Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery)

by Aames, Avery

  “You’re lying, Sylvie,” Matthew said. “You’ve never tasted that wine. It’s a dry white wine.”

  “No, no, I tasted it.”

  “What color was it?”

  “Deep amber.”

  “Wrong. It’s the color of pale yellow straw.”

  Sylvie blanched. “I’m sure I drank it. I believe it was a 1985 vintage. Somewhere in the range of a thousand dollars a bottle at the time. Maybe it had turned color.”

  Matthew sneered. “Bottles like that don’t turn.”

  The door to the emergency room swung open and Urso marched in, rainwater dripping off his overcoat and hat. “Well, well, well. Here we are again, except this time it’s Matthew that’s bruised. I thought you had more brains.”

  “Apparently, I don’t,” he joked.

  Urso faced me. “What in the heck were you thinking, Charlotte?”

  “How . . . What . . .” I stammered. I knew for a fact that neither Meredith nor my grandparents had called him. Nurse Nenette, who had reappeared and was hovering in the archway by the check-in counter, thumbed her chest and vehemently shook her head. I didn’t believe her for a second.

  “Liberty Nelson is quite upset.” Urso removed his hat and ran a finger around the brim slowly. Ever so slowly. Not good. The move was a clear sign he was reining in his temper. “It seems Miss Nelson has video footage of a pair of upstanding Providence citizens breaking into her wine cellar.”

  His words clanged in my head: her cellar, not her father’s.

  I peeked at Matthew, who winced. We had been so concentrated on searching for Noelle’s footprints that we hadn’t searched for surveillance cameras. How stupid were we?

  Urso clicked his tongue. “Miss Nelson asked me to arrest you two.”

  “Liberty?” I said. “Not her father?”

  “She hasn’t told him.”

  Why not? I wondered. Did she have something to hide?

  Adhering to the belief that a good offense was better than a good defense, I said, “How about you arrest her, instead? She attacked Matthew.”

  Urso scoffed. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Did she admit to assaulting my cousin?”

  “Quite the contrary. She was home reading The Last Time I Saw Paris when she heard wheels squealing on the pavement.”

  How much did the woman read? With my schedule, I could barely manage to get in a couple of chapters of a good mystery each night.

  “She told me she heard something, ran to the security room, and on the screen, saw two people sprinting from her place.”

  More like hobbling from her place, but I didn’t correct him.

  “Look, Charlotte, let’s talk straight. You broke into the Nelsons’ property. Care to tell me why, after our recent conversation at the pub?” Urso flattened a palm. “No, don’t bother. I’m taking you in.”

  “But—”

  “You broke into someone’s home.”

  “Cellar.”

  “A man’s castle,” he argued.

  “U-ey, we think either Liberty or her father is hiding something. We think Noelle went there to investigate. The mud on her shoes”—I pointed to the gunk clinging to mine—“might have come from there. Possibly, she gleaned evidence and threatened to reveal the problem.”

  “Did Miss Adams seem like a blackmailer to you?” he asked.

  No, actually she didn’t, but she had said: So much is at stake.

  “Chief Urso, please don’t arrest our aunt,” Clair said.

  “Or our daddy,” Amy cried.

  Urso released the tension in his shoulders. “It’s all right, girls. I’m not going to. Miss Nelson withdrew the request. She said these two”—he waggled a finger at Matthew and me—“were under such duress and not thinking straight, seeing as Miss Adams had been staying with your aunt and was a close friend of your father’s.”

  I glowered at Urso. Why had he baited me? Better yet, why had Liberty Nelson forgiven us? Was she entirely innocent, or had she withdrawn charges to divert suspicion from herself? Or, more to the point, to keep her father from finding out the truth about her blind ambition?

  “Is she claiming she didn’t hit Matthew?” I said.

  “She never mentioned it.”

  If she didn’t hit Matthew, who did?

  Urso hitched up his belt, squared the holster holding his gun, and left his hand poised above the butt of his weapon. “In the meantime, I don’t want to have any more of your interference, or I will slap you with obstruction. Are we clear?”

  CHAPTER

  24

  Sleep did not come easily. For hours I paced my bedroom asking out loud: who, what, where, when, and why. I knew the how. In between my deliberations, I berated Urso. Why was he so bullheaded? Thunder and lightning helped enhance my tirade. Rags hid beneath a chair.

  At eight A.M. the storm had passed, but my foul mood hadn’t. I stood in The Cheese Shop kitchen and pounded balls of dough as if each were Urso’s thick skull. We had been friends for a long time. Why couldn’t he see that I had done everything I could to aid his investigation? Why didn’t he appreciate my efforts? Granted, I had said no to his marriage proposal way back when, but he didn’t have to treat me like a numbskull.

  Rebecca, who loved to assist when baking the morning quiches, said, “Go ahead and beat those suckers into submission, but if you do, know that you’ll have to make a whole new batch because the pastry won’t be flaky.”

  My cheeks reddened. I pushed the dough aside and slumped onto a stool. Assembling the bacon, Havarti, and quince quiches would have to wait. Thankfully, I had already cooked the bacon to a crisp and stewed the quinces.

  “Don’t worry about Urso,” Rebecca said. “You’ll patch things up. Promise.”

  “Yoo-hoo, Charlotte, love.” Sylvie, dressed in a cherry red Chinese sarong—one of her go-to outfits whenever she was feeling under the weather—appeared in the archway. “Have you seen Matthew?”

  “He’s in the annex.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  Matthew had arrived at the shop a half hour after me. As a result of the attack, he had a bump on his head, but his eyes were bright, and he had assured me that after another hour of explaining his complicity in our mission, Meredith didn’t want my head on a platter—although he had confided that she wasn’t likely to chat with me for a day or two. Swell. He was putting together the educational wine tasting he had scheduled for the evening, an event where students would receive a check-off list and a glass of wine, and they would go around to snifters filled with a variety of fruits, nuts, and candies to compare which aromas matched the wine.

  “Yes, he is, Sylvie. You didn’t look hard enough.”

  “Show me. I’m worried about him.” She clutched my elbow and, despite my doughy fingers, dragged me through the shop to the annex. I tried to put on the brakes, but the fight had leaked out of me.

  I peered into the annex. It was empty. I called, “Matthew,” but he didn’t answer. The glasses for the event were set on the bar, the snifters prepared. “Matt—”

  Behind the wine bar, I spied ankles and shoes. The toes were pointing toward the floor. Had Matthew fainted? Facedown? Panicked, I raced to the bar and peered over.

  Perched on his hands and knees, Matthew peeked over his shoulder at me and whispered, “Shh.”

  I gaped. The scamp was hiding from his ex? “Get up, coward. If I can see you, so can Sylvie. She’s concerned. She wants to know how you are.”

  Grumbling, he scrambled to a stand, edged from behind the bar, and skirted past Sylvie. Without offering a word, he tore down the hall, into the office, and slammed the door.

  Sylvie darted after him. “Matthew Bessette, unlock this door. How dare you.”

  “I need to rest,” he shouted. “Go away.”

  Sylvie stomped her foot. “Open up.”

  I heard a howl. From Rags. I didn’t think he needed rescuing. Matthew had probably grabbed him for emotional support. Refusing to be an
intermediary, I returned to the shop.

  At the same time, Ipo marched in looking like a mighty Hawaiian warrior ready to subdue a raging volcano. “Rebecca,” he bellowed, “I’d like a word with you, please.”

  At least, though he was loud, he was polite.

  My sassy assistant emerged from the kitchen, her apron dusted in flour. “What are you doing here?”

  He pulled alongside the cash register. “I don’t like you flirting with that deputy.”

  Rebecca flipped her ponytail with defiance. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw you last night. At the pub. I don’t like it. You and I are not finished.”

  “Yes, we are. You’re moving back to Hawaii.”

  “No, I’m not. I told my parents that I make my own decisions. I choose my life. And it’s here. With you.” Ipo planted his fists against his hips. “Now, are we going on a date Friday or not?”

  Rebecca fought a smile with all her might, but her eyes twinkled with humor. “Where would we go?”

  “To the movies.”

  “Do I get to pick the movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do we get to eat cheddar popcorn?”

  “If that’s what you want.” He swiveled on his heel. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty. Aloha.”

  When he exited the shop, Rebecca did a fist pump. “The movies. He never wants to go to the movies. Exploring nature has always been his thing. Oh, yay, he’s a changed man.” She danced a jig.

  “Not so fast, my little leprechaun,” I said. “He’s changed for the moment and only the moment. Permanent change takes time. And don’t forget that Deputy O’Shea has his eye on you.”

  “Oh, gosh. You’re right. Did I tell you that he asked me to dinner on Saturday?” She clapped. “Can you believe it? I’m actually dating more than one man at a time. For real.” When she first moved to town, she had never dated. She hop-skipped around the store but came to a halt as my grandmother scuttled inside. “Bernadette, are you okay?”

  Grandmère hurried to the cheese counter. “Hide me, Charlotte.”

  “From whom?”

  She darted around the cheese counter and ducked behind me. “Prudence is on the warpath.”

  I spun to face her. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You didn’t tell everyone about Prudence’s meltdown at the theater, did you?”

  “No. I would never.” She crossed her heart. “I am a caring person; I have taught you to be the same.”

  “Then what is this about?”

  “I fear she might have lost her marbles for good this time.”

  Prudence Hart charged into the shop, her face as beet red as her suit. “Where is she?” She stomped forward and shot a finger at me—well, really, at my grandmother. “I see you, Bernadette. How dare you use your mayoral powers to slap an injunction on me.”

  “What?” Grandmère gasped. “I did no such thing.” Finding her courage, she squared her shoulders and moved around the register. Though she was barely five-feet-two and shrinking by the month, in her black coat, swirly skirt, and boots, she appeared as feisty as a toreador. “Is that what you believe?”

  “Who else could have done it?”

  “It is a lie. In fact, I stood in favor of your right to invest. Some declared you unstable, but I assured them of your mental acuity.”

  “Unstable?”

  Sylvie, who apparently had given up on seeing Matthew, waltzed down the hall and stopped by my side. “What’s going on?”

  Rebecca whizzed in from the opposite direction and clutched my arm. “Uh-oh. Should I call the police?”

  “I have every right to own more than three shops,” Prudence said.

  “No, you don’t.” Sylvie sprinted around the cash register and faced Prudence. “This city requires financial transparency.”

  Where had she come up with that phrase? Was Ashley Yeats filling her with this lingo?

  “If one person owns everything,” Sylvie continued, “it becomes a monopoly. You might pull the wool over buyers’ eyes.” I’d bet her parents had done that multiple times. They weren’t too different from Noelle’s parents.

  Prudence snarled. “Oh, hush, Sylvie. You’re just jealous because I have the means and wherewithal to change how business is done around here.”

  “You take shortcuts,” Sylvie said, “hurting the customers in the process.”

  “I have every right to buy up businesses.”

  “Not if you’re cuckoo.”

  Oh, heavens, had the twins told their mother about the fiasco? I would have to . . . No, I wouldn’t. Matthew or Meredith would have to talk to them about spreading gossip.

  Prudence lasered Sylvie with a glare. “It was you. You brought the injunction.”

  “What if I did?” Sylvie smirked. “Bring your records before the city council. Let them vote.”

  “Bernadette.” Prudence pleaded with my grandmother. “Help me.”

  “No, Bernadette, help me,” Sylvie cried. That was a first.

  Each of the women grabbed one of Grandmère’s arms. As they did, a pair of customers entered the shop. Prudence, Grandmère, and Sylvie quieted and watched them as if they were fish in an aquarium.

  “Okay,” I said. I’d endured enough. “You three. Out. Grandmère, Prudence, and Sylvie, leave or I’ll make each of you purchase a fair share of today’s special Cambazola to make up for any loss you cause the shop.” I aimed a finger at the exit to make my point. “Settle your differences outside.”

  Grandmère broke free and hurried to me. “Chérie, I am sorry.”

  “I know.” I kissed her and whispered, “Maybe suggest to Prudence, in private, that she get some professional help.”

  “Oui. A sound idea.”

  “And I don’t mean a lawyer.”

  When they left and I returned to my spot behind the cheese counter, Rebecca slung an arm around my shoulder. “You threatened them with buying Cambazola? Like that would be punishment?” Cambazola was a delicious combination of a French soft-ripened triple-cream cheese and Italian Gorgonzola. “It’s time for you to take a breather.” She released me and pressed my lower back. “Go find Meredith and have a chat.”

  “Oh yeah, like she’ll spare two words for me.”

  “Visit Delilah, then, at the diner. A cup of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream would do you wonders.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  When I entered the Country Kitchen, Delilah and the other waitstaff were sashaying down the aisle between the counter and booths singing Elvis’s “A Big Hunk O’ Love.” From a booth at the far end, Delilah’s mother Alexis waved and beckoned me to sit with her. Pops, Delilah’s father, hovered behind the pass-through counter to the kitchen and gawked at me as if I were a traitor. As I made my way along the aisle, I blew him a kiss and patted my heart with the tips of my fingers. I hoped he would understand the gesture—I adored him and would never throw him over for Delilah’s flighty mother.

  “Charlotte.” The roomy sleeves of Alexis’s quilted jacket billowed as she patted the banquette indicating I should sit. “Delilah and I are having an early lunch and talking about life’s grand issues.”

  I glanced at Delilah who seemed more than happy to be dancing for the patrons and not chatting with her mother. On the other hand, two places were set at the table. One held a bowl of soup, the other a sandwich.

  “What are you eating?” Alexis said. “I’m having vegetarian soup smothered in Parmesan. Delilah made it especially for me, knowing my dietary restraints. No meat has touched these lips since I left Ohio.” She tapped her burgundy-tinged mouth. “Delilah is having yet another grilled cheese. I think she said it was rosemary-crusted cheese and scallions.”

  “It’s a rosemary Manchego-like cheese, though because of the rosemary it can’t be an official Manchego.”

  “Whatever. It’s getting cold. She should sit down. All this dancing and singing. I don’t know why the customers put up with
it.”

  Any time a patron chose an Elvis song on one of the tabletop jukeboxes, the waitstaff stopped what they were doing and sang.

  Alexis’s aversion to the performances had to do with the fact that Delilah had been swept up in the allure of singing and dancing onstage and had moved to New York. Years ago, Alexis claimed her world had ended that day. Talk about putting a guilt trip on a daughter.

  “Why don’t you eat the sandwich?” Alexis said. “And, meanwhile, tell me what’s going on in your life. There’s a man, I assume.”

  In the nick of time, the music ended and Delilah slid into the booth beside me. “Uh-uh, Mother. No grilling my friends.”

  “But you grill . . . grilled cheese.” Pleased with her joke, Alexis cackled and wiggled her colorful hand, each nail painted with a different sign of the zodiac. “Fine, fine. No questions, except I would like to know why you’re upset with Umberto Urso, Charlotte. That’s why you came into the diner, isn’t it, dear? He was harsh with you, and that hurt your feelings.”

  My mouth fell open.

  Delilah gaped at me. “Lord, tell me she’s wrong.”

  “I divine, darling,” Alexis said. “In fact, I am divine.” She chuckled again.

  I had to admit it was hard not to like Alexis. “I need a cup of hot chocolate, first.”

  Delilah fetched a luscious mug of cocoa topped with swirls of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and set it in front of me. She slid back in her seat and said, “Tell me—”