by Avery Aames
“Okay, we’ll eat fast. Grab two of those sandwiches.” In addition to daily quiches, we offered gourmet sandwiches, but once they sold out, we didn’t make more. Matthew pointed at the Mortadella and Scharfe Maxx Swiss cheese torpedoes layered with peppers and red onions. “I’ll fetch a couple of sparkling waters, unless, of course, you want to try the Plavac Mali from Croatia.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s what a pinot and cab franc would taste like if they had a lovechild. Zinfandel is one of the two parent varietals of Plavac. I’m offering it at this afternoon’s tasting.”
“You’re on. But just a smidgen.” I signaled a thimbleful. Drinking wine midday made me crave a long winter’s nap.
When I settled into the chair at my desk, Rags hopped into my lap. He kneaded my thighs with his claws and meowed like the dickens. Last night, he had acted like nothing was wrong, but I sensed something more today. Perhaps his trek into the garage had disturbed him on a deeper level. If only he could talk. Would I have to hire a cat whisperer to determine the problem? I pulled a treat out of the lower desk drawer and waved it under his nose. He slurped it into his mouth and begged for more.
“What’s his problem?” Matthew said as he shuffled into the office.
I arched a brow.
“Never mind,” Matthew said. “Stupid question. He’s a sensitive soul. He knows Noelle is dead.” He handed me a Riedel “O” Series glass containing a small portion of ruby red wine and raised his own glass. “À votre santé.”
“À la votre.”
Matthew sat in the chocolate brown director’s chair that I had picked up at a garage sale. In silence, we bit into our sandwiches. The combination of the salami, cheese, and peppers made me swoon. Scharfe Maxx, a robust Swiss cheese made near Lake Constance in north Switzerland, was one of my favorites. Homemade rennet was key to its extraordinary complexity. I adored the lingering flavor of mushrooms.
After finishing half of his sandwich, Matthew wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “Do you think Urso is going to track down Boyd Hellman?”
“Of course he will. Don’t worry.”
Matthew set his sandwich on the desk and slumped forward in his chair, elbows perched on his knees, head cradled in his hands.
“What aren’t you telling me, Matthew?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Were you involved with Noelle?”
“No!”
Rags startled and hurtled to his feet. He padded in a circle in my lap.
“Shh,” I cooed. “Lie down.” He obeyed.
“Noelle was . . .” Matthew’s voice drifted away.
“She was what?”
Matthew didn’t answer at first and then in a whisper, he said, “She was the first assistant sommelier I ever had. We became good friends.”
“How good? You don’t know whether she had any other family.”
“And you didn’t know anything about Jordan for a long time.”
“Touché.”
Matthew shrugged. “Noelle was very private.”
“Did you know Boyd Hellman? Had you met him?”
“I’d already relocated here when she got involved with him. For the second time. She broke it off the first time because . . .” Matthew sighed. “They were teens. Boyd did something stupid. He participated in a couple of petty thefts. No arrests. Kid stuff. But Noelle couldn’t stand it. She kicked him out. He reentered her life a few years ago and somehow convinced her he had changed. He claimed he was an upstanding guy. Salt of the earth.” Matthew shook his head. “I urged her to keep away from him, but sometimes smart people make dumb decisions. If only I . . . I want to make sure that U-ey is doing all he can.”
“He will. He’s good and diligent. We’re so lucky to have him.”
“Yeah, but without your help in the past—”
“He’ll get this done. Promise.”
Matthew laced his fingers behind his neck and gazed up at the ceiling. “Noelle said, ‘Hell’s key.’ Why?”
“About that. Did you mention those words to others?”
“No.”
“Huh. Rebecca heard it from someone. I guess one of the deputies must have leaked it.”
Matthew nodded. “I can’t get the words out of my head. She had to be accusing Boyd of murder.”
“Not necessarily.” I reiterated all the synonyms of the word key that had popped into my head when I had entered my room at the bed-and-breakfast last night.
“It’s used in music, too,” Matthew said.
“Was Noelle a musician? I heard her sing along with O.A.R. last night. She had a nice voice.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Matthew leaped to his feet. Rags jolted and hissed at Matthew, who growled back. “Man, this is so frustrating.”
“Tell me about it.” I nuzzled Rags behind the ears to calm him. “I feel guilty for letting Noelle stay home while I went out.”
“It’s not your fault. She wasn’t the kind of person you could tell what to do. She had a mind of her own. She was like a Mustang. Stubborn and wild. That was the thing that won Shelton over. That’s why he hired her. He liked her spirit.”
And it was probably the thing that Boyd Hellman hated about her.
Matthew wrapped up the other half of his sandwich. “I’m going to store this in the fridge and head to the cellar. Need anything from down there?”
“More blue cheese.”
“Anything in particular?”
“Chiriboga. Bayley Hazen Blue. Any we have, please. We ran out of all of them at the cheese counter. I haven’t had time to send Rebecca down to restock.”
“Thanks for listening,” he said as he slipped out of the office.
I didn’t quite know what I had listened to, but I said, “Sure thing.”
When I returned to the shop, the place was empty of customers. I found Rebecca bent over, tweaking the display in the window. I tapped her back.
She swooped to a stand. “Sheesh, you startled me.” She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and tugged on the hem of her sweater, which had crept up beneath her apron.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I thought the display could use more of the fun descriptions you’ve been adding to the cheeses. So . . .” She held up two toothpick flags and read: “For a quick pick-me-up, try Beehive Cheese Co.’s Barely Buzzed.” She giggled. “Or listen to this one. Want something smokin’ sexy in your home on Thanksgiving? Try Three Ring Farm’s Up In Smoke.”
“Smokin’ sexy?”
“I really like that one. I was browsing the Victoria’s Secret online catalogue last night, and—”
“I got it, I got it.” I clapped her shoulder. “You’re doing great.”
She beamed.
I started to turn and paused. Out on the street, a redheaded male pedestrian in a red plaid coat caught my eye. Did Boyd Hellman own any other color of clothing? Hands jammed into his pockets, he peered into the Country Kitchen’s windows. He wasn’t standing near the menu that hung beside the door. What was he staring at? Or who? I nudged Rebecca. “Did you see Chief Urso go into the diner?”
“No, but I haven’t been keeping a lookout. Why?”
“Boyd Hellman has surfaced.” Noelle had sounded certain that he left town. Did she make a fatal error? I hurried toward the rear of the shop to call Urso and give him a heads-up when the front door chimes jingled.
I paused when I saw Deputy O’Shea enter the shop. He removed his hat.
“Hello, Deputy,” Rebecca said loudly enough for her deceased Amish grandmother to hear. “Isn’t it horrible what happened last night?” She slipped her arm through his and batted her eyelashes. If only she wouldn’t watch so many TV crime shows and old movies, I mused. Only last week she admitted that the wily, manipulative Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity was her new idol. “Care to enlighten me about the facts of the murder investigation?” she asked.
As obvious as it was that Deputy O’Shea was enthralle
d by Rebecca—he looked like a hangdog pup the way his eyes were lapping up her pretty face—he said, “No, ma’am.”
“I’m not a ma’am; I’m a miss. And really? You don’t have any leads? Nothing at all?”
“Nope.” Obviously Urso had taught his deputy the fine art of shutting down. “I came in to buy a wedge of that Huntsman cheese. I like it for lunch with apples.”
“You should,” I said. Huntsman was a fascinating cheese made with layers of English Double Gloucester and Stilton—England’s answer to blue cheese. The orange and blue-white combination looked beautiful on a cheese platter.
“Since you’re acting as stoic as Zeno”—Rebecca fluttered her eyelids some more and squeezed his arm brazenly—“shall I tell you something instead? Something really, really secret?”
O’Shea tensed his chiseled jaw.
“Your main suspect is standing right there.” Rebecca pointed out the window. “If you hurry, you might catch him.” She nudged the deputy.
Like a cartoon character, the deputy did a double take and then dashed outside. Rebecca burst into giggles. At the same time Sylvie, Matthew’s ex-wife, entered. Though the woman owned Under Wraps, a classy women’s clothing boutique and spa, she had no taste in clothes. She sashayed in wearing a gaudy getup that only she would think was chic: a heavily beaded fringed shirt and leather pants tucked into cowboy boots, her ice white hair drawn into a topknot. She probably thought she looked like a hip rocker. At forty-plus, she simply came across as a woman trying too hard. Perhaps she had purchased the outfit for Halloween and felt compelled to squeeze another wearing out of it.
I retreated behind the cheese counter. Though Sylvie had simmered down since Matthew and Meredith married, I didn’t care to buddy up to her. Too often, she invaded my personal space and gave me uncalled-for wardrobe tips.
She followed me to the counter and surveyed the wares. “Did you see him?” she cooed in her British accent.
“Him who?” I rearranged a few items and twisted the humorous flags toward the cash register so customers could catch a better view.
“Ashley Yeats, the journalist.” Sylvie twirled a loose strand of hair at the nape of her long neck. “He’s so charmingly British.”
And soaked in snake oil, I thought. Doing my best to heed my grandmother’s warning to say nothing if I couldn’t say something nice, I kept my opinion to myself. I wasn’t always so self-controlled.
“I’m thinking he’s an Eton man,” Sylvie continued. “And Eton, I’ll have you know, is traditionally considered the chief nurse of England’s statesmen.”
Ashley Yeats was far from a statesman. I recalled him tiptoeing toward Shelton Nelson’s private cellar yesterday. What had he been after? What was his angle?
The front door opened and Prudence Hart, a descendant of original settlers in Providence, marched into the store. When didn’t she march? She wore a pale blue skirt and blazer that washed out her already sallow skin. Her ultra-thin face looked in dire need of moisturizer and a smile.
“Good morning, Prudence,” I said. She could be sour; I wouldn’t be.
Per usual—which wasn’t often because Prudence was not a Cheese Shop regular—she didn’t respond. She normally entered when she wanted to stir up trouble. She headed for Sylvie. I braced myself.
“Sylvie.” Rebecca pulled a round of Bonne Bouche, the flagship of the Vermont Creamery, from the cheese case. “How about a sliver of your favorite?” In French, bonne bouche meant tasty morsel.
“I don’t have a favorite,” she sniffed.
“Sure you do,” Rebecca said like an expert salesman. “This one. It’s creamy white and tart.”
“Like you,” Prudence said, coming to a decisive halt beside Sylvie.
Sylvie said, “Why you—”
Prudence cut her off with a hand wave. “Have you seen them?” Her voice rose an entire octave. An opera diva couldn’t have sung the final note of an aria with more confidence.
“Them who?” Sylvie huffed, the nearness of her archenemy turning her into an instant shrew. Prudence owned the other women’s boutique in town—sans spa. The two were forever trying to undercut the other’s business.
“The new shop owners,” Prudence said. “There are at least ten who have taken over preexisting business concerns since the first of the month. The movie theater and the ice cream parlor, to name two. Providence is under siege. Soon it will turn itself into a huge town of commerce.”
“Fiddle-dee-dee. You’re imagining things,” Sylvie said. “Providence is growing at the same pace as always. Two move out, two move in. Big deal.”
“But there were ten getting business licenses today at the precinct. Ten. Some for new businesses.” Prudence wiggled her glossy fingernails. “If I had a mind, I’d buy out all of them and start this town over. Get some structure.”
“Tosh.”
“Prudence,” I cut in, determined to break up a fight before it began. “Are you enjoying all the parade fixings? I noticed there is a parade stand right near your shop.” La Chic Boutique stood next to the Country Kitchen, catty-corner to The Cheese Shop. “That will draw in a number of customers, I’ll wager.”
She threw me a caustic look.
I wouldn’t be deterred. “How about some cheese, Prudence? A slice of Iberico. It’s a combination cow, sheep, and goat cheese and the most popular cheese in Spain.”
“No, thank you. I only eat American.”
“Well, then, how about a taste of Stravecchio from the Antigo Cheese Company? They’re based in Wisconsin. The cheese tastes like Parmesan.” More customers were entering. I didn’t want the two enemies to scare them away. I wanted happy feelings radiating throughout the shop. I wanted laughter and goodwill. A girl could dream.
“I said no, Charlotte. Back to the new owners—”
“Don’t be such a blowhard,” Sylvie said.
“A wh-wh-wh . . . ?” Prudence sputtered. “What did you call me?”
Sylvie toyed with the beaded fringe of her shirt as if trying to keep herself in check, but typical Sylvie, she couldn’t. “Blowhard,” she said.
I flinched. Granted, there were no canapés for the two to hurl at each other—a long story—but there were plenty of accoutrements sitting on the display barrels and shelves around the shop that would serve as ammunition.
Sylvie smirked. “You brag about having money and you brag about your plans to invest, but you never spend a dime. Hence, you’re a blowhard.”
“Sylvie, how about a taste of Tartufello?” I said, trying hard to distract her. “It’s an herbaceous semi-firm raw cow’s milk cheese with black truffles. Remember how you swooned over it last month at Matthew’s wedding?”
“Nonsense, I would never swoon over a cheese. “
I persisted. “Yes, you did.” I skimmed slivers from a wedge of the cheese and offered a piece to her and another to Prudence.
Neither woman budged. Like gunslingers standing in the middle of an old-time dusty street, their hands fell to their pocketbooks as if they were holsters. Did each of them carry a concealed weapon? Craving normalcy in the shop, I skirted around the counter and said, “That’s it, you two. Out, now.” I sliced the air with my hand. A magic wand couldn’t have had better effect.
As Sylvie and Prudence exited, with Sylvie launching the final verbal bomb by insisting that Prudence needed intense therapy, Shelton Nelson hurried into the shop, followed by his daughter Liberty.
Shelton, whose face was ash white, jogged to me. “Charlotte, we need to see Matthew. A.S.A.P.”
CHAPTER
6
A cold blast of air swept into the shop behind Shelton and Liberty. I shivered and wrapped my arms around my core. “Matthew’s in the cellar, Shelton. What’s wrong?”
“Let’s go, Daddy.” Without an invitation, Liberty prodded her father toward the kitchen at the rear of the shop. “Matthew will know what to do.”
Their footsteps thudded on the cellar stairs as they descended.
&nbs
p; So much for asking for an invitation.
Rebecca hurried to me. “That Liberty Nelson. I don’t like her. I never have. She’s snooty and dismissive and always acting high and mighty with her pert little nose in the air. I know we’re supposed to be nice to all the customers, and I am, but it’s difficult sometimes.”
I couldn’t fault Rebecca. Being nice to someone and liking them were two entirely different things. Take Prudence or Sylvie, for instance. Take them, please. The two were still arguing on the sidewalk. Though I was a fixer by nature, I couldn’t fix everyone, so I decided to let Prudence and Sylvie go toe-to-toe without any more interference from me. Maybe they would resort to fisticuffs, and Ashley Yeats would come along and take a picture and plaster it in the papers, and . . .
Yes, a girl could dream.
“Did you see what Liberty was wearing?” Rebecca went on. “The angora sweater and the furry collared vest and that black hair of hers hanging like curtains around her face? She always dresses like that. Slinky and feline. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she had cat ancestors.”
“Rags would take offense at your analogy.”
Rebecca giggled. “I saw a sign in the window of Tailwaggers”—Tailwaggers was the pet shop on the north side of town—“that said: Women and cats are queens and princesses. Men and dogs should get used to it. But back to that Liberty. You need to go downstairs so you can listen in. You don’t want her wrangling Matthew into a nefarious scheme.”
I swear the words Rebecca used came straight from television crime shows. “We don’t know that they went downstairs to wrangle him into anything.”
“Please see what’s going on,” Rebecca begged. “There was a woman murdered in your garage last night, a woman who was supposed to start work today for Shelton Nelson. Something’s afoot.”
I had to admit that curiosity was brewing inside me. Shelton Nelson seemed the kind of guy who would never be thrown off his game. Did he know something about Noelle’s murder? “I guess I could go down saying I need the blue cheese that I’d asked Matthew to fetch.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Rebecca nudged me. “Listen in and get the scoop.”
