As Gouda as Dead

by Avery Aames

  “Charlotte, stop.”

  “U-ey, I care about this town, and I care about my friends and family. I know you don’t take me seriously—”

  “I do take you seriously.”

  “You do?” My breath caught in my chest. “Really?”

  Urso rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “Yes. It bothers me, but you’re good at this. Mind you, you’re better at selling cheese, but you do understand people, and you see through lies.”

  I took a moment to glow beneath his praise. “What do you know about Ray Pfeiffer’s finances? Is his business suffering? What if he killed Dottie to get the insurance?”

  Urso sighed. “I’ve checked. He didn’t. They had no insurance policies. The pastry business won’t sell for much. It would be different, of course, if he owned the building, but he doesn’t.”

  “Which brings us back to Belinda Bell,” I said. “She’s the landlord.”

  Urso held up his hands. “Okay, got it. I’ll check her out. No more theorizing.”

  Jordan spun me to face him. “Get dressed. It’s time for you to take the day off.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got the Lovers Trail event tonight.”

  “You can and you will.”

  Doing my best not to bristle, I said, “Don’t manage me.”

  Jordan laughed. “Like anyone could. Please take the day off? I’m sure Rebecca can handle everything at the shop. We’ll call your grandfather to help out, too.”

  “Half a day,” I said.

  “Deal. Anything to spend time with you.”

  “By the way, U-ey.” I aimed a finger at him. “When were you going to tell me that you and Delilah are a couple?”

  “They are?” Jordan said. “You dog.”

  “Yes. I caught them holding hands at the diner.” I focused on Urso. “Did you think I would tease, taunt, and bring up the past?”

  Urso worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

  “I won’t.” I held up three fingers in a salute. “Scout’s honor. I’m happy for both of you. It’s about time. She’ll make you laugh, and you could use some of that.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I could.”

  ***

  The Ice Castle, an imposing edifice nearly a block long, was located near the mini-mall that held the grocery store and bank. The royal blue and white interior looked freshly painted. Around the rink itself, a matching blue stripe lined the guardrail below the Plexiglas window. In addition to ice-skating and hockey, on Sundays and only Sundays, the rink offered bumper cars on ice and birthday parties. The music piped through the overhead speakers varied from hour to hour: sometimes classical; at other times, like now, rock and roll. A rousing rendition of Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock” was playing.

  While lacing up our rental skates, Jordan and I perched on narrow benches. The metal sent a chill through me. Despite my hyper-warm leggings, mittens, and three upper layers, I shivered.

  “Are you okay?” Jordan asked.

  “Fine.” I finished double-knotting the laces and smacked my hands together, a dull sound thanks to the mittens.

  “So, you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m not following. Which question?”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t formal enough in a note.” He lowered himself to one knee and took my hands in his. “Charlotte Erin Bessette, will you marry me on May first?”

  I yanked free of his hands and rummaged in the pocket of my parka. I pulled out the heart-shaped origami and spread it open. Beneath his question, I had written: Yes!!

  He drew me into a hug and we kissed. When we broke apart, he said, “Unless, of course, we have occasion to get married earlier and the timing is right.”

  “You mean, elope? I couldn’t. I want my family and friends . . . No.” I shook my head emphatically. “Let’s do it the right way. I’ll get Tyanne on board.”

  “I’ve already alerted her. You have enough to cope with.” He kissed me again. “How long has it been since you last skated?”

  “A year. You?”

  “At least a year. I’m sure my ankles will protest tomorrow.”

  I giggled. “I’m certain my thighs will.”

  Offering his hand, Jordan pulled me to a stand, and we tottered on the thick rubber mats toward the rink. We stepped onto the icy expanse and skated around the perimeter.

  Jordan said, “You’re pretty good.”

  I’d forgotten how much I loved to skate. As a girl, I’d skated in this arena—way before Ray Pfeiffer owned it—at least once a week. I hadn’t done more than single loops or lutzes, but I’d loved to pattern dance, and I’d adored gliding with one leg in the air, arms wide. In addition, my high school boyfriend, who later became my fiancé, had played hockey. Long story short, he’d wanted to be the best player ever and had pleaded with me to play one-on-one with him. I would chuck a puck to him, and he would hit it into the goal. Occasionally, he would bodycheck me against the wall to steal a kiss.

  “Charlotte?” Jordan said. “Did you hear me?”

  I hadn’t, but I was embarrassed to say where my mind had gone. Jordan held no affection for my ex. Neither did I.

  “I’m proud of you for not fighting the thief,” he said.

  “If I had, I might be dead.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think he wielded the knife purely to get me to obey.”

  “Which worked.”

  “Hey, do you think if I can come up with a visual image of the knife, the police could figure out who owned it?”

  Jordan shook his head. “I doubt it, unless it was some unique hunting-style knife.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  After a half hour of skating, I suggested we take a break.

  The Ice Castle featured a work-a-raunt café, meaning serve yourself. As I perused the menu, I wondered if Paige Alpaugh had a hand in crafting it. Almost everything was a healthy snack: fruit, juice, raisins, protein bars, and nuts. Any sweet options were made with coconut or maple syrup; no processed white flour was used in any of the preparations. The one non-healthy item the café offered was hot cocoa.

  We ordered two cups and took them to a white and blue Formica table. I wrapped my hands around the old-fashioned childproof mug to warm my hands. Sitting there, gazing at all the children with parents, a feeling of angst started to well up within me. I sipped and sipped until I’d finished the entire cup without really tasting a drop. I pushed the mug aside.

  “Wow, you drank that fast,” Jordan said. “Are you okay?” He looked at me with knowing eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Let’s skate some more.” I lumbered to a stance, took my mug to a dish depository, and scuttled to the ice. Blades are never easy to walk on.

  Jordan followed. In minutes, we were arm in arm, skating the cha-cha to a song called “Telephone” by Lady Gaga. The words made me laugh. Lady Gaga didn’t want to be bothered by her boyfriend’s phone call because she was busy dancing.

  “You’re smiling again,” Jordan said. “I like it.”

  “Was I frowning earlier?”

  “Back there.” He hitched his head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Truth?”

  “Always.”

  “I’m getting old.”

  “You’re thirty-hmm-hmm.” He mumbled my age on purpose as he guided me in a twirl under his arm. “Big deal.” He swooped me into a hold and skated me backward. One, two, three, cha-cha.

  “We’ve never discussed it. I think I want children. Do you? What if I’ve passed my prime? What if I can’t have any? What if I’ll be a horrible mother?”

  “Sweetheart—”

  Ray skated up to us, edging to a stop and spraying up ice. An array of skates hung over his shoulder by the shoelaces. Often, he would change out skates f
or people who didn’t pick the correct size the first time around. “Hey, you two. Lookin’ good.” He whacked Jordan on the arm. He spun around so he was skating backward, facing us. “Charlotte, I saw you do that last move.” He wiggled his hips. “You’ve got rhythm.”

  I grinned. “That was me trying not to fall.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder.” He pointed at Jordan and me. “You two should come to the couples’ skate on Saturday. There’ll be prizes. The sign-up list is over—”

  “Ray!” An older version of Dottie with her doughy features and unruly red hair called from an entrance onto the ice. Wobbly-kneed, she skated toward him. Two other similarly shaped redheads followed.

  Ray grimaced. “Dottie’s sisters. They won’t leave me alone.”

  “They care,” I offered.

  “They hover. They want me to talk it out. Share my feelings. The oldest is a therapist.” He rolled his eyes. “Like I could ever—” His voice caught. Creases dug into his forehead. “The younger one wants to take over the pâtisserie, but Dottie wouldn’t have wanted that. It was her baby. Her sister will make a shambles of it. She’s not a baker.”

  “Ray!” the eldest sister called again, beckoning him with an urgent hand.

  “Come to the event Saturday,” Ray repeated, then skated off to join his sisters-in-law.

  Like a band of harpies, they latched on to him and picked at him nonstop. I could tell Ray wasn’t listening. His gaze veered to the right, as if he was searching for someone to save him. I could only imagine how lost he felt, without Dottie or children to comfort him. His loss made me think again about my dilemma. Did I want children? Did I want someone, in addition to Jordan, to love and cheer me as I grew older? Would I be able to find happiness without the more that comes with family? Would Ray?

  CHAPTER

  The activity through the afternoon at the shop was constant: slicing, arranging, double-checking napkins and wineglasses, setting out pads and pencils for customers to make notes at tonight’s event. If we didn’t provide the latter, customers could get snippy, claiming they wouldn’t be able to remember one cheese or wine from the next. Notes were vital.

  Amidst the furor, Rebecca apologized for having to run off to a dress rehearsal. Pépère, too. My grandmother couldn’t do without him when it came to lighting and stage preparation. I waved good-bye with an easy spirit. All was in control. Nothing could go wrong.

  Fifteen minutes before customers were set to arrive, a lanky guitarist set up in the wine annex. Matthew thought music would add texture to the evening. Accompanied by an acoustic piano to establish his rhythms, the guitarist set to work.

  Tyanne sidled to me. “Ooh, isn’t he good? I love romantic tunes.” So far, the musician’s playlist had included “Maybe I’m Amazed,” “Still the One,” and “Just the Way You Are.” She offered a bowl that had been stuffed with gold-sprayed Styrofoam, into which she’d inserted cheese pops—like cake pops, only made with cheese. “Taste these, sugar. They’re the perfect appetizers when moving around a soiree such as this. A customer doesn’t have to linger over one cheese tray. My mother used to make them all the time. These are more gourmet than Mama’s, of course. They’re made with mascarpone cheese as well as a yummy Gouda, honey, dried cranberries, and sunflower seeds.”

  I bit into one and savored all the flavors and textures. “I want the recipe.”

  “Done. By the way, I love what you’re wearing.”

  After skating, I’d hurried home to change into my favorite ecru sweater and chocolate corduroy trousers.

  At that moment, Eddie Townsend entered the shop, his hair askew, his suit rumpled. He was rummaging in a black leather satchel that hung strapped across his chest. First one pocket, then another.

  “Lose something?” I asked.

  “My work diary.” His words slurred together. His nose and cheeks were a ruddy red, which was a stark contrast to the whiteness of his beard. Had he had a wee bit to drink? “I keep notes on everything I say or do after six P.M.” He tapped his head. “The mind isn’t what it used to be.”

  Overindulging in liquor will do that, I thought. He was too young to have memory lapses like my grandmother.

  “I don’t want to forget anything I taste tonight.”

  “Don’t worry. We have notepads for all the customers.” I pointed him in the right direction. “Remember to try the chocolate and cheese combinations.”

  He thanked me and moved off.

  Tyanne giggled. “Luckily this is a walking event. I wouldn’t trust him behind the wheel of a car.”

  Jordan joined us and handed each of us a glass of sparkling wine. He looked so handsome in his jeans, white shirt, and blazer. I flashed on how he would look in his suit when we got married but pushed the image from my mind. May first would come soon enough.

  “Which one is this?” I asked.

  “The Schramsberg,” he said. “I don’t think I need to taste any other.”

  I took a sip and agreed.

  “By the way, the Thistle Hill Farm Tarentaise cheese on the tasting counter . . .” Jordan kissed his fingertips. “What a great pairing with that fig jam. People are devouring it.”

  “They should. It’s organic and very carefully made.”

  A mixture of men and women entered the shop.

  “There sure are a lot of singles here tonight,” I said. Most of Matthew’s wine tastings seemed to draw singles. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like the wine annex was a bar, but I think tasting wine allowed singles to talk freely, about the nose, aroma, and flavor of a wine, perhaps making it easier to meet people than going to the pub and trying to engage in conversation while watching sports.

  “Doesn’t Violet look lovely?” Tyanne wiggled her fingers in Violet’s direction. Violet, dressed in an orchid sweater and matching slacks, was standing near the arch leading to the wine annex. Her marshmallow hair was swept into a sexy updo. “Prudence or Sylvie must be stocking a lot more purple-colored items for Violet and that neighbor of yours.” Everything my neighbor Lois wore was a shade of purple. She’d even named her bed-and-breakfast Lavender and Lace.

  “Say, is that Paige’s daughter?” Tyanne gestured toward the entrance.

  Paige and her eighteen-year-old daughter, Pixie, walked into the shop and paused. They looked similar, with their luscious manes of hair and their toothy smiles. Paige spotted Violet and waved, and then she steered Pixie toward her.

  Right behind them entered Jawbone and Ilona. Jawbone acknowledged me with a wink. Why did a shiver of fear crawl down my back? Ilona eyed Pixie, who peeked over her shoulder as if to make sure her mother wasn’t watching before turning back and smiling ever so slightly at Ilona. I thought of Rebecca’s comment that Zach and Pixie were like Romeo and Juliet. Stolen moments. Missives sent via friends. Chance meetings. Had Zach done something dastardly to hide their secret from Pixie’s mother?

  “Charlotte!” Delilah walked in with Urso. Were they officially out? Hooray. No more keeping me and everyone else in town in the dark about their relationship. Delilah had dressed in a cheery red ensemble and looked almost diminutive tucked into Urso. He’d wrapped his arm around her waist. Both radiated confidence.

  I wanted to shout Yay! but showed a modicum of decorum.

  Jordan and I joined them.

  “Who’s on duty?” I asked Urso. “With you here and Deputy O’Shea at dress rehearsal?”

  “Rodham. Why?” He winked. “Got any hot new tips for me?”

  Delilah elbowed him.

  “I’m not joking,” he said.

  Matthew appeared carrying a tray of champagne glasses. “Hey, young lovers. Take two. Jordan, do you mind if I borrow Charlotte for a moment? I could use a hand.”

  “She’s on the clock. Feel free.”

  I pecked Jordan on the cheek and followed Matthew. “What’s up?”

  “He
lp me pour and take a tray around,” he said. People were huddling by the bar in the wine annex. “Let’s even out the crowd.”

  I always found it funny how, at parties, people jammed in near the food and beverages. Completely empty, non-claustrophobic areas could be found if you simply edged away from the action.

  While I made the first pass at handing out glasses, I caught sight of Ray Pfeiffer in his standard shorts and T-shirt—far be it from him to dress up for a cheese and wine event. He stood with Dottie’s sisters, all of whom were dressed in their Sunday best. I sidled toward them to offer tastings. They were in the middle of a conversation.

  “Pastry is not healthy,” the eldest sister said. “Too much sugar and fats.” She knuckled Ray on the arm. “Admit it. You feel the same way. I heard you and Dottie argue about it.”

  “We didn’t argue.”

  “You’re trim. You’ve got a regimen. I’m not sure our little sis”—the eldest gestured to the heaviest of the sisters—“should take on the bakery. Ray, what do you think?”

  Ray’s arms hung at his sides, hands gloved as they always were. One hand rubbed against his pocket, as if he itched to get whatever was inside. Did he need a smoke? Did he need to grab his car keys and hightail it away from his in-laws?

  “Champagne?” I said, thrusting the tray toward them. “Actually, it’s sparkling wine.” I explained the difference.

  Ray looked positively gleeful for the intrusion. He took a glass and moseyed away from the sisters, who continued to debate the value of keeping the bakery.

  I resumed circulating and spied Pixie Alpaugh standing by herself, looking wistfully out the window at the street. Was she hoping to catch sight of Zach? I doubted he would pass by. He should be at work by now. I slipped up to her and said, “We have some non-alcoholic cider in the main shop.”

  Pixie whirled around. Tears streaked her cheeks.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “My mother.” She spit out the word. “She’s so . . . stubborn. It’s always got to be her way. Her schedule. Her rules. She doesn’t care about anything I might be feeling.”