by Avery Aames
The front door swung open and Ray Pfeiffer hurried in. A gust of cold wind trailed him inside. I shivered.
“Charlotte,” he cried. “Help!” No one was pursuing him. He wasn’t in trouble. He was wearing black shorts, black T-shirt—his churchgoing attire for Dottie’s memorial service.
Paige swatted the air. “Take care of Ray. We’ll talk. I might . . . might have an opening. Let’s go, girls.” She twirled a finger and her posse exited with her. As she passed Ray, I heard her say, “So sorry about Dottie. So sorry.”
Ray accepted her condolences and rushed to the counter. His forehead was pinched with tension. His eyes looked red-rimmed from crying.
“Aren’t you cold?” I simply had to ask. The tawny sweater and corduroy pants I’d worn were barely keeping me warm.
“Never. I’ve always had good circulation.” He pulled off his gloves and pointed at a cheese in the cabinet. “I’d like a pound of that Taylor Farms Maple Smoked Farmstead Gouda, sliced thin.” The cheese, slowly smoked using maple wood chips and therefore milder than cheeses that were smoked using hickory chips, had won numerous awards from the American Cheese Society. “My in-laws”—he heaved a sigh—“are hungry.”
“Where did you hold the service?”
“In the ravine. At the ch-chapel.” His voice broke; his eyes welled with tears. He must have remembered that he had been at the chapel the day Dottie had died instead of with her at the shop. He mashed his lips together before pressing on. “What will go with that cheese? Dottie would have wanted me to serve a tasty spread.”
“Apricot or fig jam would be a lovely choice. And crackers, of course.”
“A loaf of Dottie’s bread would have been nice,” he muttered. “But it will have gone bad by now.”
“Not necessarily. If she had some bread refrigerated, it might still be good. Bread lasts longer than you think.” I hesitated. “Um, Ray, when will you clear out the remainder of her baked goods?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been given the okay.” More mashing of lips. The muscles in his jaw ticked.
“Have you considered donating the food to the poor? Maybe if you asked Chief Urso with that caveat, he would consent.”
His eyes brightened. “What a great idea.”
I helped him pick out the crackers and jam and stowed them in a gold bag. While paying, he said, “Thank you. For all your help. And”—he cleared his throat—“for being there at the end with Dottie.” On a mission to contact Urso, he exited with a jauntier gait.
On the sidewalk, he ran headlong into Violet.
Rebecca cut around them and blazed through the front door. “Sorry I’m late.” She tore to the back of the shop, shrugged off her coat, strapped on an apron, and joined me at the counter. While slinging her hair into a ponytail, she said, “We went long at rehearsal and I overslept, and . . . well, I apologize.”
“No worries. Only one paying customer so far.” I jerked my chin in Ray’s direction. He was still talking to Violet. She touched his elbow and mouthed what I could only imagine was sincere sorrow at his loss. Seconds later, he moved on, and Violet entered the shop.
“Hello, Charlotte.” She flung back the furry hood of her parka and stamped her feet. “Good weather for jackrabbits.”
The snow was drizzling down and turning wet and sloppy the moment it hit the ground.
“Do you have any Fromager d’Affinois on hand?” she asked.
“Plenty. How much?”
“Three pounds. It’ll be my specialty on the cheese plate this afternoon.”
While filling her order, a car whizzed past the shop. Not just any car. A souped-up Camaro. I flashed again on the night Tim died, when Deputy O’Shea and I saw Zach speeding in the opposite direction. Had he been coming from Jordan’s farm? Had he followed Tim there? Had Tim caught him doing something wrong outside the pub? Zach was too young to have been inside.
I said, “Violet, at the pub on the night Tim died, do you remember seeing Zach Mueller when you went outside for a smoke?”
“Why would you care if—” Violet’s eyes widened. “Oho! You think Zach killed Dottie, and now you’re trying to link the two murders. You think Tim might have caught Zach doing something illegal.” Her eyelids fluttered, as if she were turning her gaze inward to picture the evening. “Zach . . . hmm . . .” She tapped the knob of her chin. “Now that you mention it, I did see him. In that car of his. He was parked near the rear of the lot.”
“Parked?” I said. Maybe he was scouting out someone to rob. “Did you see him—”
“Someone was in the car with him,” Violet added. “A girl.”
I perked up. “Pixie Alpaugh, Paige’s daughter?”
Violet screwed up her mouth. “Wow! Do you think? I guess it could’ve been. I remember how the parking lot light glistened on the girl’s golden hair.”
Rebecca shot me a look. “I thought Zach had a thing for Mrs. Bell’s daughter.”
“We were wrong about that,” I said. “He’s in love with Pixie.”
“Uh-oh,” Violet mumbled. “Paige will not be pleased, if it’s true.”
Rebecca thrust a forefinger in the air. “What if Tim passed by Zach’s parked car and overheard Zach and Pixie plotting to elope, you know, like Romeo and Juliet?”
“Elope?” Violet squeaked. “Double uh-oh.”
“That’s an interesting angle.” I recalled Ilona Mueller saying her son was a romantic, and I’d wondered whether Zach, à la a character right out of a Shakespeare play, would kill to preserve a secret. “Zach realized Tim heard them and figured Tim would tell Pixie’s mother.”
Rebecca nodded. “So he tailed Tim. He and Tim argued—”
“And Zach attacked,” Violet concluded.
“Wait a sec.” I held up a hand. “He tore after Tim with Pixie in the car?”
Violet wagged a finger. “No way. The girl got out.”
“You saw her exit the Camaro?”
“Of course not. Like I said, I wasn’t out there that long, and I don’t even know if it was Pixie, but would you have gone along for the ride?”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s say we’re right. We have star-crossed lovers, unwilling to bow to their parents’ wishes. They plan to run off. They need money. With that, we’ve linked the two murders. Dottie had the jewelry they could steal and pawn—”
“And Tim found out about the elopement,” Rebecca said.
“It sure paints a picture, doesn’t it?” Violet said. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen at my inn. There have been so many hookups. I’m not one to kiss and blab, but love is in the air, and not only for the past week. Speaking of love, Charlotte, I almost forgot.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of stuff, all tangled up. A tissue, a couple of folded pieces of blue paper, and something small and red. She separated the red item from the rest, and while stuffing the mess back into her purse, handed it to me—an origami heart. “Earlier, I was having coffee across the street and saw Jordan tape this to the door. I’m not sure where you were. You’re usually at work so early.”
“I was at the dog groomer.”
“Jordan tried the door, but it was locked. I was afraid his note might blow off or get damaged. I hope you don’t mind. It looks intriguing. Remember, later, to tell me what it says. Oh my.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run. Ticktock.”
CHAPTER
I left Rebecca in charge of the shop and raced to the office. I unfolded the heart and read Jordan’s note:
Dear Charlotte, I’m sorry I didn’t attend the reading at the bookshop with you. I know how you love poetry. It was wrong of me. If it makes a difference, every moment with you is poetry.
He went on to include a poem I knew well: Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s famous “How Do I Love Thee”:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. . . .<
br />
By the final line, tears were streaming down my cheeks:
. . . and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
I wiped the tears off my face:
So, my love, how does May 1st sound? Will you? Marry me.
Love ~J.
Rags, knowing something was up because I was snuffling, butted my ankles with his head. I bent down and nuzzled his ears. “It’s okay. These are happy tears.”
“Aunt Charlotte!” Amy and Clair yelled from the main shop.
Meredith appeared alone at the door. When she realized I was crying, she closed the door and dashed to me. “You poor thing. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. We heard about Dottie.” She crouched down and hugged me with all her might. “How are you holding up? Feeling despondent? Wishing you could kick all the bad guys’ rear ends?”
Since grade school, Meredith had been my best-best friend, and although her marriage to my cousin had cut into our one-on-one girl time, she was still the person who could make me laugh . . . and yet gave me the space to cry.
I let loose. I’d been holding in tears for too long. She patted my back.
The door burst open. Amy and Clair ran in and skidded to a stop. “What’s wrong?” they exclaimed.
“Nothing,” I said.
They didn’t believe me. They bolted to Meredith and me and joined the group hug.
In seconds, I couldn’t breathe. “Off!” I said. “Each of you, on your feet. I’m fine. Stand up. I’ll live. Now, tell me about your adventure.” No pity parties today. I usually gave myself a maximum of twenty minutes whenever an oh-poor-me moment cropped up, but rarely with the twins around. I pinched my cheeks to stimulate some color. “Where did you go? What did you do?”
“We went to Cleveland,” Amy said. “We ice skated on an open-air rink.” She was a natural athlete.
“I’m going ice skating with Jordan soon. Was it fun?”
“It was!”
Clair chimed, “We went sledding, too. On real wood sleds.”
“And we went to the planetarium,” Amy said.
Clair nodded. “It’s called the Nathan and Fannye Shafran Planetarium.”
It never failed to amaze me how the girls could keep a conversation going, one sentence at a time, each filling in what the other was thinking. Did all twins do that?
“It’s one of the biggest in the nation,” Clair continued. She was the more studious of the two girls. “Visitors at night can use the building’s roof to locate the North Star. It’s got fiber optics embedded in it, or something like that. Isn’t that cool?”
I smiled. “Very.”
“We bought books,” Amy said.
“Glow-in-the-dark star books.” Clair put a finger to her mouth. “Shh. Don’t tell Octavia.”
“She won’t mind,” I said. “She doesn’t carry those books at her store. And she won’t care if you borrow from the library, either. Reading is the important thing.”
Amy scanned the office. “Where’s Rocket?”
“He’s getting a bath. I’ll pick him up later and bring him over to your house.”
“Okay, girls,” Meredith said. “Time to go home, unpack, and let Aunt Charlotte do her work.” She gestured with her thumb. “Matthew’s in the wine annex. Are you going to be okay?”
“Fine. Promise.”
With Jordan’s origami heart tucked into my pocket, its presence a reminder of his steadfast love, I faced the rest of the day with calm assurance. Little upsets didn’t bother me. Customers picking up their tickets for tomorrow evening’s event made me smile. I assured each that there would be plenty of wine and cheese.
Midway through the afternoon, as I was reading a past issue of Culture Magazine, I got an inspired idea to pair chocolate and cheese for tomorrow’s soiree: milk chocolate with a variety of Goudas, and dark chocolate with Cheddars, including Prairie Breeze Cheddar, an award-winning cheese made in Iowa with milk from Amish farms. Our event wasn’t going to compete with the new candy store’s event; most shops on Honeysuckle, like All Booked Up, had held their events on Tuesday. A pang of regret gripped me as I realized Dottie hadn’t been able to participate. She’d planned to give out cake pops to any kid who came in with a parent.
Around dusk, Grandmère entered the shop with my grandfather. Each was holding a to-go cup from The Country Kitchen. “Chérie,” she said. “Have you seen the activity on the streets?” She stamped her feet to rid her boots of a dusting of snow before moving further inside. “It is marvellieux, non? So many tourists are visiting our fair city, and the locals are enjoying, as well.”
“It is because of all the hard work you do to lure them here,” Pépère said as he sweetly brushed snow off the shoulders of her wool cape. “You are the one who is marvellieux.”
She preened beneath his praise and popped the lid off her coffee, which turned out to be caffeine-free green tea. She tossed the teabag into the trashcan beyond the cash register.
“No coffee?” I said, astounded. She rarely made it through an afternoon without a good dose of caffeine.
“I am trying to cleanse my body.”
“Really? Who convinced you to do that? Are you also going to give up your occasional gin fizz and chocolate?”
She scowled at me. I offered her a tasting of chocolate and the Prairie Breeze Cheddar from the sample platter I was creating.
She hesitated, then gave in. “One cannot live without chocolate.” She hummed her appreciation.
I glanced around to see if Rebecca was near. She wasn’t. She was helping Matthew set out champagne glasses in the wine annex. I put a finger to my lips and waved my grandparents to the far end of the tasting counter. “Tell me, Grandmère, how are rehearsals going?”
“I am pleased. Your Rebecca is quite feisty. If you are not careful, you might lose her to Hollywood.”
“You think so?”
“She has the passion. Like Belinda Bell’s daughter, who, by the way, is in town, did you know?”
“She’s here?”
“Oui. She is in the diner serre maintenant”—Grandmère tapped the counter—“this moment, with a line of fans begging for autographs.”
I cut a look out the front of the store. People, bundled up due to the weather, were streaming out of the diner onto the street.
“She is sitting with her mother and that man—” My grandmother tapped her head then mimed a long beard and bushy hair. “You know who I mean.” She looked to Pépère, who shook his head, clueless. He had never been good at charades.
“Eddie Townsend?” I said.
Grandmère shot a finger at me. “Oui.”
“How could you forget his name? He’s on the city council.”
“The age. It is creeping up on me.”
I laughed. “Stop it.”
“Alas, my memory fails me, but do not worry. Death will not get me for a long time.” She leaned in. “Chérie, do you think Belinda and Eddie are dating?”
“Why would you think that?”
“The way they were talking. So intimately. Tête-à-tête.”
Pépère chuckled. “You have love on the brain, Bernadette.”
“If not love, then what?” She slipped her arm through his. “Could it be they are plotting something? Do they plan to overthrow me as mayor?”
I gaped. Did my grandmother have ESP?
“Come,” Pépère said. “Enough of this chatter. No one will get rid of you, mon amie. No one will dare. We are going home.”
“Wait,” I said. But before I could warn my grandmother that she was right about people wanting to oust her from office, my grandfather shuttled her out the exit.
As the door closed behind them, I wondered about the powwow between Bell, Townsend, and Bell’s daughter. What if they were meeting with Aurora for an entirely different reason?
What if Aurora found out that Zach was now with Pixie Alpaugh? Had she come home to win him back? Maybe Bell and Townsend were trying to talk her out of pursuing him because . . .
Because why? Because they thought Zach was a murderer? Had they seen him outside the pub? Had they seen him chase after Tim? If so, why wouldn’t they have told Urso by now?
Rebecca stole to my side and rapped me on the arm. “I see your mind working. What’s going on?”
I outlined my theory.
Rebecca flicked a finger. “But you said Ray and Dottie were at the pub that night, and although Ray hated Zach, he only implicated Jawbone. Don’t you think he would have at least mentioned seeing Zach if Zach had been there? Maybe Violet was wrong about seeing him in the parking lot. She didn’t seem all that certain.” Rebecca took a coupling of Gouda and milk chocolate and downed it in one bite. She didn’t savor; she didn’t show her approval. She licked her fingers and pressed on. “Let’s forget Bell and the others for a moment and return to Jawbone Jones. Are you certain he’s not guilty?”
“He has a pat alibi, corroborated by the Face It cell phone video.”
She scoffed. “Did you consider whether the video might be fake?”
“Can a fake video include a time stamp?”
“I saw a thriller on AMC about a month ago in which phony date stamps were added to old photos. Anything’s possible in this day and age. Tech-savvy people are the wave of the future.”
Great. Not what I needed to hear.
“And while we’re batting around theories,” she said, “what about Ray? Did you ever figure out whether he had motive to kill Dottie? Did he have a life insurance policy on her? He’ll inherit the business, I presume. Have you asked around about his finances?”
“Who would I have asked?”
“That bank clerk friend of yours. The one that likes really tart goat cheese.”
“But what reason would Ray have had to kill Tim?”
“What if Ray’s business is suffering? What if it’s under water? What if Tim saw Ray getting a loan from someone, like a loan shark?”