Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (8 page)

“I really like that one. I was browsing the Victoria’s Secret online catalogue last night, and—”

“I got it, I got it.” I clapped her shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

She beamed.

I started to turn and paused. Out on the street, a redheaded male pedestrian in a red plaid coat caught my eye. Did Boyd Hellman own any other color of clothing? Hands jammed into his pockets, he peered into the Country Kitchen’s windows. He wasn’t standing near the menu that hung beside the door. What was he staring at? Or who? I nudged Rebecca. “Did you see Chief Urso go into the diner?”

“No, but I haven’t been keeping a lookout. Why?”

“Boyd Hellman has surfaced.” Noelle had sounded certain that he left town. Did she make a fatal error? I hurried toward the rear of the shop to call Urso and give him a heads-up when the front door chimes jingled.

I paused when I saw Deputy O’Shea enter the shop. He removed his hat.

“Hello, Deputy,” Rebecca said loudly enough for her deceased Amish grandmother to hear. “Isn’t it horrible what happened last night?” She slipped her arm through his and batted her eyelashes. If only she wouldn’t watch so many TV crime shows and old movies, I mused. Only last week she admitted that the wily, manipulative Barbara Stanwyck in
Double Indemnity
was her new idol. “Care to enlighten me about the facts of the murder investigation?” she asked.

As obvious as it was that Deputy O’Shea was enthralled by Rebecca—he looked like a hangdog pup the way his eyes were lapping up her pretty face—he said, “No, ma’am.”

“I’m not a ma’am; I’m a
miss
. And really? You don’t have any leads? Nothing at all?”

“Nope.” Obviously Urso had taught his deputy the fine art of shutting down. “I came in to buy a wedge of that Huntsman cheese. I like it for lunch with apples.”

“You should,” I said. Huntsman was a fascinating cheese made with layers of English Double Gloucester and Stilton—England’s answer to blue cheese. The orange and blue-white combination looked beautiful on a cheese platter.

“Since you’re acting as stoic as Zeno”—Rebecca fluttered her eyelids some more and squeezed his arm brazenly—“shall I tell you something instead? Something really, really secret?”

O’Shea tensed his chiseled jaw.

“Your main suspect is standing right there.” Rebecca pointed out the window. “If you hurry, you might catch him.” She nudged the deputy.

Like a cartoon character, the deputy did a double take and then dashed outside. Rebecca burst into giggles. At the same time Sylvie, Matthew’s ex-wife, entered. Though the woman owned Under Wraps, a classy women’s clothing boutique and spa, she had no taste in clothes. She sashayed in wearing a gaudy getup that only she would think was chic: a heavily beaded fringed shirt and leather pants tucked into cowboy boots, her ice white hair drawn into a topknot. She probably thought she looked like a hip rocker. At forty-plus, she simply came across as a woman trying too hard. Perhaps she had purchased the outfit for Halloween and felt compelled to squeeze another wearing out of it.

I retreated behind the cheese counter. Though Sylvie had simmered down since Matthew and Meredith married, I didn’t care to buddy up to her. Too often, she invaded my personal space and gave me uncalled-for wardrobe tips.

She followed me to the counter and surveyed the wares. “Did you see him?” she cooed in her British accent.

“Him who?” I rearranged a few items and twisted the humorous flags toward the cash register so customers could catch a better view.

“Ashley Yeats, the journalist.” Sylvie twirled a loose strand of hair at the nape of her long neck. “He’s so charmingly British.”

And soaked in snake oil, I thought. Doing my best to heed my grandmother’s warning to say nothing if I couldn’t say something nice, I kept my opinion to myself. I wasn’t always so self-controlled.

“I’m thinking he’s an Eton man,” Sylvie continued. “And Eton, I’ll have you know, is traditionally considered the chief nurse of England’s statesmen.”

Ashley Yeats was far from a statesman. I recalled him tiptoeing toward Shelton Nelson’s private cellar yesterday. What had he been after? What was his angle?

The front door opened and Prudence Hart, a descendant of original settlers in Providence, marched into the store. When didn’t she march? She wore a pale blue skirt and blazer that washed out her already sallow skin. Her ultra-thin face looked in dire need of moisturizer and a smile.

“Good morning, Prudence,” I said. She could be sour; I wouldn’t be.

Per usual—which wasn’t often because Prudence was not a Cheese Shop regular—she didn’t respond. She normally entered when she wanted to stir up trouble. She headed for Sylvie. I braced myself.

“Sylvie.” Rebecca pulled a round of Bonne Bouche, the flagship of the Vermont Creamery, from the cheese case. “How about a sliver of your favorite?” In French,
bonne bouche
meant tasty morsel.

“I don’t have a favorite,” she sniffed.

“Sure you do,” Rebecca said like an expert salesman. “This one. It’s creamy white and tart.”

“Like you,” Prudence said, coming to a decisive halt beside Sylvie.

Sylvie said, “Why you—”

Prudence cut her off with a hand wave. “Have you seen them?” Her voice rose an entire octave. An opera diva couldn’t have sung the final note of an aria with more confidence.

“
Them
who?” Sylvie huffed, the nearness of her archenemy turning her into an instant shrew. Prudence owned the other women’s boutique in town—sans spa. The two were forever trying to undercut the other’s business.

“The new shop owners,” Prudence said. “There are at least ten who have taken over preexisting business concerns since the first of the month. The movie theater and the ice cream parlor, to name two. Providence is under siege. Soon it will turn itself into a huge town of commerce.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee. You’re imagining things,” Sylvie said. “Providence is growing at the same pace as always. Two move out, two move in. Big deal.”

“But there were ten getting business licenses today at the precinct. Ten. Some for new businesses.” Prudence wiggled her glossy fingernails. “If I had a mind, I’d buy out all of them and start this town over. Get some structure.”

“Tosh.”

“Prudence,” I cut in, determined to break up a fight before it began. “Are you enjoying all the parade fixings? I noticed there is a parade stand right near your shop.” La Chic Boutique stood next to the Country Kitchen, catty-corner to The Cheese Shop. “That will draw in a number of customers, I’ll wager.”

She threw me a caustic look.

I wouldn’t be deterred. “How about some cheese, Prudence? A slice of Iberico. It’s a combination cow, sheep, and goat cheese and the most popular cheese in Spain.”

“No, thank you. I only eat American.”

“Well, then, how about a taste of Stravecchio from the Antigo Cheese Company? They’re based in Wisconsin. The cheese tastes like Parmesan.” More customers were entering. I didn’t want the two enemies to scare them away. I wanted happy feelings radiating throughout the shop. I wanted laughter and goodwill. A girl could dream.

“I said no, Charlotte. Back to the new owners—”

“Don’t be such a blowhard,” Sylvie said.

“A wh-wh-wh . . . ?” Prudence sputtered. “What did you call me?”

Sylvie toyed with the beaded fringe of her shirt as if trying to keep herself in check, but typical Sylvie, she couldn’t. “Blowhard,” she said.

I flinched. Granted, there were no canapés for the two to hurl at each other—a long story—but there were plenty of accoutrements sitting on the display barrels and shelves around the shop that would serve as ammunition.

Sylvie smirked. “You brag about having money and you brag about your plans to invest, but you never spend a dime. Hence, you’re a blowhard.”

“Sylvie, how about a taste of Tartufello?” I said, trying hard to distract her. “It’s an herbaceous semi-firm raw cow’s milk cheese with black truffles. Remember how you swooned over it last month at Matthew’s wedding?”

“Nonsense, I would never swoon over a cheese. “

I persisted. “Yes, you did.” I skimmed slivers from a wedge of the cheese and offered a piece to her and another to Prudence.

Neither woman budged. Like gunslingers standing in the middle of an old-time dusty street, their hands fell to their pocketbooks as if they were holsters. Did each of them carry a concealed weapon? Craving normalcy in the shop, I skirted around the counter and said, “That’s it, you two. Out, now.” I sliced the air with my hand. A magic wand couldn’t have had better effect.

As Sylvie and Prudence exited, with Sylvie launching the final verbal bomb by insisting that Prudence needed intense therapy, Shelton Nelson hurried into the shop, followed by his daughter Liberty.

Shelton, whose face was ash white, jogged to me. “Charlotte, we need to see Matthew. A.S.A.P.”

A cold blast of air swept into the shop behind Shelton and Liberty. I shivered and wrapped my arms around my core. “Matthew’s in the cellar, Shelton. What’s wrong?”

“Let’s go, Daddy.” Without an invitation, Liberty prodded her father toward the kitchen at the rear of the shop. “Matthew will know what to do.”

Their footsteps thudded on the cellar stairs as they descended.

So much for asking for an invitation.

Rebecca hurried to me. “That Liberty Nelson. I don’t like her. I never have. She’s snooty and dismissive and always acting high and mighty with her pert little nose in the air. I know we’re supposed to be nice to all the customers, and I am, but it’s difficult sometimes.”

I couldn’t fault Rebecca. Being nice to someone and liking them were two entirely different things. Take Prudence or Sylvie, for instance.
Take them, please.
The two were still arguing on the sidewalk. Though I was a fixer by nature, I couldn’t fix everyone, so I decided to let Prudence and Sylvie go toe-to-toe without any more interference from me. Maybe they would resort to fisticuffs, and Ashley Yeats would come along and take a picture and plaster it in the papers, and . . .

Yes, a girl could dream.

“Did you see what Liberty was wearing?” Rebecca went on. “The angora sweater and the furry collared vest and that black hair of hers hanging like curtains around her face? She always dresses like that. Slinky and feline. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she had cat ancestors.”

“Rags would take offense at your analogy.”

Rebecca giggled. “I saw a sign in the window of Tailwaggers”—Tailwaggers was the pet shop on the north side of town—“that said:
Women and cats are queens and princesses. Men and dogs should get used to it.
But back to that Liberty. You need to go downstairs so you can listen in. You don’t want her wrangling Matthew into a nefarious scheme.”

I swear the words Rebecca used came straight from television crime shows. “We don’t know that they went downstairs to wrangle him into anything.”

“Please see what’s going on,” Rebecca begged. “There was a woman murdered in your garage last night, a woman who was supposed to start work today for Shelton Nelson. Something’s afoot.”

I had to admit that curiosity was brewing inside me. Shelton Nelson seemed the kind of guy who would never be thrown off his game. Did he know something about Noelle’s murder? “I guess I could go down saying I need the blue cheese that I’d asked Matthew to fetch.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Rebecca nudged me. “Listen in and get the scoop.”

The reassuring musky scent of ripening cheeses met me as I opened the cellar door, but as I descended the staircase, a chill gripped me. The temperature in the cellar stayed at a cool fifty-eight degrees. I wished I had grabbed a shawl. Shivering, I stopped three stairs shy of the lower level and peered around the corner. Matthew, Shelton, and Liberty were sitting at the mosaic table in the alcove.

“. . . and then Chief Urso asked me about my alibi for last night,” Shelton said.

So Shelton Nelson was a suspect? Wow. What about Liberty? She was quivering like a cat eager to find refuge from a storm.

“Don’t worry,” Matthew said. “I imagine Urso will question everyone who knew Noelle at some point. Do you have an alibi?”

“I was at home working out,” Shelton said. “Every evening, I ride my stationary bike and walk at least five miles on the treadmill. It’s a ritual. Then I shower and read until bedtime.”

“Any witnesses?”

“The housekeeper was there the whole time, but she’s Danish and doesn’t speak very good English. Not to mention she’s as deaf as a tombstone.”

Bad choice of words, I thought.

“I was home, too,” Liberty said. “In my room. I heard Daddy singing in the shower.” Her cheeks blushed a soft pink. “His room abuts mine,” she added quickly as if the notion that she knew her father was in the shower was a little odd. “I was reading Jane Austen for the umpteenth time. I adore Mr. Darcy.”

“Did you tell Chief Urso, Liberty?” Matthew asked.

“I wasn’t around this morning when the chief arrived. My fiancé and I had to meet with Tyanne. She’s our wedding planner.” Her face flushed a deeper red. “We were going over last-minute details, the cake and the flowers, and well, you know, Matthew. You just went through it. There’s so much to think about.”

“So you haven’t gone to the precinct to tell the chief?” Matthew said.

“Not yet. Daddy wanted . . .” Liberty raked the collar of her furry vest with her fingernails. “Daddy wanted to talk to you first.”

I took the last few steps of the stairs loudly so my appearance wouldn’t be a surprise. “Hi, sorry to intrude. I need to fetch some blue cheese right away.”

“Gosh, I apologize,” Matthew said. “I meant to—”

“No worries.”

“Charlotte.” Like a gentleman, Shelton rose partway. “Sit, please. For a minute. I’m so . . . Noelle . . . I can’t believe . . . in your house.”

“My garage.” I perched on the front of the chair opposite him.

“Noelle was”—his voice broke—“a special woman. An expert in her field. With her qualifications and background, she brought so much to the table. It’s such a loss.”

“Daddy had high hopes for her.” Liberty whisked a tissue from her huge tote bag and dabbed her eyes, which looked pretty darned dry. Left unsaid was that she didn’t have the same high hopes.

I thought of how she and her father had argued after we toured the vineyard. Noelle believed they were fighting about her. Was I wrong to think that Boyd Hellman had killed Noelle? Was Liberty or Shelton capable of such an act?

Liberty put her hand over her father’s and squeezed.

Shelton pressed back then removed his hand. “Chief Urso said you found her, Charlotte.” His chin trembled. “He said she spoke to you. What was it she said? Something like
hell’s key
?”

Aha. Urso was the one leaking the words Noelle uttered. Why would he reveal that much unless he hoped to judge suspects by watching their reactions?

“It sounds religious to me,” Liberty said.

“Religious?” Shelton scoffed. “Everything sounds religious to you, now that you’re marrying that—”

“Daddy,” Liberty cautioned.

“God-fearing man.”

“We all should be half the human being he is.”

“You know, darlin’, speaking of religion”—Shelton folded his hands in front of him—“wasn’t Noelle raised in a Catholic orphanage? Maybe her last breath was about needing some spiritual key to avoid going to hell.”

“You could be right, Daddy.”

“Interesting,” Matthew said.

Personally, I thought the theory was a stretch.

“I’m going to mention that to Chief Urso,” Shelton said.

Liberty huffed. “Like he’ll listen. He’s so bullheaded.”

“Now, darlin’.”

“You said so yourself. The chief—”

Shelton tapped a firm finger on the table. “Let’s keep those thoughts to ourselves.”

Liberty flicked her hair off her shoulders. “I’ll bet that horrible Harold Warfield sicced Chief Urso on you, Daddy.”

“Harold?” Matthew said. “Why would he do that?”

“He’s mad that Daddy hired Noelle. He told me so when we toured the vineyards.”

Harold clearly didn’t like Liberty. I doubt he would have revealed anything so intimate. I tried to recall his introduction to Noelle—or rather, reintroduction. She said they had met before. He was polite yet distant. I said, “What exactly did he say, Liberty?”

She sat taller in her chair. “He said she was gunning for his job.” Her eyes blinked rapidly; she was lying. “He said that if he had the chance, he’d wring her scrawny neck.”

Except Noelle hadn’t been strangled. She had been skewered.

• • •

After locating a dozen wheels of the last of our blue cheese stock, Rogue River Blue, a scrumptious blue cheese that was aged in caves that had been crafted to emulate the ancient caves in Roquefort, I returned upstairs, set the cheese in the kitchen, and went to the office to make an immediate reorder of cheeses we needed. Luckily, no early snowfall was in the forecast that might delay deliveries.

Rebecca followed me. “Well?”

“Shouldn’t you be attending to customers?” Before heading to the office, I had counted at least a dozen roaming the shop.

“Your grandfather came in for a snack. Afterward, he asked if he could tend the counter. You know how he loves to help out.”

I slipped into the office. Rags, who lazed on the desk chair, lifted his head and perked his ears.

Rebecca shut the door. “Come on, spill.”

I recounted what I had heard in the cellar, ending with Liberty’s alibi.

“She loves Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Rebecca squeaked, totally off topic. “How could she? I mean, he’s so rude and obnoxious.” When Rebecca left her Amish community, she decided to educate herself. Following my grandmother’s recommendations, she had read many classic plays. Now, she was blasting through classic novels denied her when she was a girl:
Little Women
,
Gone with the Wind
,
Pride and Prejudice.

I tilted my head. “Um, have you read the whole book?”

“I’m halfway through.”

“Finish it and then we’ll talk about the fabulous Mr. Darcy.”

“Fabulous,
shmabulous
.”

“Back to Shelton Nelson,” I said. “He acted bereft.” That was the only word for it. Trembling chin, white knuckles, a break in his voice.

“And he knew Noelle spoke to you?”

“Urso must have revealed that to him.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Ultra-secret Urso? Ha!”

I scooped up Rags and slumped in the chair, blown away by the last twenty-four hours. Rags must have sensed my melancholy. He stood on his hind legs and climbed up my chest with his forepaws, seeking a kiss. I obliged. Then I sought a kiss of my own. A different kiss. I kept a stash of Hershey’s Kisses—my mother’s favorite candy—in a desk drawer. I unwrapped the silver foil and plopped the morsel into my mouth. Delish.

Rebecca stomped to the desk. “Charlotte, what’s wrong? You’re keeping something from me.”

“No, I’m not.”

She folded her arms and tapped her foot, a set of moves she had learned all too well from my grandmother.

“What if . . . ?” My voice trailed off.

“What if what?”

“Nothing.”

“Out with it.”

“What if Noelle was saying
Shel’s key
, not
hell’s key
. Noelle only uttered the first blend of my name:
Ch
. That sounds like
Sh
. Add that to hell, it becomes
Shel’s key
.”

Rebecca shot up a finger. “You could be right. She was dying. People in pain aren’t always able to say exactly what they mean.” Her mouth tightened, making me wonder what she had witnessed as a girl. Her mother had died young.

“But I still don’t know what she meant.”

“What if”—Rebecca inhaled; her eyes blazed with intensity—“Noelle was saying that Shelton was key to knowing the truth about who murdered her, namely, Liberty.”

“Liberty?”

“You said Liberty’s alibi was hearing her father singing. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

“People sing.”

“You’re not following me. Doesn’t it seem odd that the whole case could rest on testimony like that?”

“What case?”

“Think like an attorney.” Rebecca tapped her head. “You’ve got a daughter as the sole witness for a father. Remember that movie
Legally Blonde
? Remember how the daughter’s alibi about taking a shower with recently permed hair blew the case wide open? Spoiler alert: she was the killer.” In addition to being an avid reader and television viewer, Rebecca had plowed through
AFI’s 100 Years . . . 100 Movies
and
AFI’s 100 Years . . . 100 Laughs
. Now, she was intent on watching the complete bodies of work of her favorite female stars: Barbara Stanwyck, Meryl Streep, and Reese Witherspoon—an eclectic mix to say the least.

“If only cracking the case were as easy as proving Liberty’s alibi was false,” I said. “What’s her motive? Why would she kill Noelle?”