For Cheddar or Worse (15 page)

“U-ey—”

“Stop, Charlotte!” he barked. So much for restraint. “I've got this under control. I've interrogated all who were staying at the inn. I've sorted through their belongings. No key matching Miss Berry's room was found. No key-making machine, either. Nothing. Good-bye.”

“Wait, U-ey! The killer could have disposed of the key, maybe even tossed it down the same well where Andrew dropped the ring of keys. Erin's innocent. You've got to believe that!”

“We'll see.” He hung up on me.

“Ooh,” I groused. I hated when he did that. It wasn't like I was a numbskull. I was a concerned citizen, for Pete's sake. Each of us should be allowed to have our say. “Ooh,” I repeated and moved behind the cheese counter.

Rebecca snickered. “By the sound of it, that didn't go well.”

“Jordan and Quigley posed the same theory.”

“Bah! Quigley.” Rebecca's face pinched with loathing. “Why would he know anything about anything?”

“Because he was attending the brain trust.”

“Why, for heaven's sake? He doesn't know diddly about cheese. He thinks that little round of deliciousness”—Rebecca pointed at the grayish-covered Bonne Bouche—“is rotten and should be tossed. He doesn't understand the benefits of mold.” Bonne Bouche translates to
good mouthful
, and it was. “He—”

I held up a hand. “Whoa. Calm down. Quigley wasn't attending the trust to judge cheese. He was there to report about the people, the discoveries. He wasn't staying at the inn, either. In fact, that morning Urso ordered the busload of other attendees to leave. Quigley, when he got wind of a scandal, sneaked back.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Rebecca muttered. “So what did Urso say about the key?”

I filled her in.

“That doesn't mean we're wrong,” she said.

“No, but if there isn't a duplicate key, there isn't one. We can't prove anything without evidence.”

Rebecca sighed. “What are you going to do to help Erin?”

“I don't know.”

But I had to do something. I couldn't let her get bulldozed into jail. If only her brother could remember the details of that night.

CHAPTER

At dusk, although I was exhausted and no closer to knowing who killed Lara or exonerating Erin—I had racked my brain all afternoon—I headed to the cooking class at Jordan's new restaurant. The place used to be called Timothy O'Shea's Irish Pub, but after Tim was murdered and Jordan took ownership, he thought a name change was in order. Jordan didn't want the locals to think he was using Tim's tragedy to bring in business. He settled on the name
The White Horse
because when he was a boy, he had owned a white stallion named Spirit that took him on tons of adventures. Over valleys, through dales. Spirit even saved his life, pulling him from beneath a fallen tree.

In addition to changing the restaurant's name, Jordan had revamped the place and made it more upscale. The rustic booths were now a rich brown oak. Tables sported tablecloths. The bar, dismantled in Ireland and reconstructed here, remained the same. How could it not? It was magnificent. However, instead of Irish music, the pub featured jazz musicians. Jordan loved all kinds of music, but particularly
jazz. Many of the musicians were local talent. The menu had changed slightly, too. A number of Tim's appetizers were still featured on the menu—like O'Shea's potato skins, which were rich with cheese and bacon, and O'Shea's mini mac and cheese, tasty morsels served in ceramic tart dishes—but Jordan had substituted the burgers with fine steaks, and he had added a number of his specialty pasta dishes.

My favorite was penne pasta made with a spicy tomato-vodka-cream sauce, which those attending class tonight—Urso, Delilah, Rebecca, Devon, and I—would learn to make. The class was supposed to have included Matthew and Meredith, but due to Meredith's bed-rest order, Matthew and she had withdrawn. Tyanne, the town's premier wedding planner who occasionally helped out at The Cheese Shop, had asked to take Meredith's place. She promised Meredith she would do her proud and eat enough for two. I doubted she would because Tyanne, an attractive blonde who had transplanted to Providence from Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina, had been in love with Tim. She hadn't fully recovered from losing him; she was pale and thin. I hoped tonight would bring her warm memories.

The first course was a simple Caprese salad of hothouse tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella drizzled with a basil pesto–olive oil dressing. Jordon put the women in charge of making the dressing. I ground the pine nuts. Tyanne chopped garlic. He gave the men the task of slicing the tomatoes and the cheese. When we completed our tasks, we sat at a preset table in the kitchen.

“Yummy,” I said to Jordan after my first bite. He had paired the dish with a white wine from Italy:
divine.

“It's my mother's recipe.”

“Your mother wasn't Italian.”

“Does that matter? She had a deft hand with spices, and her homemade buffalo mozzarella was not to be believed.”

“Where did you grow up again?” I teased.

“On a farm in Jersey.” He had no accent. He had worked hard to get rid of it when he entered the WITSEC program. So had his sister. “With Jersey cows, of all things.” Jersey
cows are a smaller breed of dairy cows, originally bred in the Channel Islands, England.

“Malarkey.”

“God's truth.” He held up three fingers, like a good Boy Scout, then said, “Switching subjects. Chief—”

I cast a warning look at Jordan. Before we scrubbed up, U-ey—that was what we were supposed to call him tonight, not Chief—had made it quite clear that there would be no talk about the investigation. We all agreed, though questions were churning inside my mind. I would bet there were even more scurrying around inside Rebecca's head. I wondered if she had been able to pry anything out of her darling deputy without admitting I had told her a thing. She could be wily.

“Don't worry.” Jordan squeezed my wrist then blew me a sly kiss. “I was just baiting you.”

“Fink.”

He chuckled. “U-ey, tell us about the wedding plans.”

“Wedding plans?” I shrieked and swatted Delilah. “You're getting married? When? How could you not tell me?” I batted her a second time.

“Ow. Cut it out.” Delilah flicked me back. “We just decided. An hour ago.” She whisked her dark curls over her shoulders and eagle-eyed Urso. “Obviously my adorable man told Jordan before I could tell you.”

Urso winked at me. “Guys like to share things when they're slicing and dicing.”

“I'll have to remember that,” Delilah joshed.

“Okay,” I said. “From the beginning. Have you two set a date?”

“We're thinking the fall.” Delilah speared a piece of her salad.

Urso said, “I'm up for July.”

“It's too hot in July.” Delilah fanned herself coyly. “A bride doesn't like to sweat.”

“It seems I don't have a vote.” Urso elbowed her; she giggled.

Joy soared through me to see them so happy.

“Tyanne's going to put the whole thing together,” Delilah said then popped a morsel of salad into her mouth.

“So, you know before me, too?” I said to Tyanne and eyeballed Delilah.

Tyanne tucked a hair behind her ear. “I'm envisioning pale orange—”

“Ew.” Delilah plunked her fork on her plate. “Uh-uh. No way. I'm not a pale
anything
.”

“No kidding,” Urso said.

Everyone laughed.

“Big, bright, bold.” Delilah threw her arms wide. “Maybe red.”

Urso knuckled her in the ribcage. “You scarlet woman.”

“I adore red. Haven't you paid attention? The color scheme at The Country Kitchen—that's mine.”

The conversation during the rest of the salad appetizer revolved around which flowers and what music they should have for the ceremony. Neither Urso nor Delilah got annoyed that everyone had an opinion. It was like naming babies. Family members could chime in with ideas like Fred, Ned, or Zed, but in the end, it was the couple's decision. Personally, I liked the name Han Solo.

Kids . . .

“Charlotte?” Jordan was hovering behind my chair ready to move it backward. “Hello? Would you like to stand? We're moving on to the next course.” He kissed my neck. “What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “A blank.”

He gave me a knowing look. I dodged him and entered the kitchen. The good thing about cooking is it takes all my concentration. It works like a mental breather. I don't dwell on life's big questions or the horror of death.

“All right, everyone, aprons back on,” Jordan ordered.

Although he had given the main restaurant a facelift, he hadn't altered anything in the kitchen. It was a well-designed space with a number of Vulcan ranges and ovens and plenty of prep counters. A kitchen staff member was cleaning up after us.

With Jordan's guidance, we cooked another hot appetizer as a tribute to Tim, a mini–potato skin stuffed with melted blue cheese. Tasty! Plating appetizers was always a challenge to me. I could create cheese platters without any problem, but making little morsels look scrumptious with just a sprig of parsley or a squiggle of olive oil was an art. Jordan did his best to show me how to wield a squeeze bottle, but my artistic talent fell short. Squirts came out as blobs or driblets. Swell.

We devoured the stuffed potatoes and moved on to the entrée.

In teams, we were assigned first to a prep counter and then to a grilling station. I was chopping parsley for my tomato-vodka-cream sauce when I heard Rebecca, who was working alongside her beloved at one of the Vulcan ranges, hoot with laughter.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

“Devon was coming up with lines from movies”—she couldn't contain herself; snickers burbled out of her—“but he was tweaking them to sound cheesy.”

“Cheesy?”

“As in using cheese in the references.
Duh
.” She giggled some more. “And he was making me guess the titles. Get this: ‘I love the smell of Parmesan in the morning.'”

“
Apocalypse Now
,” Jordan said.

“Correct!” Rebecca winked at Devon. “How about, ‘Puree it again, Sam'?”

“
Casablanca
,” Tyanne chimed.

“Right!” Rebecca clapped her hands.

“Except there's no cheese in that line,” I said.

“Don't be a stickler,” Rebecca chided. “How about this one? ‘May the fondue be with you.'”

“
Star Wars
,” Delilah shouted.

“Yes!” Rebecca nearly cheered. “Aren't these fun? How about this? ‘I've never kissed a Jarlsberg thief before.'”

“That's a stretch,” I said.

“You know it?”

“Yes. You swapped
Jarlsberg
for
jewel
. It's from
To Catch a Thief
. And the line is ‘I've never caught a jewel thief before.'” The Hitchcock classic is one of my all-time favorite movies. “Grace Kelly says it to Cary Grant.”

Rebecca smiled. “That man is so yummy.”

“Sugar, you're not kidding.” Tyanne sighed with a swoon. “Has anyone ever seen a dreamier cat burglar than Cary Grant? And those fireworks that light up the sky when they lock lips? Magical.”

“Your turn, Charlotte,” Rebecca challenged. “Do you have a quote?”

I thought for a moment and nodded. “How about this?” In a low, masculine voice I said, “‘I don't have to show you no stinkin' Brie.'”

Rebecca looked perplexed. “I don't know that one.”

“Really?” I was shocked. I repeated the line, using a Hispanic accent. Still no response. “Are you kidding? You call yourself a film buff, and you don't know it?”

Urso said, “I believe the line is, ‘We don't need no stinkin' badges.'”

“Yeah,” Jordan chimed. “That's the line.”

“Nope,” I said, “but it is one of the most misquoted lines of film history.” I couldn't believe I was the only one in the room who knew the correct line. Let's hear it for the film class I took during college. “C'mon, Rebecca,” I goaded, wiggling my fingers, begging for the answer. “I know you've seen the film. Shh. Don't anybody tell her the title. Two Americans in Mexico, mining for gold.”

“Oh, I remember now.” A grin spread across her face. “
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
with Humphrey Bogart.”

“And who said the line?” I challenged.

“It wasn't Bogart?”

“Nope. It was said
to
Bogart.”

“Wait, wait, I know this!” Rebecca snapped her fingers. “His name is Alfonso . . . Alfonso . . .”

A fire alarm rang out.
Blang!

“Uh-oh,” I shouted and pointed.

Rebecca spun around. Huge orange oily flames were rising from her pan. “Oh, no!” Neither she nor any of us had been paying attention.
Oops!

“I'm on it!” Jordan fetched a fire extinguisher and raced back with it aimed. “Watch out!” He doused the fire with a muddle of white goo.

After that, the easy, breezy feeling of the evening vanished.