by Avery Aames
Rebecca said, “What’s Shayna Underhill like?”
“Down to earth. Real. I don’t think she killed Lara, although Shayna and Lara were once partners. Underhill Farm and Creamery won a ton of blue ribbons for its Cheddars, but the glory days ended about twenty years ago.”
“When Shayna and Lara parted ways?”
“Yes.”
“Ouch. That had to hurt Shayna financially.” Rebecca mouthed the word: motive. She continued tweaking her platter, making it a visual fantasy by splaying the cheese here and there; cheese shouldn’t always be plated in straight rows.
In the silence, I reflected on Shayna and the way she had dealt with Lara over the past two days. Always staring at her, assessing her. Had she been trying to determine whether she could overpower Lara?
Stop it, Charlotte. Shayna is a good lady. Mother Earth. On the other hand, her room was next door to Lara’s, and she had a messy, possibly volatile past with Lara. If there was a hidden access between the rooms, she could have easily slipped in and out. Would Urso tell me if he had discovered something?
Rebecca said, “What about Ryan? What did you say his last name is?”
“Harris. He’s a bit of an enigma.” I finished a fan of cheese and covered it with a layer of cheese paper to protect it from hardening in the air. “He didn’t know Lara before coming to the brain trust, but he instantly suffered her wrath. I think she saw him as a competitor. They’ve both written books and he, like Lara, consulted farms.”
“He seems like a good old boy.”
“With a lot of charm.”
“And a deep dark secret?”
I threw her a bemused look. “Not everyone has one. I think he’s sweet on Erin.”
“Aww. She could use a little loving. I never see her with anyone.” Rebecca fetched a jar of homemade strawberry preserves and set it in the middle of the platter she was creating. “The other night, I saw Ryan and Erin playing onstage together at the Street Scene.”
“I didn’t spot you there.”
“I was incognito.” Rebecca ruffled her hair in a sassy way. “Actually, I was part of the volunteer cleanup crew. We were all wearing jumpsuits. Very chic. Not.” Her mouth quirked up on one side. “Does Erin like Ryan?”
“I think she might, but right now, I doubt she can focus on anything other than proving herself innocent and protecting her farm.”
Rebecca placed cheese paper over her array and started in on arranging another platter. “Say, I just remembered. That Victor guy”—she cut down hard on a round of cheese; her knife clacked the counter—“came in here yesterday. It must have been after . . . you know.”
“The brain trust disbanded.”
“Yeah. He wanted something to snack on. He likes that smelly cheese. Époisses.” She snapped her fingers. “What did you tell me Époisses means?”
“It’s actually a commune in the Burgundy region of France and has no specific translation, but I’ve seen it cutely translated by one cheese pundit to mean ‘completely worth the effort.’” Though I preferred hard, nutty cheeses like Cheddar, I occasionally liked the flavor of a strong cheese. “Not many can take the aroma,” I added, “but it’s such a rich paste. Perfect when spread on a baguette and served with a glass of white Burgundy wine.”
My stomach rumbled. I shouldn’t have been thinking about eating after the healthy portion of quiche I had ingested, but certain combinations, like those that made me think about my marvelous honeymoon with Jordan when we traipsed across Europe tasting the various wines and cheeses of each country, stirred my senses.
Rebecca arranged the slices of Jarlsberg at the narrow end of the platter. “FYI,” she said, “Victor didn’t mention word one about the murder.”
“Like I said, Urso advised us to keep mum.”
“But you’re talking to me.” She winked.
“If he finds out—”
“I won’t blab. I already promised.” She crossed her heart. “Anyway, Victor was going on about how knowledgeable he is about cheese. He is so pompous.” She withdrew a hunk of Tillamook Vintage White Extra Sharp Cheddar from the counter—for the money, one of the best Cheddars around. She cut it into slices and arrayed them on her second platter. “He also said how our stock didn’t measure up to what he could offer online. The nerve, right?”
“I’m sure ours can’t. We’re small and we offer a lot of local cheeses, but his business is gigantic. He ships worldwide.”
“Does he gouge customers?”
Her words drew me up short. Was that the secret Lara had hinted she would reveal about him? Did she have physical proof that Victor was manipulating the market? I said, “I wouldn’t have a clue. Why do you ask?”
“He just seems the type. While I was preparing his order, he bragged about how he collected this and that, and he asked why we didn’t have any cheese-type antiques in the shop.” Using her knife to make a point, she said, “I told him in no uncertain terms that we weren’t that kind of store. He could hightail it over to Memory Lane Collectibles, if that was what he was in the mood to buy. That shut him up.”
I could just picture her telling off Victor, her narrow chin jutted forward, hands fisted on her hips. At times she reminded me of a spunky alley cat, ready for a fight.
“After a while, he left and went across the street to The Country Kitchen.” Rebecca swiped the air with her knife. “Good riddance.”
“He’s not my favorite person, either,” I confided as I added some darling disposable knives to the platter I was creating. Next, I packaged up two boxes of gourmet crackers and napkins to go with each platter. “My first encounter with him was overhearing him talking to a woman on the phone. He called her babe.”
“Devon calls me babe.”
“Victor said it in a sleazy, full-of-himself way.”
“Oh, you mean like: Hey, babe,” Rebecca crooned in a low, gravelly timber.
“Exactly.” I moaned. “Ick.”
“Forget him. Back to the crime scene,” Rebecca said. She could be so single-minded it was scary. “Are you sure someone couldn’t have come into and gone out of Lara’s room through the window?”
I shook my head. “The paint would have shown cracking. The deputy said it didn’t. Urso inspected it, too.”
“Then Erin has to be guilty.”
“Or the housekeeper,” I said, “if she’s the only other person with a set of keys.” But why on earth the housekeeper would want Lara Berry dead was beyond me. Why Erin would want Lara dead didn’t make sense, either, other than to regain possession of her precious violin.
No, Charlotte. Erin is not a suspect. N-o-t!
“Hey!” Rebecca clacked her knife on the cutting board, interrupting my musings. “Maybe someone made a copy of Lara’s key when she wasn’t looking.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Why hadn’t I thought of it? “For a short while, we thought Lara’s purse might have gone missing, except it was found in her room, the key inside it.”
“That doesn’t mean the killer didn’t borrow the key earlier, make a copy of it, and return it to Lara’s purse.” She waved her knife at me. “Which of course would make the murder premeditated.”
“The killer couldn’t have made a copy. No one left the property.”
“Maybe the killer brought a key-making machine to the inn.”
“Ha! Funny.”
Rebecca jutted a hip. “Got any better ideas?”
I didn’t and twirled a hand for her to continue. “What other theories are pinballing around in that overactive brain of yours?”
“That night, the murderer goes to Lara’s room and knocks. Lara invites the killer inside.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Because she was feeling vulnerable. She needed a friend after the fracas downstairs. The killer offers solace. They have a drink. You said the
re was wine in the room.”
“There was.”
“The killer”—Rebecca resumed fixing up her platter—“who has planned ahead, if my theory about the key is right, doses Lara’s drink with some kind of drug. Lara, already tipsy, gets sleepy and lies down on the bed.”
“She may have been perched on the bed already,” I said. “There was only the one chair.”
“All right,” Rebecca said. “Lara gets drowsy. She leans back. She falls asleep. Once the murderer is certain Lara is out for the count, he . . . or she . . . smothers her and then poses her to make it look like she chose to lie down. The killer exits and, using the previously copied key, locks the door.”
I swallowed hard. “That sounds so reasonable, it’s scary.”
Rebecca grinned. “I saw that in a movie. Was it Dial M for Murder?” She pursed her lips. “No, not that one. I’ve watched so many television shows and movies lately, the storylines are blending together. It doesn’t matter. I saw it. All Urso has to do is find out who has a copy of Lara’s key.”
I dashed to the telephone and dialed the precinct. When Urso answered, I laid out the theory.
“Already thought of it,” he said in a clipped, official tone.
“You did?”
“Well, not me. Jordan. And Quigley. It seems we have a number of amateur detectives on the case.” I imagined Urso leaning forward, drumming his fingertips on the desk, wanting to say something but practicing restraint.
“U-ey—”
“Stop, Charlotte!” he barked. So much for restraint. “I’ve got this under control. I’ve interrogated all who were staying at the inn. I’ve sorted through their belongings. No key matching Miss Berry’s room was found. No key-making machine, either. Nothing. Good-bye.”
“Wait, U-ey! The killer could have disposed of the key, maybe even tossed it down the same well where Andrew dropped the ring of keys. Erin’s innocent. You’ve got to believe that!”
“We’ll see.” He hung up on me.
“Ooh,” I groused. I hated when he did that. It wasn’t like I was a numbskull. I was a concerned citizen, for Pete’s sake. Each of us should be allowed to have our say. “Ooh,” I repeated and moved behind the cheese counter.
Rebecca snickered. “By the sound of it, that didn’t go well.”
“Jordan and Quigley posed the same theory.”
“Bah! Quigley.” Rebecca’s face pinched with loathing. “Why would he know anything about anything?”
“Because he was attending the brain trust.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake? He doesn’t know diddly about cheese. He thinks that little round of deliciousness”—Rebecca pointed at the grayish-covered Bonne Bouche—“is rotten and should be tossed. He doesn’t understand the benefits of mold.” Bonne Bouche translates to good mouthful, and it was. “He—”
I held up a hand. “Whoa. Calm down. Quigley wasn’t attending the trust to judge cheese. He was there to report about the people, the discoveries. He wasn’t staying at the inn, either. In fact, that morning Urso ordered the busload of other attendees to leave. Quigley, when he got wind of a scandal, sneaked back.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Rebecca muttered. “So what did Urso say about the key?”
I filled her in.
“That doesn’t mean we’re wrong,” she said.
“No, but if there isn’t a duplicate key, there isn’t one. We can’t prove anything without evidence.”
Rebecca sighed. “What are you going to do to help Erin?”
“I don’t know.”
But I had to do something. I couldn’t let her get bulldozed into jail. If only her brother could remember the details of that night.
CHAPTER
16
At dusk, although I was exhausted and no closer to knowing who killed Lara or exonerating Erin—I had racked my brain all afternoon—I headed to the cooking class at Jordan’s new restaurant. The place used to be called Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, but after Tim was murdered and Jordan took ownership, he thought a name change was in order. Jordan didn’t want the locals to think he was using Tim’s tragedy to bring in business. He settled on the name The White Horse because when he was a boy, he had owned a white stallion named Spirit that took him on tons of adventures. Over valleys, through dales. Spirit even saved his life, pulling him from beneath a fallen tree.
In addition to changing the restaurant’s name, Jordan had revamped the place and made it more upscale. The rustic booths were now a rich brown oak. Tables sported tablecloths. The bar, dismantled in Ireland and reconstructed here, remained the same. How could it not? It was magnificent. However, instead of Irish music, the pub featured jazz musicians. Jordan loved all kinds of music, but particularly jazz. Many of the musicians were local talent. The menu had changed slightly, too. A number of Tim’s appetizers were still featured on the menu—like O’Shea’s potato skins, which were rich with cheese and bacon, and O’Shea’s mini mac and cheese, tasty morsels served in ceramic tart dishes—but Jordan had substituted the burgers with fine steaks, and he had added a number of his specialty pasta dishes.
My favorite was penne pasta made with a spicy tomato-vodka-cream sauce, which those attending class tonight—Urso, Delilah, Rebecca, Devon, and I—would learn to make. The class was supposed to have included Matthew and Meredith, but due to Meredith’s bed-rest order, Matthew and she had withdrawn. Tyanne, the town’s premier wedding planner who occasionally helped out at The Cheese Shop, had asked to take Meredith’s place. She promised Meredith she would do her proud and eat enough for two. I doubted she would because Tyanne, an attractive blonde who had transplanted to Providence from Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina, had been in love with Tim. She hadn’t fully recovered from losing him; she was pale and thin. I hoped tonight would bring her warm memories.
The first course was a simple Caprese salad of hothouse tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella drizzled with a basil pesto–olive oil dressing. Jordon put the women in charge of making the dressing. I ground the pine nuts. Tyanne chopped garlic. He gave the men the task of slicing the tomatoes and the cheese. When we completed our tasks, we sat at a preset table in the kitchen.
“Yummy,” I said to Jordan after my first bite. He had paired the dish with a white wine from Italy: divine.
“It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“Your mother wasn’t Italian.”
“Does that matter? She had a deft hand with spices, and her homemade buffalo mozzarella was not to be believed.”
“Where did you grow up again?” I teased.
“On a farm in Jersey.” He had no accent. He had worked hard to get rid of it when he entered the WITSEC program. So had his sister. “With Jersey cows, of all things.” Jersey cows are a smaller breed of dairy cows, originally bred in the Channel Islands, England.
“Malarkey.”
“God’s truth.” He held up three fingers, like a good Boy Scout, then said, “Switching subjects. Chief—”
I cast a warning look at Jordan. Before we scrubbed up, U-ey—that was what we were supposed to call him tonight, not Chief—had made it quite clear that there would be no talk about the investigation. We all agreed, though questions were churning inside my mind. I would bet there were even more scurrying around inside Rebecca’s head. I wondered if she had been able to pry anything out of her darling deputy without admitting I had told her a thing. She could be wily.
“Don’t worry.” Jordan squeezed my wrist then blew me a sly kiss. “I was just baiting you.”
“Fink.”
He chuckled. “U-ey, tell us about the wedding plans.”
“Wedding plans?” I shrieked and swatted Delilah. “You’re getting married? When? How could you not tell me?” I batted her a second time.
“Ow. Cut it out.” Delilah flicked me back. “We just decided. An hour ago.” She whisked her dark curls over
her shoulders and eagle-eyed Urso. “Obviously my adorable man told Jordan before I could tell you.”
Urso winked at me. “Guys like to share things when they’re slicing and dicing.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Delilah joshed.
“Okay,” I said. “From the beginning. Have you two set a date?”
“We’re thinking the fall.” Delilah speared a piece of her salad.
Urso said, “I’m up for July.”
“It’s too hot in July.” Delilah fanned herself coyly. “A bride doesn’t like to sweat.”
“It seems I don’t have a vote.” Urso elbowed her; she giggled.
Joy soared through me to see them so happy.
“Tyanne’s going to put the whole thing together,” Delilah said then popped a morsel of salad into her mouth.
“So, you know before me, too?” I said to Tyanne and eyeballed Delilah.
Tyanne tucked a hair behind her ear. “I’m envisioning pale orange—”
“Ew.” Delilah plunked her fork on her plate. “Uh-uh. No way. I’m not a pale anything.”
“No kidding,” Urso said.
Everyone laughed.
“Big, bright, bold.” Delilah threw her arms wide. “Maybe red.”
Urso knuckled her in the ribcage. “You scarlet woman.”
“I adore red. Haven’t you paid attention? The color scheme at The Country Kitchen—that’s mine.”
The conversation during the rest of the salad appetizer revolved around which flowers and what music they should have for the ceremony. Neither Urso nor Delilah got annoyed that everyone had an opinion. It was like naming babies. Family members could chime in with ideas like Fred, Ned, or Zed, but in the end, it was the couple’s decision. Personally, I liked the name Han Solo.
Kids . . .
“Charlotte?” Jordan was hovering behind my chair ready to move it backward. “Hello? Would you like to stand? We’re moving on to the next course.” He kissed my neck. “What were you thinking about?”