Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (22 page)

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 call 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.

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?

“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-finding 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.