by Avery Aames
“Alleged affair,” I said.
“Alleged.” Rebecca inserted sprigs of pine beneath the raffia, fanned them out, and hooked a tiny silver bell as a final touch. “If only I could wheedle something out of Deputy O’Shea. He—”
“Hold that thought,” I said, then took the basket from her and carried it to the register where the councilwoman was waiting.
“It’s beautiful,” the councilwoman said. “I love how you take care of me.”
“We aim to please. Congratulations to your daughter.”
“Thank you, dear. How’s Matthew?” she asked as she paid. “He looks okay, but I heard he bumped his head.”
At least she hadn’t heard how the injury had occurred. Throwing a gag order at Nurse Nenette had been a stroke of genius. I had Urso to thank for that.
“He’s fine, ma’am. Though between you and me, I think he believes he is made of steel and only Kryptonite will harm him.”
“I heard that,” Matthew said. “I now have supersonic hearing.”
The councilwoman tittered. “I’m looking forward to the wine tasting later, Matthew.”
“Me, too,” he said. “Have your palate ready.”
As she exited, I rejoined Rebecca and Matthew. “Now, what did you learn from Deputy O’Shea?”
“That’s just it. Nothing.” Rebecca growled. “He slipped into the store for a small wedge of cheese while you were at the diner. I talked him into trying something new, that Somerdale Red Dragon with mustard seed, but boy, he’s tight-lipped. I’m wondering if that’s the way he kisses, too. If so, I’m not interested in him.”
“You’re tough.” I laughed.
“My, my, how you have grown up over the past few months,” Matthew said.
“Sorry, Matthew. I didn’t mean to make you blush.” Rebecca twirled her ponytail around a finger.
“You couldn’t. I have a house full of girls.”
“Wait until they’re teens,” I said.
“And wanting to talk to you about the birds and the bees,” Rebecca added.
Matthew moaned. “Back to our investigation. What do we need to do?”
“You heard U-ey at the hospital.” I grabbed a towel and mopped up the cheese counter, plucking bits of the pine bough off the wood. “We’ve been ordered to back off.”
Matthew smirked. “Yeah, like we’ll obey.”
Rebecca clapped Matthew on the shoulder. “He’s right. We’re the Snoop Club.”
“Cut that out,” I said. “If U-ey learns about your silly nickname for us, we’re doomed.”
“Shh,” Matthew said. “Look who just walked in.”
Liberty Nelson flounced toward the cheese counter with Tyanne in tow. Once again, Liberty was dressed in buttons and bows, her hair swished into a tidy twist at the nape of her neck, her makeup understated. What a transformation. She appeared the epitome of Miss Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. I think I preferred the former Liberty and her feline-style garb.
I whispered, “Why is she here? You would think she wouldn’t want to be within a thousand yards of us.”
Tyanne waved. “Hello, all.” She prodded Liberty at the arch of her back. “Go on, sugar, they don’t bite.”
No. We break into people’s homes—cellars—and have scrapes with strangers. Honestly, lately, my ability to judge when to act and when not to act was impaired. Could I chalk up my more-than-usual impetuousness to being frazzled because Jordan was out of town? How I missed him. The memory of our night together made me shiver with delight.
Liberty transferred her ecru Hermes handbag to the other arm, raised her pretty chin, and drew near. “Charlotte and Matthew, I have come to apologize.”
“You don’t have to,” I said.
Matthew muttered, “She’s right.”
“I do, indeed. I am trying to mend all fences before my impending nuptials.” She turned to Tyanne for support. “Isn’t that right, Miss Tyanne?”
As Liberty looked away, Rebecca kicked my foot and whispered, “If you ask me, she’s been reading too many Jane Austen novels. She not only looks like the heroines, she’s beginning to talk like them. Miss Tyanne. Give me a break.”
A flurry of giggles gushed up my throat. I bit them back and said, “Hush.”
“Go on, Liberty,” Tyanne said. Obviously she was acting as more than wedding planner; she was nearly a companion therapist.
“Charlotte, I know how deeply you and your cousin cared for Noelle.” Liberty didn’t look at me. She fidgeted with the clasp on her purse. “And I know you invaded my home to find answers—answers that you simply won’t find there, I’m afraid—but I shouldn’t have called the police and reported you. I don’t want you to think I’m a bully.”
I swallowed hard. This much humility was hard to bear. “Liberty, you had every right—”
She held up a dainty hand. “Stop, Charlotte. I was in the wrong, and I want you to forgive me. To make amends, I came in to buys lots of cheese for whoever was in the shop, but my boyfriend has put the brakes on that. I need to curb my spending habits.” She glanced over her shoulder at her fiancé who stood, arms folded, on the sidewalk. Had he instigated this apology? Was there some truth to Liberty having an affair with Harold? Had the fiancé found out? Was he now keeping her on a short leash?
I said, “How about I make it up to you by giving you some cheese, and we’ll call us square.”
“No, please don’t. I do not wish to be a bother. I only want . . .” She fluttered a hand. “I want to do what is right from now on. Full disclosure.”
Itching to take advantage of her vulnerability, I said, “Okay, Liberty, in that case, could you tell me what you and your father were arguing about the day we toured the winery?”
“Arguing?” Her hand flew to her chest. “Whatever can you mean?”
Puh-leese, as Delilah would say. I smiled. “I believe you were arguing about Noelle.”
Liberty’s face turned as red as winterberries. “Why, I never. Were you eavesdropping? How dare you. You had no right. What goes on behind closed doors is secret, do you understand me?” Her hands turned into claws. She looked like she wanted to rip my heart out.
Ha! I knew her virtuous act had been too good to be true. I pressed on. “You were talking about Noelle coming to work at the winery.”
She jammed her lips together in a thin line.
“Maybe the argument started because your father found out from Noelle that you and Harold were involved.”
“What?” she cried. “Harold and me? My father and I were not talking about—” She shook her head. “It’s none of your business.”
“Why did you telephone Noelle repeatedly and hang up?” To tell her to mind her own beeswax was my guess.
“I did no such thing.”
“Don’t bother denying it. There are phone records. Tyanne confirmed the calls were made from your telephone number.”
“I never called Noelle, not once, and that is all you need to know. We’re done here. Tyanne, cancel all orders.” With dramatic flair, Liberty pivoted on her heel and stormed out of the shop.
Tyanne sputtered, “Charlotte . . . Sugar, I don’t know what to say. Liberty’s hormones . . . Brides can be mighty emotional . . . I . . .” She tore after her charge, yelling over her shoulder to me, “Don’t cancel anything yet.”
I watched Tyanne catch up to Liberty and her fiancé on the street. Liberty’s arms flew every which way, then she pulled her cell phone from her purse and flaunted it. Hadn’t she called Noelle? Who else could have done so without Liberty having a clue? I said as much out loud.
Matthew said, “Yeah, who?”
Rebecca sniffed. “May I refresh your memory as to her supposed alibi? Liberty claimed she was reading in the room next to her father’s and heard him singing. I think she lied about that.” She swung her gaze from Matthew to me. “Oh, sure, she was pulling off a good act until you pinned her to the wall, Charlotte. If I might refer you back to the movie Legally Blonde. Remember how
the victim’s daughter reacted when Elle grilled her on the witness stand? Her mouth puckered. Her eyes went wide. Well, Liberty did the same right now.” Rebecca stabbed her palm with her index finger. “That conversation you overheard matters to this case.”
I said, “The question is, is she protecting her father or herself?”
Rebecca removed her apron and slung it on a hook on the wall. “Let’s find out.”
I grabbed her shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to slip into the Nelson house and see how thick those walls really are.”
“Are you nuts? U-ey’s got eyes on Matthew and me, and I’ll bet that he’s put Deputy O’Shea on your tail.”
“Oh my gosh, do you think?”
I retrieved her apron and shoved it into her chest. “Back to work. We have customers.”
“But—”
“No argument.”
For the next couple of hours, Rebecca and I served customers while Matthew continued to prepare his wine-tasting event. None of us discussed what we could do to solve Noelle’s murder. The respite for my beleaguered brain felt good. I offered tastings of cheese to customers, I drank in strength from the nurturing aromas, and I listened to local gossip. At one point, I noticed Deputy O’Shea swing by the front of the store and peek in, but he kept moving. Whether he was spying on Rebecca or hoping to catch a moment with her, I wasn’t sure.
After the noon rush was over, my grandfather arrived. He suggested I take a stroll around town and drink in the sunshine. I knew his real intention. With me gone, he could sneak a morsel of imported French Brie.
“I’ll go with you,” Rebecca said. “My legs could use a stretch.” Truth be known, she didn’t want to be the one who saw Pépère divert from his diet. She might accidentally blab to my grandmother, the diet taskmaster.
As we rounded the corner to walk up Cherry Orchard Street, I spied Sylvie walking hand in hand with Ashley Yeats. Surprisingly, she wore a tasteful blue dress that seemed specifically chosen to compliment his blue pin-striped suit. Their heads were tilted inward, as if the two were engaged in an enthralling conversation, and I wondered if she had found her soul mate, after all.
A flare of orange caught my eye. Prudence exited Café au Lait at a clip. She was carrying a bag of goodies while nibbling on a donut doused in powdered sugar. Why was she eating sweets? She rarely did. Was the city council’s injunction stressing her out?
From across the street, Sylvie sniggered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Prudence looked up. Her face puckered with rage.
“Uh-oh,” Rebecca said.
“Uh-oh is right,” I muttered. All thoughts of a pleasant stroll went bye-bye.
Prudence dropped the pastry in the street and made a mad dash for Sylvie. En route, she sideswiped a ladder, on top of which balanced a volunteer who was hoisting a holiday flag on a lamppost. The ladder joggled; the volunteer shrieked. Rebecca and I raced to stabilize the ladder. Just in time. The volunteer, who was pasty with fright, thanked us.
On the other hand, Prudence didn’t break stride. “Sylvie Bessette.” She darted in front of Sylvie and Ashley, forcing them to a halt. “What was that sound you just made?”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Sylvie said.
“You snorted. Were you inferring that I am a pig?”
“Tosh.”
Prudence reeled around and glared at me. “Charlotte, you heard her.”
Dang. There was nowhere for me to run.
“You did,” Prudence said. “I know you heard her. She was making fun of me.”
Despite the subdued outfit, Sylvie was still a minx. She winked at me, then said, “You do look like you have put on a little weight, Pru.”
“Why, you!” Prudence lunged for Sylvie.
Ashley darted in front of Sylvie and batted the bag of goodies from Prudence’s hands. Powdered sugar billowed in clouds as the bag opened and the sweet contents tumbled to the ground.
Prudence lashed out.
“Oo-o-oh.” Ashley raised his arms to defend himself. “She didn’t mean any harm, love. Take a load off.”
Rebecca thwacked me on the back. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Ashley Yeats. His accent wavered.”
“Wavered?”
“He sounded . . . Southern. Remember when I told you about that gossipy Internet radio guy, Alcott Baldwin? The one that touts Ashley’s writing? He’s from the South—Alabama, I think. He starts his show every time with this high-pitched, ‘Oo-o-oh,’ just like Yeats did. He’s him. Ashley is Alcott.”
“Are you sure?”
“Ninety-nine percent positive. I told you there was something about the guy that bothered me from the get-go.”
I trotted toward Prudence. “May I have a word?”
“No, you may not.” Prudence thwacked Ashley. “Let me at her.”
“Prudence, stop hitting him,” I said. “Just for a sec. Humor me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “None of you—not one—is worth the effort. You’re all crazy.” She was one to talk. Apparently my grandmother hadn’t made any headway regarding Prudence finding professional help. She kicked her busted bag of goodies and marched off.
I whirled on Ashley Yeats. “Where are you from?”
He gulped. “Huh?”
“Alabama?”
Sylvie ducked from behind Ashley. “What’s going on?”
“He’s not from England, Sylvie,” I said. “He’s putting on an act.”
“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte,” Sylvie said. “Are you trying to ruin my love life? I won’t have it. Matthew put you up to this, didn’t he?”
“Sylvie, listen to me. I believe Ashley Yeats is none other than that gossip Alcott Baldwin from—”
“South Carolina,” Rebecca blurted. “Not Alabama. I was wrong. It’s South Carolina. Charleston, to be exact.”
Sylvie’s eyes sparked with indignity. “Is it true, Ashley?”
The guy stretched his neck. “No . . . she . . . they . . . are making this all up,” he said, his proper British accent restored.
“The heck we are,” I said. I trusted Rebecca’s savvy Internet ear.
Sylvie planted her hands on her hips. “Where were you raised in England, Ashley?”
“Hampshire.”
“With that accent?” Sylvie arched a brow.
“Somerset,” he revised. “Uh, I mean, Sussex. The North.”
“Those are all counties in the south, you buffoon.” Sylvie withered. “Cripes, Charlotte, you’re right.” She scowled at Ashley a.k.a. Alcott. “How could I have ever believed you? And you said you adored me.”
“But, love, I do.”
“Don’t love me, you no good, lying fraud.” She thrust out her lower lip. Now I knew where the twins got the move. I had to admit the ploy was impressive.
Ashley looked ready to bolt.
“Not so fast, Mr. Yeats,” I said, “or shall we call you Mr. Baldwin?”
“Aw, heck,” he said in a Southern drawl as he scuffed the soul of his shoe against the pavement. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag. It was a risk, but I needed a leg up as a journalist. I needed someone to plug my career. I needed buzz. Who better to do it than myself?”
“Noelle knew, didn’t she?” I said.
“No.”
“You killed her to keep your secret safe.”
“No.”
“You exchanged emails.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make me a murderer. I’d been following her career for years. I met her in Cleveland when she was a sommelier. She suggested a wine that I’ll remember to this day. A Haut-Brion that was to die for.”
“I drank a Haut-Brion,” Sylvie said.
“Quiet.” I speared her with a glance and returned my focus to Ashley a.k.a. Alcott. “Go on.”
He ran a finger under the collar of his shirt as if he were roasting under the impromptu interrogation. “When
I learned Noelle was giving up her career to move here, I had to know why. I thought her story could be a life changer for me. She was amazing. She could have been working in any of the most elite restaurants in New York. Aw, heck, in the world. She was a big fish moving to a little pond. There had to be something behind that, right? She wasn’t pregnant. I checked. It cost me a pretty penny to get that insider info, I’ve got to tell you. And she wasn’t on the lam from the law. I sensed corruption.” He tapped his nose. “So I called her. We talked once. After that, she snubbed me.”
A thought occurred to me, one that would answer the question that had plagued me since Liberty Nelson had come into The Cheese Shop earlier. “You followed Noelle here weeks ago. You scoped out the winery.”
“No, I—”
I held up a hand. “Don’t deny it. You saw Liberty Nelson talking on her cell phone, and you realized an opportunity.”
“I’m not following.”
“You got close enough to Liberty to clone her cell phone.”
Rebecca knuckled my arm. “Omigosh. You’re right. That’s exactly what he did. I saw a perp do that in an episode of Law and Order.”
“You used that number to call Noelle repeatedly after midnight,” I continued. “She answered because Liberty’s name appeared on the readout, but soon Noelle got wise and hung up on you every time.”
Ashley—I couldn’t get used to referring to him as Alcott—looked down and away.
“Answer her, you phony,” Sylvie demanded.
“Okay, yes, you guessed right. I know how to hack into all sorts of things. I’m all about shortcuts. If I can find a way to scoop a story the easy way, I do it. I wanted one of my features to be good.” He grimaced. “No, not just good. Great. Noelle had left a big-time job to work at little old Shelton Nelson Winery. Something bad was going on. I researched her. I found out about her folks. Her past.”
“You blackmailed her.”
“I wanted her to confide in me. I believed, with her insider information, I could go wide with the story, and maybe I would be taken seriously as a journalist.”
But Noelle, believing the only reason he wanted to interview her was so he could expose her parents’ dicey past, shunned him.
Sylvie huffed. “No one will take you seriously ever again, Ashley, not if I have anything to do with it, you two-bit—”