by Avery Aames
On the way back to the shop, I phoned her and reached her voice mail. I left a message for her to call me. The moment I entered Fromagerie Bessette, I drank in the aroma of cheese and drew strength from the fact that this was what I knew; this was my past and my future. Jordan and I would figure out what was in store for us, given time. I weaved between the display barrels, greeting customers as I passed before moving behind the cheese counter.
Fridays at The Cheese Shop can be hectic. Everybody is getting ready for the weekend, stocking up on platters and buying cheese to use in recipes they’ll have time to make.
Rebecca, whose cheeks were rosy red from working so hard, was designing one of the many Valentine’s baskets that customers had preordered. “Morning,” she said as if last night hadn’t happened. I could tell by her tight jaw and sharp focus that she was keeping up appearances for the customers. She jutted a pair of scissors. “Check out the decorations I put up.”
The walls of the shop were a Tuscany gold. Hardwood floors and rustic shelving enhanced the shop’s old-world charm. Rebecca had hung strands of sparkling gold hearts across the glass-enclosed cheese case and had set a foot-high gold Cupid on top of the granite tasting countertop.
“Nice,” I said.
“Do you like what I did in the display window?” She had set three baskets in the window, each filled with jams, honey, crackers, and a pretty cheese-cutting board. She’d attached gold and silver helium balloons to each.
“Very nice.”
“What about the cutouts?”
In each of the windows, she had hung silhouettes of hearts, flowers, and lovebirds.
“It all looks great,” I said. “By the way, thanks for covering this morning.”
“You bet.” She looked as if she wanted to corner me and ply me with questions, but a fresh flow of customers entered the shop.
When the customers dwindled to six, Rebecca ushered me toward the kitchen. I stopped short of entering.
“Spill,” she rasped. “What happened? Who did it? You found Tim? It’s so horrible. I can’t believe it.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “By the way, everyone in town is talking about it. You don’t need to keep it a secret. The word is out. Do you know that farmer who makes the baby Swiss cheese? He attended Jordan’s bachelor party. He came in earlier and was blabbing.”
Swell. Now tales would spread all over town.
“I called Devon. He hasn’t returned my call.” The tears leaked down Rebecca’s cheeks. She wiped them off. “I sensed something was wrong. Last night. When you ran out with Devon. Delilah and I went to the pub after you did. That’s where I called you from. Nobody would say anything. But I knew.” Rebecca sighed. “Poor Tim. He was such a nice guy. I can’t imagine anyone wanting him dead. C’mon, tell me, what happened? Who did it?”
Before I could answer, she pelted me with another string of questions. I pointed out that we had to attend to our customers, but she couldn’t be deterred. She assured me our hushed conversation wouldn’t squelch their excitement. None were standing at the cheese counter or by the register. They were roaming the new displays of cheese platters and wineglasses. My cousin Matthew suggested that if we increased the amount of giftware we sold in the store, we would boost the sale of our edible goods, not to mention that selling wineglasses would encourage customers to mosey into the wine annex. The wine-and-cheese-pairing event set for Thursday was nearly sold out. Thirty couples and a few singles would come for an education.
Rebecca gestured to the customers. “Look at them,” she whispered. “Everyone in town is lit up with love. Those two over there”—she pointed at a man standing with a woman who looked younger than him by a good ten years—“did a Valentine photo shoot at Snapshots & More.” Snapshots was a boutique photography store that offered all sorts of cute memory gimmicks, including photos and ceramic handprints of children and pets. “And those two?” She pointed toward an elderly couple. “They renewed their vows beside the tower in the Village Green, exactly at the strike of noon, which is when they got married sixty years ago. Grandmère presided over the ceremony. How cool is that? I’m telling you, nothing—not even murder—is going to throw a wrench into the town’s festivities. Now, talk.”
Quickly I summarized what we had discovered at Pace Hill Farm. Tim’s truck, the button from his shirt, and Tim dead in the vat of milk.
“Does Urso have a suspect?”
“Violet Walden—”
“She did it?”
“No. She was at the pub with Paige Alpaugh. Violet saw Tim drive off in his truck. She said Jawbone Jones chased him. Ray Pfeiffer, who was also at the pub with his wife, backed that up. He claimed Jawbone and Tim had an argument. He saw Jawbone poke Tim in the chest. Ray doesn’t know what they might have been arguing about, but like Violet, he saw Jawbone take off after Tim.”
“Hmm.” Rebecca toyed with a strand of hair.
“What?”
“Do you know Jawbone very well?” she asked.
“I’ve only interacted with him here. I know, in addition to Vermont Shepherd Invierno, he likes Fiscalini Bandaged Cheddar.” The cheese was a product of Fiscalini Farms in Modesto, California, and literally sang with the ripe notes of butter and sweet grass.
“I went into his gun store once.”
For some reason the notion that my darling, formerly Amish assistant had ventured into a gun shop shocked me. I always thought that the Amish didn’t bear arms; they won’t serve in the military or law enforcement or any kind of career that requires them to use guns.
“Don’t look so stunned,” Rebecca went on. “Guns are not verboten to the Amish.”
“They’re not forbidden?”
“Heavens, no. We have them to kill pests. I know a farmer who uses a gun to get rid of groundhogs. They can ruin a crop. And I even know some Amish who like to hunt for sport. The Amish simply won’t shoot people.”
Wow. I had no clue. “So you’ve fired a gun?”
“Me? No!” She shook her head vehemently. “My father never let me handle one, but a few months ago, I was concerned about what I was seeing on the news, you know, all the attacks on schools and at airports, and I was curious to know more about guns.”
I tried my best not to watch the news except around voting time. I admit, it wasn’t a very enlightened way to approach life, but hearing about world tragedies and political nonsense often made me sick to my stomach.
“I wanted to see how it felt to hold a gun,” Rebecca said. “I wanted to understand the allure. So I went to Lock Stock and Barrel. It’s real clean and spare. There were a few people there, shooting in the gallery. Jawbone—he told me to call him Jawbone—fitted me with a Remington and said, ‘Remember, little lady, guns don’t kill people; people kill people.’”
“And . . . how did it feel?”
“Cold.” She shivered. “Jawbone was really nice about it. The rifle was empty, so it was safe, he assured me. He wedged it against my shoulder and placed my hands in the right position, and then he helped me aim it at a target. He has narrow, long fingers, by the way. Like a musician.”
“Did you pull the trigger?”
“No. I couldn’t. I froze.”
I gawked at her, wishing I could swaddle her in bubble wrap to shield her from harm forever. She was such an innocent. “Well, for now, I’d keep a wide berth from Jawbone. He is the number one suspect in Tim’s murder.”
“Why would he want Tim dead?”
“Good question.” I recalled Urso asking about Jawbone’s motive. If not him, who else might have wanted Tim dead? Dottie had hinted that Councilwoman Bell complained about the noise at the pub. She had also suggested that Frank Mueller, jealous over how Violet was flirting with Tim, might have lashed out. I didn’t know that side of Frank. He seemed an even-tempered man, kind to his employees and welcoming to customers, but lots of people could put on a good face for the
public.
If only I knew what Tim had seen.
Rebecca said, “Do you think the killer dumped Tim in the vat, hoping no one would find him until the next day’s cheese making began, so it would throw off the time of death?”
“What TV show did you learn that from?”
“That’s a classic forensic assumption.” Soon after Rebecca had left her community, she became a mystery and crime show aficionado. She watched them on television and streamed them on the Internet. “Maybe it was a crime of passion. Maybe Tim and Jawbone were both in love with Tyanne.”
At that exact moment, Tyanne entered the shop. She looked frazzled, her hair messed and her cheeks wan. She hadn’t put on any lipstick, and she wasn’t wearing hot pink, the color she’d declared she would wear the entire Valentine season. Instead, she was dressed in a drab black suit that did nothing for her skin tone or sassy figure.
I hurried to her and put my arm around her. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Oh, sugar. My sweet Tim. Murdered. I can’t believe it.” She sucked in a dry breath while fanning herself with a fistful of flyers. “I loved him, Charlotte.”
“I know.”
“We were good together. He told the funniest jokes. He said he adored the sound of my laugh.”
“He did. I could tell you two were meant to be.”
Could Dottie Pfeiffer have been mistaken about Violet flirting with Tim? Perhaps I could forget about Frank Mueller attacking Tim in a jealous rage. However, what if Violet, feeling rejected because Tim was so obviously in love with Tyanne, had lit into Tim? No, she couldn’t have killed him. She had a solid alibi. She was at the pub with Paige.
“What’re those?” I asked, pointing to the flyers in Tyanne’s hand.
Tyanne sighed as if the anguish of the world continuing in Tim’s absence were cutting out a piece of her insides. “There’s going to be an event at All Booked Up on Tuesday afternoon.”
My business-savvy grandmother, by divvying up the center of town into four districts, had ensured that all of the businesses would benefit from the flow of tourists. The shops and restaurants on Cherry Orchard would make merry on Monday. Honeysuckle businesses would revel on Tuesday. The places on Main Street would share Wednesday. My neighbors and I on Hope Street would celebrate Thursday, hence why we were having the wine-and-cheese-pairing event.
“It’s called the Lovers Lane reading,” Tyanne went on. “Octavia is so excited about it.” Octavia Tibble owned All Booked Up, one of the most prestigious independent bookstores in Ohio. I could always rely on her to suggest good books to read. Like I, she enjoyed a great mystery. “She’s serving tea and scones. People can dress for the occasion, if they desire.” Octavia had turned the shop into a destination spot. It didn’t hurt that she was also the town’s librarian and had enticed a few of her elderly readers to donate some very special first-edition books that made all sorts of people come to town for a peek. Tyanne heaved another pain-filled sigh. “I was planning on going with Tim, but now . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I took her hand and ushered her to one of the stools by the tasting counter. “Have you eaten today?”
“How could I? My appetite is nonexistent. It’s a happy, blissful time in paradise,” she chirped, though, clearly, her spirit was not in it. “That’s what I’m saying to all my clients. Fake it, you own it, right?” Her voice caught. “Can you believe I have four weddings in the next eight days? Four. Count them. And there are sure to be some spur-of-the-moment occasions. Ah, me.” She set her elbow on the counter and rested her forehead in the cup of her hand, and then her reserve broke. She sobbed.
I stroked her back until she regained control, then I spread a cracker with a luscious amount of a creamy goat cheese from our local Emerald Pasture Farms, and handed it to her. “Eat. You need to keep up your strength. For your kids.” She had two; a boy the twins’ age, and a younger girl. “For your clients, too. They deserve your undivided attention.”
“You’re right.” She bit into the tidbit. “Do you know when the funeral will be for Tim?”
“I’m sure the family will put it together once the coroner releases the body.”
Tyanne nodded. “Of course.”
“This cheese is laced with lavender,” I said. “Did you know lavender is rich with aromatic esters? It’s good for healing as well as anxiety.”
Rebecca joined us, carrying a partially filled glass of sparkling wine. “Drink this, Tyanne.” She thrust the glass at her. “It’s barely two ounces. You won’t get soused. Matthew tells me it pairs perfectly with the cheese and calms a whole passel of nerves.”
Tyanne obeyed. After taking a sip, although her color didn’t improve, she did sit straighter in her chair. “Why did Tim go to Jordan’s farm, Charlotte?”
“Tim called his nephew. He left an urgent albeit muddled message. He said he saw something. When he couldn’t reach Deputy O’Shea, he went in search of Urso.”
“I don’t understand. Tim wasn’t the impulsive type in any way, shape, or form. Not in business. Not in life.” Tyanne finished her morsel then wiped her hands on a Valentine-themed napkin. “Following his engagement to that young woman—” She cleared her throat. “You heard about that, right?”
“For the first time last night.”
“Tim never wanted to jump into dangerous waters again without knowing all the downsides. That’s why we were taking it slowly. Dating. No introductions to family, even though he adored his family. No spending the night at each other’s houses. Not yet. What could have gotten him so heated up?”
I told her what I knew of his message to Deputy O’Shea.
“Do you think he saw a crime going down?” she asked.
“Hey,” Rebecca cut in. “What if he saw an escaped convict? Don’t restaurants and bars receive those printed notices like police precincts do?”
“Whatever he saw,” I said, “it made him race off.”
“Why didn’t he call Chief Urso on the telephone?” Tyanne asked.
“Cell reception was bad last night. What I want to know is why didn’t he send a text message?”
“No, no. Tim wouldn’t text. Not ever.” Tyanne shook her head. “He was a romantic. Words, he said, were meant to be uttered aloud or put into handwriting. Nothing digital. Not even an email.” She wrapped her arms around herself and hugged. The effort made her shudder. “Golly, I’m going to miss him.”
“Would you like something warm to drink?” I asked.
“I’m fine.” She sighed. “Tim said he had a surprise for me on Valentine’s Day. I think he’d finally found the courage to ask me to marry him.”
A sense of gloom welled up within me. “That reminds me. Did you get my voice mail message?”
“I did. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. What did you want to talk about?”
“Jordan and I—” I swallowed hard. “We’re going to postpone our wedding.”
CHAPTER
“What?” Tyanne and Rebecca shrieked in unison.
I held my hands in a T for timeout while glancing around the shop. None of the customers appeared to be listening in. The pair who had taken photos at Snapshots were still browsing the gift displays. The others were filling their shopping baskets with goodies.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “We’re still getting married. We didn’t think, what with Tim dying and the murder happening at the farm, and—” A tiny moan escaped my lips. “We’ll pick another day; we haven’t done so yet, but we will. And Tyanne, you’ll be paid for everything to date.”
“Sugar, I’m not worried about the money, but shouldn’t we keep the date and simply change the venue? I’m sure we could drum up someplace special. That chapel in the hills or the library or even here. We could decorate the wine annex with—”
“No. Thanks. The mood . . .” I shook my head. “No.”
Tyanne slung an arm around me. “Now I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Rebecca joined the group hug.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Truly. I want to find out who killed Tim first. Then we—all of us—can move on.”
“Aha!” Rebecca said. “So you’re going to investigate.”
“Will you, Charlotte?” Tyanne blurted. “Oh, please, say yes.”
“No, I’m not.” Okay, I would if I could, but I had nothing. No clues, no hunches. “No,” I repeated. “Urso has it handled. He’s personally invested, and we all know Deputy O’Shea won’t let this rest.”
Believing the only way for me to keep myself calm was to get busy, I did exactly that. After Tyanne left and while I waited for customers to finish making their choices, I tidied the cheese cases and created a few new flags to stick into some of them. For the award-winning Hooligan cheese from Cato Corner Farm, I wrote: So stinky it’s got to be good. For the Hubbardston Blue, a creamy goat cheese with a subtle gray rind and the flavor of truffles, I wrote: This cheese will chase away the blues and mend a broken heart. After I added the new flags, I made silver snowflake silhouettes and added them to the others in the display windows.
When customers concluded their business and the store was once again empty, I retreated to the office and set to work on our website. Without my Internet guru to help, it was worse than tedious. I was almost as bad at website design as I was at drawing and painting. I struggled with placing the photographs of the Valentine’s baskets in the right place. They kept bouncing from the right margin to the left. If I had enough time, I would put myself through a weeklong website design course, but I didn’t, so I continued to struggle, one click and drag at a time.
Around one P.M., when I realized noon had come and gone and I was starving, I hurried to the kitchen and fetched the last slice of pomegranate, sage, and crème fraîche quiche. I’d set aside a piece two days ago; it was one of my favorites. The flavors melded together into a delicious mouthful of yum.
