As Gouda as Dead

by Avery Aames

  I recalled my musings at the ice-skating rink. Did I really want kids? Did I want my child to hate me at the age of eighteen? He or she would; it was a given. To a teen, parents grew more and more stupid before they ever became smart again.

  “What did she do?” I said. “Is it about Zach?”

  Pixie’s eyes widened. “How do you know about him?”

  I tilted my head. “Word travels fast around Providence. Are you in love with him?”

  She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to. Clearly, she was.

  “Supposedly, you are his alibi for the morning Dottie Pfeiffer was killed. Is that true? He talked to you around seven A.M.?”

  “That’s right. We talked for a long time.”

  “Have you told Chief Urso?”

  Pixie gnawed on her lower lip. Hadn’t she spoken to Urso? If not, why not? Because her testimony would be a lie?

  Matthew called my name and twirled a finger, indicating I should continue serving.

  I signaled one minute. “You know, Pixie, my cousin has a friend who can check phone records. He could prove whether or not you were talking to Zach during the time you claim.”

  Pixie looked right and left, as if trapped.

  I set the tray of drinks on a bistro table and edged forward. “Are you lying?”

  “Okay, we only talked for a minute,” she conceded.

  I knew it!

  “But that’s because”—she looked around again—“my mother left the house, and I wanted him to come over.”

  “At seven in the morning?”

  “We only get small windows of opportunity. Like I said, my mother has me on a short leash. She . . . made bad decisions when she was my age. She got pregnant—with me. My dad . . . he . . .” She hitched a shoulder. “My mom’s deathly afraid I’ll make the same bad choices. But I won’t.” She hitched a shoulder. “Zach came over, and we . . . I’m old enough. We do it safely.”

  I didn’t need a graduate degree to know what do it meant. “Were you together last Thursday?” I asked. The night Tim was killed.

  “How did you know about—”

  I cut her off. “People saw you. Why did you and Zach meet in the parking lot at the pub?”

  “I needed to make sure my mom’s car was there.” She smiled sheepishly. “Then we went back to my house to . . .” She let the sentence hang.

  “You’re wearing a ring on your left hand,” I said. Pixie wore a lot of rings, but that one was special. It was a thin gold band with one teensy diamond on it. Nothing elaborate. Not the one the thief stole from me. “The other day at Sew Inspired, your mother figured out about you and Zach, didn’t she?”

  Pixie chewed her lip. “She was furious. When we got home, she slapped the walls and slammed cabinet doors. When I told Zach, he said he’d make it all better. He would talk to her. He would ask her for my hand, real official-like. He came over last night, but what did she do? Told him to leave.” She snuffled with disgust.

  Last night was when the mugger attacked me. “When was he there?”

  “Around now.”

  “Dusk?”

  She nodded.

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Beige trousers and white shirt. He was dressed for work. Why?”

  “No reason.” Zach couldn’t have been the assailant that stole my ring; the timing was off.

  Pixie crossed her arms over her chest and slouched. “My mom is such a grouch. I hate her.”

  I rested a hand on her arm. “No you don’t. She’s trying to protect you. All moms try to control their kids. Not just yours.” Mine couldn’t have, of course, but my grandmother, in my mother’s stead, had been vigilant. I whispered, “Are you and Zach planning to elope?”

  “What?” She scrunched her nose. “Why would you think that? No! We’re going to take our time. He wants to go to chef school. I want to go to college. I’ve got brains. I want to run a corporation. We’ve got plans.”

  Kids and their dreams. I smiled. “Tell your mom that. Put her at ease. She’s worried you’ll run off.”

  The music stopped. I looked in Paige’s direction. She had left Violet and was walking toward the wine cubbies with the guitarist, who had yielded his chair and guitar to Jawbone. Ilona stood beside Jawbone, encouraging him to play. He started by tuning the guitar. Then deftly, he launched into a soulful blues song, one I didn’t recognize. Had he written it? Matthew was grinning; he, like I, enjoyed the blues.

  I turned back and caught sight of Violet, who wasn’t listening to Jawbone play the guitar. She was watching Paige and the guitarist forlornly, which made me wonder whether he was the guy that Violet liked. I turned back to Pixie. “Talk to your mom,” I repeated, then retrieved my tray of filled wine flutes and headed to Violet.

  “Need a refresher?” I asked.

  Violet took a glass and set her empty on the tray. “Men!”

  “Is your relationship floundering?”

  “Let’s just say it’s on hold.”

  I looked at Paige and the guitarist again. He had a lopsided grin and an easy, sensual way about him. Paige was delighting in a story he was telling. Not far from them, Ray’s sisters-in-law were still going at it. Ray, who was studying the tops of his shoes, looked like he wished he could escape and join the conversation with Paige and the guitarist or anybody else in the room, for that matter.

  Violet said, “He promised he would be there for me. Always.”

  “Is he worth fighting for?”

  “Definitely. But promises are never written in stone.”

  Matthew drew up behind me. “What do you think? Should we hire Jawbone on a regular basis?”

  If he’s not convicted of murder, I thought. But then, he couldn’t be. He had a pat alibi. Or did he? I thought of my earlier conversation with Rebecca. Was it possible that Jawbone and Ray conspired to kill Tim and Dottie, each doing the deed for the other, and each, thereby, having a solid alibi? Speaking of alibis, I flashed on the encounter with the mugger last night. My first impression was that it had been Jawbone. If I questioned him about his whereabouts, would I be able to tell if he was lying?

  I waited until Jawbone finished his song and returned the instrument to the guitarist, and then excused myself from Violet and approached him. “That was great.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ilona ambled up to him and kissed him passionately on the lips. “You’re getting better with age.”

  He petted her cheek. “You should have sung along with me.”

  “Are you kidding? Not without a mic.” She honked out a laugh and ran her hand up the back of his neck. His tattoo lengthened, and I caught the word King.

  “What does your tattoo mean?” I asked. I’d never asked someone why he or she wore a tattoo, but I was curious. “Is it for Elvis?”

  Jawbone’s mouth stretched into a grin. “It’s for B.B. King. When I was a teen, I fell in love with his music. ‘The Thrill is Gone,’ ‘Sweet Little Angel,’ ‘Three O’Clock Blues.’” His eyes glistened with awe. “Beyond belief. That man rocked my world. That’s when I officially changed my name from John to Jawbone.”

  “Why?” Did he have a record? Was he running from the law?

  “I needed a cool name if I was going to own a club and play week in, week out.”

  “Is that why you wanted to buy the pub from Tim?”

  “Who told you that? Not Mr. Nakamura. He promised to keep our deal—”

  “You and Tim were overheard arguing a year ago,” I said.

  Jawbone ran his tongue along his upper teeth. “I imagine you also heard that Tim and I nearly came to blows. Tim wouldn’t budge, the stubborn son of a gun, rest his soul.”

  “Do you still want to buy the place?”

  “Sure. The nephews don’t want it. It’s on the market.” He cocked his head. “Except mine’s not
the only offer on the table.”

  “Is Belinda Bell trying to buy it?”

  Jawbone snorted. “Why would she want it? She hates that place and makes no bones about it.”

  “Maybe to demolish it?”

  “Are you kidding me? Uh-uh, no way.” Jawbone eyeballed Ilona. “Guess I’d better work harder to preserve a town treasure. Let’s up the offer. Get Nakamura on the phone.”

  Ilona pulled her cell phone from her pocket.

  “I’ve got two more questions for you, Jawbone,” I said.

  He gestured for me to continue.

  “The morning Dottie Pfeiffer died, where were you?”

  He hesitated. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I could have had something to do with her death, do you? I barely knew the woman.” When I didn’t respond, he rubbed his chin. “In bed sleeping. Sundays I always sleep until noon. Anything else, Miss Detective?”

  “I’m not a detective.”

  “I know.” He lasered me with a dismissive look.

  “Where were you last night around dusk?”

  “Why?” He blew out a harsh stream of air through his nose. “Did someone else wind up dead?”

  “No.” Thank heavens.

  “Let me ask you a question first,” he said. “Are you Urso’s official interrogator nowadays?”

  “No.”

  His lip curled into a snarl. “Then tell him to man up and ask me himself.”

  CHAPTER

  Jordan walked up to me, his head turned slightly as he watched Jawbone grab Ilona and march her out of the shop. “What was that about?”

  I dodged the question, not wishing to reveal that I’d overstepped my bounds. What had I been thinking? “Would you like another glass of sparkling wine?”

  “No.” He nabbed my elbow. “Charlotte?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Jawbone looked ticked.”

  “Urso should pin him down on his whereabouts for last night, when I was attacked.”

  “Did you confront him?” Jordan asked, then sighed. “Never mind. I know you did. It’s what you do.” He ran a finger along my arm. “It drives me insane.”

  I smiled weakly. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s also what I love about you. How much you care.” He pecked my cheek. “I’ll let Urso know. Speaking of which, when this ends, Delilah wants us to join her and Urso for a beer at the pub. Are you up for it?”

  “I can’t imagine anything more fun.” I winked. “Well, maybe I can think of one thing that would be more fun.”

  A half hour later, after the soiree at The Cheese Shop ended and all the customers had left satisfied with the tasting as well as their purchases, Jordan, Delilah, Urso, and I walked to Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub. Like the other night, the place wasn’t hopping. The crowd was thinner; the music just as dour. How I wished there was rousing Irish music. It lifted one’s spirits in two seconds flat. Perhaps, as good as Jawbone was as a musician, refashioning the pub into a blues place might provide a fresh take.

  While we waited in our booth for a waitress to appear, Jordan suggested that Urso re-question Jawbone. When he explained why, Urso got ticked. I couldn’t escape the table fast enough.

  “I’m going to check on our drinks,” I said.

  Nearing the bar, I spotted Eddie Townsend sitting by himself at the far end. I flashed on what he had said at the cheese tasting earlier, that he couldn’t remember things at night if he didn’t write them down, which set me to wondering about how much he might remember from the night Tim died. A well-placed question or two was in order.

  I slid onto the stool beside him. “How did you like the cheese and wine tasting?”

  “It was nice.” He was slurring his words even more than he had at The Cheese Shop.

  “Did you keep good notes?”

  “Sure did.”

  “I see you found your diary.” I thumbed toward the black bound book resting on the counter between a tumbler of amber liquid and a bottle of Dewar’s scotch.

  “Yep.” Protectively, he laid a hand on it.

  “Do you have anything written in there for last Thursday?”

  His gaze grew leery. “Why that d-d-day?” he stammered.

  “You were seen meeting with Belinda Bell outside the pub.”

  “I was. Outside. With her.” He glanced to his right. Looking for an escape route?

  “How long did you meet?”

  He flushed bright red. “Um . . .”

  “Don’t you remember? That was the night Tim was killed.”

  “Well . . .” He studied the napkin beneath his drink.

  “Why don’t you take a look?” I aimed a finger at his diary.

  “I . . . I don’t have to.”

  “Why not?”

  His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Because it’s not in there. There’s no mention of a meeting with her. I must have bumped into her outside the pub. That’s all.”

  “When you met with Mrs. Bell two days later at the Bozzuto Winery, did she tell you that you ought to remember that meeting?”

  “No. I mean, it’s not like you’re implying. She said she was with me, and see, I couldn’t remember. I thought maybe that one time, I didn’t write something down. But then the other morning, following a stiff cup of coffee, I realized . . .” He rolled his eyes. “It was a zap moment. Do you ever have those? Your brain goes zap. It’s like a lightbulb clicks on. A moment of clarity.” He lowered his chin. “I’m what some might call a functioning alcoholic. I do fine during the day, and then the night goes dark and so does my brain.”

  “Does Belinda know this about you?”

  He nodded. “Most people do. My kids . . . they tolerate me, but I know they want me to change. And I want to change. I’m thinking of joining AA.”

  “I know a sponsor.”

  “You do?”

  I nodded. “I’ll get you his number.”

  He looked so hopeful that I thought he might hug me. He slouched and tapped his fingertips on his diary.

  “When you had your zap moment, did you tell Belinda? Did she suggest that you meet at the diner? Did she try to persuade you that you were wrong?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “Did she offer to pay you to lie?”

  “What? No!” His voice wheezed with panic. “She”—he licked his lips—“is simply going to work on the city council, gleaning votes, to get a road project approved. One of my clients really needs it to complete a shopping mall. At the far east edge of Holmes County.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Do you think you should tell Chief Urso your predicament?”

  “Will I get in trouble?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  But now Belinda Bell—unless a new witness came forward to verify her whereabouts before she bumped into Townsend—was without a viable alibi for the time when Tim died as well as when Dottie Pfeiffer was killed.

  I returned to the table with four beers and Eddie Townsend. After hearing the Realtor out, Urso excused himself. He had a councilwoman to see.

  CHAPTER

  The next morning, eager to hear news from Urso yet hearing nothing, I needed projects and lots of them. I devoted the morning to constructing the goodie basket for the Friday Lovers Trail giveaway, which Rebecca had smartly decided we should offer. I placed wedges of cheese, boxes of biscuits, jars of jam, decorative napkins, a bottle of sparkling wine, and a pair of red-rimmed flutes into the basket. By the time I was attaching ribbon to the arm of the basket, I was humming. After I picked the winning ticket and contacted the exuberant winner, I needed another project. Refacing cheese did the trick.

  Rebecca zigzagged past me to tend to a customer. Under her breath, she said, “I’m so nervous about tonight. The lines are whirling through my head.”

 
; “I thought you didn’t have to memorize them.”

  “I don’t, but they’re there anyway. And tears are brewing right here.” She patted her chest. “I hope I can hold them back until the point when I’m supposed to cry.”

  “You have to. That’s the job.”

  I glanced at the telephone on the wall by the register.

  “Why the sour face?” Rebecca asked. “Who were you hoping would call?”

  “Urso.” I explained.

  “I see. Sorry. I haven’t heard hide nor hair from him.” She rummaged in her apron pocket. “Will a note from Jordan brighten your mood? He swung by while you were in the office on the phone trying to reorder the French bread. He didn’t want to disturb you.”

  I wished he would have. For the better part of an hour, I’d searched for a new baker. I finally settled on a bakery that was located next to the grocery store. The bread wasn’t as delicious as Dottie’s, but the sandwiches we offered would taste fine as long as I kept up the quality of the cheeses, salamis, and sauces.

  “Here it is.” Rebecca handed me a cream-colored envelope. “He drew hearts all over it. How sweet.”

  I opened the note and felt my cheeks warm. He wrote how proud he was of my accomplishments. He thought the event last night was, in a word, terrific. I hurried to the office to write a note saying how much I admired him but decided to call him instead.

  He picked up after the first ring. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you for the letter.” We cooed for a minute, but then I went silent.

  “Why else did you call?” Jordan asked. “Something is eating at you. Are you upset that I didn’t break into the office and seduce you?”

  I giggled. “No. I’m mad at U-ey.” I told him why. In detail. When I finished, I said, “We’re a team.”

  “No, you’re not. Charlotte—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Listen to me. You and I are a team. Urso is a solo act or, at the very least, a team with his deputies. Not you.”

  “But you heard him. He takes me seriously. He values my opinion.”