For Cheddar or Worse Page 13

  Close to dusk, I poured a couple of glasses of Chianti and pulled a bag of homemade spaghetti sauce from the freezer; I always froze the sauce if I had an amount left over in the initial batch. I made a simple meal of pasta and Solo di Bruna Parmigiano Reggiano, a mouthwatering cheese made by one of four cheese makers who draw their milk solely from brown cows. Even though the dinner was one of our favorites, neither Jordan nor I had much of an appetite.

  Rags, as if he sensed he was supposed to have boarded with Rocket for the entire weekend, acted quite concerned to be home a day early. He repeatedly circled our ankles, swatting us with his tail while meowing. I tried to tell him there was nothing wrong, but he knew better.

  Before going to bed, I called Rebecca to inform her of the change of plans. I would be available for work tomorrow, Sunday. I would open the store; she could sleep in. I also called my grandfather and let him know he didn’t need to come to work at all. I was glad to have reached both of their voice mail recordings. The two of them were curious sorts. They would have begged to know what was up. I did not tell either about the murder. I wanted to explain in person.

  ***

  The next morning around dawn, after a restless sleep—if Jordan hadn’t encouraged me to stay under the covers, I swear I would have paced all night—I fetched Rags and headed to Fromagerie Bessette. He, like I, seemed thankful for the routine.

  Walking to the shop took work. There was no spring in my step. My shoulders hung low, burdened by the memory of the events from the day before: finding Lara; the arguments that ensued among the guests; everyone on edge. I did my best to shake off my unease but failed.

  Only a few people were up as early as I was. Some were walking their dogs. Others were exercising. Many were carrying out ordinary chores like delivering newspapers or slipping flyers under shop doors. Rags had no trouble keeping up with my sluggish pace.

  As I opened the front door to The Cheese Shop, church bells pealed out. I startled, but then for some reason the chimes centered me, perhaps because I knew I could count on them to ring every Sunday morning, a steady reminder that there was more to life than, well, death. We all had responsibilities. People relied on us. We showed up and did our jobs.

  “Time’s a-wasting, Charlotte,” I whispered and hurried inside.

  I settled Rags in the office and donned an apron. Afterward, I prepared the daily quiche, a combo of ham, bacon, olives, and Cheddar, using Golden Glen Creamery River Cheddar, the Washington creamery’s double-cream signature cheese. It smelled so fragrant that I cut myself a slice. I set my breakfast on the tasting counter, grabbed a fork, settled onto a ladder-back stool, and dove in.

  Hot but delightful! Just what the doctor ordered. I fetched a glass of milk, and as I devoured the remainder of my meal, I revisited yesterday’s interrogation.

  Everyone had an alibi of sorts, but none could be corroborated. Shayna: knitting; Kandice: reviewing her schedule; Ryan: in town; Victor: the same as Ryan. All were asleep soon after midnight. By now, Urso had to know what time Lara had died. Would he reveal his findings? Would the time convict Erin, who had been out and about at four A.M.?

  While washing and drying my dishes, I mulled over the violin that Lara had played . . . plucked . . . whatever. Was it Erin’s? Had Lara borrowed or stolen it? Why, why, why was she toying with it so late at night?

  I wrung the towel free of water. I hung it on its hook and noticed the sign I’d posted a year ago: Your mother isn’t here, so clean up after yourself!

  Following my own lead, I put away supplies for the quiche. As I did, I thought more about Lara and the violin. How could she have known the instrument was an Amati when Erin didn’t even know its value? Had Lara seen it somewhere? Impossible. Erin played it solely for her brother.

  I paused. That wasn’t entirely correct. Erin had played it in high school. What if a friend of Erin’s from back then had recognized its value and had mentioned it to Lara or to an acquaintance of Lara’s? Better yet, maybe an image of the high school orchestra made it into a newspaper, and from there, onto the Internet. The group had been outstanding. It had performed at numerous events around the state. I remembered going to Cleveland to watch the orchestra play. I stayed in a hotel room with Meredith. We engaged in a pillow fight the first night that lasted two hours. Erin, as lead violinist, would have been in the forefront of any orchestra photograph.

  What about Victor? Was he lying about Lara coveting the violin? Using the same scenario as above, had he learned of the instrument before seeing it? Maybe he stole the violin and hid it in Lara’s room with the intention of retrieving it before Lara realized what he’d done.

  I headed to the office. Rags stirred, but I instructed him to lie down. At my desk, I opened my computer browser and typed in Amati violin > image.

  Hundreds of photographs came up. I perused pages of them. Most were close-ups of the instruments; the artistry was incredible. A few photos included noted musicians playing a similar instrument. I didn’t see any high school pictures or Erin’s face among the pack.

  Discouraged, I returned to the kitchen and started toting the quiches to the cheese counter while considering my first notion. Did Lara invite Erin to her room? Did she order Erin—she wouldn’t have asked nicely—to sell the violin? Did Erin go nuts and shove Lara onto the bed?

  Erin was small; Lara had been tall and well built. Even though Erin had slugged the bully years ago, I didn’t believe she was strong enough to hold a pillow over Lara’s mouth for the time it would have taken to cut off her air. If she had, there should have been evidence of a struggle. Lying prone on the bed, Lara had looked downright peaceful.

  “Hello-o-o!” someone called from the main shop.

  I raced out of the office while smoothing my apron.

  A seriously cone-headed man, made more prominent because he had shaved his head, grinned at me. I recognized him as one of the cheese poets. He wasn’t a local.

  “That cheese!” He motioned to a display of sheep’s cheese made by a group called Bleating Heart Cheese. “Is that really its name?”

  Fat Bottom Girl was indeed the name of the cheese he was indicating. The cheese monger, a newbie when she’d first created the cheese, had not only been inspired by a Queen song when making the first batch, but in a serendipitous accident, she had forgotten to flip the cheeses after removing them from their forms, thus creating the irregular or spread bottoms. No two cheeses were shaped alike.

  The poet placed a hand over his heart and intoned: “Fat Bottom Girl. Delight of my soul. You make me whole. If only to taste. But never in haste. I hope you will love me and not go to my waist.”

  I applauded.

  He pretended to doff a hat and take a bow. “A half pound of cheese. Please.”

  I prepared his order and met him at the register.

  “Thank you, fair maid. See, you are paid.”

  He offered cash, and I made change, after which he skipped out of the shop. Odd but sweet.

  The rear door to the shop opened, and Rebecca trotted in. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “Today’s the day!”

  I did a double take, having forgotten how short she had cut her hair. She looked adorable and so radiant that I couldn’t possibly tell her about the murder, not until she shared her good news.

  “Today’s the day for what?” I arranged the quiches in the glass-enclosed case, prettiest side forward. “Jordan’s cooking class?”

  About a month ago, Matthew and I made a pact to take off every other Sunday. I chose the even days; he opted for the odd. All work and no play was no fun, especially now that both of us were married. Often on my free Sundays, I would spend the day with Amy and Clair. They would sleep over, and I would drive them to school the next morning. Today was supposed to be my day; however, their mother had begged to take them on an adventure. Knowing the brain trust would conclude by nightfall, I had signed up f
or a cooking class tonight at Jordan’s new restaurant.

  “No, silly,” Rebecca said. “Today’s the day I take control. Forever. I made a vow this morning that after I get my next paycheck, I’m depositing it directly into the bank, and from there, paying off my very last credit card. Whee!” She did a twirl. “No more hyped-up interest. No more worry. I’m paying cash for everything from now on. I’m getting all my finances in order.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Devon is helping me keep blinders on.” Devon O’Shea. Her boyfriend. The deputy who had assisted Urso at the inn. “He’s very savvy when it comes to money,” Rebecca went on. “He saves twenty percent of whatever he earns. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “It sure is.”

  Rebecca hung up her purse and slipped an apron over her frilly white blouse and skirt, an outfit I’d seen her wear numerous times. The first year she had worked at the shop, she must have worn a different getup every day. When you added in all the Victoria’s Secret items she had purchased as well, it was no wonder she had gone into debt.

  “Why did you stop doing the brain trust?” Rebecca asked. “Didn’t you like it? I mean, sure, some of the personalities are a little gung ho—”

  I held up a hand. “Sit.”

  She perched on a stool.

  “There’s no easy way to say this.” My voice cracked. “Someone died.”

  Rebecca gasped. “Not Erin. Please tell me it wasn’t her.”

  “Lara Berry died.”

  “Heavens to Betsy. She was young, wasn’t she? In her forties?”

  “Fifties.”

  “Did she die of a heart attack or something?”

  The image of Lara lying lifeless on the bed flickered in my mind, and a shiver slithered down my spine. “She was . . . murdered.”

  Rebecca leaped off the stool and threw her arms around me. “Oh no! I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “We don’t know anything yet. Erin is a suspect.”

  “Uh-uh, no way. Not Erin. She’s the nicest lady around. She takes care of her brother, and did you know she teaches Sunday school?”

  Yes, I knew. Was she there today? I doubted it.

  Rebecca released me. “Erin must be beside herself. How is Andrew handling it? I remember the last time he was in here. He became fascinated with the bell above the door. As big as he is, he could reach it. He kept batting it like a kitten would.” She reached high and chanted: “Clang, clang, clang. He likes simple cheeses, you know? White only. He reminds me of my uncle. I’m sure he had autism, too, though I’d bet he didn’t see a doctor about it. The Amish . . .” She fingered her hairdo and sighed. “Erin has been so good about being on the forefront in that regard. She keeps up with all the new therapies, all the new treatments. I promise you”—Rebecca chopped one hand into the other—“she did not do it.”

  “I agree.”

  “Who found Lara?”

  “Jordan and I.”

  “Ugh. Not again.” Rebecca grimaced. “What happened? Was she shot? Stabbed?”

  “I can’t say. U-ey made us promise.”

  “Ahem. It’s me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “But—”

  “No,” I stated firmly. “The police are handling it. That’s all I’m going to share.” I steered her toward a trio of platters I had set out in the kitchen. “Bring those in here, please. Before noon, we have to put together three cheese platters for different functions. Providence Playhouse has started rehearsals for its June production. All Booked Up is offering a specialty cheese poetry reading.” I would wager our early-morning, cone-headed customer would attend that. “And the pet store is having an adopt-a-pet day. They want treats to lure in the humans.”

  Rebecca lifted the platters and carried them to the main shop. “Each of them will have a challenge negotiating the crowds. The Street Scene is a huge success.”

  “Good for my grandmother.” It pleased me to know her efforts had been met with enthusiasm. “Help me with these.” I pointed to a large wheel of Jarlsberg and a wheel of Farmhouse Cheddar Borough Market, made by the fabulous Mary Quicke in southwest England.

  I lifted the Cheddar; Rebecca took the Jarlsberg. I set my wheel on the counter, removed its rind, and started slicing. I nibbled a morsel. The flavor was divine with overtones of mint, rarely tasted in a Cheddar, and it had a nice crunch. I fetched a Vermont Creamery Bonne Bouche, which was a creamy ash-ripened goat cheese that reminded me of a hockey puck—a squishy white hockey puck—and added it to the platter, for variety.

  “You should have seen how busy we were Friday night,” Rebecca said. “We didn’t close until nearly eleven P.M. The tasting of Bleu Mont Dairy Bandaged Cheddar was a smash hit!”

  “Say, did you see either Victor Wolfman or Ryan Harris in town that night? They’re two guys from the brain trust. Do you know who I mean?” I was curious whether one or both of them had lied about their whereabouts.

  “Ryan is the muscular one with the—” Rebecca waved a hand over the top of her head, indicating his thicker-on-the-top hairdo. “I saw him passing by. You know, he visited Thursday, before the trust actually started, and he sized up what we had in the counter. He told me about some cheeses from Texas. Have you heard of Pure Luck Dairy? They make goat cheeses that have won all sorts of awards. We should order some.”

  “Will do.” I waved a hand. “Go on. You said Ryan walked by Friday night. About what time?”

  “Close to closing. He was carrying a to-go cup of coffee and one of those cheese stick thingies.” She wiggled her fingers. “You know what I mean, like a churro but dipped in a caramel cheese sauce. Café au Lait makes the best—”

  “You didn’t see Victor Wolfman?”

  “He’s the older guy with the fake tan?”

  “That’s him.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Nope, didn’t see hide nor hair of him, but that doesn’t mean anything. Like I said, we were packed. Is it significant?”

  “Is what significant?”

  She stopped slicing and slammed down her knife. “I can’t!”

  I startled. “You can’t what?”

  “I can’t not know what’s going on. You’re investigating.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are. Why else would you be asking about Ryan or Victor’s whereabouts? You’re keeping me out of the loop. Talk! Now!”

  CHAPTER

  15

  “Uh-uh,” I muttered. “I refuse to be bullied.” I kept mute and remained busy. I lined a second platter with a large paper doily; I rearranged the cheese case; I wiped down the counter.

  Unfortunately, Rebecca was more stubborn than I was. She stood stock-still, arms folded. Soon her foot started to tap. Then she narrowed her eyes, and I got the feeling she was trying to channel the force from Star Wars so she could manipulate my mind. Sadly, her performance worked. My brain was so overloaded with theories, I had to blab. Dang.

  “You are incorrigible,” I hissed. “You’ll dun me for information until you are blue in the face.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Fine. I’ll spare you, and me, the pain. But you can’t tell a soul.”

  “Promise.”

  “Especially Urso.”

  “As if.”

  I revealed everything. About Lara being smothered; the locked door; the sealed-shut windows; Kandice hearing the violin; finding a valuable Amati in Erin’s armoire. I said, “It’s worth at least a million dollars.”

  “Erin didn’t have a clue?”

  “None. However, that’s not always the reason someone wants to own something. Often collectors don’t care about the value, only how rare it is.”

  Rebecca whistled. “My grandmother used to play a violin. Her grandfather made it for her. It was a family heirloom. I remembe
red the sound. So sweet. She passed it on to my brother, who is a mean fiddler.” Rebecca chuckled at the memory. “Can you imagine Erin’s parents giving her something so valuable and not telling her its worth?”

  Her comment made me stop. Erin’s parents had invested in all sorts of antiques: urns, jade, china. Was that, as Rebecca had asked a minute ago, significant? Erin knew the origin of the Waterford vase. How could she not know that her violin was an Amati? Why would her parents have kept that information a secret?

  “Tell me who you suspect,” Rebecca pressed. “You know I might ask or say something that spurs your imagination.”

  Worry churned inside me. If Urso overheard us . . .

  “Uh-uh. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Charlotte. C’mon. Spill.”

  I glanced outside. Neither Urso nor his deputies were in sight. The Street Scene wasn’t under way yet. Not one customer was heading our direction. And a desperate need to come up with a suspect other than Erin was plaguing me like crazy. Maybe Rebecca’s insight would spur my gray cells.

  “Fine,” I said. “I think Kandice Witt has it in for Erin.”

  “The organizer of the event? Why? She chose Erin’s farm for the brain trust.”

  “Exactly. A little voice at the back of my mind is wondering why she did that. Emerald Pastures is not the brightest star in Ohio farms. It is suffering and in need of a real facelift. Not just the inn but the operation as well. Kandice could have selected other establishments. Why this farm? And why didn’t she tell Erin that Lara Berry was coming?”

  “She didn’t?”

  “Erin was totally surprised. She only had one room left, a room in what used to be the attic.”

  “With the sealed-shut windows.”

  I nodded.

  “Kandice must have known that Lara would be isolated.”

  “She wasn’t totally isolated,” I said. “There are three rooms on that level. Shayna and Victor occupy rooms on either side of Lara’s, although neither had direct access to Lara’s room.” I used a sharp-edged knife and cut the Bonne Bouche in half and then in quarters and placed the pieces on the second platter.