by Avery Aames
Amy giggled. “Mom said the lady had no style. She owed it to the woman to fix her.”
“That’s not what she said,” Clair interrupted. “She said the lady was so large, she needed a makeover.”
Delilah arrived with two grilled cheese sandwiches. “Here you go, ladies. Gluten-free for you, Clair.” She bent low and whispered to me, “Charlotte, you’ve got that look.” She twirled a finger in front of her eyes.
Quietly I confided what I had asked Urso, how I had included Victor, Ryan, and Kandice in my list of suspects and that I’d left out Shayna, but realized now she should have been included in the mix. She had heft.
“Except heft isn’t a factor. Chloroform was used to sedate Lara.”
I gawped. “Did U-ey tell you that?”
“You’re not the only one he talks to.” She glanced over her shoulder and back at me. “Which means Erin can be a suspect along with the rest of them.”
CHAPTER
22
Throughout the afternoon at the shop, I could barely think because Delilah’s comment about Erin had thrown me for a loop. Did Erin kill Lara? I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t be blind to the truth, either. Rebecca badgered me for information, but I didn’t dare say anything lest I blurt out my fears.
Trying to block the dire thoughts from my mind, I chatted up customers and sold a vast amount of cheese, particularly the Jasper Hill Farm’s Harbison, a scrumptious, soft-ripened cheese with a spoonable texture that we had set out for tasting. In addition, customers bought over fifty jars of Flying Bee Ranch blueberry honey, an amber-colored honey with a sweet, bold flavor that we had paired with the cheese. They also purchased nearly all the Italian ceramic platters we had stocked.
When the customers dwindled to two, I suggested to Rebecca that she take a break. She didn’t need me to say it twice. Quickly she donned a jacket and hustled outside to drink in some fresh air. Soon after, the front door opened, and Matthew entered with Victor. The two were shooting the breeze as if they were old buddies. Both carried a cup of something from Café au Lait. Matthew’s hair stuck out all over, like he had just walked in a windstorm. Outside the wind had, indeed, kicked up. The drapes on the Street Scene stages were flapping with force.
Matthew strode ahead of Victor and said, “Make yourself comfortable. Check out the French wines we have in stock.”
Victor blew past Matthew toward the wine annex while pulling his cell phone from his pocket. With only his thumb, he started texting someone. That took talent. I could barely text with two thumbs, and within seconds, I was making errors. Who was so important that the message couldn’t wait until he was sitting down, his coffee cup set aside, both hands free?
I whispered, “Psst,” to Matthew and beckoned him with a finger. He drew near the register. “What’s with you two? Are you best buds?”
“Me and Victor?” Matthew glanced toward the annex. “Nah. He caught up with me on the way out of the café. He’s quite a talker. He said he wanted to pick my brain over the right Bordeaux to win a woman’s heart.”
“Which woman?” I asked.
“Got me.”
Someone who had attended the brain trust, I imagined, or perhaps he had met someone else in the short time he had been here. He mentioned having heard a woman singing a Piaf song on the night Lara died. Maybe he had hooked up with her.
Matthew eyed me cynically. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“I’m that easy to read?”
“Like a large-print book.” He sipped his coffee and, while heading toward the annex, said over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, whomever Victor has his eye on is a dalliance. He’s not staying in town much longer. The moment Urso clears him to leave, he’s flying the coop. If he had his druthers, he would move out of Emerald Pastures Inn, but he can’t find anything else. All the B&Bs are packed.”
Victor passed Matthew and approached the register with a bottle of wine in hand. “I guess this will do,” he said.
It should. Even I recognized the bottle. A Lafite Rothschild Pauillac, one of the finest wines we carried at the shop, valued in excess of four hundred dollars. His date was one lucky girl.
Victor plucked five hundred-dollar bills from his billfold and handed them to me.
“Any cheese to go with that?” I asked.
He surveyed the counter and stopped when he laid eyes on the Chabichou de Poitou, a buttery, tart cheese from the Loire Valley, presented in a little cylinder called a bonde. Aloud, he read the cheese tag I’d affixed to the wrapper: “Flinty but flirty. Honestly?” He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t get cutesy when it comes to cheese.”
“Why not?” I said, taking the challenge. “My customers like the fun sayings.”
“Then they aren’t serious cheese lovers.”
The comment stung. I smiled tightly. “Have you tasted this cheese?”
“Of course. I have a well-educated palate. I’ll take one bonde.”
“The cheese would go better with a sauvignon blanc than a big hearty red like the one you’ve chosen.”
“What do you suggest I order?”
“Beecher’s Flagship Reserve.” It was one of Beecher’s tastiest Cheddars, a rich, four-year-aged cheese with a nutty and tangy finish.
“From Oregon?” Victor made a face.
“Yes, it’s American,” I said, unable to keep the bite from my response. “If that’s not good enough, how about the Boerenkaas Gouda, from the Netherlands? Is that close enough to France for you?” The Boerenkaas was one of my favorite cheeses, with deep notes of caramel—some would say butterscotch—and cashews.
Victor nodded. “The Gouda is fine. A pound. I’ll need crackers and honey.”
I put together a nice assortment for him. He offered me another hundred-dollar bill. While he waited for his change, he texted another message. I was dying to peek at his texting history. Could something he had written convict him of murder? I wondered whether Urso had interrogated him after hearing Ryan’s account about the argument between Victor and Lara. If only he would have confided in me at the diner.
“Here you go.” I offered Victor the change and a bag filled with his treats, and he left.
No thank you. No good-bye. Downright rude.
Lois Smith, my neighbor who owned Lavender and Lace, a charming bed-and-breakfast that served the best scones in town, skirted Victor on her way in. Her nose twitched, as if she had smelled something bad. She flapped a violet-colored fan in front of her face—everything Lois owned was some shade of purple—and she drew near to the counter. Tucked under her left arm was the antique wrought iron cheese grater with clamp that my grandmother had broken and taken to be fixed.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “You look distressed.”
Lois studied the retreating figure of Victor. “That man,” she muttered. Lois was in her sixties and quite pale—paler since she had booted out her husband.
“Victor Wolfman,” I said.
“He irks me. He’s so”—Lois checked the shop; the one customer who had entered right behind her was far away—“misogynistic, don’t you know.”
“Why would you say that?” A misogynist hated women and often denigrated or beat them. “Did you see Victor hurt someone?”
Lois flicked her fan closed. “Not exactly, but that woman who died? Lara Berry?”
If only Lois would speak up. I could barely hear her. “Go on.”
“I saw her and that man—”
“Victor.”
“They were at Café au Lait. I’d run out of coffee. A few of my boarders requested it. Herbal tea is better for you, of course, and I had plenty of that on hand, but I try to accommodate when I can.”
“Victor and Lara,” I prompted.
“Right. I heard the two of them arguing. Around four in the afternoon on Friday.”
After the brain trust con
cluded for the day and before the evening’s dinner.
“What were they arguing about?”
“A woman.” Lois spat out the word. “Lara said he shouldn’t contact the woman anymore.”
“Did Victor respond?”
“He told her in no uncertain terms”—Lois pinched off each word—“to keep her nose out of his affairs. Stop bossing him around. It wasn’t her business. She disagreed. She threatened to expose him.”
“For what?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t listening in, don’t you know. I only heard snippets.”
Um, okay, it sounded like Lois had been listening in, but I wouldn’t argue.
“The way he glowered at her,” Lois went on, “I could see evil was running roughshod in his mind. I promise you—” She eyed the antique cheese grater she was holding. “Oh, my, seeing him put me off my errand. I came in looking for your grandmother. I need to return this piece to her. I repaired it.”
“You?” I didn’t mean to sound skeptical, but Lois didn’t strike me as the handy type.
“I have plenty of time now that—” She hesitated but didn’t add: Now that I sent my heel of a husband packing. “It turns out I’m good with tools. I have all sorts of things I’d like to mend at the inn, so I’ve been spending my spare time reading how-to books. There are plenty of those at the Historical Society, don’t you know.” Lois’s sister was the former curator who had fled town. “That other lady, the one who organized the brain trust, with the pink hair . . .” Lois drew her fan upward over her head.
“Kandice Witt?”
She jutted her fan at me. “She visits the museum daily. She’s so lovely. We’ve been chatting quite a bit. She’s the person who showed me a how-to book on antiques. She collects all sorts of cheese-making antiques, don’t you know.” Lois held up the wheel. “She knew exactly when this was made and who designed it.”
Interesting. According to Victor, Lara had collected a number of antique cheese-related items. Had Kandice and Lara vied for the same pieces in the past? Had their rivalry been friendly, or would Kandice have killed Lara to get her hands on a specific antique? Erin told me Kandice had eyed a few of the pieces at the inn when she visited Providence to scope out sites for the brain trust.
Lois handed me the grater. “I’ve got to run. Can you give this to your grandmother?” She headed toward the exit.
“Lois, wait. How much is something like this worth?”
“Nine hundred or a thousand dollars.”
“Not enough to kill over,” I muttered.
“Heavens! Who said anything about killing?” Lois peered at me like I was nuts.
Maybe I was.
CHAPTER
23
On Monday nights, I always made a point of joining my girlfriends for an evening out. Sometimes as many as eight of us got together. We would take a yoga or art class or go to a musical event. Last week we attended a self-defense-skills class. I was getting rather good at getting out of a choke hold. I still had to work on a frontal attack. On other occasions, we went to Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub. After Jordan bought the pub and transformed it into The White Horse, I asked my pals if they still felt comfortable going there. All had given me weird looks, pretty much the way Lois had, like I was nuts: Of course they were comfortable. Duh!
Tonight, we were gathering for a spa experience at Tip to Toe Salon. Only Delilah, Tyanne, Jacky, and I could make it.
I called Jordan and asked him to escort me. I wanted a few minutes alone with him. True, we hadn’t been apart more than twelve hours, but I missed him. We strolled along the sidewalk, passing happy revelers enjoying the Street Scene, and I filled him in on my day, starting with the incident at the inn during lunch.
Jordan was upset that I hadn’t called him right away. “You checked out the railing?”
“Yes. It was rotten wood. Not sawed by hand.”
He muttered that I wasn’t an expert, then shrugged and said, “Go on. What next? There’s more, I gather.”
I replayed the conversation with Ryan about Victor and Lara’s argument and added that Lois corroborated the thread of the conversation. “They were two different versions,” I admitted, “but the basics were the same.”
“Have you told U-ey any of this?”
“U-ey.” I grunted. I filled Jordan in on the terse conversation at the diner. “Needless to say, he wasn’t forthcoming.”
Jordan screwed up his mouth. “Charlotte, sweetheart, did Lois talk to Urso or any of the deputies?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’ve got to follow up.”
“Haven’t you heard me? Whenever I open my mouth, U-ey snaps at me.”
“He doesn’t mean to. He’s on tenterhooks. Another murder. An upcoming wedding. I’m sure he appreciates all you’ve done to help him on previous occasions; not to mention, he worries about you.”
“Ha!” I barked out a laugh.
“Just like I do.”
We walked ahead, silence falling between us. Outside Tip to Toe Salon, we stopped, and Jordan ran a hand down my back. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”
“Really?” I said. “You put your brain to work?”
“You’re funny.”
“A laugh a minute.”
Jordan pulled me into a hug, his arms anchored at the small of my back. I tilted my head back to look into his eyes. He said, “We aren’t spending enough time together. We have completely different schedules.”
“Amazing.”
“Be serious. Don’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing. I said ‘amazing’ because we have been thinking exactly the same thing. We don’t spend enough time together. What are we going to do about it?”
“I’m taking on an assistant manager.”
“What? Who?”
“I’m thinking of poaching someone from La Bella Ristorante. It has three night managers. There are one or two who will never get a bump in salary or position. The new hire will be fully in charge at The White Horse three nights a week and assist me on Fridays and Saturdays.” He took my hand and rubbed his thumb along the hollow.
“Are you sure you can give up that kind of control?”
“It’s a risk, but we need time.”
“I could hire another person, too, and take off an extra day. If we’re going to have kids—” I pressed my lips together. How did those words pop out of my mouth?
Jordan burst into a smile. “So you have been considering it.”
“Deep down, I know I want at least one.”
“Me, too.” Jordan kissed my forehead. “I love you.”
I whispered the words back to him.
“Hey, hey,” a man said. “No public display of affection.”
We broke apart. Urso and Delilah were heading for us.
Urso singled us out with his finger. “Yeah, you two.”
Delilah pulled his arm down and said, “Can it, goofball,” and then stood on tiptoe and kissed him smartly on the lips.
Urso returned the favor. Afterward, he cuffed Jordan on the arm. “Got time for a beer before you take charge?”
“Always.”
I whispered to Jordan, “You tell him.”
Urso lasered Jordan with a look. “Tell me what?”
“About Lois,” I chirped, and like a chicken, gripped Delilah’s elbow and steered her into the salon.
Tip to Toe was decorated in a hip way, with black granite, silver accents, and bright yellow chairs. It pulsated with good vibes. Even on a Monday night, the place was hopping. A couple of female tourists who had come into The Cheese Shop earlier were perched at the station where a young woman was doing makeovers.
Delilah thumped me on the back. “Out with it. What did Lois say? Does she know who killed Lara?”
“Hey!” Jacky sailed into the
salon right after us. She shrugged off a cardigan sweater and hung it on a coatrack by the door.
Delilah flicked my arm with her finger, demanding an answer. “Talk,” she rasped.
I whispered, “No, Lois doesn’t know who killed Lara, but she overheard Lara and Victor arguing. I’ll fill you in later.”
Jacky drew near. “Didn’t you two hear me calling you on the street?” She had a sensuous, willowy figure, and, like Jordan, she had dark hair, riveting eyes, and an easy smile. I would never forget our first meeting when I had mistakenly assumed she was Jordan’s lover, not his sister. The memory still embarrasses me. Jealousy can be so unbecoming. Jacky and I soon became friends. She is one of the most down-to-earth women I know. She is an adoring mother, a passionate artist, and now a farmer. I love her as much as if she were my own sister. She hugged me and said, “I’m so excited to be here. I need a night out.”
“Over here, ladies.” Lizzie, the owner of Tip to Toe, Tyanne’s energetic sister who migrated to Providence from New Orleans after Tyanne’s husband walked out on her, beckoned to us. “On the double. Chop-chop.” Lizzie always made me smile. She wore her red hair an inch long, and she layered herself with funky jewelry that complemented her colorful clothes. “I’ve set aside an entire section for y’all’s mani-pedis.” She wriggled her long, bejeweled nails at me. “I’m also serving a bit of the bubbly plus some of that scrumptious sheep’s cheese you recommended, Charlotte. Manchego. Mm-mm. My favorite. I’ve put it on a platter with some nuts and dried fruits.”
“Perfect,” I said. I wasn’t starved, but I could nibble.
“Where is that sister of mine?” Lizzie asked.
“Right here!” Tyanne darted into the salon, a thick white album tucked under her arm. “Hi, sugar.” She kissed her sister on the cheek.
Lizzie held her at arm’s length. “Look at you.” She forced Tyanne into a spin. “Honey, you have to start eating. You are way too slim.” She pinched her sister’s chin with two fingers. “And your eyes?” She clucked her tongue. “Stress lines.”
