by Avery Aames
“It’s not illegal to borrow money.”
“Or”—Rebecca took another cheese-chocolate combination; plop, swallow, move on—“what if Jawbone is Ray’s lender?”
“Why are you so set on Jawbone being guilty? I thought you liked him. Do you have something against bald-headed men?”
Rebecca hesitated. She grasped a towel and twisted it into a knot.
“You do,” I said. “Why?”
“Back when I was a girl, an older man, a bald friend of my grandfather’s . . . he did a bad business deal with my grandfather. My grandfather wept. He couldn’t believe a friend would use him. When the elders found out, the man was ejected from the community. Seeing a man with a bald head makes me think of him.” She untwisted the towel; her eyes widened. “Whoa. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“What?”
“On AMC. That movie.”
“Which movie?” I didn’t mean to sound exasperated, but sometimes having a conversation with Rebecca could be like trying to restart a flooded car. Stop-go-stop-go.
“That movie by Hitchcock.” She brandished two fingers. “Two men.” She smashed her fingers together. “On a train.”
“Strangers on a Train.”
“Right! What if—”
“Jawbone and Ray worked in cahoots with one another,” I said, in sync with her stream of thought. “‘I’ll kill yours, if you kill mine.’”
She clapped her hands. “Two people dead; two killers; twice as easy. Each killer would have an alibi for one or the other murder.”
CHAPTER
Rebecca reached for another goodie from the chocolate-cheese platter.
I swung the platter away and said, “Uh-uh. No more chocolate. You’re revved up enough.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Just watching out for you.” I deposited the platter in the walk-in refrigerator and returned to the counter.
Through the picture window, I saw Aurora Bell sitting inside The Country Kitchen. She didn’t look nearly as radiant and upbeat as she had the last time I’d seen her. Then I spied Urso squeezing past her and her admiring fans, and I wondered, number one, if I’d mentally summoned him the way I’d conjured up Zach Mueller outside the jewelry store, and number two, why he hadn’t returned my calls.
I told Rebecca I’d return and hurried across the street.
Like Urso, I edged around the line of fans and entered the diner. The alluring scent of onion soup rich with Gruyère cheese made me inhale deeply. Ah, if only aromas could satisfy one’s appetite, dieters would have a lot more success.
I caught sight of Bell, her daughter, and Townsend. All three looked on edge, but I couldn’t focus on them. I spotted Urso sitting in a booth at the rear of the restaurant. Seated opposite him was Delilah. She was leaning forward, the light in her eyes so brilliant that I wondered if she’d been struck by a lightning bolt.
That was when I had a duh moment.
Urso was the one for whom Delilah had fallen. Again. They had dated a while back, but the romance hadn’t taken off. Because both of them were strong-willed people, they had sniped at each other repeatedly, and in the end, Urso admitted he was still in love with me. Why were they back together now? Was it due to the season? Or was it because Jordan and I were supposed to have tied the knot this past weekend, so Urso finally found the courage to give up on me and move on? It didn’t matter. I was too excited for both of my pals to care. Way back in high school, I’d believed they belonged together. Was I upset that neither felt they could tell me? Sure. But I’d get over it.
Delilah leaned forward and intertwined her fingers with Urso’s.
Rather than interrupt—I wanted them to have a few stolen moments alone; I could share the latest theories concocted between Rebecca and me after I picked up Rocket at Tailwaggers—I retreated out the door, returned to The Cheese Shop, fetched Rags, and hurried to the north of town.
Rocket was delirious to see me. Had he really thought I wouldn’t come back? He’d had a bath more than a dozen times since he’d become part of the family. What kind of pea-brain memory did he have? Not nice, Charlotte. I scruffed his neck and ears and assured him all was well, hitched him to his leash, and the three of us trotted outside.
For the first part of the walk to Matthew and Meredith’s house, there were lots of people on the streets. Many strolled arm in arm. A few folks walking solo looked on with undisguised jealousy. During February, it seemed everyone wanted to be in a duo.
Not far from the house was a fenced dog park where Rocket liked to run free. He let out with three sharp yips and tugged me toward it.
“Hold on, fella.”
The center of the park was grass and dirt; the outlying area was an oval-shaped path set up with benches. Though usually brightly lit by streetlamps, the park tonight was ominously dark. At least three lamps were out of commission. Grandmère had told me that the lighting system throughout Providence needed an overhaul. The weather could erode the wiring. It was on her list of things to discuss at the next board meeting.
Rocket barked and yanked again.
Although I was uneasy with the lack of foot traffic—as in, there were no people around; zilch—I said, “Okay, fine. I don’t need Councilwoman Bell declaring you to be a yapping nuisance. Five minutes.”
We entered the park, and I unhooked his leash. He dashed off. With Rags in tow, I meandered toward a bench. I dusted off a layer of snow, prepared to sit. Rags meowed, indicating he wanted me to pick him up. I obliged. “Have you been putting on weight, kitty cat?” I teased. He hadn’t. I was diligent about his diet. No pet needed to be overfed.
He mewled again and rubbed his head against the underside of my chin.
“I know. You’re hungry. We’ll just be here a few—”
Bushes crackled. Footsteps.
I whipped around.
A figure in black—black jacket, black pants, black ski mask—sprinted toward me. I didn’t recognize the eyes. He was about a half a head taller than me, maybe five-feet-ten. He aimed something at me. At first I couldn’t make out what it was, but then it glinted. A knife. Nothing special, the kind often found in a kitchen. But highly lethal. Any professional or home chef owned something similar.
I backed up.
“Give it to me,” my assailant grunted, voice low and altered. “Now!”
“Give you what?” My throat felt as dry as sand.
He lunged but didn’t strike. “Your ring. Give it to me, or you’ll regret it. Now!”
With Rags tucked in my arms, I struggled to wriggle off my engagement ring, which was a half-carat diamond bordered by two rows of smaller diamonds. Two thousand dollars retail.
“Hurry.”
“C’mon,” I urged the ring. Usually, in cold weather, the ring was easier to remove, but not tonight. Of course, not tonight.
“Faster,” my attacker ordered.
I yanked the ring off, bruising my knuckle.
My assailant snatched the ring and fled.
At that moment, Rocket must have caught sight of him. Yapping, he barreled toward the stranger at full speed.
“Rocket, no!” I yelled.
But he didn’t listen. He dove at the thief. He must have made contact, because I heard a human yelp, followed quickly by a canine yelp.
“No!” I shouted. “Somebody, anyone, help!”
The assailant scrambled to a stand and sprinted out of view. He must have darted through the bushes and leaped over the fence.
I raced to Rocket. He lay sprawled on the ground. “Rocket? Are you okay, boy?”
Before I reached him, he roused and lurched to his feet. He jogged to me and tucked his head beneath my outstretched hand while woofing an apology.
“No worries, fella. He didn’t hurt me.” Well, maybe my pride was hurt. I knew a few defensive moves. I should have us
ed them, but at the time of the attack, I couldn’t. Not with a cat in my arms. Not in the dark. I was lucky to escape unscathed. Rocket, too.
Hurriedly, I re-leashed him and we zoomed out of the park. Back to the lit street. Back to safety in numbers.
Who was the attacker? A tourist? One of the riffraff, as Prudence called them? Or was it someone I knew? I shuddered to think I might have been his specific target.
I recalled a faint whiff of whiskey. Jawbone Jones was an imbiber, but so were many others. Could it have been Zach Mueller? Did his mother tell him I suspected him of murder? Had he tailed me from The Cheese Shop? Maybe he saw me approach the diner with the intent of touching base with Urso. Maybe he thought I knew something that could implicate him. If so, why not kill me? He’d had a weapon. Was his intent to scare me into silence?
I paused. Why would the attacker carry around a ski mask? Possibly because he had stolen things or mugged people on more than one occasion. Ray claimed Zach was a thief. Did Zach rob me so he could pawn my ring? Why take the risk when the eyes of the law had to be all over him? Did he think he could scare me and prevent me from digging further into his motive for killing Dottie or Tim?
“This way, Rocket.” Shakily, I steered him in a U-turn, and we hurried back to the diner to talk to Urso.
When I arrived, I peered through the window. Urso wasn’t in the booth where I’d seen him earlier. Remaining outside with the animals in tow, I poked my head in and beckoned Delilah.
She dodged the line of fans and exited. “What’s up?” She rubbed her bare arms to warm her from the cold.
“I know about you and U-ey.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t act dumb. I saw you two. Entrenched in romantic conversation.”
She reddened. “I was going to tell you—”
“I’m thrilled. Don’t get me wrong. However, at the moment, I need to talk to him. I was mugged.”
She seized me by the shoulders. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Where’s U-ey?”
“The precinct.”
I told her I’d be in touch and sprinted north with the animals.
When I arrived at the precinct, however, Urso wasn’t there, either. He had left to deal with a fire at the movie theater. The clerk directed me to Deputy O’Shea. I was surprised that he was at work. I would have thought he’d have rehearsals, like Rebecca. The clerk, an old hand at performing at the theater, reminded me that my grandmother liked to rehearse one actor at a time so she could help the actor, or in this case actress, delve deeper into her emotional reality.
Deputy O’Shea’s office was similar to Urso’s, only smaller. Neat desk, file cabinet, Levelors on the windows. He looked healthier than he had the other day. His skin had color, his hair was combed.
Rising from his chair, he directed me to sit. He was receptive to my complaint. I replayed the scenario, and he filled out a report, which I signed. He promised to let local pawn shops know of the theft. He asked if I had a picture of the ring and whether it was covered by insurance. I told him I didn’t care about the monetary value; I wanted it back because of its sentimental value.
“Are you sure you can’t ID the thief?” he asked.
“I suspect it was Zach Mueller. He’s about the right height, but there are so many in town about his size, including Jawbone Jones.”
O’Shea’s eyes brightened.
I said, “Do you know something about Jawbone that I should know?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You don’t have to hide anything from me. I know you’ve been investigating.”
He frowned.
I assured him Rebecca hadn’t said a word to me. “But I know the kind of person you are. You’re like me. You won’t rest until justice is served. Now, what have you learned?”
“I’ve been tailing Jawbone, keeping an eye out, hoping to see him trip up. He hasn’t. He goes to work. He meets with his music partner. I think he knows I’m watching.”
“I did detect a hint of alcohol on the assailant’s breath.”
“Perfect. I’ll question him about his whereabouts tonight. Don’t you worry. We’ll solve this.” O’Shea rose and asked if I was going to be okay.
I told him yes, but I wasn’t. I was shaky. And mad. And determined to take more self-defense classes.
CHAPTER
Matthew and Meredith wouldn’t let me go home after I dropped off Rocket. They demanded I sleep in the guest room. I was too tired to refuse. I sat on the edge of the guest bed with Rags tucked beside me, and I called Jordan; the call went immediately to voice mail. I told him what had happened and that I was safe; he didn’t need to call me back. Then I lay back on the pillows. I barely slept a wink. Rags didn’t do much better than I did, digging into me with restless regularity every few minutes.
Just before dawn, I returned with Rags to my house. The second I stepped out of the shower, I heard the doorbell. Once. Twice. Then someone pounded on the front door. Swell. I threw on my favorite mint green terry robe and while finger-drying my hair scurried downstairs. Rags trailed me. I peeked through the sidelight window and saw Urso and Jordan standing side by side on my porch. Jordan’s eyes blazed with concern. Urso looked grim and stoic.
Feeling sheepish for no good reason, I slowly opened the door.
Jordan strode into the foyer and took me in his arms. “Are you all right?”
Urso stepped inside as well.
I pressed apart from Jordan and addressed both. “I was scared, but I wasn’t harmed in any way.” In fact the more I thought about the incident, I felt that other than taking my ring, the culprit’s main objective had been to scare the pants off me. Did that mean the thief was Jawbone? He had taunted me at the winery. Was this another of his attempts to get me to back off asking questions? He had a confirmed alibi now. Why would he do that?
Jordan said, “Tell me what happened.”
I recapped the attack then thrust my bare left hand at him. “He demanded my ring.” I added, “And I forked it over.”
“The ring doesn’t matter as long as you’re all right. We’ll get another one. A larger one.”
“I don’t need larger.”
Jordan looked as if he wanted to hug me again but restrained himself.
Urso said, “Deputy O’Shea tells me you suspect either Zach Mueller or Jawbone Jones.”
“How do you figure that?” Jordan asked.
“Height, weight”—I eyed Urso—“woman’s intuition?”
Urso grunted. “Any distinguishing marks?”
“It was dark; he was wearing all black. Didn’t you read O’Shea’s report?”
“I did, but sometimes, hours after a crime, a victim remembers something more.”
A victim. I hated that I was, yet again, prey to a criminal’s whim. Guilt—no, anxiety—skated across my skin and gave me goose bumps. If my sheer brawn wasn’t enough to protect me, did I need to learn to shoot a gun? Did I need a permit to carry? No, never. I would not become a nervous Nellie.
“Charlotte?” Urso said. “Do you remember anything more?”
“Nothing. I can’t remember his gait, and he disguised his voice.”
“Could it have been a woman?” Urso asked.
“I suppose.” I tried to picture the attacker. Larger than me overall. Knife in hand. Barking out orders. “Rocket!” I blurted. “He attacked the person. He went for the calf with his teeth. There might be bite marks.”
“Only if the dog was able to nip through the fabric,” Urso cautioned. “Winter clothes are much thicker.”
“Maybe Rocket left a bruise. Maybe the mugger is limping.”
Urso smiled. “I’ll assign this to O’Shea and Rodham.”
“How’re his wife and baby doing?”
“Super. They went home yesterday. Rodham’s back on
the job and handing out bubble gum cigars.”
Jordan said, “Then you don’t need Charlotte.”
“I never said I did. On that point”—Urso glowered at me—“I know you’re trying to help by investigating.”
“I’m not investigating.”
“What would you call it, butting in?”
“I didn’t butt—”
“You questioned Belinda Bell.” His tone was sharp and disapproving.
I lifted my chin. “She hated the noise Dottie made. She wanted to raise Dottie’s rent. I went to Memory Lane to, yes, snoop, and I saw evidence that I thought was suspicious.”
“What evidence?”
I told him about the pastry wrapper in Bell’s shop. “Believing that Dottie and Tim’s murders might have been done by the same person—”
“Why would you think that?”
“C’mon, U-ey, two murders inside of a few days. Are you going to tell me you’re not thinking along the same lines?”
Jordan said, “I happen to agree with Charlotte.”
“Based on what?” Urso asked.
Jordan smirked. “Woman’s intuition?”
Urso groused and pointed at me. “Go on.”
“Violet saw Belinda Bell outside the pub the night Tim was murdered. She was meeting with Councilman Townsend. What if Tim saw them together and figured out they were plotting to kill Dottie?”
“Plotting?”
“They’ve met together numerous times since.”
“We saw them at the Bozzuto Winery,” Jordan said.
“And you must have seen them at the diner with Bell’s daughter, Aurora,” I added.
Urso shrugged. “Maybe they’re dating. This is the week of love.”
“Prudence assures me they’re not.”
Urso glowered. “Prudence Hart? Have you drawn her into your investigation?”
I held up a hand to stop him. “Okay, if not Belinda Bell, who else do you suspect? Do you believe Zach Mueller’s alibi that he was talking to Pixie Alpaugh? Violet saw the two of them . . .” I hesitated. “Well, she thinks she might have seen them in the parking lot that night. Zach and Pixie could have been planning to elope, and if Tim overheard them—”