by Avery Aames
“Whatever. The noise. The frivolity.” Urso ticked the points off on his fingertips. “The blatant display of . . . of . . .”
“Of what?” I snapped, bristling at the idea of Urso taking away my grandmother’s one and only pleasure at the moment.
Mr. Lincoln stepped toward me, palms open. “Display of disrespect.”
“My grandmother is not disrespecting a soul. She is trying to have a life, which you”—I pointed an accusatory finger at Urso—“have denied her. She is not guilty. You have absolutely no motive to connect her to the crime whatsoever. A jury will—”
“We have her holding the knife and kneeling over the body,” Urso said.
“That’s enough to put her in jail,” Mr. Lincoln said softly, as if he was embarrassed to have to state the obvious.
“But—” I stammered. “Do something. That’s why we hired you. Do something!”
“He can’t, Charlotte.” Urso took a step forward. “If Bernadette doesn’t live a quieter life, I’m going to be forced to remove her from her home. I’m the good guy here, don’t you see that?”
I did. He was. I had no right to blame him. “I will talk to my grandmother. In the meantime, I’ve come up with some other theories.”
“No, Charlotte.” Urso towered over me.
I withered beneath his scowl, feeling about as insignificant as a toadstool. Fine, I thought. I wouldn’t share my theories. But I wouldn’t stop investigating, either. And I would have a chat with our attorney, in private, and see if he could come up with some legal hocus-pocus.
They left and business resumed. Customers who had received the first of our newsletters came in asking about the cheese-of-the-month: Rolf Beeler Val Bagnes, a cow’s milk from Switzerland. It was cured in white wine and tasted excellent at room temperature or, like a typical raclette, served warm and scraped onto a plate—raclette means to scrape in French. I usually decked out the dish with potatoes, gherkins, pickled onions, and other tangy tidbits. Matthew had imported a lighthearted pinot gris from the Valais region to accompany the cheese.
Midafternoon, Rebecca elbowed me and said, “Ohho-ho, look who’s here.” She raised an eyebrow and jerked her chin to the right.
Swoozie Swenten, the blonde tour guide, and a group of tourists all dressed in jeans and red T-shirts with I Love Ohio Wine emblazoned across the fronts, stood in a semicircle by the gift table. All were laughing. Someone must have told a good joke.
I sauntered to them and smiled. “Care to share?”
One of the male tourists smacked Swoozie on the back. “You do it.”
“Okay,” Swoozie said, her voice husky from years of smoking. “How do you get a Scotsman on the roof?” She eyed her pals, then me. “Tell him drinks are on the house!”
The joke wasn’t that funny. I had heard it told dozens of times with a different nationality affixed each time. But the crowd burst into another fit of giggles, making me wonder just how many of the local winery tasting rooms they had visited in the past twenty-four hours.
“Swoozie, do you have a sec?” I said.
“Yeah, sure.” She bumped me with her hip and flourished an arm to steer me toward the far wall, as if she were the instigator in our little tête-à-tête. When we settled into the corner by the jars of honey, she licked her teeth and combed her ponytail with her fingers. “What’s up?”
“A friend said you and Ed Woodhouse were business partners.”
She sobered instantly. Her gaze grew guarded. “Which friend?”
“And that you were lovers, as well,” I blurted.
“Your friend got it wrong.” Her tone was as clipped as a prison matron’s. She turned to leave, but I gripped her elbow, feeling emboldened by the crowd roaming the shop. Swoozie wouldn’t attack me with all these witnesses. At least, I hoped she wouldn’t.
“How wrong?”
“I was his partner, yeah. I put every last bit of my savings into Ed’s ventures, but I was not his lover.”
I reminded her of The Cheese Shop opening, when practically everyone in town saw her licking olive oil off Ed’s fingers.
She blanched. “It’s not what you think.”
“What should I think?”
She shifted feet.
“He’s dead,” I said.
“I didn’t kill him. You don’t—” Swoozie’s eyes widened with dawning realization. “Oh, shoot, it’s your grandmother who’s suspected, right? I’m so sorry about that. My mind drew a blank. How’s she doing?”
“Where were you that night?”
“Here. With my tour. I’d had a little . . .” She made a drinking gesture and cocked her head. “Goes with the job sometimes.”
Seemed to me that a lot of people had too much to drink that night. I made a mental note to talk to Matthew about monitoring future tastings and refocused on Swoozie, my foot tapping the floor like a riveter.
“Where were you after?”
“After?”
“I don’t remember seeing you after the argument that broke out between my grandmother and Kristine Woodhouse, and I sure as heck didn’t see you afterward, at the scene of the crime.”
A glimmer of fear flashed in her eyes. Swoozie glanced at her group of tourists and back at me. She fingered the strands of silver necklaces encircling her neck, then cleared her throat. “Look, Ed and I, we played around a bit, but it never meant anything . . . I mean, I never get serious with anyone, you know? It was just fun. We were partners.”
“In shady deals.”
“Shady?” Her hands balled into fists.
I wondered if I should duck.
“Lois told you, didn’t she? Shoot. I should’ve known better than . . . Shoot. Okay, yeah, Ed and me, we charged excessive amounts of rent. I didn’t like it much, but he said supply and demand allowed for it.”
“I heard he was planning on invalidating the partnership,” I lied. Anything to get her more riled up and spilling the story.
“Invalidating? He—”
“You stood to lose a lot of income.”
Swoozie’s shoulders sagged as if she was finally accepting her own truth. “But he didn’t break up the partnership.”
According to her. “The way I see it, you could have killed him for two reasons. Either to not lose the partnership, or to get your name disassociated with the deals in order to keep your reputation clean,” I said, using the same reasoning my friends had applied to Meredith being guilty. “A gal like you, in a public business like leading tours, can’t afford to sully her reputation.”
“I didn’t kill him,” she blurted. “Ed’s death left me with a mess. Ask Kristine.”
“Ask her what?”
“Aren’t you listening? Ed and I were partners. My name is on a lot of documents. I couldn’t have kept that a secret. Kristine knew about me.” Swoozie barked out a laugh. “I can see you’re shocked.”
Creep Chef said I had a lousy poker face. Guess he was right.
“Suffice it to say that Kristine”—Swoozie licked her teeth—“she’s riding me hard to sell off these puppies, and she expects results yesterday.”
Good old Kristine. How surprised she must have been, believing she had gotten rid of her philandering husband only to end up with his lover as her new partner. She soared to the top of my suspect list yet again.
“So where were you at the time of the murder?”
“I guess Ed won’t care any longer, not like he cared then.” A bitter sadness swept across Swoozie’s face but quickly vanished. Maybe she really did love him. Why, I couldn’t imagine. “I was with somebody else.”
“Who?”
“A reporter from Cleveland.”
“The man I saw you with at the pub? He was wearing a jaunty hat and a shabby-chic suit.”
“That’s the one. Quigley. He was here visiting his mother. Sweet, huh? Twelve years younger than me but so much fun. Sex with a randy man makes a gal feel alive, you know?”
No, I didn’t know, but wished I did.
“Like I said, Ed
didn’t care. Not that way.”
I didn’t get the sense that Swoozie was lying. Her eyes were clear. She didn’t look away. Urso could probably corroborate the alibi.
“Am I free to go now, Officer Bessette?” she quipped.
“I’m sorry—”
“Nah, I don’t blame you. You’ve got a lot at stake.” She clapped me on the shoulder like we were old friends discussing the weather. “Don’t worry. I won’t boycott the shop. Best tasting cheese for hundreds of miles. Love what you’ve done with the place, by the way. The gold tones, the wood. I’d like my kitchen to look like this someday. If I ever have a kitchen.” She sniffed. “If Kristine Woodhouse has her way, I’ll be heading for the poorhouse sooner rather than later.”
Swoozie started to head off, but I called out, “One more question. Are you a partner in this building?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Nah. Nothing here in town. It’s all in Cleveland or Columbus.” She wiggled her fingers as a goodbye and strode across the shop to rejoin her group, full hips swinging, her gait confident.
I skulked back to the cheese counter, mumbling to myself, furious that, yet again, I had jumped to a wrong conclusion. But what was I to do? Urso was going to take my grandmother to jail if I didn’t find out who killed Ed. Before I could flail myself with my typical string of rebukes, the door flew open.
Bozz darted in, his face tight with panic. “Hey, Miss B! There’s a weird looking man outside asking for Rebecca.”
CHAPTER 19
Like a mother bird, I flew outside to protect my chick. Bozz followed at my heels. I skidded to a stop when I saw a bearded older gentleman waiting beside his horse and cart at the curb. My racing heart settled down to a moderate thumpathump, and I glanced back at Bozz.
“Weird looking?” I said. “Bozz, he’s Amish.”
“Yeah, I know, but that hair and that straw hat. It’s like, bizarre-o, don’t you think?”
“You look weird to him,” I hissed. “Did that ever occur to you?”
“Uh, no,” he stammered. “But I’m normal.”
“Young man.” I poked him with my forefinger. “Do not let me hear you talk like that again. He is normal in his world. His world is simply not like ours. Got me?”
Bozz nodded.
“Now, go fetch Rebecca. Tell her that her father is outside.”
“That’s her dad?”
I gave one of my most commanding gazes and, without another word, he turned tail and sprinted inside.
A crowd of lookie-loos had gathered, as always happened when an Amish person came to town. In their horse-drawn carts and common garb, the Amish folk were a novelty to the rest of civilization that seemed to be progressing at a furious pace.
“Mr. Zook.” I strode to Rebecca’s father. I had only met him once. He wasn’t one of the regulars from the Swartzentruber Order who came to town to sell furniture and goods to the shops.
He did not proffer a hand. He did not smile. “Rebecca, she is here?” His liquid blue eyes looked stressed, his thin mouth as taut as piano wire.
Something was clearly wrong. My heart started to race again. Had something happened to her mother? I didn’t expect him to fill me in. Rebecca told me how private he was, how he shunned typical society. Coming into town to locate her must have taken all of his reserve.
Rebecca appeared at the doorway, her apron off, her hands fiddling with the straps of the sweet peasant blouse that she wore over capri slacks. She secured her long hair in a clip, then approached her father and lifted her chin. He kissed her forehead but made no other physical contact.
“Why have you come?” she asked. “If it’s to ask me to go back—”
“Your grandmother—”
“—wants me to come home?”
“No.”
“Then what?” When he didn’t answer, Rebecca’s hand flew to her mouth. “Is she sick?”
Tight-lipped, her father surveyed the crowd.
“Papa, please explain.” Rebecca gripped his hand. “Please. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you and the family, but let that pass for now. You came to me. Please?”
He screwed up his mouth. “It was old age.”
“Was . . . ?” Moisture pooled in Rebecca’s eyes. “Do you mean she’s . . . ?”
Her father held out a brown paper package tied with twine. He removed the twine and opened the package. Within lay an off-white lace shawl.
“Oh, my.” The tears streamed down Rebecca’s cheeks. “It’s her wedding shawl.”
“She wanted you to have this. She said to tell you that you are loved.” He placed the package in her outstretched arms, kissed her once more on her forehead, and then he climbed into his buggy and drove away.
With slow deliberation, Rebecca draped the shawl over her heaving shoulders, the moment reminding me of one of my favorite all-time movies, An Affair to Remember, this scene so different yet strikingly poignant. I slipped my arm around Rebecca’s waist, and we watched in silence as her father turned the corner near the Congregational Church.
As the crowd dispersed, I said, “Do you want to talk about her?”
“She was . . .” Rebecca hiccupped. “She encouraged me to leave the community. She said I had a hunger, and it wouldn’t be satisfied if I didn’t take the chance.” Rebecca placed her hand on her chest. “She understood me.”
“And now she’s watching over you,” I whispered.
Rebecca threw herself into my arms. I patted her back for a long while. When she came up for air, I said, “Why don’t you take that break now?”
“I can’t. The spinach quiches are in the oven.”
“I’ll handle them. Go read in the garden. Or walk to the clock tower. Grandmère always finds strength visiting the Village Green.”
“Thank you.” Rebecca gave me a hug, and clutching the ends of the lace shawl in her fists, wandered off.
I returned to the kitchen, and as I set the quiches to cool on racks, I revisited the moments after Ed’s murder. Grandmère said she had gone to the clock tower. Where had everyone else disappeared to directly following the argument with Kristine? Urso must have canvassed the shop owners and the people who had attended the gala, but hearing their answers for myself was in order.
An hour later, Rebecca returned from her break, her eyes glassy but her makeup refreshed, and she ordered me to take my break. Although Saturdays are typically our busiest sales days, I said I could handle the cheese counter alone if she wanted more time. She refused. Work, she told me, was good for the soul.
Before sleuthing, I took an ever-so-needed moment to drink in the scent of the vine roses tied to the fences in the Village Green and the daisies and petunias planted in huge decorative pots that stood on every street corner, all of which seemed to have doubled in size overnight. As I did, I became aware of how much I needed to take a good hike with Mother Nature to revitalize my flagging spirit, and I set a tentative date in my mind.
For now, business first.
At the art gallery, the bakery, and a half dozen other shops, I talked to the owners and received the same responses. Those who attended the gala opening had seen nothing. Those who had worked at their shops had seen nothing. At Sew Inspired, Freckles reported that she had stayed in the wine annex with the group of knitting students she brought to the party. The bald-headed owner of the Igloo remembered seeing Kristine and Grandmère burst onto the sidewalk. After that, the ice cream store was inundated with customers, Pépère among them. Mr. Nakamura said he returned to the hardware store with his wife to take inventory. Not wise after a little too much wine, he advised me; however, as he unlocked the door to his shop, he recalled seeing Prudence and Felicia chatting outside the diner near the corner of Cherry Orchard and Hope. He hadn’t seen either Tyanne or Kristine.
My last stop was La Bella Ristorante. I sauntered into the restaurant and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. With its arched brick ceilings and twinkling candelabras, La Bella was considered the most romantic place in town. I
agreed, though I hadn’t experienced the romance part first-hand. I hoped to one day.
“Come in, signorina. Welcome.” Luigi Bozzuto clutched my elbow. “You look so beautiful today. The green, it matches your eyes.”
Luigi was a sly dog. Though he was born in the United States and as American as they come, he insisted on calling ladies signorina and often spoke with a put-on Italian accent. With his handlebar mustache, dyed black hair, and devil-may-care eyes, he reminded me of the bad guy you loved to hate in old movies.
I told him about my quest for answers, but he refused to talk without feeding me. I followed him through the packed restaurant to the back room where the walls were faced in distressed brick. Historical photographs hung everywhere, the Bozzuto family pictures among them.
“Sit, Charlotte. I will return in moments with my latest dish.” He pushed me into a cane-backed chair and clapped his hands once to draw the attention of a waiter. I was pretty sure that Luigi’s dish would consist of a meal laced with cheese. He was always trying out new recipes on me, free of charge. I didn’t squabble. My stomach was grumbling like a train hungry for coal.
He returned with a delectable appetizer of artichoke hearts drenched in melted Taleggio. I took one bite and thought I had died and gone to heaven.
“Wow. I detect nutmeg,” I said.
“And white wine.” He perched on the chair across from me, a smug smile on his lips. “But just a hint. Mama’s recipe.”
It tasted like fondue without the bread. “Next cooking class, you have to teach us this recipe.” The thought of standing by Jordan’s side, tasting something this scrumptious, made me shiver with desire. How I wished I could learn the truth of his relationship with the mysterious Jacky.
“So, what have you come to ask me?” Luigi twisted the flower vase on the table so the face of the bloom leaned toward me.
“It’s about the night Ed Woodhouse—”
“Ha!” He spanked the table. “I wondered when someone would come asking. I know all of Ed’s secrets. He and I went all the way back to high school, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.” Luigi looked eight to ten years younger than Ed. “And what do you mean, someone would come asking? Hasn’t Chief Urso questioned you?”