by Avery Aames
“Go, go,” Rebecca said.
My customer, a local artist, asked for suggestions, and I gave him a full accounting of what was good in the winter, suggesting the alpine cheeses, as they typically are the best in the cool months, which was why, historically, they were served warm in dishes like gratin, fondue, and raclette. He ordered a pound of Gruyère, and I rang him up.
When I was once again idle, Rebecca wedged between my grandfather and me and helped us reface or rewrap cheeses. “How was the poetry reading?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“Was Octavia pleased with the turnout?” Pépère said.
“Yes.” I told them about my conversation with Prudence, how she had all but accused Belinda Bell of having motive to kill Dottie, and my follow-up chat with Belinda Bell.
“You went inside her store?” Rebecca said. “Alone?”
“No. There was another customer. You know I wouldn’t have taken the risk otherwise.”
“Ha!” Rebecca smirked, as if she’d caught me in a lie, which she sort of had. I’d entered the shop when it was empty. It was only fortune that had brought another customer into the shop seconds behind me. “Tell me what happened?”
I filled them in about the pastry in the trash and Bell’s flimsy alibi.
“You know,” Rebecca said, “it still irks me that she and her group plan to oust Grandmère from her position as mayor.”
“Sacre bleu,” Pépère muttered. “Say it is not so.”
I sighed. “It is. Prudence confirmed it.”
“Grandmère will be as mad as a hornet,” Rebecca went on. “Which, come to think of it, is how Mrs. Bell is all the time lately. Mad about the noise. Mad about the calories and fats in foods. I wonder if it irritated her that Dottie offered freebies to children.”
“Violet said something along the same line the other day,” I said.
“Hey!” Rebecca held up a finger. “I’ve got another suspect for you. What if a band of irate mothers led by Paige Alpaugh lashed out at Dottie? Paige can rally the troops better than anyone.”
I thought of the women that had huddled around the kiosk Sunday morning. How long had they been there? Would Paige have been able to skip away unnoticed, slip into the pastry shop, kill Dottie, and return as if nothing had happened?
“If that’s true,” I said, “then Dottie and Tim’s murders aren’t related, because Paige was at the pub at the time Tim died. She has a solid alibi. I saw her. Violet was with her.”
“Unless”—my grandfather held up his hand—“Paige was working with a partner.”
I gaped. “I considered something like that earlier.” I explained the possible matchups I’d concocted, between Bell and Townsend or Bell and Jawbone.
Pépère nodded. “Oui, exactement.”
“Let’s face it,” Rebecca chirped. “The food at the pub isn’t that good for people, either. Talk about fats. That makes me think of that movie called Who Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe? Did you ever see that?” Within weeks of leaving her Amish community, in addition to becoming addicted to mysteries and thrillers, Rebecca had become a film hound. Over the course of the past few years, she had watched hundreds of award-winning films. Last fall, she had focused her attention on the films of three female stars. Currently, she was devouring comedies. “A gourmand is killing off the chefs because he absolutely has to lose weight or he’ll die.”
“But the pub food isn’t targeting children,” I said, “and Paige is all about protecting children.”
Tyanne entered the shop and said, “That’s an understatement.” Apparently, she had caught the drift of our conversation. “Paige is like a mama bear protecting her cubs. She has all sorts of suggestions for the moms at school. What the lunch menu should be. What we shouldn’t include in lunches brought from home.”
Pépère said, “I have heard the same from the twins.”
Tyanne shook her forefinger. “Don’t get me started about the school parties. We get printed lists of things not to include, like peanuts and gluten. Some moms really don’t like Paige. On the other hand, some people benefit from her advice, like Violet, who looks much better thanks to Paige’s dietary plan.”
“Except Dottie wasn’t a mother,” I said, which Paige had pointed out to me.
“Are you talking about Paige having it in for Dottie? Oh, sugar, if anyone had it in for someone, it was Dottie wanting a piece of Paige.”
“Why?” Entry forms were poking out of the slot of the satin box. I tried to nudge them inside.
“Dottie accused Paige of swiping a recipe.”
I sputtered. “I can’t imagine Paige wanting to make anything Dottie baked.”
“It wasn’t a pastry,” Tyanne said. “It was a vegetarian Cheddar cheese dish. Ray had raved about it. One day, at a party at the Pfeiffer house, Paige slipped into the kitchen and filched it.”
Huh. I liked vegetables, but I couldn’t imagine stealing a vegetarian recipe. If it was that good, I’d ask politely and hope the cook would share. Most would.
“A recipe, I might add,” Tyanne drawled, “which became the most popular on Paige’s blog. Dottie threatened Paige and told her to take it off the site. I still remember the way they were going at it. Paige went semi-ballistic. How dare Dottie challenge her integrity.”
“When you say they were going at it”— I succeeded in pushing all the entry forms into the satin box and then squared the edge of the box on the counter—“do you mean they were exchanging blows?”
Tyanne wagged her head. “Heavens no. Words. All words. But Paige was cruel, as she can be sometimes. She said Dottie would have a better figure and longer life if she’d eat less fats and sugar.”
Dottie would have had a longer life if someone hadn’t killed her, I mused.
“Chérie,” Pépère said. “Moments ago, on my break, I saw Paige heading into Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe.”
Rebecca nudged me. “Why not go over there and ask for her alibi on Sunday morning?”
“In the meantime,” Pépère said, “think about with whom she might have conspired to kill Tim.” He also prodded me to move.
I hesitated. Was every one of my family and friends thinking like a detective nowadays? Was that my fault, or was it simply a matter of too many murders in one town in such a short time?
CHAPTER
In the end, I followed my friends’ and grandfather’s advice. I breezed into Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe and paused inside the door. Paige stood at the rear, huddled with other mothers near the tartan plaids. Each mom was admiring the work her teenage daughter was doing on a sparkly T-shirt. The class was a regular occurrence and no part of the Lovers Trail events. Paige’s eldest daughter, an angelic girl with a mane of gold hair and the lightest eyelashes I’d ever seen, held up her artwork for her mother’s approval. Rings adorned every finger of both hands. Paige, rather than assessing her daughter’s work, snatched her daughter’s left hand. She said something. The girl wrenched away and fled to the restroom at the rear of the shop.
Freckles, who was dressed in her signature orange, approached me with a broad smile. “Charlotte, hi! What brings you in this evening? The twins aren’t scheduled for a class.”
“I’m not here for that.” Matthew’s girls took classes at Sew Inspired. Meredith, Grandmère, or I would pick them up. Their mother, Sylvie, was boycotting the shop—forever—because Freckles had made the twins’ dresses for their father’s wedding.
“Oh my. I know why.” Freckles fluttered her fingers. “We never finished your dress. The hem. Come here.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the dressing room. For a bitty thing—she wasn’t even five feet tall—she was strong. Daily workouts, as well as lifting huge bolts of fabric, contributed to her power. “Let’s get it done.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Uh-uh, no arguments.” She pushed
me into the storage room at the rear. It wasn’t a dressing room, but it served the purpose.
She handed me my cocktail-length dress, which was ecru silk with lace cap sleeves and a lace overlay on the bodice. She’d added a dappling of gold beading. It was so pretty, I nearly cried.
Don’t dwell, Charlotte. The month of May is right around the corner.
“Put it on. I won’t take no for an answer.” She started to tug on my sweater.
Knowing I couldn’t dissuade her, I obeyed, slithering out of my clothes and into the dress.
“How are you doing?” she continued. “Are you depressed? Silly question. Of course you are. You didn’t simply postpone the wedding, you also found two—” She stopped herself from saying more. “Listen to me. What a dolt. Happy thoughts. Happy-happy. Here, let me zip you.” She whistled as she spun me around. “It fits like a glove. Perfect! Step on the platform in front of the three-way mirror. I’ll get my pin cushion.” She ran off and returned in seconds. “How do you feel about the hem being at the middle of the knee? Okay? It’s a very classic, chic look. I can go longer or shorter—”
“Middle is fine.”
“I’ll have it ready by tomorrow. Do you have a new date set? Is Tyanne arranging a location?”
“Freckles, slow down. We haven’t set a date. We’ll get married in May.”
“May? That’s eons away.”
“Only three months. And, yes, Tyanne will still be our wedding planner. But the dress isn’t why I came in.”
“Why, then?”
“I need to talk to Paige.”
“About?”
I didn’t want to blurt out the theory that my comrades and I had concocted seconds before. I needed a few facts first. I also intended to see Paige’s eyes when she responded. Was she still in the shop, waiting for her daughter to reappear from the restroom, or had I lost my opportunity? “You know Paige pretty well, don’t you?” I asked. “I mean, you hang out.”
“Occasionally. Our oldest girls are the same age. They do gymnastics together, and they’re both waiting to hear on their college applications.”
“You also attend Paige’s blogging seminars, right?”
“How did you know?”
“I saw you at the Bozzuto Winery the other day.”
“That was such a fun day. Wine, women, and song.” Freckles laughed. “That was Paige’s description. Catchy, don’t you think? She’s a wizard with that kind of stuff. Logos and slogans. She has so many tips on how to grow a business it’s mind-boggling. I have reams of notes. ‘Go on a social networking site every day. Share something personal. Let your fans get to know you. Create a street team.’ Do you know what that is? You give away things so that people following you online will help spread the word about your site. Teamwork, she says, is vital to any plan.”
Teamwork, as in having a partner to commit murder?
Freckles continued. “Paige is the most organized person. Why, she’s the only woman I know who wakes up every morning with a to-do list and accomplishes it. ‘One foot in front of the other,’ she says. If any of us balk at a suggestion, she tells us straight out that we’re our own worst enemies. ‘Doubt sabotages productivity.’”
“Maybe I need a class with Paige.”
Freckles stood, brushed off her hands, and gestured for me to remove the dress. “But that’s not what you want to know, is it?” She unzipped me. “You have something on your mind. I’ve seen that look before. Does it involve the murders? Do you think Paige can fill in some blanks, like maybe she saw something, but she doesn’t realize she saw something?”
“Er, not exactly.”
“She’s got her finger on the pulse of Providence.”
But is it a beating pulse? I wondered wryly.
I put back on my clothes and handed the wedding dress back to Freckles. “What I wanted to know was whether Paige might be involved somehow.”
Freckles inhaled sharply. She hurried to the drapes that separated the storage room from the main shop and peeked out. Quickly, she stole back to me. With a finger to her lips, she whispered, “She’s still here. Go on. Tell me how.”
I explained my reasoning.
“But Paige couldn’t have killed Dottie,” Freckles said. “She had a foodie blogger meeting Sunday morning. I know because I attended.”
“I didn’t see you at the kiosk.”
“The kiosk? I don’t know about that. We met at Paige’s house at six A.M.”
“Why so early?”
“Because Paige likes to get a jump on the day. Why else?” Freckles laughed. “I had to scoot at the end of the meeting. It ran over by a half hour. I was going to be late for church, and my hubby hates if I’m late. Paige doesn’t attend, so what does she care?”
“Paige was at the meeting the whole time?”
“Do you think she’d let anyone else run one of her meetings?” Freckles snorted. “Not likely.”
If I put the timetable together right, there was no way Paige could have murdered Dottie. Ray said he had left her for one hour; that set the time of death between 6:30 and 7:30 A.M., when I’d arrived. And there was no reason to think Paige had a hand in Tim’s death. I thanked Freckles for her input and left the shop without approaching Paige.
CHAPTER
When I arrived back at Fromagerie Bessette, the lights were off; my grandfather had left. I found Rebecca in the office changing into skinny jeans, a black turtleneck, and dance shoes. Someone must have told her that was what theater people wear; prior to now, I’d never seen her in a pair of jeans.
She said, “Pépère took Rags and Rocket. He wanted some cuddle time. Hope that was okay. He’ll drop them off at your house later.”
“Of course.”
“So, how’d it go?” Rebecca asked. “Did you wheedle a confession from Paige?”
“No. I heard another impeccable alibi. Cross her off our list.”
“Wait a second. Couldn’t one of her acolytes have done both murders?”
“Acolytes?”
“New word for the day. It means—”
“I know what it means: admirer; hanger-on.” I grinned. “I really don’t see that as a possibility. Even Freckles said that Paige is too controlling. She wouldn’t assign something as critical as murder to someone who might mess it up or leave evidence.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Go to rehearsal. I’m heading across the street to eat. We’ll rethink this in the morning.”
Clearly miffed—Rebecca wanted answers as badly as I did—she hoisted her tote onto her shoulder and left grumbling and mumbling.
In desperate need of a warm meal and small talk, I dashed across the street to The Country Kitchen. As I entered, Delilah and her waitstaff were sashaying down the middle of the restaurant singing a bluesy rendition of Elvis’s “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Whenever a patron made an Elvis selection on the jukebox, the waitstaff sang. It was part of the fun and flavor of the diner.
Delilah waved at me.
Slipping past her, I said, “Have you seen Urso lately?”
She shook her head and held up two fingers: two minutes to go.
I perched on one of the stools at the red Formica counter and perused the menu. Cheese-anything sounded good. The diner often bought cheese from us and used it that day in a recipe. When I read that the special was raclette potatoes with rosemary, I closed the menu. Perfect. My mouth started to water in anticipation.
“Let me eat in peace!” a woman said loudly enough to be heard over the music.
I spun on my stool and spied Octavia, sitting in a booth by herself.
“Did you hear me?” Octavia said to a frothy woman, with cheeks tinged the same pink as the ream of paper she was clutching to her chest. “Go!”
The woman scurried away and out of the restaurant. Octavia nev
er lost her temper. What had happened?
I slid off my stool and hurried to her table. “Are you okay?”
Octavia frowned. “Bad me. I’m so mean. That poor woman didn’t deserve my wrath. All she was doing was promoting a Lovers Trail event at her new candy shop, but honestly, I come in here so rarely. What are the odds that I would be accosted twice in the same night?”
“Did she accost you?”
“No. Not really. All she did was give me a flyer.” Octavia tapped a piece of paper that was lying on her table.
“Then who did?”
“Belinda Bell. She claimed she didn’t get my rent check.”
“She dunned you for payment?” I said, shocked.
Octavia scowled. “I paid her. I always do, on the first of the month, like clockwork. I don’t even risk the mail. I drop it through the slot of her shop door. I can only imagine she moved my envelope into a junk mail pile and tossed it out. I suggested that, but she—” Octavia clucked her tongue.
“Is she hard up for money?” It made me wonder again whether Bell had the wherewithal to have killed Dottie to get her hands on the cluster brooch.
“Ha! She’s as rich as sourpuss Prudence with the same amount of bluster.” Octavia fluttered a hand. “She wants what she wants, sooner rather than later. Don’t we all?” She patted the tabletop. “Join me?”
The music stopped. Delilah tapped me on my shoulder. “I’ve got a few seconds,” she said.
I thanked Octavia for the offer but begged off and returned to my seat at the counter.
Delilah took my order, put it on the spindle for the chef, and returned. “Like I said,” she began, as if we were in the middle of a conversation, “I haven’t seen Urso. He’s been really busy. He must be interviewing ten people a day. He hit every shop owner on Honeysuckle Street.”
Where Providence Pâtisserie was located.
“Not to mention, he’s all over Ray about Dottie. He’s also questioning Dottie’s family, all of whom have arrived in town, and every supplier of goods to the pastry shop. The milk and butter deliveryman, the cheese and fruit guys. He’s leaving no stone unturned.” She sighed. “I’ve got to give him credit. He’s diligent beyond words.”