As Gouda as Dead (17 page)

Rebecca sidled up to me. “Who's coming in to help me out?”

“I arranged for Pépère to assist. He's feeling useless. Grandmère doesn't need him at the theater because of the minimalist sets.”

Jordan ran his hand down my back. “How about going skating tomorrow, then?”

“Not tomorrow,” I said. “There's too much to do for the Lovers Trail event.”

Jordan pecked me on the cheek. “You work too hard.” He beckoned Rebecca. “Do you think you could hold down the fort during the day on Thursday?”

“Thursday?” I squeaked. “But that's the event day.”

“Not until evening. If you're not ready by that morning, you're not going to be ready.” He whispered to me, “Until then.” He dropped something into my apron pocket and left.

I couldn't wait to see what he'd written. It wouldn't be poetry, but it would be sincere. However, I would have to wait, because Delilah raced right past Jordan into the shop and made a beeline for me. She was only wearing her diner uniform, no coat or sweater. Her face was flushed. “You won't believe what happened.”

Delilah clasped my hand and pulled me toward the exit at the rear of the shop.

“Are you crazy running out without a jacket?” I lifted my parka off the coatrack and thrust it into her hands.

“I'll survive.” She draped it over her shoulders. “I couldn't wait to tell you. You won't believe it. Belinda Bell's daughter called me.”

“Aurora? Called
you
?”

“Me.” Delilah swooped a hand through her wild curls.

“How did she get your number?”

“She phoned the diner.”

“What did she want to talk about?”

“She asked if Zach Mueller was all right and whether his alibi held up. She swears Zach is innocent, which I assume means she was talking to him at the time.”

“Why did she contact you?”

Delilah grinned. “She said we were kindred spirits, both of us being actresses.”

“Did she specifically say that he called her that morning?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Either she did or didn't.”

Delilah shrugged.

“I'll take that as a
no
, she didn't.” I cocked my head. “Calling you is weird. Why would she do that?”

Delilah twirled a curl around her finger. “Because I'm cute?”

I frowned. “What if Zach put her up to this? Maybe he counted on you coming to me, and he's betting that I'll go to Urso to establish his alibi.”

“Does that mean Zach is guilty?”

“It sure doesn't make him look innocent.”

***

I dialed Urso and left him a message, but I didn't go to the precinct. There was too much to do at the shop. A few hours later, I went to All Booked Up, one of my favorite stores. Octavia hadn't simply lodged books on shelves and that was that. She had given each aisle a theme. Cutouts of Harry Potter and fairies hovered above the YA section. Magnifying glasses and Sherlock-style hats adorned the mystery area. Octavia wanted to stir one's senses. Reading, to her, was the lifeblood of imagination.

“Yoo-hoo, girlfriend, over here.” Octavia waved. Her light brown skin glistened with health. Her eyes twinkled with vibrancy.

“Nice outfit,” I said.

Octavia often dressed up in clothing that complemented whatever theme she had going on at the bookstore. This afternoon, she wore a saucy outfit that hugged her voluptuous frame. She had asked all who attended the tea to wear a sexy, sensual costume, as well. She assessed me with a frown. “Ahem. Who hasn't dressed for the occasion?”

“Guilty as charged.” My wardrobe consisted of a pair of slimming trousers and snug sweater. That was my limit when it came to dressing sexily during the daytime. “Sorry, but I'm still on the clock.”

Pop!

Startled, I whipped around to see what had happened. One of the waiters had opened a bottle of sparkling wine. A group of women
ooh
ed as he poured flutes for each of them. So much for a sober tea.

“What a ton of people,” I said.

“Everyone likes to have fun.” Octavia pushed her cornrowed braids over her shoulder. “Lots of people have volunteered to read poems. Do you want to?”

I faltered. “No thanks.”

“I'm sorry. I'm not being sensitive to your plight.”

“No, I'm not bowing out because Jordan and I aren't getting married. I'm just not up to it.”

“Of course.” Octavia petted my shoulder. “You've had quite a week, haven't you? First Tim and then Dottie.” She clucked her tongue. “I don't think I will ever understand why evil exists. I don't think others will, either. I've had such a run on spiritual books this week. I would imagine folks in our fair town are praying more than they used to. It's hard to make sense of one murder, let alone two. My last memory of Dottie . . . rest her soul. Last week, she—” Octavia pressed her lips together. “No, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead.”

“What happened?”

Octavia curled her hand around my elbow and led me to the bay window. We looked north toward Providence Pâtisserie. “I remember seeing her outside the doorway. She was with her assistant.”

“Zach Mueller.”

“Nice boy. Quite a reader. He loves Donald Westlake's Dortmunder series. Odd, I know. It's way too mature a series for him, but readers come in all sizes. He loves biographies, too, especially the ones about Hollywood stars.”

Poring over biographies about stars made sense, especially if Zach hoped to understand why Aurora had left him to pursue her career, but his interest in the Westlake books intrigued me. The Dortmunder
books were humorous tales that revolved around an offbeat gang of thieves. Did reading those capers inspire Zach to steal things like, say, an expensive brooch? Did that minor clue connect Zach to the murder?

“Dottie was lighting into the boy.” Octavia mimed the event. “Her arms were flailing. At one point, Dottie aimed a finger at Zach. He defended himself by batting her hand away.”

“Did you hear what she was saying?”

“No, but my word, it wasn't a happy moment. He stormed off, feet stomping the pavement.”

“Did you ask Dottie later?”

“How could I? I wouldn't want someone nosing into my business. If I have an argument, I have a reason. I don't lose my temper unprovoked. I would imagine Zach had done something wrong.”

Like steal from her?
I wondered. Did Dottie catch him taking money from the till?

Octavia released my arm and folded her hands in front of her. “I knew Dottie well. She adored her clientele. Just like you, she had a talent for knowing who preferred what. She was a magician when it came to luring people into the shop. She would stand on the sidewalk with a tray of goodies. Why, she even tried to cajole Paige Alpaugh into becoming a customer. Can you imagine? Miss No-Sugar-Ever-Touches-These-Lips!” Octavia chortled. “Fake lips, by the way. So much for au naturel.”

I'd thought the same thing about Paige. I assumed her full lips were a result of injections. I wasn't sure why she had the work done. She'd had a pretty mouth before. My grandmother would say that some people never felt comfortable in their own skin.

I said, “Did you ever see Dottie and Belinda have an argument?”

“Never. Belinda wouldn't go near that place. She'd pass by, peering with longing into the window, holding her hands in check as if, were she to release them, she might be forced to go inside and buy something.”

Delilah said Belinda Bell had passed on the opportunity to taste some of the most scrumptious, fattening foods at the diner—the grilled-cheese-competition-winning combination, for instance. Was the woman truly on a diet? Would she have killed Dottie because she was angry that Dottie's pastries were so tempting?

I said, “Dottie was Belinda's tenant, correct?”

“Indeed. I'm her tenant, too.”

“Is she a fair landlord?”

“It depends on your definition of fair. Belinda doesn't make it easy. For example, we never meet at my store to talk business. That's not the proper way to conduct a transaction, according to her. One must meet on one's own turf.”

“You meet at Memory Lane Collectibles?”

“Heavens no!” Octavia let loose with a belly laugh. “When it comes time to discuss the lease, each of us in the neighborhood are summoned to The Country Kitchen.”

“Why there?”

“Belinda might avoid sweets, but she absolutely
must
have her caffeine. She threatens that if I'm a minute late, she'll raise the rent.” Octavia shrugged. “She's a blowhard, but what can I do? I'm not about to give up this prime spot. Location, location, location. Your previous landlord was equally demanding, if I recall.”

Yet again, I was forced to remember that horrible time.
Let the past remain in the past.

I said, “I heard Belinda didn't like the music Dottie played.”

“Belinda can be a stuffed shirt at times. Dottie's music was fun. Sure, I prefer classical, but an occasional Stones tune lightens the heart. Say, why are you so curious about—” Octavia cut me a quick look. “Oh-oh-oh.” She moved her head right and left like an Egyptian goddess, a move I could never master no matter how many times as a teen I'd tried in front of a mirror. “I see those tiny gray cells at work.” Octavia and I had often discussed Agatha Christie works, particularly the Poirot series. “Talk to me, girlfriend.”

“I've also heard that Belinda expressed her loathing for Dottie openly. Sylvie overheard her.”

“Sylvie,” Octavia scoffed. There weren't many fans of my cousin's ex-wife. “So what were you thinking?”

“If Belinda wouldn't enter Providence Pâtisserie—or perhaps she didn't deign to be seen entering—if she'd had a beef with Dottie, she might have stolen down the alley behind.”

“Possibly.”

“She would have had easy access, seeing as her collectibles shop is next door. Dottie wouldn't have heard Belinda enter over the music. Belinda was much larger than Dottie. She could have overpowered her.”

Octavia's mouth formed into an O. “No, you can't think Belinda killed Dottie. She wouldn't. I mean, she's acerbic, true, but she's a huge proponent of literacy and the arts—”

“But not music.” Granted, my new theory wouldn't tie Dottie and Tim's murders together. Because Bell wasn't a sweets-eater, she most likely wouldn't have known that the pastry she'd stuffed into Dottie's mouth was filled with Jordan's specialty Gouda, so the cheese link would be a bust. But solving one murder would free up Urso to pursue the other. “Do you happen to know why Belinda is always complaining about noise in town?”

“I don't. She's never griped to me. Of course, the bookshop and the library are two of the quietest places in town.” Octavia scanned the growing crowd of poetry attendees. “I'm sorry, Charlotte. I've got to get this party started. I know you'll figure it out. I have faith in that overactive brain of yours.” She pecked me on the cheek and left me staring up the street.

“I have an opinion,” a woman said.

Prudence Hart joined me by the bookshop window. She was dressed in a rose-colored sweater dress, the prettiest I'd ever seen her wear. It fit her ultra-thin form nicely. She had draped a softer rose-colored infinity scarf around her neck, and she had donned makeup, including a glossy dress-matching lipstick. Her cheeks looked flushed with what I could only call happiness. I checked out the nearby men, searching for someone that might have stirred this kind of contentment in grumpy old Prudence. The silver-haired owner of the jewelry shop that was located next to her boutique looked quite dashing in a gray suit. And he was a bachelor.

“Did you hear me, Charlotte?” Prudence said.

The snippy way she addressed me zinged me back to reality.
A zebra can't change its stripes,
I mused. “An opinion on what?” I asked, bracing myself for another attack on my grandmother's performance as mayor or a critique of some aspect of The Cheese Shop. Perhaps the window display was too garish or the giveaway basket too crude. Prudence always had an opinion—rarely kind.

“I believe Belinda Bell
should
be on your suspect list.” Prudence strolled to the buffet table, which was laden with cookies, mini-scones, and homemade candies, beautifully set on tiered china. I followed. Prudence took one of the goat cheese sugar cookies and wiggled a finger, bidding me to do the same. The cookie tasted like one I make using my grandmother's recipe. Tangy with a nice kick.

“Don't deny it,” Prudence said. “I know you have a suspect list. You always do.”

I nearly fell backward I was so stunned by her assertion. When I found my voice, I said, “Aren't you and Belinda Bell friends?”

“Just because we're friends doesn't mean I don't feel the truth is important. By the way, Belinda has a problem with her hearing. She suffers from tinnitus. Loud noises can disturb someone with an ear condition.”

Apparently, Prudence didn't suffer from any hearing loss. How much of my conversation with Octavia had she overheard?

I said, “I knew a boy back in college, a tuba player in the marching band, who developed tinnitus. Poor guy had to hang up his horn.”

“That's exactly what happened to Belinda, though she's loath to admit it. Back in college—we both went to OSU—”

“So did I. Go Buckeyes!” I grinned. “Look at that, Prudence. We have something in common.”

“Of course we do,” she said, oblivious to the fact that we'd never had anything in common before. She didn't like cheese; I didn't like to purchase overly expensive, froufrou dresses. “We're both savvy businesswomen.”

Ah, yes, there was that.

“‘Blest as the immortal gods is he,'” a woman began, reading from a blue bound book. “‘The youth who fondly sits by thee.'” She had a booming voice with no hint of nuance for the material.

Prudence nudged me away from the buffet toward the reading corner, which was packed with a collection of overstuffed chairs. “Belinda played trumpet in the college band. About two years ago, her hearing started to go haywire. Constant ringing and hissing, she told me. She tried treatments; nothing worked. Needless to say, she gets very irritated by the way people turn up the volume on everything. It makes her wild with fury.”

“Wild enough to suffocate Dottie Pfeiffer?”

Prudence peeked over her shoulder at the debonair owner of the jewelry store. “On that, I do not have an opinion.” She started to move away.

I gripped her forearm. “Wait. Let me ask you one more thing. Is Belinda dating someone? She was seen meeting up with a man who owns a dark-colored truck the other night, outside the pub.”

Prudence chortled. “She was probably conferring with Eddie Townsend.”

“The Realtor who—” I mimed
drinks too much
.

“The same. He drives a truck. A rather large one. But they certainly aren't dating.”

I thought back to when Violet horned in on my conversation with Delilah. Violet hinted that Jawbone Jones might have returned to the pub, that he might have lied about jamming with his band. Had Urso nailed down that alibi?

“Is Belinda seeing Jawbone Jones?” I asked.

“Lord, no! Why would you think that? He and she are entirely different. They have none of the same sensibilities. Not to mention, he has a girlfriend, who happens to be his blues partner. I doubt he'd step out on her. He—”

“Blues? I heard that Jawbone played heavy metal rock.” Actually, that wasn't true. Rebecca assumed he played heavy metal, which fed into my theory, because the biker jacket that Ilona Mueller wore featured rock band names.

“No, he plays the blues, and rather well.”

Okay, I was feeling like I'd been sucked into a tornado. Prudence's revelations were whipping me around with force. She had an opinion on blues, and it was favorable? I'd imagined she was solely a Stravinsky aficionado. I happened to love the blues: B.B. King, Muddy Waters.

Prudence continued. “His partner—”

“Ilona Mueller.”

“Right. She has a side business.”

“Selling illegal guns?”

Prudence gawped at me. “No. Wherever do you get these crazy notions? Why would you think that?”

Because I was atypically cynical at the moment.

“She makes soap,” Prudence said. “With the yummiest smells. She sells them at the farmers' market.”

Knock me silly. Prudence went to the farmers' market?

“I've encouraged her to open a real shop,” Prudence went on, “but she's not interested. Music is her life. Oh, listen—” She wiggled a finger toward the current speaker. “It's one of Shakespeare's sonnets.” She recited along with the speaker: “‘ . . . that in the autumn of my years has grown, a secret fern, a violet in the grass, a final leaf where all the rest are gone.'” Prudence pressed a hand to her chest. “I love that poem. I must go.”

“Prudence, wait. One last thing. On a personal note. Is it true that Councilwoman Bell wants to oust my grandmother from her position as mayor?”

Prudence pursed her lips.

“Please tell me,” I urged.

“Yes, it's true.”

“Why? You know my grandmother has made the town safer and the economy stronger.”

“Bell's cronies don't like how many events the town is holding this year. They think your grandmother has gone overboard. They want the town to be calmer. Less open to tourists.”

“Less friendly.”

“Less riffraff.”

There it was; the word Prudence used that I hated, the word that bonded her to Bell and the others.
Riffraff. Commoners. Not good enough for us.
Well, Prudence—all of them—were wrong. It was too bad, because during our momentary encounter, I'd almost started to like Prudence.

She looked down her narrow nose, her beady eyes as judgmental as ever. “By the way, Charlotte, FYI, you can't save everyone. You're not Wonder Woman.”

Maybe not, but I still had the cape from the time I'd worn it for Halloween at the age of seven. I'd stowed it in the hope chest with my parents' mementoes. Perhaps if I draped it over me tonight when I slept, I would be magically infused with her superpowers. Perhaps I would be able to divine whether Jawbone Jones or Belinda Bell or Zach Mueller . . .

I paused. Zach was the lone connection between all the suspects. His mother was dating Jawbone. His girlfriend was Belinda Bell's daughter. He'd worked for Dottie. I'd seen him racing in the opposite direction from Jordan's farm on the night Tim was murdered. Was he the killer?