Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (15 page)

“Matthew, set down the wine and come with me.” I wiped my hands on my apron and charged into the annex.

“Where’s the fire?” Matthew said.

I raced toward a knot of people. Beyond them, Boyd loitered by the expensive wines that were slotted into cubbies on the wall. “Boyd Hellman,” I said.

Boyd spun around. “What’s the problem?” His words slurred together. His eyes were bloodshot; his breath, rancid. He stunk like a still.

“Did you know that Noelle owned a heart-shaped corkscrew?” I said.

“Huh?”

“A heart-shaped corkscrew.” I mimed what it looked like.

“She had a whole collection of corkscrews. Why?”

“You drive a green Chevy.”

His forehead creased. “Yeah, so?”

“Were you hanging outside my house the other night? The night Noelle died?”

“That depends. Where do you live?” He offered a shameless grin.

Matthew shoved past me. “Show some respect.”

“Hey, it was a joke.” Boyd jutted his arms; the move threw him off balance. He teetered.

Matthew reached to steady him. In a knee-jerk reaction, Boyd threw a punch. Matthew backed up; the jab fell short. Boyd stumbled. His shoulder rammed into the cubbies. Like a trained bouncer, Matthew grasped Boyd’s wrist, flung him toward the wall, and pinned the guy’s arm to his back. I raced to help.

Customers gasped. Above the horrified chatter that followed, I said, “What’s your alibi for the night Noelle was killed?”

“I was w-w-walking,” Boyd stammered.

“Where?”

“Just walking.”

“At Kindred Creek?”

“What’s that?”

“Noelle went hiking that night. I think she went to Kindred Creek.”

“She wouldn’t have. She’s not a nature girl.”

I leaned close. “Did you follow her?”

“Look, I’m telling you—”

Matthew twisted Boyd to face him. “Answer the question. Where did you go when you went walking? Who saw you?”

“I don’t know.” Boyd’s gaze angled to the floor. “I . . . I don’t remember.”

“How is that possible?” Matthew demanded.

Boyd blew air out of his mouth. “I don’t make eye contact with people. I—”

“Did you go into any stores?” I asked. Most were open until nine.

“I went into the diner. It was grilled cheese night.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Matthew hissed. “Every night is grilled cheese night nowadays.”

Delilah had finally gotten her wish and had organized a Grilled Cheese Cook-off. Chefs from all over the Midwest were coming to Providence in January to compete. She was constantly trying out new recipes.

“I didn’t kill Noelle.”

“Walking around town is a pretty weak alibi,” I said.

“But it’s true.” Boyd reminded me of a rabbit pinned in a trap and in desperate need of an escape route. He was lying. Why did he need to keep his whereabouts a secret?

I recalled the first time I met him—a flush of red and rage. Noelle had warned him to back off
or else.
Though he didn’t have any arrests as a petty thief, I wondered if he had been arrested for assault. Maybe that was why Noelle had threatened to turn him in to the police. Did he kill her before she could?

Matthew and I let Boyd go, but neither of us was happy about it. The guy didn’t have a strong alibi, but we had nothing of substance to take to Urso. Had he already heard Boyd’s alibi? Had he found somebody who could confirm it? Man, I itched to get my fingers on Urso’s list of suspects.

After apologizing to our customers—many said they understood our reaction to Boyd’s presence because rumors about him were rampant in Providence—I returned to the main shop. Tyanne was chatting with Liberty by a display of gourmet crackers. She looked up and gave me a supportive smile. Liberty glanced up, too. Did I detect a hint of victory in her eyes? Maybe she was pleased that Matthew and I had lost control, or perhaps she was thrilled that Boyd Hellman had made such a spectacle. Did she think, when word got to Urso about the fracas, that it would make Urso redirect his suspicions to Boyd and divert him from suspecting her father or, better yet, herself of murder?

“Charlotte,” Pépère said. “The pizzas.”

“Yes, of course.”

I washed my hands, gathered up the grated cheese, and retreated to the kitchen. In less than a half hour, my grandfather and I assembled and baked a dozen turkey–mashed potato pizzas. We boxed them to go and loaded them into his car. Before driving away, Pépère promised he would report back with the children’s review.

When I returned to the cheese counter, Tyanne and Liberty were gone and Rebecca looked frazzled. “
Help
,” she mouthed. More than a dozen new customers were begging for wedges of the daily special cheese: Bellwether Farms Carmody, a smooth cheese with a grassy finish, inspired by a Gorgonzola recipe that farmers discovered while traveling in Italy. I adored the cheese when served with olives, crusty bread, and a steely chardonnay.

When the crowd dispersed, Rebecca and I wiped down the knives on the counter and returned two wedges of Carmody cheese to the case.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you talked to Urso about earlier?” Rebecca asked. “He seemed really miffed when he snatched Deputy O’Shea out from under my umbrella.”

“Deputy O’Shea. What a handsome hunk he is.”

“And sweet. He asked me if I would like to meet for coffee sometime. I said yes, of course.”

“What about Ipo?”

“What about him? He hasn’t called to get back together or anything. We’re through. Over.
Finis
.” She huffed. “Don’t sidetrack me. Back to Urso. What info did you pry out of him?”

“Nothing. Not an iota.” I told her about the suspects I’d suggested to him.

“Whether Urso thinks Boyd Hellman is a suspect or not, you’d better watch out for him. That man seems unstable, and you and Matthew just stirred the pot.”

I agreed.

The rest of the afternoon passed without altercation.

Around six
P.M.
I exited The Cheese Shop to lock up. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a dark figure barreling toward the shop. Fifty feet, forty feet. Was it Boyd? I rushed to reopen the front door, but the key slipped out of my hand. Rags, picking up on my fear, snuggled by my ankles. I whispered, “It’s okay, Ragsie,” while a voice in my head yelled:
Hurry, hurry
, as I bent to retrieve the key. It stuck to the sidewalk as if it had been glued. I picked with my fingernail and finally flipped the key on its edge. Quickly, I lifted it and tried again to insert it into the lock.

The figure was gaining ground. I couldn’t make out a face. Twenty feet, ten feet.

No one else was on the street. Where was everybody?

I tapped the windowpane. Rebecca was inside the shop but leaving through the back door. She didn’t respond.

I swiveled around, fists raised, like that would do any good against a raging rhino. “Back off, Hellman,” I yelled.

But I was wrong. I could see clearly, now. It wasn’t Boyd; it was Harold Warfield. The tails of his gray jacket flew wide. His shoulder-length hair flapped.

Eight feet, six feet.

“You,” he yelled.

I rapped on the doorframe. Hard. Rebecca spun around. I signaled that a crazy man was about to mow me down. I must have looked like a frantic kid singing “In a Cabin in a Wood”.

Rebecca raced to the door and flung it open. In her zeal, she stumbled backward and landed on her rear end. If I weren’t so scared, I would have laughed. Rags yowled. I scooped him into my arms, rushed inside, and tried to close the door. Too late.

Harold charged into the shop bellowing, “It’s your fault.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice tight with fear. “What’s my fault?”

Rebecca scrambled to her feet and edged next to me. “Yeah, what’s her fault?”

Rags echoed both of us in cat-speak; his heart chugged against my chest.

“Chief Urso ordered me to come to the precinct,” Harold said.

Had Urso demanded a conference based on my shaky theory that Noelle had taken compromising pictures to get Harold’s job? Whether it was truth or fiction, I didn’t care. Whatever it took to get the wheels of democracy in motion.
Hurrah, Urso.

“Why do you think that’s my fault?” I said.

“Because you have his ear. Everyone knows it. If he’s after me, it’s because of something you told him.”

I kept silent.

Harold smirked. “Aha, I knew I was right. Don’t deny it. You’re a snoop. You’re always sticking your nose into things.”

“I am not,” I said, though I was, of late. Tough. Some things needed to be investigated. My actions were paved with good intention. Feeling a tad bolder, I cocked a hip, adjusting Rags as I shifted. “What did he want to know?”

“My history from the day I was born.”

“Which is . . . ?” Rebecca said, leading him.

“None of your business. Or yours, Miss Bessette.” He stabbed my chest with an accusatory finger. “So watch it.”

Bone on bone hurt. I winced and knocked his hand away. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m telling you, keep your nose out of my life. It’s private.”

“It’s not private when murder is involved.”

“I did not kill Noelle Adams.”

“You were worried that Shelton Nelson was thinking of replacing you with Noelle.”

“I was not. What cockamamie jerk told you that? Liberty?” He grunted. “That girl has no idea what her father is planning. She thinks she does. She thinks she has a finger on his pulse, but she is screwy.” He twirled a finger beside his head and spelled: “S-c-r-e-w-y.”

“I heard that you wanted your own winery.”

“That was years ago.”

“You don’t refute the notion?”

“The dream has faded. Besides, I would never kill to get a job or keep a job. Now, back off.”

“Or what?” Rebecca raised her hands, like she wanted to flatten the guy. Really, her pluck worried me sometimes. Soon, I would force her to take a good look in the mirror. She was wisp thin. A mosquito could topple her.

Harold turned to go.

I said, “Did Chief Urso ask you for your alibi on the night of the murder?”

He paused and cast a malicious look over his shoulder. “As a matter of fact, he did. I was at the library.”

“Reading what?” Rebecca asked.

“A thriller.”

“By whom?”

“Ludlum.”

“Who was the co-author?” Rebecca persisted.

“Huh?”

“The Ludlum books now have co-authors.” Rebecca smirked. “Was it Jamie Freveletti?”

“You’re reading thrillers now, too?” I said.

“I can’t get enough of them. Freveletti’s a very good writer. Answer the question, Mr. Warfield.”

“I don’t know. Stop it.” Harold straightened his tie and tucked strands of hair behind his ears. The motion made me think again of the driver that had idled across from my house. From a distance, Harold could have looked female.

“What kind of car do you drive?” I asked.

“A white Ford Taurus.”

“White?” Shoot. A white car would not look blue, even in the dark of night. Had Lois’s memory been affected by the hope to see her absent husband?

“You two are nuts.” Harold sliced the air with the edge of his hand.

“Us?” I cried. “We’re not the ones who just charged a helpless woman.”

“You are far from helpless,” he said. “We’re through here.” He pulled his lapel up, did a one-eighty, and marched off.

Reluctant to let me go home alone, for fear of a second run-in with Harold Warfield, Rebecca insisted on accompanying me. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t succumb. The promise of rain hadn’t materialized, so we walked without umbrellas. By the time we reached Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub, I was calm. By the time we turned onto my street, Rags was no longer chuffing with worry.

As we strolled past Lavender and Lace, Lois appeared on the porch and waved. “Hello, girls. Want some tea?”

What I wanted was a glass of wine and a chat with Jordan to settle my nerves, but Rebecca nudged me and whispered, “Say
yes
. Lois is a chatterbox.”

I had heard enough gossip from Lois for the past couple of days, but Rebecca seemed so eager that I didn’t turn down the invitation.

The kitchen at Lavender and Lace was huge. A large square island, fitted with antique stools, stood in the center. I let Rags play with Agatha, and Rebecca and I settled in for a spot of tea while Lois baked. The sweet aroma of chocolate, coconut, and mascarpone cheese–filled scones scented the air. My mouth started to water. I hadn’t had a chance to taste-test the pizzas that Pépère took to the theater.

“I heard there was a little fracas outside your store a few minutes ago,” Lois said.

“You already heard?” A guest must have beaten a path back to the B&B to share the news.

“Harold Warfield has anger issues, don’t you know.” Lois spooned healthy helpings of scone mixture from a bowl onto a baking tray. “Why, I’ve seen him throw cell phones and kick tires.”

I’ve been known to kick a tire or two.

“Harold shouldn’t be mad at Shelton, though,” Lois went on.

“He wasn’t,” I admitted. “He was mad at me. He thinks I sicced Urso on him.” And Liberty thought Harold had persuaded Urso to suspect her father.

“Humph.” Lois set aside the scone mixture, donned a pair of oven mitts, and removed a tray of golden brown scones from the oven. “That man. If anyone should be angry, it’s him.”

“Who, Harold?” Rebecca said.

“No, Shelton. He has suffered so.” Lois eyed me as she slid the second tray of scones into the oven. “I told you about his ex-wife, Liberty’s mother, skipping out, but did I tell you she was quite the hussy? She had multiple affairs.” Using a spatula, Lois removed the scones from the baking tray and set them on metal racks to cool. “I don’t think she ever embraced being a mother. The pregnancy might have been an accident.” The teakettle began to whistle. Lois shuffled to the cabinet and returned with two sets of Victorian Farmhouse teacups and a selection of teas. As she filled the cups with steaming water, I chose an Earl Grey while Rebecca opted for a minty Tazo Zen tea.

“Why do people do such things?” Lois asked as she plated the scones and set them in front of us.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Cheat.”

I ached for Lois. She hadn’t gotten over the fact that her husband of over thirty years had strayed. She booted him out the night she learned of his betrayal. Once or twice since then she had acknowledged that she was lonely without him. Would she take him back if he came crawling? Time would tell.

“Lois, would you like to join me and my grandparents for Thanksgiving dinner?” I said. “It’ll be a big group.”

“I can’t, dear. I have an inn full of guests. I’ll be busier than ever, but thank you.” She pushed the plate of scones closer so that we would each take one.

I obliged, choosing the closest, as my grandmother had taught me. The warm chocolate and coconut combination was heaven. The mascarpone added a lusciousness to the flaky pastry. “Delicious.”

“Now, where was I?” Lois said. “Oh yes, Liberty’s mother. Shelton was a saint about the whole kerfuffle. He didn’t moon about. He went on as if he was destined to be a single father. You asked the other night whether he and Noelle could have been involved. I don’t believe they were. I put on my thinking cap, and I remember hearing him a while back—I can’t remember when—saying that he felt protective of Noelle. He seemed excited to be able to groom her.”