Days of Wine and Roquefort

by Avery Aames

  “Girlfriend, you can’t berate yourself. You are not omniscient.” Delilah clutched my hand. “By the way, why didn’t you tell me what Noelle said to you?”

  “I didn’t think Urso would want me to.”

  “Point taken. But now it’s out. So talk. She said, ‘Hell’s key’?”

  I nodded. “She spoke so softly I thought I’d imagined it.”

  “Rebecca might be right. Hell could be a slurred version of Harold, but what if each word stood alone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe each was its own phrase, its own sentence. Noelle said the word hell’s and more of that sentence was to follow, but she couldn’t get it out. The same happened with the word key.”

  I related the many variations of hell’s key that Matthew, Rebecca, and I had come up with.

  Delilah wadded up her wet towel and tossed it onto the heap accumulating by the kitchen door. “You know, that boyfriend of Noelle’s, the one who has been hanging around the diner? His last name is Hellman.”

  “Urso has Boyd in his sights.”

  “Good, because he’s a little . . . Wait.” Delilah whacked my upper arm. “Do you need a key to open the desk you’ve been overhauling?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe Noelle thought you did. Maybe she was steering you to look in a drawer. Maybe she put something important in one of them for safekeeping, assuming only you had the key.”

  “Like a set of compromising photographs or a digital card from inside her camera?”

  “Exactly.”

  I wondered if Urso or his deputies had found Noelle’s camera in her BMW.

  “Did you rummage through the desk?” Delilah said.

  I didn’t, but I couldn’t imagine, given the chaotic state of my garage after the murder, that the killer hadn’t gone through it. On the other hand, perhaps he didn’t notice the secret drawer.

  • • •

  Eager to find out, I bid Delilah and my family a hasty good-bye. As I raced home in my Escort, Rags curled into me with worry. He knew I was impetuous, but he had never seen me this obsessed. I assured him I was obeying all the laws of the road. I wasn’t.

  The moment I pulled into the driveway and exited the car, something didn’t feel right. I didn’t smell anything weird, and I didn’t see anyone—no unrecognizable vehicles on the street, no figures running in the shadows—but something was wrong. My skin prickled with fear.

  “Do you sense it, Ragsie?” I whispered.

  His ears perked and his eyes widened, but he didn’t utter a sound. His silence made me feel a teensy bit better. I assured myself that I was imagining things; however, while I had every right to be edgy, I didn’t like when I was that way. I preferred Confident, You-Can-Handle-Anything Charlotte, the Charlotte who didn’t see the worst in everyone and everything, the Charlotte with unwavering hope and courage. Where was my Wonder Woman persona when I needed it?

  Sprinting to the workshop, I talked myself through the unease. I did a pretty good job convincing myself that all was right with the world until I reached the side door. It had been jimmied open. I listened for movement inside. Hearing none, I opened the door and switched on the light. My stomach clenched.

  Someone had rummaged through my things again. Cans of paint and wood stain sat on the floor, not on the tarp. Paintbrushes and wood dowels were strewn helter-skelter, like someone had played Pick Up Sticks with them. I snatched a screwdriver from the scattered tools and spun right and left in one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arcs. A kid in a street fight couldn’t have looked scrappier.

  After the frightened herd of elephants in my chest stopped using my ribs as their stomping ground, I set aside the screwdriver and inspected the drawers of the desk, first the left and then the right. All were bare. I perched on my knees and craned my neck to look at the underside. The secret drawer was intact. I pawed it open and peered inside. It was also empty. Had Noelle put something there for safekeeping, expecting me to find it? Had the killer returned and discovered whatever he—or she—had been after? If so, the killer was done with me, right? I was safe. On the other hand, I still felt anxious. I should call the police and have them look around.

  I pulled my cell phone from my purse and started to dial, but I paused when I caught sight of the Tupperware boxes that held my parents’ love letters. Seeing them made me think of Noelle sitting on the guest bed, her back to the door while scribbling notes in her journals. Diaries often needed keys. Did hers? Did she write something incriminating in them, something that a killer needed to keep secret?

  Urso’s deputy said he confiscated Noelle’s computer, cell phone, and address book. He didn’t mentioned taking her journals. Did the killer steal the books, or did Urso’s staff miss seeing them? If the latter, Noelle’s journals could still be there. I remembered her bragging to Shelton and the rest of us that she learned the art of hiding things when she lived at the orphanage. I hadn’t searched Noelle’s things—not last night before fleeing to the bed-and-breakfast and not this morning after returning to change clothes.

  Breaking speed records, I dashed to the house. The door was secure; the lock hadn’t been jimmied. I entered using my new key, Rags followed, and we both paused to listen for an intruder. I didn’t pick up any errant sound. Rags didn’t seem to, either.

  Even so, I dialed 911 as I took the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor.

  While waiting for someone to answer at the precinct, I bolted to the writing desk in the guest room, switched on the lamp, and surveyed the room. I tried to think like Noelle. If I were going to hide something from nuns, where would I put it?

  In plain sight.

  As a cozy touch, I had inserted envelopes and stationery in the cubbies at the back of the desk. I fanned through the paper and found a wine reference guide and one of Noelle’s journals, one with Dear Diary etched in gold on the front. It was keyless. Even so, sensing I might discover something of importance in Noelle’s writing, I shuffled through the pages. Each was dated and contained a handwritten sentence that appeared to have been copied straight from a positive-thinking book, with quotes from Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill, Oprah Winfrey.

  And on and on.

  In addition, Noelle had written messages around the pages, starting at the bottom and routing to the top, reminding her to change her attitude, to see things differently, and to trust herself. There were no tawdry, sexy revelations about a relationship with Shelton, nor were there any comments about the breakup between Boyd and her. And there were no references to any key.

  When I reached the end of the diary, I noticed frayed remainders of paper near the binding. Were pages missing? I checked the date. Entries ended the day before she arrived in Providence. Had Noelle or the killer torn them out?

  Hoping that Noelle had stashed the missing diary pages in her other journal, I searched for it under the pile of clothes by the closet door, on the shelf above the hanging clothes, in the bureau drawers, and beneath the bed. I emptied the bag filled with gifts that Noelle had bought onto the quilt and fingered through the embroidered kitchen towel, decorative wine stoppers, yarn, and crochet hooks. The journal was not among them. I rummaged through the lining of her suitcase but paused halfway through my search when I realized her chic leather briefcase was missing. Did the killer steal it? Were the missing pages tucked inside? Was my search for naught?

  I didn’t remember Urso’s deputy mentioning a briefcase.

  Urso. I glanced at my cell phone. Why wasn’t anyone answering? So much for a quick emergency response. Feeling that I wasn’t in immediate danger any longer, I hung up and shoved the phone into my purse.

  I perched on the edge of the bed, the pluck drained out of me, and leaned forward on my elbows to rest my forehead in my hands. Something pointy jabbed the backs of my knees. I shrugged off my purse, scooted from the bed, lifted the hem of the quilt, and spied the corner of a book poking from between the mattresses.

  Excitement coursed through me as I
tugged Noelle’s other journal free. Revitalized, I flipped through it. Wine labels were affixed to page after page. As in her diary, Noelle had sketched memos around the edges of the pages. None of the ink touched the wine labels. She noted the flavors and the aromas and whether the wine was a varietal or blend of grapes. She added opinions like yummy, flat, good value, and pure perfection.

  When I reached the end of the journal, I was surprised—though not shocked—to find pages missing. I searched between the mattresses for them but didn’t find them. Someone had torn them out. Why? It wasn’t like the labels were original works of art. Some were beautiful, others ordinary. On the remnants of the first missing page, Noelle had scrawled words about the nose and aromas, and she had written the word short. Squeezed onto the paper, in the crease of the binding, was a doodle of a stick figure, its head looped by a noose. What did it mean?

  I heard something skulking outside the room. I dropped the journal and leaped to my feet, ready to defend myself with my fists. Rags burst into the room. Yowling. He skittered across my feet and did a cha-cha behind my ankles. I gathered him up and set him in my lap. His heart revved like a motorboat. “What happened, fella?”

  He squalled some more.

  “Are you scared or hungry?”

  This time he offered a plaintive meow. Hungry.

  “How is that possible? I know the twins fed you at their house.”

  He mewed louder. I could decipher that meaning, too: Starved.

  “Okay, fine. Let me change into my pajamas and then we’ll both get dessert.”

  I gathered both journals and headed to my bedroom wondering if I should show the journals first to Matthew or to Urso. As a former sommelier, Matthew might make sense of Noelle’s notes. He might even understand the progression—if there was a progression—of wine labels and which were missing. On the other hand, Urso was in charge of the investigation. Would he consider Noelle’s journals valuable?

  I set Rags on the bed and placed the journals beside him. Like a good watch cat, he laid his forepaws over the books, reminding me of a fat cat that I had seen in an Internet video that actually growled like a lion at anyone approaching its treasure. While I fetched a pair of Victoria’s Secret pajamas, I heard the ticking of the clock on the nightstand beside the bed. Could the ticks be any louder? All at once, I felt alone and extremely vulnerable.

  I glanced at Rags. He raised his chin, ears perked.

  “C’mere, fella.” I tossed the pajamas on the bed and swooped my sweet cat into my arms. He purred into my neck. I strolled to the window to look at the crescent moon. The notion that Jordan, no matter how far away, could see the same crescent moon filled me with comfort.

  The lyrics of “Somewhere Out There,” a song from my childhood, came to me, and I sang out loud. I was no Linda Ronstadt, but Rags licked my chin in appreciation. I scratched his ears in thanks.

  Across the yard, beyond the driveway, I spotted Lois on the porch to Lavender and Lace, scurrying from guest to guest while pouring tea and chatting. Life without her wayward husband seemed to agree with her. She smiled more; she stayed up later.

  Suddenly, Lois looked to her right. A hunched woman in a pitch-black cloak bustled up the steps. She reminded me of the wicked witch in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. With no preamble, Lois beat a path to the woman, grabbed her by the arm, and whisked her inside.

  What was up with that?

  At first, I thought the woman might be Lois’s sister returning to town, but I rejected the idea because this woman was much taller and leggier. Whoever she was, she was acting very secretive. Had Lois agreed to hide her from view? The notion made me think of Shelton Nelson and Noelle Adams. If they had engaged in an amorous relationship, as my grandfather had intimated, would Lois have known?

  CHAPTER

  9

  Clutching Rags to my chest, I dashed to Lavender and Lace. He protested like I was taking him to the vet for a shot. Poor guy had no sense of night and day sometimes. The glow of streetlamps didn’t help.

  “Shh, buddy.” I sprinted up the front steps of the inn, my clomping feet alarming a few of the guests on the patio. “Sorry,” I muttered as I tore into the bed-and-breakfast. “I’m looking for Lois.”

  A pair of guests pointed toward the staircase.

  Lois’s Shih Tzu stormed me in the foyer and galloped around my ankles, yipping so loudly I thought her teensy head might bobble off.

  “It’s me, Agatha. Hush.” I set Rags down. The two sniffed cautiously and then scampered away, Rags’s hunger and his imaginary worry about some vet poking him with a needle diverted. “Lois?” I called, heading upstairs. Just as I reached the landing, I spotted Lois shuttling the cloaked woman into a room.

  Lois spied me, whipped the guest room door shut, and mouthed something against the door. I couldn’t make out the words. Then she turned toward me, clutching the knot of her purple shawl into her fist. “Charlotte, what a surprise. I was checking that all the beds have been turned down.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “Would you like to stay another night, dear?”

  “No, Lois, thank you.” Not and have all the tidbits of our conversation go online like Rebecca claimed they had last night. “I have a question.”

  “Certainly. Follow me.” Hooking a pinky, she beckoned me downstairs. “What did you wish to ask me?”

  As I reached the landing, I peeked over my shoulder. Who was the woman? Why the need for secrecy?

  “Join me for tea and a little bite of cheese. I’ve set out tasty platters for the guests to enjoy. All recommendations by your Rebecca. She turned me on to some rather tasty ones. That Twig Farm Goat Tomme is unique looking. The exterior is so hard and gray.”

  “Best if served with something like fig jam.”

  “That’s what Rebecca said. Such a sweet girl. And she recommended the Weybridge from the Scholten Family Farm. She knows how I love a creamy cow’s milk cheese. Oh, and she sold me a beautiful lazy Susan and showed me how to adorn the cheeses with flowers, nuts, raisins, and dried figs. I purchased some glitzy knives, too. You should hear the guests rave.”

  “I’m thrilled to hear it. Now, if you could answer my question.”

  Lois lengthened her neck.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I’m not going to grill you about your secret houseguest.”

  “My what?”

  Yeah, right. “I want to ask about Noelle Adams, the woman who was murdered in my workshop. I wondered—”

  “Watch out.” Lois blocked my descent.

  At the same instant, Agatha and Rags rounded the corner and tore up the stairs, with Agatha leading the charge.

  “Those two,” Lois said. “Boundless energy. Now, what was it you wanted to know about Noelle . . . Miss Adams?”

  We proceeded to the foyer and paused in the center.

  “I wondered if you ever saw her around town with Shelton Nelson.”

  Lois turned and met my gaze. “He hired her, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, but did you see them together, you know . . .” I twirled a hand in the air.

  “Dining?”

  “Yes, dining and possibly looking like they might be, um . . . amorous? Looking closer than employee and employer should.”

  “You want to know if they were involved.” Lois’s mouth drew tight. “Why would you think I would be privy to that information?”

  “You know so many people. You have so many guests. I thought you might have heard or seen something pertinent.”

  Lois folded her hands in front of her. “Shelton keeps to himself. He doesn’t socialize much, and he doesn’t gallivant around town, don’t you know. Ever since his wife left . . .” She paused. “You knew about that, didn’t you?”

  “She left, as in, walked out?”

  “Exactly. Like Sylvie did to Matthew. She ran off to the next county when Liberty was six. She has visited once or twice since then, but she has never inserted herself back into Liberty’s life.” Lois
clucked her tongue. “It’s such a shame. A mother’s departure marks a child for life. The child feels abandoned and loses self-worth. I hear it on all the talk shows.”

  “You watch television?” I had never seen a TV switched on in the B&B.

  She offered a sly grin. “When I get the time. That psychological mumbo jumbo is so relevant. Anyway, after the wife left, Shelton took to being a doting parent.”

  Perhaps too doting, I mused, if Liberty had killed to ensure that her father remained solo.

  “Shelton is a fine man. He lodges family here whenever they come in from out of town. He puts up employees, too.”

  “Did Noelle Adams stay here?”

  “One time. For a night or two.”

  “And . . .” I said, leading the witness.

  “And nothing. They did not socialize in the way you mean. They had a drink. They talked about wine and business. He left before dinner. She dined alone. Shelton fetched her the next morning for a tour of the vineyard and his private collection.”

  Interesting. I could’ve sworn Noelle’s first visit to Shelton’s cellar was with Matthew and me. She had faked it expertly. Maybe she hadn’t wanted Liberty or Harold to know.

  “Noelle had a marvelous time and returned flushed and excited, like a girl who had found the treasure of her life. The next day she left town. End of story. Now, his daughter Liberty . . .” Lois toyed with the curls at the nape of her neck. “She’s a whole other kettle of fish.”

  I waited.

  “She’s getting married, don’t you know.”

  Rebecca often reminded me that the art of interrogation required being patient enough that the witness, however reluctant, would willingly offer up the information. I owed it to Noelle to remain calm. I cared deeply that her murder be avenged.

  “Your part-timer Tyanne is the wedding planner,” she said.

  “So I heard.”

  “She’s spoiled,” Lois added.