by Avery Aames
I laughed. “I’m being out-of-my-mind ridiculous, aren’t I? The next thing you know—”
Someone rapped on the wooden back of our booth.
CHAPTER
“I thought it was you two.” Violet poked her head around the pub’s banquette and wiggled her fingers at Delilah and me. She looked almost pretty in tailored trousers and a snug sweater, her hair hanging loosely around her shoulders. “Hi, ladies.” She left her booth, wineglass in hand, and slid into ours. “Mind if I join you?”
“Who are you with?” I thumbed toward the booth she’d been occupying.
“Me, myself, and I. Paige and the others left a while ago. We were having an Internet buzz class. I figure anything I can glean will help the B&B.”
Hmm. I hadn’t seen Paige or Violet’s other friends exiting. Was Violet lying about having a meeting so she could tail me and find out what I was investigating? Okay, now I wasn’t simply out-of-my-mind ridiculous; I was officially paranoid.
Violet hoisted her glass of bubbly-looking wine. “I thought I’d finish my spritzer while writing down notes from the meeting.” She brandished a spiral-bound booklet. If she was tailing me, she had gone to some length to establish a cover. “I couldn’t help overhearing you talk about Belinda Bell.”
Sure she could have. We were whispering. She had to have craned her ears to listen in.
“You know,” Violet went on while running her finger along the collar of her sweater, “I saw Belinda when I left the pub the night Tim died. She was getting into that tank of a Chevy she drives. It looked like she was saying good-bye to some guy in a big, dark truck. I probably shouldn’t make more of it than it was. I mean, Belinda’s allowed to date, being a widow and all. Her husband, rest his soul, used to stay at my inn whenever they were separated.” She tilted her head and tsked. “Don’t look so shocked, Charlotte. People—”
“Was the truck gray?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think it was Jawbone Jones.”
“It couldn’t have been him. You saw him drive off.”
“What if he came back?” Violet said.
“He didn’t. He was at a jam session.”
“Says who?”
“His band partner, Ilona Mueller.”
Violet raised a skeptical eyebrow, not believing a word.
“How do you know that, Charlotte?” Delilah cut in. I was surprised she was able to keep up with the conversation, seeing as she was repeatedly checking her text messages.
I said, “Urso mentioned it.”
Delilah set her cell phone aside, facedown, and wagged a gleeful finger. “So he is consulting you.”
“No, he’s not.”
Violet said, “Did you tell him Jawbone threatened Tim if he didn’t sell the pub to him?”
“I did, but Urso said since a year or more had passed—”
“I still put my money on Jawbone having killed Tim.” Violet shifted in her seat. “Here’s why. If it was Jawbone in that truck—I’m just saying it could have been—and if there wasn’t anything romantic going down between him and Belinda Bell, then why else would they meet? Zow! It came to me.” She tapped her head. “What if Jawbone was bribing someone on the city council—okay, Bell—to ensure easier gun regulations? The county has been setting all sorts of restrictions. A gun shop owner must hate that.” Violet glimpsed her watch and leaped to her feet. “Oh, sorry, I’ve gotta run. I have another appointment.”
“What kind of appointment could you have at this time of night?” Delilah teased.
“It’s with a client at the hotel,” Violet said defensively. “He sells gym equipment.”
“Uh-huh.” Delilah smirked. “Hope you get a good, um, workout.”
Violet laughed; she sounded like an air conditioner on the fritz, with all the hissing coming through her nose. “Get your mind out of the gutter. See you.”
She headed for the exit, and the front door opened. Ray Pfeiffer entered. He shuffled to the bar and perched on a stool. Violet swung by and patted him on the back, offering her condolences, I was pretty sure. Ray nodded his thanks, and Violet left.
Delilah leaned closer. “You know, seeing Violet and how trim she’s gotten made me think of another angle regarding Belinda Bell. What if the scent of the food coming from Dottie’s shop was driving Bell to distraction?”
“I’m not following.”
“Bell is forever trying to lose weight. At the diner, she either orders the diet special or the protein platter. No sugar or fats for her. I couldn’t even get her to try the grilled cheese competition’s winning sandwich, even though everyone in town is ordering it. Pears, blue cheese, and bacon. The flavors melt together in a sassy way with just the right amount of bite.” For years, Delilah had been vying to hold a Midwest grilled cheese competition at the diner. In January, her dream had become a reality. Over five hundred people had shown up to watch or participate.
“No sugar, no fats,” I said more to myself than to Delilah while wondering whether Paige Alpaugh had a hand in the councilwoman’s new health kick. Was Paige trying to convert everyone in town to her way of thinking? Could she have had anything to do with Dottie’s death? A pastry had been crammed into Dottie’s mouth. Was that symbolic? Paige’s flyer read: Sugar kills. No subtlety there. And she was in the vicinity when Dottie was killed. Would she have had any reason to want Timothy O’Shea dead, too?
Heedless of my train of thought, Delilah continued. “Why does Belinda Bell even try to diet? Some people are born with a shape”—she outlined Bell’s bottom-heavy figure—“that no diet can change.”
Ray coughed . . . or was he crying? He sat hunched over his drink, the beer untouched. A serving of carrot sticks with dip also looked untouched.
I whispered, “Poor Ray.”
“Yeah, poor guy. He looks pretty miserable.” Delilah’s cell phone beeped. She flipped it over again to look at the message.
My curiosity couldn’t be curbed. I reached for the phone. She tucked it into her chest.
“C’mon, spill,” I said. “Who’s the lucky guy? Give me a peek.”
“No. Talk to me about Ray. Has he lost weight?”
“He does look leaner.”
“Should I make him a meal and have it delivered? Maybe he could do with a brioche or two.”
The word brioche made me think of Dottie’s brooch. I drummed the table. “Ray thinks Zach Mueller, the kid that worked at the pastry shop, might have killed Dottie to get his hands on an expensive heirloom. A brooch.”
“Zach has an alibi.”
“How do you know that?”
She grinned. “I have my sources.”
“Did you ply Urso for answers?”
“Yes.”
“What did you have to bribe him with, donuts?”
“Pie.” She leaned forward. “He said Zach was talking on the phone to his girlfriend at the time of the murder.”
I couldn’t believe it. Had Zach taken his cue right out of Jawbone Jones’s weak-alibi playbook? “What is the girlfriend’s name?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I assume it’s Belinda Bell’s daughter.”
“Aurora?”
“Bell only has one. Rumor is that Zach and Aurora were going to get married. However, out of the blue, Aurora went to Hollywood, got cast in that series—which didn’t please her mother—and, well, the rest is history.” Delilah’s gaze turned inward. She had always wanted to be a star. She’d failed on Broadway. Was she regretting not having given Hollywood a chance? Her cell phone pinged. She scanned the readout and her eyes lit up, and I realized I needn’t worry about her wanderlust. Her current love would trump her ambition, for now. She typed a message into her phone, hit Send, and eyed me. “Something is bothering you. Talk to me.”
“Doesn’t Aurora live in Los Angeles?”
“Yes. Well, actually, in
Studio City. That’s an area in the valley.”
I did the math regarding time differences. “That would mean Zach and she were talking around four A.M. her time, or earlier.”
“Maybe she was awake because she had to be on the set.”
“On Sunday? Wouldn’t that be a day of rest for her, and if so, wouldn’t she have wanted to sleep until noon? I’ve heard working on a television drama can be exhausting. Fourteen-plus hours a day.” I shook my head. “Talking on the phone is a weak alibi.”
“But if it holds up, then we’re back to Councilwoman Bell and Jawbone being the best suspects, right?”
CHAPTER
First thing Tuesday morning, I popped the pets into my Escort and headed to the twenty-four-hour grocery store. I needed chard for the quiche I intended to make.
“I’m making a quick in-and-out stop,” I assured Rocket and Rags as I rolled down the window an inch, despite the brisk temps, to let in fresh air. “Be good. No barking or hissing.”
The grocery store was nearly empty, as I’d expected. There were only a few other early birds wandering the aisles. While perusing the vegetables, I spied Ray Pfeiffer on the other side of the display. He had a cart loaded with miniature apples and California clementine oranges, the little ones that resembled tangerines.
I swung my cart around next to his. “Hi, Ray.”
He looked up and blinked hard, as if he didn’t recognize me. Finally dawning recognition struck. “Charlotte. I’m sorry. I’m in another world.”
“How are you?”
“Hanging on by a thread.” He offered a weak smile.
“I’m so sorry that I—” That I what? Didn’t get to the pastry shop in time to save Dottie? Didn’t see the killer? Didn’t do something? Could I have? I gestured toward his haul. “Having a party?”
“The memorial service is tomorrow. Family only. Dottie’s sisters and my folks. Urso hasn’t released the body yet, but—” He reddened. “That wasn’t what you were asking me, was it?”
I shook my head.
“This stuff . . .” Ray patted the shopping cart handle. “I’m stocking up on good snacks for the kids that are coming to The Ice Castle this week. We’ve been so busy with all the events. I know it doesn’t seem appropriate that I’m keeping the rink open, but it’s not only Lovers Trail week, it’s also President’s Day and winter break week. A triple-whammy. We are busy beyond our dreams. Dottie . . .” He sighed. “She was so excited about how my business was building. Thanks to the publicity, families from all over are flocking to the arena. We even have a few Olympic hopefuls in the mix. Did you hear that a coach from Chicago moved here recently? Dottie said Providence—the ice rink, her pastry shop, our town—owed it to families to keep kids happy.”
I reached over to Ray and squeezed his arm. “She was a wonderful woman. She will be greatly missed.”
His eyes grew hazy with tears.
***
By the time I’d settled the pets in the office, set the quiches in the oven, and was ready to open the shop, people had lined up outside. I glanced at Rebecca and asked if we had some special promotion going that I didn’t know about.
“Yes.” An impish look brightened her face. “It might have something to do with the window display I put together while you were baking.”
“You rearranged what we had?”
“Busy hands.”
I hurried to the window and peered in. Rebecca had expanded the display she’d created the other day. Now there were three baskets filled with fruit, jams, and crackers. To the arms of each basket, she’d attached more heart-shaped balloons. Beside the baskets, she had placed crystal flutes, bottles of sparkling wine, and a copy of the play Love Letters as well as other romantically themed books—most with bare-chested men. On the window, she had written in foam, “Now is the winter of our content,” which was a play on Shakespeare’s words. She’d added: Come inside and enter to win the Cheese Shop Lovers Trail Basket, which includes two free tickets to Love Letters. Winner announced on Friday.
First to enter the shop was Paige Alpaugh and three of her girlfriends, all of whom were foodie bloggers. Another dozen customers followed. I’d seen Paige earlier on the street chatting with Belinda Bell, and I’d wondered whether she was planning to join Bell in trying to oust my grandmother as mayor.
“I adore what you’ve done to the place, Charlotte.” Paige strolled leisurely between the displays. “All the little cupids and arrows and the Mylar hearts over the archway leading to the wine annex.” She sniggered. Was she being flippant?
Paige crossed to the register and took an entry form. She started filling out her name and address and encouraged her friends to do the same. When they finished and inserted their forms into the satin box Rebecca had created for entries, the foursome resumed roaming the shop. Two picked up containers and read the labels. One tsked. Were they checking out the sugar content in each container? Would my shop make it into one of their blog posts, favorably or unfavorably? Did I care? Yes, ultimately, I did. Reputation mattered.
I crossed to Paige. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Oh, Charlotte. I feel so horrible for you.”
“For me?”
“Finding Dottie like you did.” She shook her head. “Such a tragedy. And to think I’d seen you only minutes before. If I’d detained you in the Village Green, perhaps you could have been spared the heartache. On the other hand . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“On the other hand, what?” I asked.
“Now, please understand”—Paige pursed her lips—“I’m not saying Dottie deserved to die, but she could be such a stickler. I’ll bet she ticked off someone something fierce.”
Her words caught me off guard. Was everyone in town talking about the motive for Dottie’s murder? Wouldn’t promoting Providence by chatting up the Lovers Trail events be a better way to spend one’s time? Heed your advice, Charlotte.
“Did you know Dottie well?” I asked.
“We went to school together. Same graduating class.”
Paige looked years younger than Dottie had. Perhaps her healthy glow was due to the paleo diet she was touting—otherwise known as the caveman diet. It consisted mainly of fish and grass-fed meats, vegetables, and grains. Nothing artificial. Not an ounce of sugar.
“We were at odds so often,” Paige went on. “There I was, campaigning for better food in the cafeteria, while Dottie was touting more comfort food. She swore that comfort food made students study better. Can you imagine? Whenever I eat meatloaf or mashed potatoes, I feel like I’ll sleep for days. Mind you, on occasion, I crave a good macaroni and cheese dish, like that five-cheese recipe you gave me. It was sinful. Truly sinful.” She fanned her well-manicured hand to keep herself from swooning then giggled. “I’m prattling. I hate that. Don’t you?” She wasn’t asking me. She was asking her friends. Each nodded in agreement.
“About Dottie,” I said, trying to propel the conversation forward. Paige must have had a reason to visit the shop, other than commiserating with me or inserting a form into the prize box.
“Yes, back to Dottie,” Paige went on. “She said comfort food made people feel good, and when a person felt good, well, they could be successful. I emphatically disagreed. Denial of body is good for the soul and can lead to inner purity.”
I shifted feet, not understanding why Paige was, as she’d put it, prattling. Did she want me to know the gossip? Was she feeding me information so I could help or hinder the investigation? Frustrated and ready to move on, I cocked a hip. “Paige, get real.”
She widened her eyes, the epitome of innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Why are you telling me all about Dottie? You obviously didn’t like her.”
“No, no, no. That’s not true.” Paige wagged a finger. “I did like Dottie. She had pluck. Right, girls?”
H
er friends bobbed their heads in agreement.
“Dottie danced to the beat of her own drummer. That’s something I tell my daughters to do all the time: March to a different drummer. I think sometimes Dottie was so willful because she didn’t have kids. You know, without kids, you can become quite selfish of your time and your efforts. No sacrifices required. Motherhood is a challenge. Mind you, Dottie wanted kids, but when she miscarried—”
“She lost a baby?” I said. Dottie had never mentioned that. Why would she? I hadn’t known her intimately, only professionally.
“Yes. It was tragic. Obviously you didn’t know.” Paige shook her head. “Ray and Dottie were the couple during high school. So perfect for each other. They married two years after they graduated. First, however, Ray went off to get a business degree. He had to have some smarts to run that skating rink of his. Now it’s a cash cow. Runs year-round. It’s a good place for kids to hang out. All the moms know. Missy, here”—she thumbed toward a beaming friend—“writes about all the terrific places in Providence and Holmes County where families can frolic. Isn’t The Ice Castle one of the in places?”
Missy, if that was really her name and not meant to be a put-down, nodded.
I said, “Back to Dottie losing the baby.”
Paige’s mouth thinned; her eyes glistened with tears. “It was so sad. Two years into their marriage, Dottie got pregnant, but she couldn’t carry the baby past the first trimester. She never got pregnant again. At least, not that I know of. For a while, Ray blamed her because she had too much fat in her diet, but he backed off riding her about what she ate. He loved her and I think he realized some people weren’t meant to have children. Dottie learned to live with it. She basically adopted all the kids in town. That’s why she gave free treats at the shop. That’s why she started that fund. And that’s why she hired people like that ne’er-do-well Zach Mueller.”
Apparently Paige didn’t like Zach any more than Violet did.
“Dottie believed in giving people second chances. That Zach.” She spit out his name. “He had a couple of run-ins with the law. Petty thefts.”
