As Gouda as Dead (10 page)

All the dread I'd felt earlier disappeared. I stowed the note in my purse and pulled out my cell phone to call Jordan. As I did, the phone rang.

I recognized the cell phone number:
Jordan
. Talk about timing. I hurried to the foyer, the conversation in the theater making it too loud to hear, and I answered.

“Charlotte.” Jordan's voice was brimming with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier. Today has been, in a word, hectic.”

“Where are you? There's a lot of static.”

“I'm at the theater. Grandmère was holding auditions for her new play. By the way, thank you for the notes. I didn't get your latest until right now. Rebecca found it and forgot to give it to me before dragging me here.”

“How did she do?”

“Pretty well, I think. She had a catch in her throat and love in her eyes. There were a couple of actresses who gave wooden performances. Hers was honest and heartfelt. I don't know which direction my grandmother will go, but Rebecca has nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That's great. So”—he cleared his throat—“are you up for a date?”

“Absolutely.” It was past ten
P
.
M
., but I could find the energy to see the love of my life.

“Have you got your cross-country skis ready?”

“You want to go skiing now?” I glanced out the windows of the theater's foyer. Most of the actors were heading for the parking lot. Lights illuminated their path. “Um, it's dark, if you hadn't noticed.”

“Very funny.” Jordan chuckled, which tickled me to my toes. I could listen to his robust laugh all day long. “I meant let's go tomorrow. With all that's been going on, you need a day off. You were going to take it anyway.”

I was. To prep for the wedding: get my hair done; hem the wedding dress; maybe have a massage.

“I'll pick you up at your house at eight
A
.
M
.”

“That's early.”

“You wake up with the rooster. C'mon, I'll pack a picnic. In the afternoon, we'll take in the Loveland Singers. They're performing at the Bozzuto Winery tasting.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Maybe getting away from the center of town, I could refresh my critical thinking abilities so I could help out Urso. Perhaps Jordan and I could pin down another date to get married, too.

“I'll see you in the morning.” He blew me a kiss and hung up. No
I love you
, but I tried not to read anything into that. We were going on a daylong date. Life was looking up.

***

At eight sharp, Jordan arrived on my doorstep with a bouquet of daisies and a cellophane bag filled with Hershey's Kisses, my one silly passion—silly, because customers often teased me that, given my palate for exquisite cheeses, I should crave a fine dark chocolate from, say, Brazil. But I don't. My mother had loved Hershey's Kisses; so do I.

After setting the flowers in water and the Kisses on the counter, I checked Rags's food and water, and we set off. Bundled in my ski gear and secure in the passenger seat of Jordan's Explorer, I hummed along with the jazzy CD Jordan had inserted, and I drank in the view of the countryside. The rolling hills shimmered with crystalline snow. None were scarred by snowmobile tracks. The towering oaks, cloaked beneath blankets of icy white powder, didn't look nearly as fearsome as they usually did. I avoided glancing at the mud-splattered snow alongside the road that had been scraped aside by snowplows. Who needed to ruin the dreamy mood?

Over the course of the drive, Jordan and I only spoke a few words. How pretty it all was. Idyllic. Peaceful. No talk of Tim or his murder. We caught sight of a pair of deer sprinting across an open space and, at the same time, pointed, but that didn't make us strike up more conversation. I felt tentative and shy and wondered what Jordan was feeling.

When we arrived a short while later at Nature's Preserve, dozens of SUV-type vehicles were already parked in the parking lot. The hiking trails frequented in the summer and fall were now the cross-country skiing routes. As we were donning our skis along with others who were chattering about their hopes for a clear day with no new snowfall, I paused to scan the area. There were remnants of wet tire marks and boot prints everywhere, which reminded me of the few prints found near the crime scene on Jordan's farm. Urso had complained that the prints were too generic; he would get no clues from them. If only one could reveal the killer's identity. The murder would be solved. Life—ours, not Tim's—could move ahead. But
if only
was not an option.

A half hour into our trek along paths lined with hickory, maple, and chokecherry trees, a chill gripped me. My teeth must have chattered, because Jordan said, “Want to take a coffee break?”

“You brought coffee?”

“And a midmorning snack.”

We veered off the path to one of the many picnic areas, this one empty of other trekkers, and removed our skis. Jordan brushed snow off a wooden table and dug into his backpack. He withdrew not only a thermos of coffee but a pair of scrumptious-looking galettes, as well. Each of the flat round pastries was filled with a decorative wheel of pears.

“Did you make these?” I settled onto the bench next to Jordan and dove into my galette with cheerful abandon.

“Yep.”

“When did you have time?”

“Okay, I'll fess up. I got them at the pastry shop. Dottie's a wizard, isn't she?”

Unable to help myself, I polished off the pastry in less than six bites. Dottie had used Pace Hill's Gouda. The combination, with a hint of nutmeg, was perfect. I took a sip of rich coffee—Jordan preferred using the French-press method—and said, “Wow, that was good. Almost as good as s-e-x.”

“Never.” Jordan pushed our coffee mugs aside and drew me into his arms. He pressed his lips against mine. We spent the next few minutes devouring each other. Lips only. If we'd brought along a winter tent—

A rustle in the woods startled us. We pulled apart.

A family of raccoons was huddling beneath a stand of bushes, watching us.

Jordan hustled to his feet. “Go away!”

The raccoons stared at him brazenly.

“Go!” He clapped loudly and lunged at them. That did it. They scampered off, but we knew if we left our meal out, they would return.

We packed up, put on our skis, and retreated to the trail.

A few minutes back into our trek, Jordan said, “By the way, I called Luigi. He's on the fence.”

“About selling La Bella Ristorante?”

“About the whole move to California.”

“Don't tell me he's sticking around because he thinks he has a chance with Delilah.”

Jordan grinned. “I asked the same question. He said she's dating someone else.”

“Who?”

“He doesn't know.”

“Humph. News to me.” How could she not tell me, her best friend? Bad Delilah. Maybe she hadn't told me who the new man in her life was because she hadn't wanted to take the limelight away from me before the wedding. Would she have shown up with him as a plus-one?

“I think Luigi has his eye on one of Tyanne's sisters,” Jordan said. “The hair salon owner.”

“No kidding.” Shortly after Tyanne's husband ran off with a younger woman, her sisters came to town to give her moral support. They had settled in as if they were natives. “So where does that leave you about selling the farm?” I asked.

“In a quandary.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

A companionable silence fell between us. Though my insides were reeling with conflicting emotions, I focused on each plant of my pole, each stride of a ski, my heels rising and falling with ease. I paid attention to the sound of snow slipping off branches, the breeze whistling between trees, the skittering of hidden animals.

Rounding a bend, I said, “Everything is so fresh.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, I'm not referring to the day . . . the forest . . . our trek. I mean, everything as in the drama in our lives. We're both so raw. I don't think you . . .
we
 . . . should make any more decisions until Tim's murder is solved.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. Yes, it was right to cancel the wedding,” I went on, “but I don't think you should be making a determination about selling your farm or buying a restaurant yet. Wait a week or so. Give it time. Does it have to be decided this minute?”

“No.”

At the edge of a clearing, Jordan pulled to a stop. I did, too. We both drew in a breath as we took in the sweeping vista. Snow glistened on the trees and hills.

“By the way,” I said, interrupting the moment of calm, “did you talk with Tyanne about compensating her for any loss?”

“I did. As luck would have it, another couple decided to tie the knot tomorrow.”

“Just like that? Spur of the moment?”

“Love is in the air. There's no waiting period in Ohio as long as both parties are over the age of eighteen and have valid proof of identification.”

“Do you know the couple?”

Jordan shook his head. “Tyanne implied they were visitors with an open checkbook. She said she could use nearly everything from our wedding, other than the venue, for theirs.”

“Let's hear it for Cupid.”

Jordan mushed ahead. I hurried to catch up, eager to get the answer to my next question.

“Jordan,” I said. My heart hammered my chest. Broaching tough topics wasn't easy for me. “What are we going to do about setting our new date?”

Jordan offered a sly grin. “Didn't you just say we weren't supposed to be making any important decisions?”

I batted his arm and nearly lost my balance. He reached over to steady me.

“Don't take me so literally,” I said.

“What do you think about May? It'll be spring; the weather will be warm. Is that too far away?”

It felt like eons, but I could be patient. “May it is.”

“As for our honeymoon . . .” he went on.

My heart wrenched with regret. We were supposed to leave Tuesday for Europe for two weeks. Jordan had hoped to woo me away for two months, but I simply couldn't commit to that length of time. Suitcases were packed in my bedroom. I hadn't had the energy to unpack them yet. The mere sight of them brought tears to my eyes.

“I've spoken to the travel agent,” Jordan said. “Because the circumstances that made us change our minds were due to a grievous loss, we're allowed to postpone for up to three months without penalty, so May is perfect.”

I smiled, but anxiety coursed through me. I worried that somehow, some way, another dire situation would crop up and keep us from taking that trip.

Jordan put a hand on my shoulder. “Charlotte, are you okay?”

The chilly air cut through me. “Fine,” I said cheerily. I was becoming quite adept at lying.

The rest of the morning came and went in a flash. Sufficiently exercised, we stowed our ski gear in the SUV and headed to the Bozzuto Winery.

Trailing a caravan of large vehicles, we drove along the road leading to the top of the hill. The winery abutted the extensive property that now served as the Providence Liberal Arts College campus. On both sides of us, fenced stands of leafless vines crisscrossed the grounds. The winery itself, which consisted of more than a dozen buildings and resembled a small town in Tuscany, smacked of old-world charm.

By the time we exited the SUV, the weather had warmed. The temperature was hovering in the low thirties. People crowded the many picnic tables set in the center of the winery's
square.

At one table, Belinda Bell sat bundled up in a shocking blue parka and pants, her hair squished beneath a matching beanie. She reminded me of an aged version of the aggressively competitive girl in the movie
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
, the one that blew up into a giant blueberry. Beside her was a weathered, bearded man named Eddie Townsend who, when he wasn't in his cups, did pretty well selling and leasing commercial property. His motto:
If you're ready, call Eddie
. He was a regular at Fromagerie Bessette, preferring robust cheeses made with port and beer.

Beyond them I caught sight of Paige Alpaugh, who looked as horsey as ever in a furry caramel-colored parka, her matching mane of hair cinched into a ponytail. She was meeting with a handful of women that I could only describe as the most attentive moms in town. One of them was my friend Freckles. All the women were sipping from glasses of wine while hanging on a tale that Paige was telling. A few were scribbling in notebooks, too. Paige often gave seminars on how to run a successful Internet blog.

“Hear that?” Jordan said. An instrumental version of “Stand By Your Man” spilled out of the barnlike building to our left.

I grinned. It wasn't your typical Valentine's Day music, but it would do.

Upon entering, I was surprised to see that the Bozzutos had transformed the structure into a winter wonderland. Artificial trees lit with white lights surrounded the outer rim. Twinkling tapestries of a variety of winter scenes decorated the walls. Burgundy-draped booths stood around the interior, each offering a different white wine for tasting: gewürztraminer, pinot gris, Riesling, and more. Vendors selling sausages and hot pretzels with mustard were drawing huge crowds. A cheese maker from Emerald Pastures Farm was offering tastings of a zesty new goat Gouda. Aged for longer than a year, the toffee-colored cheese's interior was smattered with crystals that gave the cheese a gritty, fun texture.

“This way.” Jordan steered me toward the far end of the barn as the four-piece band—two guitars, a drummer, and an electric fiddle player—started in on their next song, “Hey, Good Lookin.'”

Couples moved onto the temporary dance floor. Dressed in their winter clothes and heavy boots, they looked pretty graceless as they did a Texas two-step. Clomping abounded.

We set our coats and Jordan's backpack at a small bistro table.

“Care to dance?” he asked.

“Not a chance. A glass of wine sounds like more than enough excitement.”

We joined a line for grüner veltliner, one of my favorite wines. It had tons of complexity and a luscious dose of pepper in the aroma. When I spotted Jawbone Jones in line ahead of us, I nipped Jordan's elbow and pointed.

“So?” he said.

“He's a suspect in Tim's murder.”

“That doesn't mean he's guilty. He's allowed to live his life while Urso is investigating.”

In this ambiance, Jawbone didn't look very intimidating. Light gleamed off his shaved head. Even his goatee seemed to sparkle. He stood with his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with fringed brown hair and what stylists called a rattail. It trailed over the collar of her biker-style jacket. They were chatting it up with a couple that reminded me of a hippie Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus. Both were thickset and dressed in camouflage jackets and pants, their snow-white hair scraggly and unkempt.

“What do you think?” I asked Jordan.

“About?”

“Jawbone.”

He threw me a troubled look.

“I'm allowed to theorize,” I said. “Violet Walden said Jawbone threatened Tim.”

“Why were you questioning Violet Walden?”

“I wasn't—” I pressed my lips together. “Okay, maybe I was. I want to help. Violet was at the pub the night Tim died. Yesterday, I went to the inn to check on her.”

“Uh-huh.” Jordan smirked, obviously not believing the innocence of my visit. “Go on. Jawbone threatened Tim how?”

“Jawbone wanted to buy the pub.” I told him the rest of what Violet had said.

“‘Get him' is sort of vague, and Violet isn't the most reliable witness. Remember when she tried to oust your neighbor Lois from the bed-and-breakfast association?”

He was right. The B&B group met annually to establish guidelines for the inns in the area. Violet asserted that Lois, who ran a quaint place, had badmouthed Violet with the express intent of damaging her business. The claim, per the association president, could not be proven.

On the other hand, whether Violet was reliable or not, I was still getting a vibe about Jawbone. I eyed him and his date again. “Violet intimated that Jawbone was drunk at the time, so he might not remember the incident.”

“The threat was hollow, and it was over a year ago.”

“That's what Urso said.”

“Aha! Our chief of police is investigating?”

I poked him. “Don't tease.”

“Charlotte.” Jordan rubbed my shoulder. “Please leave the investigation to him.”

“The woman Jawbone is with,” I said, ignoring his plea. “I wonder if she's the one who gave him his alibi. Urso said Jawbone's band partner was the person that came forward. She looks like a rocker, doesn't she? The jacket she's wearing is covered with the names of bands.”

“Don't judge a book by its cover. For all you know, she could be a teacher, a librarian, or a pastor.”

“Yeah, right.”

Jordan grinned. “Okay, fine, you've made me curious. What was Jawbone's alibi for the night Tim died?”

I told him. “Talking on a cell phone for the duration of a drive sounds feeble, especially since Tim couldn't get through with any clarity to either his nephew or Urso.”

Even after we received our tasting of wine and returned to our table to eat the sandwiches Jordan had brought—a delicious torpedo laden with salami, baby Swiss, and pesto aioli—I was intrigued by Jawbone and his date. She started stroking his face. A brilliant diamond glistened on her left hand.

“Look at the rock on her finger,” I said. “It must have cost a pretty penny. Do you think they're engaged? Do you think she's in love with him? Love can make people do all sorts of stupid things. Like lie.”

When Jordan didn't respond, I pressed on. “Can a gun dealer in a small town make enough money to purchase something like a one-carat diamond? What if Jawbone stole the ring? What if”—I clasped his wrist—“Tim saw him take it?”

Jordan heaved a sigh. “Do you hear yourself?”

“What if the woman was with Jawbone at the time? Maybe she egged Jawbone on. Maybe she's the one that told Jawbone to kill Tim.”

“Charlotte, please stop theorizing. Let Urso—”

“Charlotte, there you are!” Meredith raced toward me with the twins, Clair and Amy, in tow.

I rose to my feet. The girls looked downright willowy with their tights-covered legs poking from below their puffy parkas. Had they each grown two inches in the last week? They wrapped their arms around me and squeezed me so hard I thought I'd been attacked by a pair of boa constrictors.

“I'm so glad I found you,” Meredith said. She smiled at Jordan. “Sorry to intrude.”

“No problem.” He looked relieved that I wasn't able to continue theorizing.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“We . . .
they
”—Meredith pointed at the twins—“were so worried about you. They've had me calling you all day.”

“I never heard my cell phone ring.”

“They thought . . . ah, heck, they didn't know what to think, and I didn't douse the flames.” Meredith lowered her voice to a hushed whisper as she pointed at the two wiggle worms clutching me. “They are so upset about the wedding being canceled, and they were concerned that you . . .” Her voice drifted to a whisper.

“That I what?”

“That you were hiding beneath the bedcovers. Moping.”

“Me? C'mon.” I wriggled free and tapped each of the girls' noses. Far be it from me to admit the fears that had cycled through my mind last night prior to my conversation with Jordan.

“You know how they can be,” Meredith went on. “I told them to relax, but they couldn't. We went to your house. When you weren't there, we looked in the garage.” She used her hands to describe the search. “Your car was still there, but Amy noticed your cross-country skis were gone. I suggested you had gone on an outing with Jordan, but the girls had to know for sure. Long story short, we called around. You were sighted up here.”

“What sleuths,” I said.

“Um . . .” Meredith hesitated. “They want to spend the night with you to make sure you're okay.”

“We've got all week. It's the school holiday. Why tonight?”

“Because Matthew and I have decided to whisk them out of town tomorrow to get their minds off, you know . . .”
The canceled wedding.
Meredith tilted her head. “Can they stay the night?”

I reached for Jordan's hand. He winked and gave my hand a squeeze, his peeve with me a minute earlier dispelled. He mouthed:
Go ahead.
Family always came first.

I said, “Girls, would you like to have a sleepover at Aunt Charlotte's tonight?”

“Yes!” Amy yelled.

“Can we bring Rocket?” Clair asked.

A dog, a cat, two girls, and me. What could be better on the night before I was supposed to have gotten married?

“The more the merrier,” I chimed.

The girls ran out of the building, with Meredith yelling, “Race you home!”

As we were leaving the barn, Jordan excused himself to go to the restroom. While I waited for him by the exit, something made me turn back. A feeling? Stirred by the music? The band had launched into a rousing rendition of “Your Cheatin' Heart.”

Across the large hall, Jawbone, who had separated from what I assumed was his fiancée, was jabbing his finger into the paunch of hippie Santa. Santa looked so mad that if he'd had a reindeer whip handy, he would have used it to tame Jawbone.

In a flash Jawbone grabbed hippie Santa's finger and twisted. He said something that made his assailant writhe. He released the finger, made one more crack, and stomped outside.

An urge to learn more about Jawbone gnawed at me. I searched for Jordan but didn't see him. I couldn't hold off. I hurried after Jawbone.