by Avery Aames
A few feet short of the kitchen, I dug in my heels. “Uh-uh. I’m not going into that kitchen until you tell me what’s going on.”
Rags yowled his agreement.
Delilah released my elbow. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t go all Scarlett O’Hara innocent on me. You’re acting like a goof. Who’s back there?”
The door to the kitchen opened. A man stood in the archway, backlit in a soft glow.
“Give me Rags,” Delilah ordered.
I obeyed and raced into Jordan’s arms. He swept me into the kitchen and closed the door. I heard Delilah coo to Rags, and then heard her footsteps retreat.
“This way,” Jordan said, drawing me by the hand to the guest room at the rear of the inn. It used to be Lois and her husband’s suite, but she had changed rooms the day she booted him out.
“What are you . . .” I stammered. “How— ”
Jordan closed the guest room door, threw his arms around me, and lavished me with kisses. On my mouth, my cheeks, my neck, and back to my mouth. I could barely catch my breath and didn’t want to.
“My handler drove me to town,” Jordan whispered. “He’ll return before dawn. We have the night.” He drew me to the floral-covered queen-sized bed. We perched on the edge holding hands.
“I didn’t dress for the occasion,” I blurted. I had dreamed of the next time I would see him and how romantic it would be. I had set aside a lace peignoir, and I had purchased vanilla candles and new perfume.
“You look beautiful.”
I plucked at strands of my hair. “I forgot to brush my teeth.”
“Champagne washes away all sins.” He nodded to the bottle and elegantly carved glasses sitting atop a silver tray on the bureau. Beside that was a simple cheese platter consisting of a large wedge of Jordan’s Pace Hill Farm triple-cream Gouda, green grapes, and round crackers.
“How did you plan this?”
“My handler called my sister. Jacky called Delilah.” Like me, Jordan’s sister didn’t know where he was being held during the trial. Jordan ran his fingers through my hair. “How I’ve missed you.”
“Why now?” A panic cut through me. “You’ve come to see me because you’ll never be able to come back. That’s it, right? Oh no.”
He put a finger to my lips. “I’m here because I missed you like crazy.”
Phew. I hooked my finger with his and drew his hand to my chest. “How much longer will you be gone?”
“Four weeks. Six at the max.”
I ran my tongue along my upper lip as I deliberated what I would say next. “I want to set a date now.”
“We’re on a date.”
“No, silly. I know we talked about getting married and setting a date, and we almost did—on my parents’ anniversary—but then the trial was moved up. I want to set a firm date. Let’s make a vow.”
“Valentine’s Day.”
“You romantic devil, you.”
He grinned a smile that melted my heart then kissed my ears and murmured, “We’ll follow that with a two-month trip to Europe.”
“Two months?” My adrenaline kicked into overdrive. Yes, I wanted to see the world, but two months? “I can’t. I’d need to plan. There’s so much to do here.”
“Keep calm. Breathe.”
How well he knew me.
He traced a fingertip along my jaw. “You can do it. Matthew and your grandfather and all of your coworkers will manage Fromagerie Bessette, I promise you. Two months is a blink in the big scheme of things. We’ll go to every cheese shop and cheese farm that you’ve ever wanted to visit.”
A panoply of picture postcards shuffled through my brain. Where would we start? I would call all my cheese suppliers for recommendations. I would make cheese in France. Milk cows in the Pyrenees. Run my fingers through the terroir of Italy.
Suddenly, my breathing grew steady and my passion soared. The next few hours were magical. Jordan and I sipped champagne. We nibbled on cheese and fruit. And then we devoured each other. Inch by every glorious inch.
After we made love, we planned our honeymoon. And talked about having children. We agreed that I would have to be extra diligent with my health as I was approaching the delicate age of thirty-five.
Around three A.M., when the night cooled to a chilly temperature, we lay on our backs in bed with our faces pointed toward the ceiling, neither of us able or willing to sleep, and the conversation turned to darker fare. We discussed Jordan’s trial and how his lawyer was reducing the opposing council to mush, and then we discussed Noelle’s murder. Jordan asked me to replay the list of suspects. On the telephone the other night, we had only touched on the subject briefly. I included the nameless, faceless ones that might dwell in Cleveland. Jordan said he believed that money, jealousy, or revenge were the three primary motivators.
“Really, Mr. Detective?” I teased. “That’s the best you can come up with? Those are Rebecca’s top three, too.”
He drew me closer. “I wish you wouldn’t get involved.”
“And I wish you never had.” I was referring to the incident that had brought him to this point in his life. He had been a chef and owner of a fancy restaurant in upstate New York. One night, when he went outside for a smoke, he saw two thugs with knives attack a third man. Without hesitating, Jordan, a former military man, sprang to the third man’s defense. The struggle turned bloody. Jordan stabbed and killed one of the two thugs; the other got away. The third man died. Jordan learned that the thugs were the lynchpins of a gambling ring, and days later, he entered the WITSEC Program to testify against the survivor.
Jordan rolled onto his back and laced his fingers behind his neck. “If you want me to be a sounding board, I will be. Let’s start with Boyd Hellman. He’s the impetuous, hot-tempered scorned lover, right?”
“Something like that, but there’s something else at play with him. He knew so much about Noelle’s past. He told Urso about her grifter parents, but he didn’t tell me.”
Jordan said, “That’s because Urso is the official. You’re not. Do you think her parents’ shady past comes into play?”
“Maybe, but really, I can’t see Noelle as a scam artist. She seemed so forthright and honest.”
“Tell me about Shelton Nelson again.”
“He has a pat alibi.”
“That his daughter backs up. Daughters have been known to lie for fathers.”
“You sound as cynical as Rebecca.”
“Humor me.”
“Shelton was either Noelle’s lover or father figure. I’m not sure. Financial issues could be in the mix, none of which I can verify without breaking into the winery.” I told him about the partial conversation that I had caught between Shelton and Liberty.
“You said Noelle was investigating something. Taking pictures.”
“Of a man having an affair.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure about anything. Rebecca’s checking that angle. And then there’s Liberty Nelson.”
“The doting daughter.”
“She’s marrying a staunchly religious man.” I paused. “I’ve got to admit that pairing doesn’t make sense, but other than the uptight getups he wants her to wear, she looks happy.”
“Uptight getups?”
“She usually likes wearing sexy, over-the-top kinds of clothes, like Sylvie, but ever since Noelle’s death, Liberty has been donning Victorian dresses. I’m wondering if the transformation is because she’s feeling guilty.”
“She wants to divert Urso’s suspicions.”
“Yes.”
“And you think she killed Noelle and lied about her father’s alibi to create one for herself.”
I tapped his nose. “You catch on quickly.”
“I’m in trial mode. Continue, counselor.” He pecked me on the cheek. His lips tracked down my neck to the hollow of my throat. I sighed. “You mentioned a journalist.”
“Ashley Yeats,” I said. “A con artist if ever I met one.” I humme
d a few bars of “Ya Got Trouble.” Jordan joined me. Only recently did I discover he had a tremendous singing voice.
“So he’s sort of like Noelle’s parents. Do you think there’s any connection between them?”
I hadn’t considered the possibility.
“Who is looking into him?” Jordan asked.
“Matthew. He’s scouring Yeats’s phone records and travel plans to see if they coincide with Noelle’s. And Tyanne is checking Noelle’s emails.”
“I’m impressed. You’ve become a delegator. It’s a wonder your grandfather and grandmother aren’t snooping on your behalf.” Jordan rolled to his side and drew me into a tight embrace. “I assume you have revisited the crime scene and gone through Noelle’s things again. You’ve reviewed every detail.”
“Too many times to count.”
“I want you to promise you’ll be careful.”
“I will be. I always am.” Excluding, of course, when I was running headlong into a police precinct at Rebecca’s insistence. I didn’t reveal that tidbit to Jordan. “Did I mention there might be another woman in the equation? She’s staying here at the inn.”
“How does she fit in?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know who she is. I have yet to see her face. But I first caught sight of her the day after Noelle died. The timing bugs me. I wonder if she’s someone from Noelle’s past. You know, one of her parents’ friends, or one of the nuns from the orphanage.”
“You see mystery women everywhere.” Jordan was referring to the moment when I first met his sister. I’d thought she was Jordan’s lover, which only proved that the mind, if not kept in check, was like an ignored cheese that could become overripe and stinky.
“On the other hand, I get the feeling Lois knows her. If so, how could she have become acquainted with someone from Noelle’s past?”
“Here’s my two cents,” Jordan said. “Set your mind at ease. In the morning, track down Lois and ask who the woman is. If she won’t tell, I’m sure she has the woman’s signature in a register.”
“Is yours?”
“Tonight, my name is Delilah. Now, no more talking.” Jordan gently pulled my face to his and kissed me.
He left before dawn.
• • •
At the sound of the crowing rooster that lived in a shed behind the bed-and-breakfast, I roused. Alone. Last night felt as if it had been a dream, and yet I awoke rested and at peace. Taking Jordan’s admonition to heart, I dressed quickly and hurried to the kitchen to ambush Lois before she could sneak the cloaked woman from the premises.
“Lois,” I called as I pushed through the swinging door. She wasn’t there, but I swear I’d heard her humming right before I entered. The aroma of hazelnut coffee, tea, and freshly made chocolate-raspberry scones teased my nose and my appetite, but I didn’t slow down. I heard footsteps retreating down the hall.
I raced to the foyer where more than a dozen guests chatted with a tour guide. “Lois?” I called up the stairs leading to guest rooms.
She didn’t answer. None of the guests made eye contact with me.
As I rounded the newel post to head upstairs, I heard Delilah laugh outside. I peered through the screen door. Rain poured down and spilled from the eaves. Despite the chill in the air, Delilah sat nestled in one of the wicker chairs, warmed by a patio heater. She was playing chew toy tug-of-war with Agatha and Rags.
As I emerged from the house, she said, “Hey, sleepyhead.” She tightened the cashmere scarf around her neck and leaped to her feet. “Please tell me you were surprised with your night visitor.”
“Astounded and delighted. Thank you.”
“It was Jordan’s idea. When his sister called me, well, I can’t tell you how hard it was for me to keep my trap shut at the theater last night. So, dish. Did you have fun?”
“More than fun. We connected. In the biblical sense.”
“Heart be still.” She swatted imaginary heat away from her face. “Want some breakfast?” She pointed to a Rosalinde pattern Haviland tea set and a plate of scones accompanied by a pot of mascarpone cheese, which were on the table beside her chair.
Although my stomach did a cha-cha, I said, “Not yet. I’m on the hunt for Lois.”
“I saw her take a tray of food upstairs. Why do you need her?”
“That woman in the cloak.” I told her what Jordan had advised me to do.
Delilah held up a hand to stop me. “Please assure me you did not spend the night with the love of your life theorizing about murder.” She chafed a finger with the other. “If you did, shame, shame.”
“No, I told you. We made mad, passionate love, but we did talk for a bit. He was concerned about me.”
“What’s the head-on rush to find this woman now?”
“Jordan said I should question—” Out of the corner of my eye, through the screen door, I spied movement inside the inn. The woman in the cloak, the hood pulled forward to obscure her face, was running down the stairs. “There she is.”
I bounded to the front entrance. Delilah followed. As I whipped open the screen door, Delilah shrieked.
CHAPTER
19
“You.” Delilah stamped her foot on the B&B porch and drilled her fists into her hips. Sunlight gleamed in at an angle and made her squint as she glowered at the woman in the cloak.
I squinted, too, and realized what I had missed before. The woman peering warily from beneath the hood was none other than Delilah’s mother, Alexis, a free spirit who had moved to California.
“What are you doing here?” Delilah demanded.
“Better question,” I said. “Why were you sneaking around in that hooded cape?”
“Sneaking?” Alexis pushed the hood off her face, fluffed her hair—hair that, other than a streak or two of gray, matched her daughter’s unruly dark curls—and reached for her daughter’s hands. “All right. Yes, I was sneaking. I didn’t want Delilah to see me. We weren’t supposed to meet. Not like this. I meant to call and give fair warning, but . . . Come here, darling. Give your mother a hug.”
Delilah backed up a step. “Uh-uh, no way. The moment we connect you’ll begin to shake, then you’ll throw your head back and your chin will quiver, and you’ll announce you’re feeling something.” Alexis did tarot card readings for a living. As girls, behind closed doors, Delilah and I had pretended to be Alexis. Donning wild costumes and howling like banshees, we would grab hold of each other’s hands and predict the future.
Alexis held her arms wider. “Please.”
Delilah didn’t budge. “Why did you come here?”
“I missed you. It’s been nearly five years.” The same week that Delilah left home to try her luck on Broadway, Alexis deserted her husband of twenty-five years and moved to the West Coast. In the ensuing years, Alexis had never returned to Providence. Delilah had visited her mother once or twice in California, but they had never grown close. Delilah blamed her mother for breaking her father’s heart.
“You can’t simply appear and expect everything to be all cozy and nice,” Delilah said.
Alexis dropped her arms to her sides and toyed with the folds of her cape. “That’s what your brother said.”
“You should have listened to him, Mother.” I couldn’t remember a time when Delilah had called her mother Mom. I wasn’t sure if that was her choice or her mother’s. “He might be messed up, but he is brilliant.” Delilah’s brother, an agoraphobic computer nerd, had moved to California with his mother. She babied him. Pops never had. He wasn’t a callous father. He had truly believed that forcing his son to play outside was the way for him to overcome his fear; it hadn’t been. “Do you want something? Is that why you came? Are you out of cash?”
“Quite the contrary. Your brother has made a killing in the computer world.” Alexis released the cape and squared her shoulders. She had the same fine bone structure as Delilah, the same fiery eyes. “He saved up enough to invest in a bookstore, which I run with two of my friends. We sell candles and t
eas and such, too.”
“And you do bogus readings.”
“They’re not bogus.”
“They are phony as the day is long. You bilk people out of hard-earned money.”
“Nonsense. I don’t swindle a soul.” Alexis raised her hands upward like an Egyptian queen. “The earth gods and goddesses speak to me, and I relay their guidance to my clients.”
Were these the kinds of phrases Noelle’s parents had used? I wished I knew what cons they had pulled and whether Noelle had been involved.
Delilah coughed into her hand and muttered, “Bullpuckey,” then eyed me. “I’m heading to work. Coming? I have an umbrella.”
Alexis snagged the sleeve of my sweater. “Charlotte, wait.” She tugged me to her and, before I could break free, gripped my hands. “I have been meaning to speak to you. I had a vision.”
“Mother, please,” Delilah said. “You had a vision? What hoodoo. Did you use a crystal ball?” She curled her fingers around an imaginary circle and moaned, “Oo-o-oh.”
“This had nothing to do with a crystal ball, Delilah, and it’s not hoodoo.”
“Hoodoo,” Delilah hissed.
“I had a real vision. Charlotte”—Alexis gazed at me intently—“you have to believe me. It occurred the night I arrived.”
I inhaled sharply. “The night my friend was murdered.”
Alexis nodded.
“Did you see someone enter my garage?” I said.
“No, darling.” She licked her ruby red lips. “But you came to see Lois that evening, and she spoke to me afterward. While I slept, I had a vision. It was clear and precise.” She looked right and left, then lowered her voice. “Beware of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Delilah scoffed. “Puh-leese, Mother. A wolf?”
“Hush.” Alexis squeezed my hands and yanked them downward for effect. “Beware of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Charlotte.”
My insides quivered. I knew the biblical phrase from the book of Matthew: “Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.” In context, the phrase referred to the church having lost its ability to discern truth from error. So what did Alexis’s vision mean? Was someone going to tell me a lie? Would someone come to me as a friend but turn out to be an enemy?
