As Gouda as Dead (8 page)

“The other half of his duo said she talked to him on his cell phone,” Urso said. “He'd called to tell her he was running late.”

Rebecca smirked. “That's a pretty feeble alibi, if you ask me. We all know cell phone reception isn't good around here.”

Deputy O'Shea jumped in. “I agree. Uncle Tim's message was jumbled. And Mr. Jones owns Lock Stock and Barrel, right?”

“Your point?” Urso said.

“Can you trust what a gun shop owner says?”

“Are you saying what he does isn't legitimate?”

“I don't know, is it?” A hank of Deputy O'Shea's hair fell onto his face. He brushed it back with force. “Does he do anything off the books?”

“Deputy, don't infer a wrongdoing without substantiation.”

“Fine. But what if Uncle Tim saw—”

“Stay out of this,” Urso ordered.

“My uncle saw something!” O'Shea shouted. “Why else would he go looking for you?”

“Unless you heard wrong.”

“You've listened to the voice mail. Did I hear wrong? Did I? Huh?” Deputy O'Shea leaned forward, the muscles in his neck pulsing with pent up anger.

Urso bit his lower lip. I knew that look. He was doing his best not to level his deputy in front of Rebecca, my grandmother, and me. There was a time and a place.

Rebecca jumped in to defray the tension. “Do you have any physical evidence to go on, chief? You know, like tire track prints?”

Urso glowered at me.

I held up a hand. “I didn't tell her anything.”

“No, we don't,” Urso said to Rebecca, then added, “We're through here. Deputy, let's go.” He gestured toward the door.

Deputy O'Shea mouthed
I'll call you
to Rebecca and, chin lowered, trudged out of the shop.

The door swung shut with a bang. I flinched. I knew I couldn't sit still and do nothing. Urso had looked as defeated as his deputy. I flashed on what Dottie Pfeiffer had said to me about Violet Walden flirting with Tim and wondered again whether her behavior had spurred Frank Mueller to lash out. Should Urso be considering him as another suspect? Even though Urso had said he'd questioned everyone who had gone to the pub and even though he hadn't officially deputized me, I could at least do one thing that might help him solve this case.

A fine mist of snow splatted the windshield as I made my way to Violet's Victoriana Inn, which was located northwest of the Village Green. Violet liked to call the inn a state-of-the-art B&B, but I thought the terms were contradictory. In my mind, a bed-and-breakfast should be like the one next to my house. Lavender and Lace was decked out with cushy chairs and beautiful antiques, and it was always flavorful with the aroma of tea and scones. Violet's Victoriana Inn was sleek and modern. The furniture was steel gray and firm. Unlike other bed-and-breakfast inns that offered gardens to wander and trails to hike, Violet's Victoriana Inn had a gym filled with stair-steppers, treadmills, and weight machines. And yet the place was popular and regularly sold out.

Idyllic instrumental music was emanating from a variety of speakers as I entered. Violet, clad in a trim-fitting jogging outfit, her marshmallow-colored hair swept into a dramatic twist with chic wisps falling from the updo, stood behind the registration counter. Without all the makeup she'd worn the other night at the pub, she looked almost plain. She was polishing the chrome counter with a rag while talking angrily on the phone to what sounded like a supplier. I'd used the same kind of no-nonsense, mannish voice on occasion.

A stream of women, dressed to the nines, waltzed into the inn. All were chatting about the high tea they were going to enjoy in the lounge. Violet quieted until the women passed by her and then resumed her gruff timbre. Far be it from her to scare off the customers.

She ended her call with a
slam
and grinned at me. “Hello, Charlotte.” She stuffed her dusting rag beneath the counter and checked the readout on the pedometer that was clipped to her waistband. “Got to keep moving to burn the calories.” She rocked from foot to foot. “What brings you here?”

For someone who, according to Dottie, had been interested in Tim, she didn't seem in the least depressed. Perhaps she hadn't heard about the murder yet. On the other hand, gossip was rampant, and Urso said he had spoken to everyone who had been at the pub. Maybe he had skipped a few because he knew either Deputy O'Shea or I had questioned them.

“I'm here to talk about Timothy O'Shea.”

Violet's cheeks tinged pink. “Of course. I heard he drowned. What a shame. Where? At Nature's Reserve? Aren't all the ponds frozen over?”

“He died at Jordan's farm.”

“Jordan's farm doesn't have any ponds or lakes.”

“No, it doesn't.”

Violet's eyes widened. She wrinkled her nose. “Ick! Do you mean Tim accidentally drowned”—she twirled a hand and sputtered—“in a cheese vat?”

“The police aren't sure it was an accident or that he drowned.”

“Are you saying he was murdered? How horrible. And to think it happened while the rest of us were out on the town having fun.”

“How do you know that?”

“I'm assuming. I mean, it had to have happened last night, right? That's why you and the deputy were asking questions at the pub, wasn't it?” Violet pressed her hand to her chest. “What will happen to Jordan's farm?” She often purchased Pace Hill Farm's Double-cream Gouda to serve with the inn's cheese plate dessert. “He'll have to close it, won't he? Such a shame. He employs so many people.”

I ached to think what might happen to Jordan's staff if he sold the farm. As it was, their livelihood might be affected simply because of the adverse public reaction to a murder occurring on the property.

Violet retrieved her rag and clutched it like a security blanket. “What do you want to ask me?”

“I saw Dottie Pfeiffer earlier today at the pâtisserie. She said you seemed interested in Tim.”

“Dottie.” Violet made a
pfft
sound. “She doesn't know her elbow from a pastry tube.”

“She said you were flirting with Tim last night.”

“Flirting? Me? No way. I barely spoke two words to him. How could I? He was hobnobbing with all the tourists, per usual. You know how he can be.” She halted. Her cheeks reddened again. “Could be . . . was.” She licked her lips. “Look, Tim and I were friends. Just friends.” Violet pulled a strand of hair out of her coif and twirled it at the nape of her neck. Was that the flirty move Dottie had seen her do? “There wasn't anything between us, promise.” Violet released the hair. “Besides, Tim was involved with Tyanne. For months. I expected them to get married in the next year. She must be heartbroken.”

“She is.”

Violet resumed polishing the counter. “You know, Tim's family stays here whenever they come to town. At a discount, because there are so darned many of them. A dozen nephews. Seven brothers.” She held up seven fingers. “Whew! How does a mom do that?”

“With lots of love and patience.”

“Some of the O'Sheas have already arrived. Others are holding rooms. I don't think they know when they'll be able to have the funeral. What do you hear on that end?”

“I haven't a clue.”

Violet stopped buffing. “Want some herbal tea? It's got lots of antioxidants.”

“Thank you. That would be nice.”

She led the way to an alcove where a glossy silver table was set with two china cups and elegant napkins. “I'll be right back.” She returned with a glass teapot fitted with an infuser, two spoons, agave sugar, and a platter of thinly sliced Cobb Hill's Ascutney Mountain cheese, an alpine-style cheese with white natural rind and a sweet, nutty flavor.

She settled into the chair opposite me. “We should let the tea steep. Dig into the cheese, though. I bought it at your shop yesterday. Rebecca is some salesperson.” She took a slice and nibbled the corners.

I did the same. “I thought Dottie was wrong about you being interested in Tim. Ray told her she was, too.”

“Ray was at the bakery? He doesn't even like her pastry.”

“He was helping out. I guess Dottie lost her assistant, Zach.”

“That boy. Talk about a bad apple.” Violet rolled her eyes. “I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. He sure doesn't fall far from the tree.”

“What do you mean?”

“Zach's father Frank is, simply put, a cad.”

“Are you and he dating?”

“We did. A long time ago. Not anymore.” She sniffed; her upper lip rose in a sneer. “He stepped out on me with a toad of a woman. He said I was getting too trim for him. Humph.”

“I'd noticed you'd slimmed down. Are you on a new regimen?”

“For life. My goal, from this day forward, is to be the best
me
I can possibly be. It's about time I get some control. Okay, I'm already
controlling
.” She offered a wink. I guess she was keen to her reputation. “But I have no self-control when it comes to what I put into my body. I'm pushing thirty-five. My child-bearing years will be gone soon. Got to keep healthy if I want kids.”

A pang of regret whooshed through me. I was the same age as Violet. Would I miss out on children if Jordan and I waited too much longer to get married? Could I have children? I'd never asked my doctor to do any tests.

I took another slice of the cheese, intent on eating away my worry. Life was great; cheese made it better. “So, if you weren't dating Tim and you aren't dating Frank—”

“Definitely not
him
.”

“Is there someone else in your life?” I asked. If she wanted children, and unless she wanted to go through parenthood alone, I would imagine someone was in the picture.

“We're not officially dating. We're waiting to see where it goes. Oho!” She aimed her index finger at me. “I know what you're thinking. I caught that look in your eyes. No, I'm not pregnant, no matter what Paige hinted at last night. She can be such a royal pain.” Violet assessed the tea. “It's ready. May I pour you some?” She didn't wait for a response. She dispensed steaming tea into the china cups. The sweet aroma of almonds and vanilla wafted upward. Violet nudged the natural sweetener in my direction. “Who are the police looking at as a suspect?”

“Jawbone Jones.”

“Based on my statement to you?”

“Yours and Ray Pfeiffer's.”

“You questioned Ray?” She shook her head apologetically. “Of course you did. You said earlier that you saw him and Dottie. What did he say?”

“Like you, Ray said he saw Jawbone tear out of the lot, heading north. Ray also said he saw Jawbone poke Tim in the chest. He thinks they were having an argument. Did you see that?”

“Now that you mention it, I did.”

“So you saw Tim outside of his truck.”

“Yes. But I couldn't hear what they were saying.” She took a sip of tea.

“What do you know about Jawbone?”

“Not much. He's sort of scary-looking. That bald head.” Violet fanned her hand over her own head and fluttered her fingers beside her neck. “Those tattoos. I heard he plays in a band, but I wouldn't know for sure. The only music I listen to is music like this.” She twirled a hand; Beethoven's “Pathetique” was playing. “And, of course, whatever I hear at the pub. I love Irish music.”

“Speaking of that, Dottie also suggested that Belinda Bell had it in for Tim because of the noise factor created at the pub. Do you know anything about that?”

“Belinda.” Violet snorted. “She's all puff and no air. I've seen her lay into lots of people in town. She throws those massive hips around, but she never follows through with her threats. On the other hand, it's exactly those types that surprise us, isn't it?” She took another sip of tea. “Ah, Tim. He'll be missed.”

“Yes, he will.” For so many reasons. I felt tears brimming in the corners of my eyes and blinked them away.

“In my opinion, Jawbone doesn't really fit in, in Providence,” Violet said.

Apparently we had left the topic of Belinda Bell behind.

“He doesn't even try to fit in,” she continued. “That gun shop of his does really well, though. He has a ton of customers. We've got a lot of hunters in the area. Many stay here, which surprises me. I usually think of hunters holing up in a rustic lodge, but so many of them are into their fitness programs.” Violet leaned forward and whispered, “Between you and me, I think many are trying to prove their masculinity. They act macho. Some even pretend they're big shots in the military.” She laughed, the sound reminding me of an orangutan, breathing and panting all at the same time. “You know, that argument between Tim and Jawbone . . .”

I swirled the spoon in my tea, hoping she would continue.

“One night at the pub I heard the two of them talking.” Violet hesitated. “Yelling is more like it. Jawbone said he wanted to buy the place. Tim swore he was never going to sell. ‘Never!'” She raised her voice, acting out the drama. “Actually, there were quite a few of us there that night. Tim thought Jawbone was way out of line for suggesting it. Jawbone didn't take kindly to Tim's tone. He was lit. He'd had way too much whiskey. He probably wouldn't remember that he threatened Tim.”

“Threatened him how?”

“He said that if Tim didn't sell, he'd get him.”

“He said those words:
Get him
?”

“Jawbone swore that if he couldn't own the pub, nobody would.”

“That sounds like a pretty big threat. Are you sure that's what he said?”

“Maybe not in those exact words.”

Was she making up this story? Why? To cast suspicion on Jawbone instead of on someone else, namely herself?
Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte
.
She was at the pub with Paige
.

“I think he wanted a place in town to perform his music,” Violet added.

“When did this happen? Recently?”

“A year ago.”

“That's an awful long time to carry a grudge.”

“Yes, but when someone says he's going to
get you
, you sleep with one eye open. You know what I mean?” Violet finished her tea and set the cup down with a clatter. “I've seen Jawbone make threats before. At other places. He seems to pop off his mouth as if it were a pistol. Maybe he gets that way when the liquor is talking. Maybe it's idle threats, but still . . .”

I understood what she left unsaid: Maybe this time Jawbone's threats weren't idle.