Days of Wine and Roquefort

by Avery Aames

  “Beware,” Alexis repeated.

  At this point in our childhood games, Delilah or I would pretend to faint. But Alexis held fast, as if she were one of those giant treelike creatures in The Lord of the Rings unwilling to let me escape. Ever.

  • • •

  Later that morning after meeting with vendors, I puttered around the shop by myself, checking on back orders and diddling with marketing ideas while replaying Alexis’s warning about a wolf in sheep’s clothing. At nine thirty A.M. I wondered whether the rainstorm—or a wolf—had caused some traffic mishap that was keeping the rest of the population from the shop. I telephoned Matthew, who supposedly was making deliveries, but the call glitched out. The same happened when I telephoned Rebecca. Where she was, was anyone’s guess. I just hoped she wasn’t prowling around the precinct.

  Around ten A.M., right after I took a mini-break and downed a quick breakfast of toasted whole grain waffles topped with homemade ricotta, honey, and orange slices, my first customers arrived—Shelton and Liberty Nelson. While she slotted the pristine white umbrella that matched her raincoat into the stand by the door, Shelton batted water off his jacket. He did the same with his cowboy hat and tucked it beneath his arm.

  “You’re certainly hopping with business,” Shelton quipped.

  “It’s the weather.”

  “Good for ducks.” He pointed a thumb toward the wine annex. “Could I have a word?”

  “Me first, Daddy, remember? Miss Bessette.” Liberty shuffled toward me, her white rubber boots making squishing sounds. I dreaded the mopping up that I would need to do to the floor at the end of the day after a hundred customers came and went. “Have you seen Tyanne? She’s not answering her cell phone. As of ten minutes ago, we have twenty more people to invite to the wedding, thanks to my future in-laws.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “That’s easy to fix on all accounts, especially this far ahead.” I offered a smile of reassurance as my mind flitted to my wedding. How many would I invite? Only friends and family? Would Tyanne be able to manage two weddings on the same day? I pushed my selfish thoughts aside and refocused on Liberty. “Now, if you were to add twenty the day of the wedding, you’d have one frazzled wedding planner.”

  Liberty hiccupped a laugh; it sounded cute but forced.

  “However, with that many extras, you might consider more cheeses for your platters. Might I suggest—”

  “Let Miss Zook help with that,” Shelton said. “I need to speak with you, Charlotte.”

  “Rebecca is out,” I said. “This won’t take a minute. Liberty, try this.” I shaved off a sliver of Villajos Artisan Manchego. “It’s a raw milk cheese, very exclusive, made in small batches. It deserves to be treated with great respect. Present it on a cheese board with a little quince jam, but only a tad, otherwise the jam can overpower the cheese.”

  As Liberty deliberated and a pair of customers entered the shop, shimmying to shed the rainwater from their clothing, Shelton jerked his head toward the wine annex. Did he have a secret to impart? Was he going to confess to murder?

  Feeling safe with the arrival of more people, I followed him.

  As I neared, he said, “I would like to do something in Noelle’s memory. Perhaps donate to the orphanage where she grew up.”

  So much for confessing. The guy was on a goodwill mission.

  “But I don’t know which orphanage it was,” he added. “Do you?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Perhaps her ex-boyfriend would know.”

  “You mean Hellman, the hothead that blew up at Café au Lait? Like he would talk to me. If you ask me, he’s the one that killed her. He doesn’t seem like a good fit for her. Definitely beneath her.”

  The door to the shop opened and Urso entered. In much the same fashion as those that had come in moments before, he shook the rainwater from his clothes and hat then moved toward the display case to view sandwiches.

  I whispered, “Shelton, Chief Urso might help you get in touch with Boyd Hellman.”

  “I don’t think he’d be so inclined.”

  Liberty dashed to her father’s side and clung to his elbow. “Daddy, let’s get out of here.”

  “What’s the rush?” I said.

  “I told you before, Chief Urso suspects my father of killing Noelle.” Liberty ogled me as if I were the stupidest woman on the planet. “Don’t you see how he looks at us? His deputies have repeatedly come to the house and the winery. They’re asking us all sorts of pointed questions like how often Noelle visited and why she would have taken a job in a small town.”

  The same questions that Boyd Hellman had asked. Had he encouraged Urso to take a longer look at Shelton Nelson?

  “We’ve given answers,” Shelton said, “but they don’t seem to satisfy the chief.”

  I was pleased to hear how dogged Urso was acting and wondered if his persistence meant he had more on Shelton or Liberty Nelson than I did . . . which was nothing other than their weak alibis, their curious argument about Noelle and finances, and Liberty’s Camry, which looked so much like a Taurus that it could place Liberty at the scene. Except she had an alibi that corroborated her father’s.

  “He even asked about my relationship with Noelle,” Shelton continued, “which was aboveboard, believe me.” He forced a laugh, but his neck had turned a stunning red, making me wonder how he defined aboveboard. “She wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with an old codger like me.”

  Liberty whacked her father’s arm. “You’re not old.”

  “To someone as young and vibrant as Noelle I was. She had all sorts of suitors.”

  “Including that maniac Boyd Hellman,” Liberty added. “And I wouldn’t have put it past Harold to make a pass at her.”

  “Don’t say something like that, darlin’,” Shelton said. “Harold is a good man and wouldn’t stray from that wife of his. He is devoted.”

  “Is he really?” Liberty smirked.

  “Charlotte, got a sec? I’m ready to order,” Urso said, looking totally disinterested in Shelton and Liberty.

  I joined him at the counter. “Morning, U-ey. I thought you were going to Cleveland.”

  “Change of plans. You look rested.”

  My cheeks flared with heat. Did he know I’d had a visit from Jordan? “It’s the weather,” I said. “I love rain. It makes the air smell so fresh.” Why was I babbling? For heaven’s sake, a grown woman was allowed to have intimate relations with the man she loved, sans a wedding ring, in this day and age. “Do you want the usual?”

  He nodded. “What’s up with Shelton and his daughter? Why are they whispering?”

  “Shelton wants to know—”

  The door to the shop opened and Boyd Hellman stamped inside. Water matted his red hair and clung to his plaid coat. “Aha! Found you.” He pointed at Shelton.

  Not again, I thought. And not here.

  “You did it,” Boyd shouted. “You’re not going to get away with it.”

  Shelton looked to Urso for support. He and Liberty had no hope of exiting the shop without bypassing Boyd Hellman and knocking over the display of large rounds of Kurtwood Farms’ Francesca’s Cheese.

  “Excuse me, Charlotte.” Urso rested his hand on the butt of his gun as he moved toward Shelton and Liberty.

  I rounded the register to head off Boyd. “Hi, there.” I smiled, trying to ease the tension. “I was wondering which orphanage Noelle lived in. Some people want to make donations.”

  “St. Vincent’s,” Boyd said. “That’s where we met.”

  I gaped. “You were an orphan, too?”

  “We were seven at the time. We became best friends, and I was the love of her life until—” Boyd jabbed a finger at Shelton. “Then you came into the picture.”

  “Now, hold on,” Shelton said. “I had nothing to do with your breakup.”

  “You offered her peanuts to work for you, but she accepted. Why, huh?”

  I thought Shelton had promised Noelle the moon and the stars. If the job had paid
less than her norm, why would Noelle have said yes? What was her endgame? Had she scammed Shelton? About what? Had Liberty figured out Noelle’s plan and killed Noelle to protect her father?

  “She was earning a fair salary,” Shelton said.

  “What did you have on her?” Boyd asked. “You had some dirt. I know it.”

  I came up with another scenario. Perhaps Noelle had been suffering financial hardship. Someone from her parents’ grifter-style past had resurfaced and demanded hush money. Maybe that person had ended Noelle’s career as a sommelier, which had forced her to accept an out-of-town job well beneath her pay scale.

  Liberty’s face lit up. “Oh, look, there’s Tyanne across the street. Let’s go, Daddy.”

  Like a child eager to meet Santa Claus, Liberty tugged her father’s hand, but Shelton broke free. The distraction gave Boyd enough time to steal past Urso. He charged forward and, as quick as a prizefighter, shoved the heel of his palm into Shelton’s chest. Shelton punched back but missed. Liberty screamed.

  “Whoa, fellas.” Urso inserted himself between the two to keep them at arm’s length. “I thought we’d worked this out last night at the café, Boyd.”

  “He’s lying about something,” Boyd shouted. “To shield himself or his precious winery.”

  “Look at him, Chief,” Shelton said. “He’s wasted.”

  Again? I thought. Boyd’s eyes were glazed over. His words were slurring together.

  “Okay, enough,” Urso bellowed. “Let’s all go to the precinct to settle this.”

  “I’ll call the attorney, Daddy,” Liberty said.

  “You come along, too, Miss Nelson,” Urso said. “Your father doesn’t need an attorney . . . yet.” He strong-armed Boyd. “Move it, Mr. Hellman.” Urso was larger than both men, and he was all muscle. And he had a gun. They obeyed.

  Liberty looked like she wanted to hide in a tornado shelter, but her father corralled her and ushered her toward the exit while whispering in her ear.

  As Urso hustled the threesome outside, Rebecca shot in. She scurried behind the counter and clutched my arm. “What was that about?”

  “Clan feud,” I muttered. “Where have you been?”

  Matthew slogged through the rear door and slammed it. “Whew, the weather is horrendous.”

  At the same time, Tyanne entered through the front door carrying a tray filled with four to-go coffees from the Country Kitchen. “Anybody need a little caffeine?”

  Matthew said, “You bet.”

  “Me, too.” I waved a hand. Because of the altercation with Delilah’s mother, I had passed on tea. A cup of coffee would be a welcome pick-me-up.

  Tyanne handed cups to both of us. “I added extra cream, the way you like it. I also brought brown sugar cream cheese muffins.” She wagged a diner bag decorated with musical notes.

  “You’re a godsend,” Matthew said as he set the cup by the register and removed his sopping wet jacket. “I’m chilled through.”

  I took a sip of the coffee, let the liquid stream down and warm my insides, then plucked a muffin from the Country Kitchen bag. I peeled the wrapping off and bit into brown sugar deliciousness. My stomach and brain thanked me.

  “Are you ready to listen to what I learned?” Rebecca said, hopping from foot to foot like a kid who had the answer to the hardest question on the test.

  “Yes,” Matthew and I said in unison.

  Rebecca grinned. “I went to the library last night, but it was closed, so I tracked down Harold and I followed him.”

  I said, “I warned you not to.”

  “Shh.” She waved me off. “It was easy. He had dinner with his wife at the Country Kitchen, but it was a lackluster affair. They ate across from each other, but they never talked. Not once.” Rebecca strapped on an apron and withdrew a wedge of Mimolette, a rustic-looking orange cheese, originally created at the request of Louis XIV who wanted a competitor for Edam cheese. As she peeled off the wrapping so she could face the cheese with a sharp knife, she said, “Anyway, certain that I was right and there was something fishy going on with him, I went back to the library this morning, and I tracked down someone who knew the truth. Harold Warfield’s alibi for the night Noelle was murdered was a lie.”

  “How can you be sure?” I said.

  “The library hours have gotten screwy lately, with the town’s budget cuts and all, and, well, it wasn’t only closed last night. It’s been closed every night this past week.” Rebecca aimed the knife at me, then realized what she was doing and lowered it. “Harold lied. That means he’s guilty.”

  I tossed aside my partially eaten muffin and headed for the telephone. “I should call Urso.”

  “Wait.” Tyanne beckoned me back. “Harold’s not the only one who might be guilty. I hacked into Noelle’s email account.”

  “You did?”

  “I told you, Charlotte, I have been well trained by our sweet Internet guru.”

  She was referring to Bozz, who had cancelled another work shift because of the demands of college. I missed seeing his goofy mug.

  “Here’s what I found.” Tyanne placed the tray with the remaining coffees on the cheese counter, reached into her tote, and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Most are copies of emails between Noelle and Shelton Nelson, all of which are pretty tame.”

  “Great,” I groused.

  “But”—Tyanne rifled through the pile and pulled out two sheets—“I was also able to uncover an email exchange between Noelle and Ashley Yeats.”

  “You’re kidding. He couldn’t reach her via the telephone, so he emailed her?” I snatched the pages from her. Ashley Yeats wrote that he knew Noelle had a story to tell. Was he referring to her parents’ swindling history or to something that involved Noelle in the present?

  “Look at her response,” Tyanne said. “She ordered him to stop snooping. She said he was nuts.”

  Matthew peered over my shoulder. Ashley alleged that Noelle had high aspirations. Was he accusing her of going after Harold Warfield’s job? Nothing in his email was specific; her response was cryptic.

  “Doesn’t prove much, does it?” Matthew said.

  “No.” I wadded up a napkin and tossed it into the garbage. “Were you able to make headway regarding Ashley Yeats’s travel arrangements?”

  “I couldn’t track down an employer.” Matthew rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a lined sheet of paper. Reading from his notes, he said, “But regarding his travel, he’s paying for everything in cash. At Violet’s Victoriana Inn. At the gas station. At the diner. I did a Google search, and all the hits referencing his name are written by some guy named Alcott Baldwin.”

  “I know that name,” Rebecca said. “He’s an Internet radio guy in South Carolina. He’s pretty popular because he is a total gossip. He starts every show with a high-pitched, ‘Oo-o-oh,’ sort of girlie-like. He was a singer at one time.”

  “Well, whoever he is, Baldwin seems to be Yeats’s biggest fan,” Matthew said. “He put up articles on his website that were written by Yeats. They’re not bad, though they do read a little thin. Weak verbs, trite themes.”

  “Maybe the radio guy is related to Yeats,” I said. “Or maybe he’s an old college roommate helping him network. What does he look like?”

  “Can’t tell,” Matthew said. “He posted a photo of a bulldog for his profile picture.”

  “What about phone records?” Tyanne asked.

  “There aren’t any for Yeats,” Matthew answered. “The guy doesn’t seem to have any accounts in his name.”

  “Curious,” I said, feeling like Alice in Wonderland when she fell down the rabbit hole and telescoped to nine feet tall.

  “On the other hand,” Matthew said, “I was able to pull up cell phone records for Noelle, which showed dozens of phone calls received from the same out-of-town number, a number with a Holmes County prefix. All occurred after midnight and well into the wee hours of the morning. Someone was harassing her. And get this.” Matthew’s gaze gleamed with triumph. “Each c
all ended after three seconds.”

  I said, “That sounds like the caller waited to hear Noelle answer and then hung up.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think it was a prank caller?” The other day, when I found the twins swatting each other with the rubber turkey leg, they said Ashley Yeats liked pranks. Had he slipped into Providence weeks ago and purchased a throwaway phone so he could badger Noelle into a confession about her past?

  “I’m not sure. Do any of you recognize this number?” Matthew held out a piece of paper with a ten-digit telephone number scribbled on it.

  “My word,” Tyanne said. “That’s Liberty’s cell phone.”

  “Liberty?” I said. She was the one dogging Noelle? That sealed it. Liberty hated Noelle and didn’t want Noelle in her father’s life. I didn’t know how the words hell’s key related to her, but I didn’t care. She was sneaky enough to have stolen into Noelle’s room. She would have realized the journals were important. I’d bet dimes to dollars she was the one who had ripped out the pages. Had she intended to frighten Noelle or drive her crazy with multiple phone calls? When that didn’t work, did she confront her and shove a corkscrew into her throat?

  I raced to the telephone at the rear of the store and dialed the precinct. Urso hadn’t arrived with his new wards yet, so I left a message. Perhaps Liberty, and not Shelton, was the one who needed an attorney.

  CHAPTER

  20

  The remainder of the day flew by. Although I had anticipated our typical swarm of customers, a tour bus arrived with an additional fifty. By six P.M. I was ready for sleep, but my pals talked me into a drink at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub. I sat in our regular booth, twirling a paper turkey decoration while half listening to Delilah, Tyanne, and Rebecca chatting as if they hadn’t seen one another in weeks. Rebecca was telling them about Harold and her fact-finding mission. I tuned them out because I was too busy mentally berating Urso. I don’t know why I expected our illustrious chief of police to return my call in lickety-split time. He had made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want me nosing around his investigation and, yet, would it have hurt him to thank me for being a model citizen by reporting in?