As Gouda as Dead (6 page)

Driving to Pace Hill Farm, I was struck by how peaceful the scenery was. Sunlight glistened on the crystalline snow. A few cows, braving the cold, huddled near a stand of trees. A number of tourists had parked alongside the road to take pictures of the rolling hills. A steady stream of sleighs filled with happy travelers passed by me heading in the opposite direction, toward town.

When I arrived at the farm, the place looked normal. No police cars stood in the parking area. No investigators roamed the grounds. However, the yellow crime scene tape was still in place around the cheese-making facility.

I approached the front door of Jordan's house and saw a handwritten note addressed to me posted to it. Jordan had filled the note with loving phrases. In closing, he directed me to come to the cheese cave. To get to the cave, I had to head past the house to another building located at the foot of a hill. The building's reception area was brick and cement. The caves themselves were carved deep beneath the hill. The temperatures within were perfect for aging cheese, naturally staying between forty-two and forty-four degrees Fahrenheit. I remembered the first time I'd entered the caves, thinking how large they were and how marvelous it would be to throw a Christmas party there with carolers and candles.

Jordan must not have heard me enter. I found him rotating wheels of cheese on the shelves.

I set the bag of pastries down on a tasting table and said, “Where's that breakfast you promised me?”

He turned to face me and my heart wrenched because his cheeks were streaked with tears. I hurried to him and enveloped him in my arms. He wrapped his arms around me, too, and we stood like that, without kissing, without talking, for a long while.

When we broke apart, I said, “I'm so sorry. I know how close you and Tim were.”

Jordan winced. “When he said he didn't want to come to last night's party, I'd brushed it off. It was Tim. He had his quirks. If only I'd insisted.”

“He wouldn't have come.” I explained about Tim's loathing for celebrations. “It's not your fault he's dead.” I traced a finger from his ear to his throat and rested my hand on his chest.

He swallowed hard. His eyes searched mine. Finally, he said, “I think we should postpone the wedding.”

During the few minutes that I'd slept last night, one of my dreams had been about our wedding. The daisies were wilted; the music off-key; people I didn't know were lying lifeless in the aisles. I'd awakened thinking the dreams—nightmares—were an omen, and I'd wondered whether the Fates were against Jordan and me becoming a permanent couple. Back in October, right when I was ready to set a wedding date, we'd learned that his WITSEC trial had been moved up. I hadn't thought anything negative about postponing the wedding at that time. When the trial ended in November and Jordan was free to live his life again, we'd set this date: Valentine's Day, a day we would remember forever.

“Postpone?” I whispered. My throat felt too thick with emotion to say more, but I forced myself to continue. “Yes. You're right. We—our nuptials—should not be the focus of attention right now.” I swallowed hard. “What do you think Tim's murder will do to the rest of what's going on in Providence? Will it cast a pall over the Lovers Trail festivities? This is supposed to be a special time. People have come here as a destination place to get married during the event.”

“Others will go on with their lives. They aren't us.”

“Us . . . stumbling over dead bodies.”

He sagged; his shoulders curved inward.

I caressed the back of his neck. “What else is going on?”

“I think this might be a sign that it's time to move on.”

My breath caught in my chest. “You don't mean move on
as in move
away
, do you?”

“No, we'll stay in Providence. This is our home.”

I exhaled as energy pumped back through me. He had used the words
we
and
our
. We were still a couple. This tragedy was not going to put an end to
us
. I said, “Then what do you mean?”

“I'm thinking of selling the farm and going back into the restaurant business.”

Anxiety flooded through me. “Won't becoming a restaurateur put you in jeopardy?”

“How?”

“In WITSEC, don't CPAs give up doing taxes and singers give up singing? You know, to keep a low profile.”

“Sometimes.”

A lump crept up my throat. I urged it to retreat. “If you return to the restaurant business, won't that put a target on your back?”

“Charlotte, sweetheart.” He stroked my arms. “Calm down.”

“I'm calm. I truly am.”
Liar
.

“Could have fooled me.” Jordan stretched his chin and worked his jaw in a circle. “I heard the La Bella Ristorante might be up for sale.” Delilah's former boyfriend, who owned La Bella Ristorante, was considering moving to California to be with his grandchildren.

“But you love this farm.”

“True, but a farm must be worked daily.”

“Which you do.”

“It isn't for the weak of spirit, and having a murder on the property—”

“Especially the murder of a friend—”

“Can dampen the spirit.”

Embarrassment flooded through me. How could I have been so insensitive? Of course he needed change.

Jordan took my hands in his. “The food at La Bella Ristorante is right up my alley. The place has an established clientele. And I have fond memories from there.” He and I had met at the Italian restaurant while taking a cooking class. Ever since Jordan had moved to Providence, he had been aching to get back inside an industrial kitchen.

“Okay,” I said. “If you need to start anew, tackle whatever your heart desires. I'm on your side.” I rolled my lower lip under my teeth, hesitant to ask the next question. But I had to know. “What about us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will we set another date?”

He kissed me on the forehead. “We'll discuss that soon, okay? I can't talk about it right now. Do you understand?”

I nodded, but I didn't understand. His words made my heart go pitter-pat, and not in a good way. Despite my earlier feeling that we, as a couple, would come through the tragedy unscathed, I was worried.

Canceling the wedding would take a bit of work. There were so many vendors. Neither Jordan nor I were worried about the cost; we could take the financial hit. But the burden for Tyanne . . .

On the way back to the shop, I phoned her and reached her voice mail. I left a message for her to call me. The moment I entered Fromagerie Bessette, I drank in the aroma of cheese and drew strength from the fact that this was what I knew; this was my past and my future. Jordan and I would figure out what was in store for us, given time. I weaved between the display barrels, greeting customers as I passed before moving behind the cheese counter.

Fridays at The Cheese Shop can be hectic. Everybody is getting ready for the weekend, stocking up on platters and buying cheese to use in recipes they'll have time to make.

Rebecca, whose cheeks were rosy red from working so hard, was designing one of the many Valentine's baskets that customers had preordered. “Morning,” she said as if last night hadn't happened. I could tell by her tight jaw and sharp focus that she was keeping up appearances for the customers. She jutted a pair of scissors. “Check out the decorations I put up.”

The walls of the shop were a Tuscany gold. Hardwood floors and rustic shelving enhanced the shop's old-world charm. Rebecca had hung strands of sparkling gold hearts across the glass-enclosed cheese case and had set a foot-high gold Cupid on top of the granite tasting countertop.

“Nice,” I said.

“Do you like what I did in the display window?” She had set three baskets in the window, each filled with jams, honey, crackers, and a pretty cheese-cutting board. She'd attached gold and silver helium balloons to each.

“Very nice.”

“What about the cutouts?”

In each of the windows, she had hung silhouettes of hearts, flowers, and lovebirds.

“It all looks great,” I said. “By the way, thanks for covering this morning.”

“You bet.” She looked as if she wanted to corner me and ply me with questions, but a fresh flow of customers entered the shop.

When the customers dwindled to six, Rebecca ushered me toward the kitchen. I stopped short of entering.

“Spill,” she rasped. “What happened? Who did it? You found Tim? It's so horrible. I can't believe it.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “By the way, everyone in town is talking about it. You don't need to keep it a secret. The word is out. Do you know that farmer who makes the baby Swiss cheese? He attended Jordan's bachelor party. He came in earlier and was blabbing.”

Swell. Now tales would spread all over town.

“I called Devon. He hasn't returned my call.” The tears leaked down Rebecca's cheeks. She wiped them off. “I sensed something was wrong. Last night. When you ran out with Devon. Delilah and I went to the pub after you did. That's where I called you from. Nobody would say anything. But I knew.” Rebecca sighed. “Poor Tim. He was such a nice guy. I can't imagine anyone wanting him dead. C'mon, tell me, what happened? Who did it?”

Before I could answer, she pelted me with another string of questions. I pointed out that we had to attend to our customers, but she couldn't be deterred. She assured me our hushed conversation wouldn't squelch their excitement. None were standing at the cheese counter or by the register. They were roaming the new displays of cheese platters and wineglasses. My cousin Matthew suggested that if we increased the amount of giftware we sold in the store, we would boost the sale of our edible goods, not to mention that selling wineglasses would encourage customers to mosey into the wine annex. The wine-and-cheese-pairing event set for Thursday was nearly sold out. Thirty couples and a few singles would come for an education.

Rebecca gestured to the customers. “Look at them,” she whispered. “Everyone in town is lit up with love. Those two over there”—she pointed at a man standing with a woman who looked younger than him by a good ten years—“did a Valentine photo shoot at Snapshots & More.” Snapshots was a boutique photography store that offered all sorts of cute memory gimmicks, including photos and ceramic handprints of children and pets. “And those two?” She pointed toward an elderly couple. “They renewed their vows beside the tower in the Village Green, exactly at the strike of noon, which is when they got married sixty years ago. Grandmère presided over the ceremony. How cool is that? I'm telling you, nothing—not even murder—is going to throw a wrench into the town's festivities. Now, talk.”

Quickly I summarized what we had discovered at Pace Hill Farm. Tim's truck, the button from his shirt, and Tim dead in the vat of milk.

“Does Urso have a suspect?”

“Violet Walden—”

“She did it?”

“No. She was at the pub with Paige Alpaugh. Violet saw Tim drive off in his truck. She said Jawbone Jones chased him. Ray Pfeiffer, who was also at the pub with his wife, backed that up. He claimed Jawbone and Tim had an argument. He saw Jawbone poke Tim in the chest. Ray doesn't know what they might have been arguing about, but like Violet, he saw Jawbone take off after Tim.”

“Hmm.” Rebecca toyed with a strand of hair.

“What?”

“Do you know Jawbone very well?” she asked.

“I've only interacted with him here. I know, in addition to Vermont Shepherd Invierno, he likes Fiscalini Bandaged Cheddar.” The cheese was a product of Fiscalini Farms in Modesto, California, and literally sang with the ripe notes of butter and sweet grass.

“I went into his gun store once.”

For some reason the notion that my darling, formerly Amish assistant had ventured into a gun shop shocked me. I always thought that the Amish didn't bear arms; they won't serve in the military or law enforcement or any kind of career that requires them to use guns.

“Don't look so stunned,” Rebecca went on. “Guns are not
verboten
to the Amish.”

“They're not forbidden?”

“Heavens, no. We have them to kill pests. I know a farmer who uses a gun to get rid of groundhogs. They can ruin a crop. And I even know some Amish who like to hunt for sport. The Amish simply won't shoot people.”

Wow. I had no clue. “So you've fired a gun?”

“Me? No!” She shook her head vehemently. “My father never let me handle one, but a few months ago, I was concerned about what I was seeing on the news, you know, all the attacks on schools and at airports, and I was curious to know more about guns.”

I tried my best not to watch the news except around voting time. I admit, it wasn't a very enlightened way to approach life, but hearing about world tragedies and political nonsense often made me sick to my stomach.

“I wanted to see how it felt to hold a gun,” Rebecca said. “I wanted to understand the allure. So I went to Lock Stock and Barrel. It's real clean and spare. There were a few people there, shooting in the gallery. Jawbone—he told me to call him Jawbone—fitted me with a Remington and said, ‘Remember, little lady, guns don't kill people; people kill people.'”

“And . . . how did it feel?”

“Cold.” She shivered. “Jawbone was really nice about it. The rifle was empty, so it was safe, he assured me. He wedged it against my shoulder and placed my hands in the right position, and then he helped me aim it at a target. He has narrow, long fingers, by the way. Like a musician.”

“Did you pull the trigger?”

“No. I couldn't. I froze.”

I gawked at her, wishing I could swaddle her in bubble wrap to shield her from harm forever. She was such an innocent. “Well, for now, I'd keep a wide berth from Jawbone. He is the number one suspect in Tim's murder.”

“Why would he want Tim dead?”

“Good question.” I recalled Urso asking about Jawbone's motive. If not him, who else might have wanted Tim dead? Dottie had hinted that Councilwoman Bell complained about the noise at the pub. She had also suggested that Frank Mueller, jealous over how Violet was flirting with Tim, might have lashed out. I didn't know that side of Frank. He seemed an even-tempered man, kind to his employees and welcoming to customers, but lots of people could put on a good face for the public.

If only I knew what Tim had seen.

Rebecca said, “Do you think the killer dumped Tim in the vat, hoping no one would find him until the next day's cheese making began, so it would throw off the time of death?”

“What TV show did you learn that from?”

“That's a classic forensic assumption.” Soon after Rebecca had left her community, she became a mystery and crime show aficionado. She watched them on television and streamed them on the Internet. “Maybe it was a crime of passion. Maybe Tim and Jawbone were both in love with Tyanne.”

At that exact moment, Tyanne entered the shop. She looked frazzled, her hair messed and her cheeks wan. She hadn't put on any lipstick, and she wasn't wearing hot pink, the color she'd declared she would wear the entire Valentine season. Instead, she was dressed in a drab black suit that did nothing for her skin tone or sassy figure.

I hurried to her and put my arm around her. “I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, sugar. My sweet Tim. Murdered. I can't believe it.” She sucked in a dry breath while fanning herself with a fistful of flyers. “I loved him, Charlotte.”

“I know.”

“We were good together. He told the funniest jokes. He said he adored the sound of my laugh.”

“He did. I could tell you two were meant to be.”

Could Dottie Pfeiffer have been mistaken about Violet flirting with Tim? Perhaps I could forget about Frank Mueller attacking Tim in a jealous rage. However, what if Violet, feeling rejected because Tim was so obviously in love with Tyanne, had lit into Tim? No, she couldn't have killed him. She had a solid alibi. She was at the pub with Paige.

“What're those?” I asked, pointing to the flyers in Tyanne's hand.

Tyanne sighed as if the anguish of the world continuing in Tim's absence were cutting out a piece of her insides. “There's going to be an event at All Booked Up on Tuesday afternoon.”

My business-savvy grandmother, by divvying up the center of town into four districts, had ensured that all of the businesses would benefit from the flow of tourists. The shops and restaurants on Cherry Orchard would make merry on Monday. Honeysuckle businesses would revel on Tuesday. The places on Main Street would share Wednesday. My neighbors and I on Hope Street would celebrate Thursday, hence why we were having the wine-and-cheese-pairing event.

“It's called the Lovers Lane reading,” Tyanne went on. “Octavia is so excited about it.” Octavia Tibble owned All Booked Up, one of the most prestigious independent bookstores in Ohio. I could always rely on her to suggest good books to read. Like I, she enjoyed a great mystery. “She's serving tea and scones. People can dress for the occasion, if they desire.” Octavia had turned the shop into a destination spot. It didn't hurt that she was also the town's librarian and had enticed a few of her elderly readers to donate some very special first-edition books that made all sorts of people come to town for a peek. Tyanne heaved another pain-filled sigh. “I was planning on going with Tim, but now . . .” Her voice trailed off.

I took her hand and ushered her to one of the stools by the tasting counter. “Have you eaten today?”

“How could I? My appetite is nonexistent. It's a happy, blissful time in paradise,” she chirped, though, clearly, her spirit was not in it. “That's what I'm saying to all my clients. Fake it, you own it, right?” Her voice caught. “Can you believe I have four weddings in the next eight days? Four. Count them. And there are sure to be some spur-of-the-moment occasions. Ah, me.” She set her elbow on the counter and rested her forehead in the cup of her hand, and then her reserve broke. She sobbed.

I stroked her back until she regained control, then I spread a cracker with a luscious amount of a creamy goat cheese from our local Emerald Pasture Farms, and handed it to her. “Eat. You need to keep up your strength. For your kids.” She had two; a boy the twins' age, and a younger girl. “For your clients, too. They deserve your undivided attention.”

“You're right.” She bit into the tidbit. “Do you know when the funeral will be for Tim?”

“I'm sure the family will put it together once the coroner releases the body.”

Tyanne nodded. “Of course.”

“This cheese is laced with lavender,” I said. “Did you know lavender is rich with aromatic esters? It's good for healing as well as anxiety.”

Rebecca joined us, carrying a partially filled glass of sparkling wine. “Drink this, Tyanne.” She thrust the glass at her. “It's barely two ounces. You won't get soused. Matthew tells me it pairs perfectly with the cheese and calms a whole passel of nerves.”

Tyanne obeyed. After taking a sip, although her color didn't improve, she did sit straighter in her chair. “Why did Tim go to Jordan's farm, Charlotte?”