by Aames, Avery
“Charlotte, what’s bothering you?” Delilah removed the paper turkey from my hands. “Please tell me it’s not that prediction my mother made.”
“No, of course it isn’t,” I replied, although I had replayed Alexis’s warning in my mind a couple of times during the late afternoon.
“Sugar, I suspect Charlotte is jumpy because she is getting thirsty like I am.” Tyanne drummed the tabletop. “We have been waiting a mighty long time for service.”
“Relax,” Delilah said. “Someone will come over soon.”
“I don’t want to relax.” Tyanne got up and flounced toward the bar.
“Who is she kidding?” Rebecca said. “She wants to flirt with our resident bartender.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” I said. “Timothy O’Shea is a good guy.” I swiveled in my seat to watch Tyanne make her move and wasn’t surprised to see how packed the pub had become in the past fifteen minutes. Monday Night Football was the draw. In Providence, when a major sports event was on the agenda at the pub, everyone showed up. Liberty and her fiancé sat at one of the round tables. The duo seemed content to hold hands and watch the many TVs that hung above the antique bar. Among the other pub patrons were Ashley Yeats and Sylvie, who were gazing into each other’s eyes, and Harold Warfield, who was dining with his mousy, plumpish wife.
“Yoo-hoo,” Rebecca said. “Back to our investigation.”
“In a second. Harold’s wife.” I wiggled a finger in their direction. “What’s her name? It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Usually I was good with names, but for some reason, hers escaped me.
“Velma,” Delilah said.
“That’s it.”
Velma had a sweet face, but a light didn’t glow in her eyes. Using her fork, she pushed around the food on her plate while talking to Harold. He wasn’t listening; his gaze was fixed on the cell phone he held beneath the table. At Bunco night, Rebecca said Harold was texting sexy pictures to someone while standing outside The Cheese Shop. When Noelle said hell’s key, could she have meant Harold’s keypad? It was a stretch, sure, but if I could get my hands on his phone, maybe I could discover who he was texting. I glanced at Tyanne, flirting with Tim at the bar. Given the right information, would she be able to hack into Harold’s email or text messages? I didn’t have a clue how to do either.
“Now?” Rebecca said, trying again to regain the floor.
“Whoa!” Delilah cut in. “What is Red Guy doing here? In the plaid jacket. Boyd.” She jerked her chin at Boyd Hellman, who had taken up residence at a nearby table. He looked like a hungry hawk, his gazed focused on the three of us.
A shimmy of fear slithered up my spine. Any creep who stared unnerved me. He caught me looking and swung his gaze toward Harold Warfield . . . or was he glowering at Ashley Yeats?
Delilah said, “You know, it really irks me the way he’s always craning an ear trying to listen in on conversations. It’s not like he’s a reporter or anything. Speaking of which, did you catch how buddy-buddy that Yeats guy is with Sylvie tonight? Is it possible the ice princess has captured a man’s heart?”
“No way.” Rebecca shook her head. “I think he’s in love with the fact that someone is enamored with him.”
We all laughed.
“Back to what I was saying about the investigation,” Rebecca tried again.
“I don’t want to hear any more about Harold’s alibi,” Delilah said. “Or Liberty’s nasty phone calls.”
“Aren’t you the teensiest bit curious?” Rebecca said.
“Curious, yes. Enraptured? No.”
Rebecca tossed a wadded-up napkin at Delilah, who swatted it like an expert baseball player.
“I’m back.” Tyanne returned to the table with a pitcher of beer and four glasses. “Sorry, Rebecca. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Tim to make a Cosmo.”
“Liar. You’re trying to convert me.”
“Not me, sugar. Tim. He loves his beer.” The pub had a list of over one hundred and fifty beers. “I also ordered appetizers. Some turkey sliders made with melted Salemville Amish Gorgonzola—they’re new. And supersized meatballs in a mozzarella red sauce—they’re messy.” She plunked down in her seat, grinning from ear to ear. “Tim is the sweetest man, isn’t he? He cares about everyone. Why, he even told me he’s concerned about that guy in the red jacket.”
“Boyd?” I said. “Why?”
“Tim said he’s been drinking heavily. He’s worried the guy’s spirit is broken.”
“Oh, please.”
“He’s on his fourth drink,” Tyanne said.
Rebecca waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe he’s feeling guilty about something, like murder.”
“He doesn’t look drunk,” I said.
“Tim says Boyd has a hollow leg,” Tyanne went on. “He also told me that Boyd was in AA for a stint, but he fell off the wagon right after Noelle was killed. I guess he’s been here a couple of hours pouring out his soul to anyone who will listen.”
“Which appears to be no one,” Delilah said.
I recalled a passage from Days of Wine and Roses. The female lead believed the world, without the haze created by alcohol, looked dirty. Was that how Boyd felt? Did Noelle leave him because of his drinking problem? Did he go through recovery just to win her back? After she rebuffed him at The Cheese Shop, did he lose his resolve? I imagined the scenario. With liquor as his fortification, Boyd approached Noelle at my house. He begged her forgiveness. Sadly, she rejected him again. That’s when blind fury took over and Boyd lashed out. Did he forget that he killed Noelle? Did he remember later? Was that why he was drowning his sorrows, day in and day out?
The door to the bar swung open and Ipo Ho, Rebecca’s former fiancé, entered.
“Twelve o’clock.” I nudged Rebecca. She looked in that direction. “Did you ever find out why Ipo wanted to talk to you outside the shop?”
“No, and I don’t care. We’re through.”
“He looks lonely. Throw him a bone.”
“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, he’s not a dog.”
I bit back a smile. For a smart girl on a steady path to educating herself, she didn’t grasp some typical idioms.
She brushed her ponytail over her shoulder and rose from the table. “I think I’ll go chat with that cute Deputy O’Shea.”
The deputy, who resembled his uncle Tim with his broad smile and gleaming eyes, stood at the far end of the bar. Ipo watched as Rebecca sashayed to the deputy, and then like an injured puppy, he lumbered to a stool, sat down, and hunched forward. I caught him glancing over at Rebecca, and I had to fight the urge to go to him and calm his fears. I knew Rebecca loved him, but as my grandmother often reminded me, I couldn’t fix everything—Rebecca’s love life included.
Movement across the room drew my attention. Boyd was on his feet, stamping toward Harold Warfield’s table.
What now? I wondered.
Boyd said something. Velma gaped. Harold responded. Boyd smacked the table. Glasses and plates bounced.
“Liar,” Boyd shouted.
None of the bar patrons’ reacted because the excitement of a touchdown had grabbed their attention, not even Deputy O’Shea, who appeared captivated by Rebecca.
I bounded from my seat.
Delilah hurried after me. “Where are you going?”
“To help.”
As I reached their table, Harold said, “Stay away, Miss Bessette. I can handle drunks.”
“I’m not drunk,” Boyd said, but clearly he was. “He lied about his alibi for the night Noelle died.”
“I did no such thing,” Harold said.
“I heard those women talking.” Boyd swung around, almost clapping me in the face with his arm as he pointed at our table. “They know.”
“Know what?” Harold demanded.
“You weren’t at the library the night Noelle was killed, that’s what.”
Aha. Delilah had been right. Boyd had listened in on our conversation and heard Rebecca talking about her fact-f
inding mission.
“He’s telling the truth, Harold,” I said. “Rebecca asked around. The library was closed.”
“He made a mistake is all,” Velma said, her voice whiny and thin. “My husband was home with me. His memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Memory-schmemory. The man couldn’t be more than forty. Unless he had been afflicted with early-onset Alzheimer’s, his memory was still sharp.
Boyd lurched and swung at Harold. Harold grabbed a knife from the table, hopped to his feet, and jabbed at Boyd. Velma screamed.
I yelled, “Deputy.”
That got his attention. O’Shea whipped around. Thanks to his long limbs, he was at our table in a few strides. With one quick motion, he wrenched the knife out of Harold’s hand. As if given an opening, Boyd pitched forward, fingers ready to grab Harold’s neck, but Deputy O’Shea clouted him in the throat with his forearm. Boyd gagged and staggered backward.
Harold smacked his chair, toppling it to the ground, and shouted, “This is nonsense. I’m out of here.” He fled toward the rear exit. Velma sat frozen.
“Hold it, Mr. Warfield,” Deputy O’Shea said. “I’ve got a few questions.”
But Harold didn’t pause; he rushed out of the pub.
“Aren’t you going to stop him?” Boyd said.
“The way I see it, pal, you started the fight.” Deputy O’Shea eyed Velma. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“I . . . I . . .” Velma scrambled to her feet and raced after her husband, forgetting to take her raincoat with her.
I grabbed it and followed. I hoped my goodwill would get Velma to open up and give me the straight scoop. Had Harold been with her on the night of the murder, or was she covering for him? If so, why?
• • •
Rain poured down in sheets. The parking lot lights cast an eerie glow across the pavement. I caught sight of Velma climbing into a blue sedan—a car that looked suspiciously like a Taurus. Theories turned topsy-turvy in my mind. Was Velma the woman Lois had seen lurking outside my house? Did she think her husband was having an affair with Noelle? Had Velma killed Noelle in a jealous rage?
Shielding myself with Velma’s raincoat, I zipped across the lot and rapped on the driver’s door. Velma gawked at me. She shook her head. I knocked again. “Open up.” I dangled her raincoat. “You forgot this.” I put on my best trust me face.
Cautiously, Velma opened the door.
As I handed over the coat, I wedged myself between the door and the car. “We need to talk.”
“No.” She tugged on the door handle, but it was slippery with rainwater.
“What were you doing outside my house the night Noelle Adams died?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lois Smith saw your car. A blue Taurus.”
“Lots of people own similar cars.”
“Lois said a woman was driving. She memorized half of the license plate,” I lied.
Velma leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed her eyes, a clear admission that she had been present that night.
“Did you kill Noelle?”
Velma’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Velma, talk to me. We’re friends.” Another lie. Strike me dumb. “I make sure you taste all the new hard cheeses. You like that Hook’s Five Year Sharp Cheddar and the Cabot Clothbound Cheddar that I suggested.” Swell. I could remember the cheeses she ate but not her name. “Remember? Both are buttery. The Cabot Clothbound has notes of caramel.” When trying to win friends and influence enemies, my grandfather said to appeal to a person’s taste buds.
Velma’s shoulders rolled forward, and she burst into tears. “Oh, Charlotte, I wasn’t watching your house. I swear. I was”—she hiccupped—“keeping an eye on Lavender and Lace. I thought . . .” She bit her lip. “I thought Harold was having—”
“An affair.”
She smacked the steering wheel. “He’s been acting strangely. Aloof. Out lots of nights during the week.” She shuddered. “He wasn’t there. At the inn. I waited all night.”
“That’s not true. Lois said you left.”
“I drove off to peek at the parking lot behind the inn. His car wasn’t there. So I returned to the street, but I parked on the other side of the inn. Far away from your house. And . . .” She tapped the steering wheel with her thumb, as if deliberating.
“What?”
She stopped the rhythm. “I did see a person head up your driveway. All I remember is he was big and broad and wearing a red jacket.”
She was describing Boyd Hellman. “Are you sure? It was dark.”
“The light from your garage helped.”
“Were you still there when the police arrived?”
She hesitated. “Yes, but I drove away. A car lurking near a murder scene would look suspicious.”
“How did you know it was a murder scene?”
“In retrospect,” she blurted out. “I knew something bad had happened. Why else would the police come? I didn’t hang around.” Was she lying about seeing a man in red? To implicate Boyd and protect her husband?
“Velma . . .”
“I’m done talking. My coat, please.” She held out her hand and jammed her lips together.
I recognized that look; I would get nothing more out of her. Reluctantly, I removed myself as a human wedge. The moment I closed her door, she ground the car into gear and tore out of the parking lot.
When I headed back toward the pub, a figure—a man—emerged from the shadows, hat pitched forward to keep rain off his face. As he drew near, I gasped. It was Shelton Nelson and he was wearing his shearling jacket, the one he had worn the day we toured the winery. Was he the wolf in sheep’s clothing that Alexis had foreseen? Fear zipped through me.
“Charlotte, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting drenched,” I said with all the pluck I could muster. I started to move past him, but he caught my upper arm and spun me to face him.
“I don’t need your sass, young lady. I repeat, what do you think you’re doing? Why are you getting involved?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I was simply chatting with Velma.”
“I’m not referring to your attempt to play marriage counselor. I’m asking why you and that little gal who works for you are checking my daughter’s phone records.”
I tensed. Where did he learn that? Did Liberty overhear Rebecca getting a word in edgewise to Delilah? Did Liberty alert Daddy? Shoot. “I—”
“I heard you sneaked into the precinct, as well. Don’t you think Chief Urso is competent?”
“I—”
“What did you expect to find?”
“I—” A motorboat with a flooded engine could crank into gear faster than I could.
“Yoo-hoo, Charlotte,” Tyanne called from just outside the pub’s door. “Our turkey sliders are ready, and you’re getting soaked.”
As she jogged to me holding an umbrella overhead, Shelton released me. He grumbled something that I couldn’t make out. Back off? Barking up a wrong tree? Behave? Why was I suddenly hearing impaired? Had he pursued me in the parking lot because he was protecting his daughter? Maybe he knew her alibi was bogus.
Tyanne gripped my hand. “Really, sugar, you’d think a businesswoman as smart as you would have more sense than to stand in the rain. You must be dotty.” She winked at Shelton. “Don’t tell a soul, Mr. Nelson, or her business could suffer, you hear?”
As we returned to the warmth of the pub, I couldn’t stop shaking and I couldn’t stop picturing Shelton in his shearling coat. Delilah would say her mother’s vision was hogwash, but was it?
CHAPTER
21
While I had been sparring with Velma and Shelton in the parking lot, Urso must have entered the pub through the front door. He stood at the bar with Deputy O’Shea, grilling Boyd, who was perched on a stool. The moment Urso spotted me, he made a beeline for me.
He caught up with me before I could reach the safety of my pals,
and he gripped my shoulders. Heat spiraled off of him. “Where have you been, Charlotte? My deputy said you raced outside.” His gaze radiated concern. “You’re cold and wet.”
“I needed to talk to Velma Warfield. Her husband lied about his alibi. He wasn’t at the library.”
“How do you know?”
“I . . . I just do.” I wrested free. “Also, Velma told me that she saw Boyd Hellman outside my house on the night of the murder. And on my way back inside, seconds ago, Shelton Nelson—” I hesitated. “Hey, I left a message for you. Why didn’t you call me back?”
Urso blew out an exasperated breath. “My cell provider has been giving me trouble. Your message only came through in bits and pieces. Go on about Shelton.”
I told him about Shelton’s threat. “I want you to take a good look at Liberty Nelson. I think she might have lied about her whereabouts on the night of the murder, and Shelton is covering for her.”
Urso ran a hand through his hair. “First, you think Harold is the killer, then Boyd, now Liberty? Look, how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want you involved? I don’t want you hurt. This killer grabbed a wine opener and shoved it into Noelle Adams’s throat. He—”
“Or she—”
“Won’t hesitate to kill again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m pretty darned positive. You poke your nose into a nest of hornets, they get feisty and sting.”
“You sound like Tyanne.”
“Don’t make light of my warning. You think you’re invincible. You’re not. Nobody is.”
The concern in his eyes made me back off but not back down. “I can’t promise anything, U-ey. I’m sorry. You hate to see an injustice. I hate it, too. It gnaws at me. It gnaws at you.”
