Days of Wine and Roquefort

by Avery Aames

  I ached for Lois. She hadn’t gotten over the fact that her husband of over thirty years had strayed. She booted him out the night she learned of his betrayal. Once or twice since then she had acknowledged that she was lonely without him. Would she take him back if he came crawling? Time would tell.

  “Lois, would you like to join me and my grandparents for Thanksgiving dinner?” I said. “It’ll be a big group.”

  “I can’t, dear. I have an inn full of guests. I’ll be busier than ever, but thank you.” She pushed the plate of scones closer so that we would each take one.

  I obliged, choosing the closest, as my grandmother had taught me. The warm chocolate and coconut combination was heaven. The mascarpone added a lusciousness to the flaky pastry. “Delicious.”

  “Now, where was I?” Lois said. “Oh yes, Liberty’s mother. Shelton was a saint about the whole kerfuffle. He didn’t moon about. He went on as if he was destined to be a single father. You asked the other night whether he and Noelle could have been involved. I don’t believe they were. I put on my thinking cap, and I remember hearing him a while back—I can’t remember when—saying that he felt protective of Noelle. He seemed excited to be able to groom her.”

  So Shelton hadn’t planned to make Noelle his new bride and Liberty’s new mother? Perhaps Liberty had killed Noelle because she didn’t want to share her father’s love with a surrogate sister.

  “Why, Shelton was interested in everything Noelle did,” Lois went on. “I remember that time she was staying here, and she was reviewing pictures on her camera when Shelton arrived. He was very interested to see what she had been photographing, but faster than a magician, Noelle whisked that thingy, whatever it’s called . . .” She mimed opening a camera and removing a disk.

  “A memory card,” I said.

  “That’s it. She pulled it out and pocketed it in her bra.” Lois chuckled. “Shelton said, ‘What are you up to, sneaky Pete?’ That’s what he called her. And Noelle said, ‘You’ll know soon enough.’” Lois settled onto a stool, quivering with giggles. “I had a good laugh over that. They didn’t hear me, of course.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, while my mind sped back to thoughts of Harold Warfield. Had Noelle taken compromising photos after all? Had he killed her to get his hands on them?

  CHAPTER

  14

  The sky was dark with clouds. A light drizzle started to fall as Rebecca, Rags, and I headed home.

  Rebecca, who had vowed to stick to me like glue until I was safely tucked inside my home, said, “You’re pretty quiet.”

  Rags purred his agreement.

  I didn’t respond. I was too focused on Noelle and the many layers of her life. She wrote in journals. She took photographs. She had been raised in an orphanage where she had hidden things and kept secrets. Boyd Hellman had suggested that something untoward had happened between Noelle and her parents. He said they had burned her, and she had burned them. But he hadn’t meant with fire. How had that shaped Noelle as an individual? How I wished I had known her better.

  As we neared my house, my gaze was drawn to the garage. Masked by mist, it loomed like a ghostly monster. A shiver raced up my spine. I checked the area for idling cars but saw none. Still, an urgent need coursed through me.

  I said, “I have to see the crime scene again.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember, after our game of Bunco, when I raced home and felt like the killer had come back for something?”

  “But you’ve gone through the garage twice now. The police, too.”

  “I missed seeing something. I’m sure of it.”

  “You sound like Sherlock Holmes. He had this uncanny ability to see things. Recently, I rented that movie with Robert Downey, Jr., Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Did you see it? The camerawork was awesome, whipping the audience around the room so they could spot all the things he did. Birdseed. A piece of fabric. A picture.”

  “A picture.” I snapped my fingers. Had Noelle hidden the camera’s memory card—the key to whatever she was investigating, as Lois put it—in my workshop? Not in the desk but someplace else? Someplace the killer hadn’t thought to look? “I’ve got to search the garage again.”

  Rebecca grabbed hold of my sleeve. “Wait. You said the police took items like Noelle’s computer and her cell phone and other stuff. Whatever the killer wanted might be at the precinct. Maybe if you could see all those things, it would jog your memory.”

  “Maybe.”

  She swung me toward the sidewalk.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “We’re going to the precinct.”

  I wrenched free. “Are you nuts?”

  “Put Rags in the house, and then let’s hotfoot it over there. The clerk that’s on duty tonight will be a cinch to get past. And I happen to know the chief and his deputies are at a council meeting. Grandmère was in earlier and mentioned it. Let’s go.”

  “No.”

  “You know you won’t sleep until you settle this in your mind.”

  “But it’s raining.”

  “This?” She held her arms out, palms up. “It’s no worse than morning dew. C’mon. I need an adventure. I’m single. So are you.”

  “I’m not single.” I missed Jordan with a deep ache.

  “Fine, you’re lonely and bored. Don’t deny you want to do this.”

  “We can’t break into the precinct evidence room.”

  “We won’t break in. We’ll see if it’s unlocked. If it is, it’s public property.”

  I gasped. “It is not.”

  “On Murder, She Wrote or maybe it was Buffy the Vampire Slayer—whichever—the leading lady snuck past a sleeping police guard and did a search. Her defense was that anything in the police precinct is public property because the public pays for the police with its taxes. If we have to, we’ll use that as our defense.”

  Great. Now, we were acting like imaginary characters from television shows. If caught, would Perry Mason take our case?

  • • •

  When Rebecca and I entered Providence Precinct, the silence stunned me. The reception area, which the precinct shared with the Tourist Information Center, was empty. I couldn’t remember ever visiting the building after the TIC shut down for the night. It was deadly quiet.

  The precinct clerk sat at her desk, toying with the gray strands of hair that cupped her heart-shaped face while gazing at something on her computer screen.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” I whispered. A mouse on the hunt for cheese couldn’t have looked guiltier than I did.

  Rebecca shooed me with her hand and sidled up to the clerk. “Hey, Zelda.”

  The clerk startled, then fanned herself. “My, oh, my. You spooked me.”

  Was she deaf? As we approached, I had heard every footstep we made across the hardwood floor.

  “Sorry. We were out for a stroll,” Rebecca said, “and we thought you might like a little company. How’s it going?”

  “Fi-i-ine.” The clerk shot Rebecca a knowing glance.

  I wanted to retreat, but Rebecca must have suspected. She gripped the sleeve of my sweater and held fast.

  “Zelda, I was in earlier today.” Rebecca worked her toe coquettishly into the floor. “With Deputy O’Shea.”

  I shot her a glance. She hadn’t mentioned a visit to the precinct.

  “It was a little damp, and my hair was a mess, and”—Rebecca giggled—“I left my comb in the ladies’ room, silly me.”

  I gaped, astounded that she could lie so easily and more stunned at her calm. Grandmère was going to do a cartwheel when she learned she had yet another actor to add to the Providence Playhouse roster.

  “Mind if we go fetch it?” Rebecca gestured with her thumb to the door that led to the rest of the precinct. The clerk would have to press a button to clear the lock.

  “You were here with O’Shea?” the clerk said.

  “Yep. We came in before your shift.”

  The clerk cooed, “He sure is c
ute.”

  “And cavalier.” Rebecca placed her hands on the clerk’s desk and leaned forward. “He heard I was taking a walk in the rain, and he showed up out of the blue with an umbrella.”

  “Nice.”

  “Then he offered to give me a tour of his office. Of course, I jumped at the chance.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is he married, Zelda? You know everything about everybody.”

  I blinked, flabbergasted by my wily assistant’s performance.

  “He’s not married,” the clerk said. “But he was engaged once, and he’s got at least three girls in town hankering for a date.”

  “Guess I’ll have to get in line.” Rebecca sighed like a veteran ham. “Um, my comb?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.” The clerk pressed a button beneath her desk. A buzz sounded.

  With me firmly in tow, Rebecca nearly skipped to the door and pushed through. Once the door closed behind us, she broke into laughter. “How easy was that, huh?” And then she paused. “You don’t think I’ll go to hell for that, will I?”

  “For telling a lie?”

  “For deceiving a sweet old lady.”

  “I don’t think so. You did no real harm.”

  “Phew. I really was here earlier. Deputy O’Shea is so darling. He has a dreamy smile.” She fanned herself. “And he gave me the full tour. I saw his office and peeked into Urso’s. I saw the coffee break room. It’s all very male, with pictures of cowboys and Indians, all done in earth tones.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you came here earlier?”

  “And spoil the fun? You should have seen your face as we tiptoed in.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said with a bite. “Let’s go.”

  “This way.” She beckoned me to follow her.

  I had visited Urso on numerous occasions, so I knew my way around the precinct. Urso’s and the deputies’ offices were down the hall to the right, the interrogation room and conference rooms to the left. We arrived at the evidence room in a matter of seconds.

  Rebecca reached for the handle and grumbled. “Rats. It’s locked. Think you can pick it?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s pretty obvious.” On occasion, I had locked myself out of the house—when taking out the garbage or getting the mail—so I had learned to pick a simple lock with assorted tools. I actually kept a tool kit in my purse. But just in case I fumbled those, I had planted a spare key in a hideaway box tucked behind a drain spout. However, a double bolt like the one on the evidence room door was impossible for anyone but a pro.

  Framing my face with my hands, I peered through the window, which was bulletproof glass laced with a wire underlay.

  “See anything?” Rebecca said.

  The room was small. The precinct had no reason to keep lots of evidence; crime in Providence was in short supply. A computer, a guest registry clipboard, and a jar of pens sat on the counter. Metal shelving stood behind the counter, against the wall. A variety of evidence was assembled on the shelves with tags attached to each piece.

  I spied Noelle’s bright pink iMac and cell phone on the second shelf from the top. In addition to the hardware, I noted a stack of clothes—the jeans, shirt, and hiking boots that Noelle wore the night she was killed. They were neatly folded; the boots appeared free of mud.

  “O’Shea’s office is down the hall,” Rebecca said. “When I visited earlier, I saw a key ring hanging on the wall. I’ll be right back.”

  I grabbed her. “No, wait. He’s here.”

  “Who?”

  I pointed. “O’Shea. Look.”

  The handsome deputy stepped out of the men’s room and headed toward the water fountain, away from us.

  “Why that Zelda,” Rebecca muttered.

  I would bet the clerk was having a good laugh right now.

  Not one to give in without a fight, Rebecca squared her shoulders and fluffed her hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle this. I’ll flirt a little and—”

  “No, we’re out of here.”

  “But—”

  “No argument. I do not want him seeing us and reporting back to Urso.”

  “Zelda will tell the chief.”

  “She won’t if she wants to keep her job. No, this was a prank. She skunked us. Let’s go get some hot cocoa.”

  Rebecca resisted at first but finally submitted. As we hurried to the front, I rummaged through my purse and found a comb. I shoved it into Rebecca’s hand. When we pushed through the doors, she waved it at the clerk, who looked disappointed that we hadn’t been apprehended. “Got it. Thanks again.”

  Outside, relief burbled out of me. He who laughs last, laughs best, as the saying goes.

  Minutes later, Rebecca and I entered Café au Lait, which was just around the corner.

  “Wow, the place is packed,” Rebecca said.

  The fanciful French-themed shop bustled with talkative locals as well as joyful tourists showing each other their recent purchases. Providence was nothing if not a great place to find unique items. I spotted Shelton and Liberty Nelson, who were sitting at an antique iron bistro table with Tyanne and Liberty’s studious-looking beau. They all appeared at ease and content. Light from the papier-mâché hot air balloon lamp that hung over their table cast a warm glow on their happy faces. Tyanne had spread a sampling of wedding paraphernalia—invitations, albums, and favors—on the table.

  “Psst,” Rebecca flicked my arm with her finger. “Look over there.”

  Urso and Delilah sat at a bistro table for two near the painting of the Arc de Triomphe.

  I said, “I thought the chief was at a city council meeting. I guess it ended early.”

  “Are they on a date?”

  “No way. Delilah has sworn off men for a while.” Which begged the question, why had Urso brought her to the café?

  “He’s looking at someone,” Rebecca said.

  She was right. Urso was looking past Delilah at the man at the next table, Ashley Yeats, who was typing like a fiend on his cell phone. The guy looked remarkably spiffy after a day of hiking with Sylvie and the twins at Kindred Creek. In drizzling rain.

  Rebecca curled up her nose. “I don’t like that guy. What’s he up to? If we could sit at a nearby table, I could peek over his shoulder.”

  But no nearby tables were to be had. I asked Rebecca to hold the table next to the exit while I fetched a couple of hot cocoas.

  “Make mine peppermint stick with extra shavings of white chocolate on top,” she said, adding, “and get me a Chocko-Socko cheesecake, too. It’s scrumptious. They use fresh cream cheese from Emerald Pastures Farm.”

  As I wound through the tables, purposely sweeping past Ashley Yeats, I glanced at his phone. He was either texting someone or doing email. As if sensing me spying on him, he clicked the application closed. His abrupt halt to his activities sent spirals of suspicion through me. I glanced at Urso, who frowned and hitched his head for me to skedaddle. I made a face back at him, giving him my best it’s-a-free-world look, and moved to the counter.

  After stating Rebecca’s order and opting for a cheese plate with Camembert and apricot jam for myself—Lois’s scone hadn’t quite quenched my appetite—I pulled my cell phone from my purse, intent on finding out more about Ashley Yeats. I opened my browser and typed his name into the search line. A website page emerged that read: UNDER CONSTRUCTION. If Yeats was a legitimate journalist, shouldn’t he have had an up-and-running website?

  The legs of a chair scraped along the tile floor. Shelton Nelson rose from his table and sauntered to Ashley Yeats. The journalist gestured for Shelton to join him as he whipped out a tape recorder.

  During the time I waited for our cocoas and treats, Rebecca had finagled a table near the twosome.

  “How did you snare this?” I set a tray holding two cups of cocoa, our desserts, and silverware on the table.

  “It’s all about timing. I saw the couple packing up, so I dawdled until they left.”

  Reb
ecca picked up her cup of cocoa and licked off the whipped cream. I sat down and did the same, while peeking at Ashley and Shelton. The acoustics were great.

  Ashley said, “. . . and that leads me to my next point. Your wine collection is famous.”

  Shelton chuckled. “It’s not that renowned, except maybe to a few friends who like to drop in for a taste of Pétrus.”

  “Don’t be modest. Tell me how you got started collecting.”

  “As you know, I began my career as a litigation attorney, but I tired of that quickly. Don’t get me wrong. I loved helping the destitute, but at the end of the day, I looked forward to a sip of the grape. On weekends, I would invite in friends. Many were collectors. Thanks to them, my thirst for knowledge grew. I was thirty when I had an epiphany and realized my destiny was wine. One must have passion to find joy in a career. That’s the key to everything. I convinced my then-wife to move to Providence.” He sat back in his chair. “The rest, as they say, is history. I began to invest. First with a single case, then two cases, then ten. I sold some of the wines I owned at a profit to obtain others. It’s like gold, once you get the hang of it. Some people are willing to pay anything for an exquisite bottle.”

  “And yet you have so much in stock. When will you ever drink it all?”

  Shelton chuckled. “My daughter hopes I won’t be able to. Have I told you the story about the man who owned the French vineyard and feared his daughter wanted to take it over?”

  The offhand comment made me sit taller. Did Liberty covet her father’s wine cellar? Was that what her argument with her father had been about? Were Noelle’s last words, hell’s key, really Shel’s key because he knew his daughter’s intention and his testimony would be essential? If that were the case, wouldn’t Liberty have done away with her father and not Noelle? I stiffened. Did I really believe Liberty, who was slated to marry a devout man, was capable of murder?

  A wall of warm air closed in behind me; I swiveled in my chair.

  “Are you two eavesdropping?” Urso said.

  “No, we . . .” I straightened my back. “We’re enjoying a cup of cocoa and a fabulous Old Chatham Hudson Valley Camembert from New York. Want a taste?”