For Cheddar or Worse (23 page)

CHAPTER

“Charlotte, I need Matthew!” Meredith barked. “And I need to lie down. Now! And not in that order.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Gingerly I ushered her from Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe to Fromagerie Bessette and settled her onto the sofa in the office. Rags, the sweet boy, sprang beside her to nurture her. Giggling, Meredith fought off wet kitty kisses while I fetched Matthew, who begged off the rest of the workday and escorted his wife home. She was fine. No worries. But no more overdoing it.

Throughout the afternoon, in between sales, which thanks to the Street Scene soared beyond our expectations, Rebecca asked me to replay my encounter with Shayna. She picked apart every word Shayna said and decided she was
guilty
. Fine and dandy, I told her, but I had nothing I could share with Urso. It was all conjecture.

At dusk, just as I was turning over the
Open
sign to
Closed
, Pépère and Grandmère arrived. Grandmère bustled
to me and opened her arms for a hug. “Ready?” She kissed me on each cheek.

“For . . .”

“Have you forgotten? It is Tuesday evening. The first round of tastings is tonight. You are one of the judges.”

The cheese competition. Of course. Yipes! My grandparents and I were to taste this evening's first-round selections of Cheddar cheeses and jettison nine competitors. Tomorrow, my grandparents and a local restaurateur would determine the second-round winner. All of us would judge the two finalists on Friday. A pair of city councilwomen would tally the ballots.

“You have forgotten,” Grandmère said. “
Mon dieu.
”

“I didn't forget. My days are simply blending together because . . .” I didn't need to finish. My grandparents nodded in understanding:
Lara's murder
. I mustered up a smile. “I'm game.”

Rebecca winked. “No rest for the weary. Go. I'll close up.”

The cheese competition stage, three times the length of any other stage, was set up near The White Horse. Ten competitors, made up of four large dairy concerns and six artisanal farmsteads including Two Plug Nickels Farm, which was owned by Urso's folks, were vying for the first-round win. Each competitor was stationed at a table with two chairs. Placards describing the cheese tastings stood on each table.

I roamed from one competitor to the next and found myself smiling while reading the various signs:

For a white Cheddar:
Nutty, funky, multifaceted. This cow's milk cheese from Holmes County has a gentle sweetness that shores up the other elements, sort of like Muhammad Ali, anytime other than when he was inside the ropes.

For a rustic-colored bandaged Cheddar:
The rough-and-tumble Tommy Lee Jones of the cheese world, this Cheddar has a tan, leathery exterior that surrounds a gentle yellow paste.

For a marbled Cheddar from Wisconsin:
Piano-playing
cats. Wrestling puppies. Toddlers dressed in white, yet covered in mud. Do you see where we're going? Too cute for words. Yes, indeedy. This cheese is so cute you'll just want to lap it up.

As I was polishing off a morsel of the
cute
Cheddar, which had a fine grit that finished with delicious notes of caramel and pecans, Clair and Amy dashed to the raised stage and yelled my name. I waved. Both waved back. Matthew materialized behind them.

“It's late,” I said. “Don't you girls have school tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Amy replied, “but Daddy told us we needed to get out of the house.”

“Meredith needs some alone time,” Clair added.

A pit formed in the hollow of my stomach. I eyed Matthew with concern.

“Don't worry.” He smiled tightly. “She's fine. She overdid it earlier.”

“You should see Rocket,” Amy said. “He's like a nurse.”

“You mean a sentry.” Clair paced back and forth. “One bark”—she
arf
ed—“means ‘I love you, and I'm here for you.'”

“Double-bark”—Amy
yipped
twice—“means ‘Get back in bed. Don't move.'”

The girls giggled.

Matthew nudged the twins. “Let's let Aunt Charlotte do her work.” He nodded toward the cheese I had just tasted. “Good stuff?”

“Heaven.” I wouldn't need dinner after all I had consumed, although a glass of an Italian prosecco would taste great. The White Horse had a terrific selection.

As Matthew and the girls moved on, Grandmère poked my elbow. “
Chérie
, it's time. This way.” She nudged me toward the end of the platform where we would fill out our ballots, rating each cheese maker from one to ten. “Have you selected a winner?”

“I have, but I won't tell you who.”

Immediately after I cast my ballot, my grandparents
suggested we go to Café au Lait for a coffee. So much for a glass of wine.

The tables outside and inside Café au Lait were filled. At one table, Sylvie sat with her archenemy Prudence Hart. Both were dressed in silver sweaters, and shock of all shocks, they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Had the two dress shop competitors established a truce? Was Sylvie trying to enlist Prudence's help in shutting down the Street Scene? Had she and her lawyer met with my grandmother?

Sylvie wiggled her fingers at me. “Hello, Charlotte . . . Bernadette.” The latter she said with a sneer.

“Sylvie,” Grandmère muttered with affected sweetness, which I took to mean that she
had
met with Sylvie and the lawyer, and the meeting had gone
her
way.

“Bernadette, a word, please,” Prudence said. “Where's my antique?”

I realized I had forgotten to inform my grandmother that Lois had repaired the cheese grater. I whispered the news to my grandmother and said it was resting on the director's chair in my office. She promised to fetch it tomorrow and, ignoring Prudence, prodded my grandfather inside the shop. A bullet train couldn't have fled from view faster.

“Well, I never,” Prudence mumbled.

Sylvie harrumphed then tapped my arm. “Charlotte, love, stay a moment. You've got to hear what Pru just told me.”

Pru
? Only Prudence's closest friends were allowed to call her that.

“She heard Victor and that murder victim”—Sylvie paused for effect—“arguing. Right here. On Friday afternoon.”

Join the crowd,
I thought. Victor and Lara must not have been very discreet.

“Is that true, Prudence?” I asked.

Even on the best of days, Prudence looked like she had swallowed a lemon. There was tart judgment in her glare. “Yes.”

“Just between us girls,” Sylvie said, her voice half as
loud as normal, “Pru has been spending a lot of time here lately.”

Prudence spanked Sylvie's hand playfully. “Shh.”

Sylvie swatted her back and continued in a whisper. “She's interested in the new owner. Have you seen him? Quite the looker.”

I said, “I thought you had your heart set on Herbert, Prudence.” Herbert Hemming, the widowed owner of The Silver Trader, was dapper and well traveled.

Prudence sniffed. “He's fallen for someone else.”

Was it Jacky?
I wondered. At Tip to Toe Salon, she had been so secretive about her new love interest.

“What does it matter?” Sylvie said. “You know Herbert isn't good enough for you. And William”—she pointed inside Café au Lait—“is.”

Inside the café, the new owner, who sort of reminded me of Victor Wolfman with his fake tan and thick mane of dark hair, was strolling between tables, spiritedly greeting customers. I couldn't imagine anyone
less
suited to Prudence.

“He's the right age,” Sylvie went on.

“Age isn't everything,” I said.

“True, but he's interested in all the same things that Prudence is. Art. Antiques. Books.” Sylvie ticked them off on her manicured fingertips.

“I had no idea,” I said. “Oh, look, he's heading this way.”

Prudence tilted her face to Sylvie for inspection. “How's my makeup?”

“Perfect.”

I had to admit I was astounded by the women's budding friendship. Who'd have
thunk!
“Oh, wait,” I said. “He's turning around.”

Prudence sank sulkily into her bony frame.

“I've suggested Prudence ask him out,” Sylvie said. “What do you think, Charlotte?”

“Why not? It's a brave new world. Say, while you're working up the courage, Prudence, fill me in on what Sylvie mentioned a moment ago. You heard Lara and Victor arguing.”

Prudence bobbed her head. “Lara said she wanted him to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I'm not sure. She tried to grab his cell phone.”

“Was he texting someone?”

“I assume so, but oh no”—Prudence brandished a finger—“he was having none of her interference. No, siree.”

My mind percolated with theories as I replayed Ryan's and Lois's similar accounts. Whoever Victor was texting had mattered to Lara. Why? Did Victor kill Lara to keep his secret hush-hush?

CHAPTER

Later that night when Jordan arrived home, I was sound asleep and in no shape to talk about my various theories. I think I mumbled:
Victor's cell phone
, and I was pretty sure Jordan asked what I meant, but I couldn't remember answering.

At six
A.M.
Wednesday morning, my beloved was in about the same state of deep sleep that I had been in at two. I wrote him a note telling him I would call later, and then I fed Rags and headed to work. A glass of milk and a wedge of yesterday's quiche—there was only one slice left—made for a delicious and filling breakfast.

During the first two hours, I baked the daily quiches and assembled a dozen sandwiches: six on steak rolls using sopressata, chopped olives, and Meadow Creek Dairy's Grayson cheese, a luscious cheese with a reddish-orange rind and a solid earthy nuance, and six on Kaiser rolls pairing the sopressata with a tangy goat cheese.

Close to opening, Rebecca dashed into the shop. She let the door slam shut. “I'm sorry I'm late. I meant to call, but I
got all wrapped up, and . . .” She clapped her hands. “Oh, Charlotte, it's so wonderful. It's done!”

“What's done?”

“I'm free! My last bill is paid off. I'm so happy, I want to jump for joy.”

“Jump away.”

“I did. This morning. On my bed.” She spun in a circle and teetered to regain her balance. “I think . . .” She chewed her lip. “I want to go home and tell my father.”

“Your father? Why?” She hadn't seen him since he came to town the day after her grandmother passed away. He brought Rebecca her grandmother's shawl. They didn't speak more than a dozen words. He was still upset that she had left the Amish community.

Rebecca said, “I want to brag about how well I'm doing. I know, bragging isn't holy, but Papa thinks I got sucked into the material world, and for a while, I did. Now I'm free. I can rebuild my life, starting with me from the inside out.” She mimed unlocking shackles from her wrists. “Nothing has its hold on me. Isn't it wonderful? I want him to be proud. What do you think?”

“Do what feels right.”

“I won't be gone for more than a couple of days.”

“Take as long as you need.”

Another wave of joy bubbled through her. She skipped to the rack near the rear exit to shed her coat and fetch an apron.

The front door opened, and Jordan strolled into the shop looking as handsome as I had ever seen him, casually dressed in a white shirt and jeans, hair tousled, eyes glistening with impish delight. What secret was he hiding? He said, “Are you open?”

“For you, always.”

He offered a cockeyed grin, and I went gooey in the middle. How I loved the long dimple that etched his right cheek. I scooted around the counter, enveloped him in my arms, and planted a warm kiss on his lips.

He held me at arm's length. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Why are you here?”

“Of all things, I need cheese, and I heard this is the place. Can you help me?”

While I put together a group of three cheeses for his restaurant to use as a dessert selection, including a buttery, peppery stretched-curd cheese called Suffolk Punch from Parish Hill Creamery, Jordan said, “By the way, I told you last night, but you probably don't remember. You were sound asleep. I've got two interviews scheduled this afternoon to hire a second-in-command.”

“That's great. Who?”

“Elizabeth Lattimore, for one.” Elizabeth was a sizeable woman in her fifties who had lived in Providence her entire life. She knew the restaurant business well, having run her folks' place for the past few years. She sold it a month ago, right after she buried her father.

“Who's the other?”

“Heather Hemming.”

A pang of jealousy jolted me. Heather? Sassy, sexy Heather, the silver trader's daughter? All curves and bedroom eyes. Working side by side with Jordan. Holy smoke!

“She's the one I mentioned who has been trying to get ahead at La Bella Ristorante, but—” Jordan halted, a flash of concern in his eyes. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” Jordan took hold of my hand and said to Rebecca, “Can you manage the shop alone for a sec? Charlotte needs a quick break.”

“You got it.” She greeted a customer who was entering.

Jordan led me through the rear door to the town's communal garden that was located in the alley behind the shop, but he didn't stop by the bench in the garden. He guided me to the hothouse at the far end. We entered and he locked the door. “Talk to me.”

“About?”

“You're worried.”

“What would I be worried about?”

“Heather.”

“Heather?” My voice was thin and reedy; I was no actress.

“Charlotte . . .” Jordan tucked a finger under my chin. “Why are you jealous?”

“I'm not . . . Okay, yes, I am and I hate myself for it, but Heather . . .” I pulled away. “She's so . . . Every man in town lusts for her.”

Jordan gathered me into his arms. “I'm not every man. No woman, except you, will ever win my heart.” He kissed me fully and deeply, for more than a minute. “Now do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

He caressed my cheek. “Soon, we'll be spending evenings together again. That's why I'm hiring someone. Remember? And then you and I will have lots of time to work on making a family.”

Without another word, he exited the greenhouse, leaving me breathless and fully focused on my age and my health and, well, not much else.

Not until I had returned inside The Cheese Shop did I realize that, swept up in the heat of the moment, I had forgotten to tell Jordan about Shayna or Victor or
anything
. I yanked my cell phone from my trouser pocket and punched in his number; he didn't answer. Rats.

“Charlotte,” Rebecca said as she finished up with the customer at the register. “Look who's here.”

Urso and O'Shea stood by the counter peering at the contents within. Both had removed their hats. “What's the special today?” Urso asked.

I said, “Two. Both with sopressata.” I described the goat cheese I'd used, a Cheddar made by Avalanche Cheese Company, a concern in Paonia, Colorado, run by a former restaurateur who traveled the British Isles to learn the art of cheese making. “It's been aged for about a year, and made like a traditional British Cheddar, only with goats' milk. I've added crushed olives and basil. It's on a Kaiser roll.”

I didn't need to describe the other choice. Urso said, “Two of the goat cheese sandwiches, please.”

Rebecca joined me and whispered, “How do I tell Devon?”

“Tell him what?”

“About wanting to go home to see Papa.”

“Are you worried you'll want to move back?”

“Uh-uh. No way.”

“Then simply tell him.” I nudged her with my hip. “Go outside. Now. To the garden. Talk. Communication is important.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat. “Deputy,” she said, “got a moment? I'd like to discuss something.”

O'Shea turned to his boss for the okay.

Urso nodded. “But be brief. We have interviews to conduct.”

Rebecca and O'Shea scooted outside.

“Speaking of interviews, U-ey . . . Umberto,” I corrected myself. If Delilah could change her ways, so could I. “Have you met with Victor Wolfman?”

“About?”

“The murder, of course.” I wrapped up the pair of sandwiches. “I assume that's what your interviews are about.”

He didn't dispute me.

“Did Prudence Hart contact you?” I asked. “She has information about Victor.”

“Charlotte, cool it. I'm going to stop coming in here if you grill me every time I do.”

“Are you going to avoid me around town, too?” I sassed.

He sighed. “Just once it would be nice if you asked me about my life or the wedding or something other than murder.”

I plopped the sandwiches into a bag and added a fork-knife-napkin package with a
thunk
. “How are the wedding plans going?”

“Great.”

“How's your health?”

“Excellent.”

“Super! We got that out of the way. Look, U-ey . . .” I
drew in a breath and let it out. “Umberto, I'm allowed to know what's going on, and—”

“Quigley Pressman thinks he has the scoop,” Urso snapped. “Read his byline.”

“
And
”—I stressed the word, ignoring his testy interruption—“I'm allowed to tell you what I know. I hope everyone in Providence would do the same. Good citizenship is vital to the strength of a community.”

“Says who?”

“Says my grandmother, the mayor.”

I lasered him with a look. He mimicked me. We held the staring contest a full half minute. I know because I counted off the seconds in my head.

“Go on,” he said, breaking the stalemate, which meant I won.

“Lara and Victor were overheard arguing. He was texting someone. She warned him to stop.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe she was jealous. It might have been about his business.”

“Who heard them?”

“Ryan, Lois, and Prudence.”

“I've spoken with Mr. Harris.”

“Which means neither Lois or Prudence has touched base with you.” So much for good citizenship, I noted. “If you'll permit me . . .”

I motioned for him to take a seat. He settled onto one of the ladder-back chairs at the tasting counter. I perched on the other and fleshed out the sketchy details of each account.

“Disagreeing about the way to handle something is not necessarily a reason for murder,” Urso said. “If so, either you or I would be dead.” He offered a bordering-on-nasty grin. “But just to set you straight, no matter what the accounts, Victor Wolfman is cleared because he has an alibi for the time of death, which the coroner has set between ten
P.M.
and midnight.”

I gaped. “Are you sure about the time? What about Kandice claiming to hear a violin at eleven thirty?”

Urso clicked his tongue to make a point. “That pretty much limits the murder to a half-hour window, don't you think?”

“Unless the murderer strummed the strings on purpose to set a later time, or plucked the violin accidentally, while escaping.”

“Aye, there's the rub.
Escaping
.” He thumped the counter. “In order to escape, one needs to have entered.”

“You still haven't figured out how the killer got in or out?”

“Nope.” In his tone, I heard a world of weary. “We've been over every inch of wall and floor space.”

“Either way, the coroner's finding rules out Erin as a suspect.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, because Andrew remembers her being in his room at that time.”

“Does he?”

I squirmed. Who knew what Andrew would remember?
Up, up, up
;
down, down, down. Eleven thirty, eleven forty, two, two, two
. What was he trying to say? That Erin left the room at one or all of those times?

Reluctant to voice what was cycling through my mind, I said, “It eliminates Ryan as a suspect, I guess. Not only did Rebecca see him in town after eleven, but Kandice heard him returning to the inn after twelve. What is Victor's alibi?”

“Your grandfather saw him in town at eleven fifty-five.”

“But Victor said he came back to the inn at eleven thirty.”

“He was off by a few minutes. No big deal. What matters is your grandfather came forward with his statement.” Urso stood and pulled out a billfold. He ambled to the register to pay for the sandwiches.

I followed and took his cash.

“He, like you”—Urso winked—“is a concerned citizen.”

“Pépère's eyesight isn't that good,” I argued. “Especially late at night. He could have mistaken Victor for the new
owner of Café au Lait, William what's-his-name. They look similar. Their thick dark hair, the way they strut.”

Urso pocketed his wallet and wedged his hat onto his head. “Why do you want Victor to be guilty?”

“Because he's a fool.”

“Being a fool doesn't make a person a killer. Otherwise—”

I jabbed a finger at him. “Don't say it.”

Urso laughed heartily. “Be safe, Charlotte. And call me U-ey.” He strode to the rear door, whipped it open, and bellowed, “Deputy, let's go!”