wiggled her high-gloss fingernails. “I saw the shop was empty, and I started to worry, what with Dottie Pfeiffer meeting an untimely death. I’m so glad to see you’re alive.”
“Me too,” Rebecca whispered.
I swatted her.
“I have a quick order, if you don’t mind,” Sylvie continued. “I want to offer a cheese platter at today’s event.” She owned an upscale dress boutique and spa around the corner. She and her neighboring businesses were part of today’s Lovers Trail festivities. “We don’t want the people coming in for the lingerie show to go away hungry, do we?”
My grandmother had protested Sylvie’s lingerie show decision, but Sylvie wouldn’t budge. She swore that locals and tourists alike would be thrilled to have a sexy soiree to attend, not like those boring do’s that the other shops were offering. According to Sylvie, love required passion to light the flame.
“Come.” Sylvie beckoned me with her forefinger.
Far be it from me to keep her waiting. I set aside my paperwork, threw on an apron, and met her by the cheese counter.
“Hard cheeses only. None of those gooey messes.” She pointed to the Colston Bassett Stilton, imported from the UK.
“Good choice,” I said. “It’s smooth and creamy with a mellow flavor. No acid bite.”
“Of course it’s delicious. It’s from the area in England where I was born. What’s this?” She pointed to the Cypress Grove Chevre Bermuda Triangle, and read the cheese flag out loud: “‘If you’re feeling vulnerable, then definitely don’t taste a morsel of this deliciousness. Truly, you will become a slave to its allure.’ Are you saying it’s divine?”
No one could put anything over on Sylvie. “Want a taste?” I asked. “It’s tart and tangy with notes of pepper.”
“No. Just wrap up a portion. And this?” She leaned closer to the glass case and wiggled a finger. “Read that one in the back to me. The one with the specks of red spice.” Was her eyesight getting weak? She was pushing forty.
The door to the shop opened and Tyanne entered.
“C’mon, love, read,” Sylvie ordered.
I obliged. “‘No Woman cheese: The perfect cheese if you need to spice up your life.’”
“Ooh. I like the sound of that one. What fun.”
“Perhaps it’s too spicy for you,” Tyanne quipped.
Sylvie offered a sour look, but when she realized it was Tyanne speaking, the look vanished and she smiled. She actually liked Tyanne. I’d never heard her say a rude thing about her. As for me? She’d said plenty. But I was inured to her caustic charm. “Good morning, love. How are you holding up?”
Tyanne shrugged. “I’m keeping it together. I almost lost it at the weddings for the two non-local couples I put together at the last minute yesterday and today, but I didn’t. I am woman; hear me meow.”
“I have just the thing at my shop if you do become a puffy-eyed mess,” Sylvie said. “It’s a detox cream. Icy cold when applied. You should try it. Complimentary.”
“Perhaps I will.”
“Come by the shop today. You too, Charlotte, if you can break free. Your love life could use a lingerie pick-me-up, if you know what I mean.”
“No, Sylvie, I don’t.” Of course, I did. She was being insulting, inferring that Jordan and I weren’t getting married because our relationship suffered in the sex department. It didn’t. We were a great match. I’d never met a more attentive, loving, romantic man.
“But you called off the wedding, love.”
Tyanne jumped in. “She didn’t call it off. She’s postponing.”
I added, “We didn’t think it was appropriate to get married at Jordan’s farm within days of Timothy O’Shea’s death. And now with Dottie—”
“About that.” Sylvie ran a tongue along her lips. She peeked over her shoulder, as if looking for someone to be listening in. No one was. She swiveled back to us. “Councilwoman Bell was in my shop yesterday afternoon. That woman. She has no decorum.”
This coming from the woman whose picture might accompany the definition of no decorum in a dictionary. Sylvie barged in wherever she wanted. She had crashed the taste-testing at the venue for Matthew and Meredith’s wedding. She had arrived uninvited at Matthew and Meredith’s rehearsal dinner. She invariably tried to horn in on an outing with the twins when it was clearly Matthew’s, Meredith’s, or my turn to have them. She was a good mother, frequently gushing over her girlie girls, but she defied logic when it came to social correctness.
“What did Belinda Bell do?” I said, knowing Sylvie wouldn’t leave until she had imparted her bit of gossip.
Sylvie lowered her voice and said, “Gather around.”
CHAPTER
Rebecca slipped up beside me at the cheese counter, eager to glean whatever gossip Sylvie might share.
“Belinda Bell was whispering with a few of her cronies,” Sylvie said. “But I sidled close to listen in.”
I would have expected no less. Listening in on another conversation had helped Sylvie discover a long lost treasure buried in the bowels of an old winery cellar in Providence.
“Bell was wearing a horrid perfume,” Sylvie went on. “Cloying and cheap, like what teenagers douse themselves with. How ever does she hope to woo a man smelling like that?”
Did Councilwoman Bell want a man? Her husband had died ten years ago—heart attack. She’d raised her daughter on her own. Maybe, as Tyanne had suggested the other night, Belinda Bell was lonely now that her daughter had moved to Los Angeles and become a star. Perhaps she visited her daughter’s room and sampled her fragrances. There was nothing wrong with that; it showed how much she loved her daughter.
“And don’t g
et me started about the outfit Bell was wearing,” Sylvie continued. “She certainly didn’t purchase it at my store. Ruffles and more ruffles. Way too many for her pear-shaped frame. I could teach her a thing or two about taste. Her daughter, too. Did you see the photo spread of Aurora in the latest People? The girl looked positively deranged, dressed as she was in Goth black with a double-dose of black eye makeup. Whatever happened to the girl who looked like the morning goddess, her strawberry-blonde hair lustrous, her eyes wide with innocence? Talk about a disaster.” Sylvie lowered her voice. “I think she might be doing—” She tapped her nose and sniffed to make her point.
I spanked the cheese counter. “Sylvie, what did the councilwoman say?”
“Oh, right-o. Bell said she wasn’t in the least sorry that Dottie died.”
Rebecca gasped. So did Tyanne.
“Well, perhaps she wasn’t that blunt,” Sylvie revised. “But she did say that she and all of Dottie’s neighbors wouldn’t miss the pastry shop.”
I said, “Surrounding business owners didn’t like Dottie?”
“She played that blasted rock-and-roll music at all hours of the night.”
I remembered hearing a Rolling Stones song when I’d entered the shop. Had Dottie’s penchant for loud music made someone—like Bell—snap? On the other hand, would a killer utter that kind of hateful statement so openly?
“By the way,” Sylvie went on, “Bell sounded excited that she would be able to find a new tenant for the pastry shop.”
I gaped. “She’s the landlord?”
“Yes, and you remember, from personal experience, how mean landlords can be, don’t you, Charlotte?”
I did my best to ignore the taunt, but it still stung. Our previous landlord, a bitter miserable man, was murdered nearly two years ago during the re-opening party for Fromagerie Bessette. Grandmère had become the leading suspect in his murder because she was found clutching the cheese knife that the killer had used to stab him. Our new landlord was Jordan, or rather Providence Arts and Creative Enterprises, the specially constructed acronym, or backronym, using the letters of Jordan’s last name: Pace.