Days of Wine and Roquefort Page 5

  “Aunt Charlotte.” Clair, the younger of the twins by minutes, raced to me and threw her arms around my waist. Her Pilgrim hat fell to the stage. She looked up at me with the eyes of an old soul.

  I stroked her silky blond hair. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  Amy scurried to join the group hug and then whipped off her Indian headdress and said, “Clair, I saw Daddy and Meredith by the food table. They’ve brought ice cream for everyone.”

  “Yay!” Clair clapped her hands.

  “Dinner first.” I wagged a finger as if I had control over them.

  They scampered away, giggling, and Delilah joined me. Her skin glistened with perspiration; her eyes sparkled with delight. A former Broadway actress, Delilah had returned home to Providence when New York proved too tough. She took over her father’s diner and found great pleasure there, but she yearned for a creative outlet. Directing, acting, and writing local plays had turned out to be just what she had needed.

  “Your houseguest stopped in to the diner at lunchtime,” Delilah said. “Nice gal. Good little journal writer. I enticed her with a grilled Swiss, bacon, fig jam, and scallions sandwich.”

  “You could entice me with that,” I joked.

  “Like you would come in on your own.” Her mouth turned down in a frown. “You never call, you never write. With Jordan out of town, you’ve turned into a hermit.”

  I gave her the evil eye. “I work for a living. I’m tired at night. And I made it to girls’ night out this week while you didn’t. What were you doing on Monday anyway?”

  “Taking a class.”

  “In what? Anatomy?” I teased.

  “As if. I attended a writing workshop in Columbus. A four-week course. My love life is dormant.”

  “What about—”

  “We broke up.”

  Was something in the air? First Rebecca and her beau, and now Delilah and hers? I vowed to be extra vigilant of my relationship with Jordan, except I was certain that absence made the heart grow fonder. I missed him so much.

  “We weren’t in sync,” Delilah went on. “The age difference was a little weird. You were right.”

  “Me?” I gulped. “You didn’t end it because of something I said, did you?” I would hate it if I were responsible for inserting a wedge into the relationship.

  “No. It’s . . .” She ran her fingers down her long neck. “Another time, okay?” She tilted her head. “Have you heard from Jordan?”

  “Briefly.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  And I was worried about her, but Delilah was one of those people that kept a tight rein on her emotions. I wouldn’t pry. Not tonight, anyway. “Speaking of worried, Pépère was concerned about my grandmother flying across the stage.”

  “She begged me.” Delilah held her palms out. “What was I to do? You know your grandmother. As stubborn as an ox. It wasn’t like she was on a zip line sailing across a canyon.”

  “Hello-o-o.” Meredith, my best-best friend, a sun-kissed beauty who appeared even younger since her honeymoon with my cousin, joined us. “You two are gossiping, aren’t you? Don’t leave me out.” The three of us had been buddies since grade school. More often than not, Meredith had been the instigator in our wild childhood escapades, though no one would suspect that now. A schoolteacher and advocate for higher education, she followed rules to the letter.

  I hugged her. “We were talking about Grandmère’s flying turkey demonstration.”

  “Duck,” Delilah corrected. “Flying duck. The first Thanksgiving—”

  “Didn’t serve turkey,” the twins proclaimed as they walked past us carrying paper plates filled with dinner. The Thanksgiving Extravaganza, if nothing else, was teaching basic history points to the students involved.

  “Charlotte, chérie.” Pépère shuffled up. “I am so sorry to bother you. I am in need of my old drill. I lent it to you for your renovation project, remember? All of the drills at the theater have run out of power.”

  “Run out?”

  “Do not get me started on the theater’s paltry funds.” He scruffed his thinning white hair in frustration. “We must finish tonight. When it comes to schedules, your grandmother is a little general.” He did an imitation, nailing Grandmère and her finger-wagging, shoulders-swaying behavior. Meredith, Delilah, and I stifled smiles. “Please, do you mind fetching the drill from home? And, if you have them, would you bring some D batteries?”

  Amy leaped to her feet. “Can we go with you, Aunt Charlotte?”

  Clair bounded to her side. “Yes, can we?”

  “I want to see our old room,” Amy said. “And the attic where we used to drink cocoa and read books together.”

  “And I want to hug Rags,” Clair added.

  I eyed Delilah. “Will you miss a Pilgrim and an Indian for a half hour?”

  She shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll cope.”

  “First, bus your dishes to the trash.” I pointed toward a garbage bin that my grandfather had wisely stationed at the end of the buffet table.

  “I’ll drive.” Meredith said with a wink. “And I expect an update on gossip.”

  • • •

  On the way home, I called Noelle, just in case she was still there, to warn her about the impending invasion. She didn’t answer her cell phone. Minutes later, Meredith pulled to a stop in front of my Victorian. All the lights in the house, other than the porch light, were off. A dim light glowed in the garage. Noelle’s BMW was parked on the right-hand side of the driveway.

  Acting like they hadn’t visited the house in years, the twins bolted from Meredith’s newly purchased Chevy Tahoe and up the cobblestone path to the front door.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Clair exclaimed.

  “We’ve missed you, House,” Amy cried.

  “Wait for me,” Meredith called as she unlatched her seat belt and dashed after them. “Charlotte, is the door unlocked?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t worry. You get the power drill. I’ll use my key, and I’ll make sure the girls don’t drive Rags to distraction. By the way, I love the wreath on the front door.”

  “It was a gift from Grandmère. She and her Do-Gooder ladies are making Thanksgiving wreaths as a theater fund-raising project.”

  Meredith smirked. “What doesn’t she do?”

  “Slow down . . . Ever. Stay away from her if she’s wielding a glue gun. It means she’s recruiting.”

  “No argument here.” Meredith laughed.

  I traipsed down the driveway hoping that Noelle wasn’t still slaving over the desk. She had done enough. The side door was ajar. As I approached, I didn’t hear anything. No scraping old paint off wood, no oldies music.

  The moment I stepped inside worry spiraled up the back of my neck and into my senses. Something wasn’t right. There was a smell—metallic yet marshy.

  “Noelle?” I called into the gloom. I flipped on the overhead light switch and gasped. The garage had been ransacked. Cabinet doors hung open. Boxes of nails and garden supplements lay upside down, their contents spilled on the cement floor.

  Someone moaned.

  I spun to my right. Inches beyond the secretary desk, which stood on its feet with its legs secured, I saw her—Noelle, lying on her side, her legs and arms at an angle. The heart-shaped corkscrew from Matthew and Meredith’s wedding jutted from the hollow of her throat. Her chest moved; she was breathing . . . barely.

  “Oh no.” I rushed to her. “Noelle.”

  Her mouth moved. “Ch-h-h—” The beginning of my name. Barely a whisper.

  “Yes, it’s me. Charlotte.”

  Noelle licked her lips. “Hell’s . . . key.”

  “Hell’s key?” I repeated.

  Her eyes fluttered. She inhaled sharply. “Ch-h-h—”

  I gripped her hand. “Stay with me, Noelle. Stay with me.”

  But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Her body shuddered and went quiet. I didn’t detect a pulse. Pressing on her chest wasn’t the right thing to do, n
ot with a puncture wound to her neck. I pinched her nose together and blew into her mouth. Nothing. I tried again. She didn’t revive.

  Yanking my cell phone from my purse, I stabbed in 911. A woman asked me to relay information. When I ended the call, my shoulders gave way and tears flowed down my cheeks.

  Suddenly, another realization hit me. Whoever had killed Noelle could be lurking nearby. Was he in the vicinity? Had he run into the house? Were the twins and Meredith in danger?

  Grabbing the screwdriver that lay near Noelle, I bolted from the workshop and peered into the yard. I didn’t see anyone hiding in the shadows. The kitchen door was closed. I saw silhouettes of the girls and Meredith dancing in a ring-around-the-rosy pattern in the attic. Wouldn’t they have screamed if a killer had run through the house?

  I raced to the kitchen door. It was unlocked. I threw it open and called, “Meredith!” She didn’t respond. The good news was that Rags didn’t come tearing out of the house, which meant the killer, if he had entered, had fled. Door-to-door salesmen spooked Rags. Even so, I called again, “Meredith! Bring the girls downstairs right now.”

  “Ooh, are there shooting stars?” Amy said, her voice tinny over the pounding of galloping footsteps.

  I tore to the street. No one was running away; there wasn’t even a neighbor walking a dog. A couple of parked cars stood across from Lavender and Lace, the bed-and-breakfast next door. The night was quiet. Deathly quiet.

  I sprinted back to the garage, placed the screwdriver on the desk, and crouched by Noelle’s side. I pinched her wrist to feel for a pulse a second time, hoping I had been mistaken the first time around, but I hadn’t been. She was dead.

  “Charlotte,” Meredith appeared at the side door of the garage. “What’s wrong?”

  I jumped to my feet and darted to her. Over her shoulder, I saw the girls twirling on the grass, gaping with their heads tilted back at the starlit sky. Rags had nestled into a comfy chair on the patio.

  “Noelle . . . She’s . . . She’s been murdered.”

  Meredith slapped a hand over her mouth and peered past me. “Is that a corkscrew?” She gagged and stumbled backward. “It’s our wedding favor.”

  A siren pierced the air. Its wail grew louder.

  The girls scurried to Meredith like baby chicks. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” I herded the girls away from the crime scene, back to the center of the grass. “Look up there.” I pointed. “Count the stars in the Orion constellation.” When they became rapt in the activity, I said to Meredith, “Noelle was alive when I found her. The killer must have just escaped.” Guilt burned inside me. If only I hadn’t left her alone. If I had arrived earlier. “Did you notice anything different in the house?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was the front door unlocked as you entered?”

  “No. It was secure.”

  “Did you spot an opened window?”

  “I wasn’t looking.”

  The killer hadn’t hurt my family. That was the one silver lining to an ugly storm cloud.

  “Whoever killed her was searching for something,” I said and explained the state in which I had found the garage—the overturned containers. “Did you go into the girls’ room?”

  “No, we bypassed it. The girls wanted to see the attic first, and then you yelled, and—” She paused. “Now that you mention it, the guest room was sloppy. I peeked in as we slipped past. Things hung out of the suitcase. A drawer was open. There was a pile of clothes on a chair closet. I turned a blind eye.”

  The killer had to have searched Noelle’s things. Where else would he have found the corkscrew? Had he—or she, I heard Rebecca the TV crime junkie reminding me—come up empty searching in the guest room? Was that why he—or she—had scoured the garage? Why had the killer used the corkscrew? What significance did it have? A hammer or screwdriver would have been so much more convenient and lethal.

  “Meredith, please keep the girls away from the garage,” I said. “And call Matthew.”

  The blare of sirens pierced the night again. Louder. Closer.

  I returned to Noelle. After I had left her to go to the theater, she must have changed clothes. Now, she wore a black sweater over her jeans and lace-up hiking boots. Had she ventured out? I moved closer. Mud clung to her boots. That must have been the marshy smell I detected when I first entered. Had she gone to Kindred Creek for her hike? Had someone seen her and tailed her to my house? Her ex-boyfriend, perhaps. She could have been wrong about him. He could have returned to Providence. What could he have been searching for? Noelle’s last words were hell’s key. What had she been trying to tell me?

  CHAPTER

  4

  “We don’t want to leave you, Aunt Charlotte.” Amy threw her arms around my waist.

  My nieces, Meredith, and I stood on the patio outside the kitchen. The cool night air cut through my trousers; sorrow pierced my heart. I tucked a strand of Amy’s hair behind her ear. “I know, sweetheart, but it’s time to go. This is adult stuff.”

  “Please don’t make us.” Clair held her hands in prayerful supplication to her chest. “You aren’t safe.”

  Like they could do anything to protect me. I forced a smile. “Of course I am. With all these police around, I’ll be fine.”

  Chief of police Umberto Urso and his deputies had arrived minutes ago. After I offered a quick recap of finding Noelle, they cordoned off the garage and ordered us to the patio. At the moment, they were photographing the crime scene. Occasional flashes of light flared through the garage windows. With each spark, my breath snagged in my chest.

  A Ford Explorer tore into the driveway and screeched to a halt. My cousin Matthew bolted from the SUV and dashed up the driveway. His face was flushed; his eyes, moist. Meredith hurried to him. They hugged for a lengthy moment and exchanged supportive kisses. Then Matthew jogged to his twins and crouched to meet them at eye level. He took hold of both of their hands. “Meredith is going to take you home.”

  “What about rehearsal?” Amy said.

  So much for the twins wanting to be my bodyguard.

  “Delilah and Grandmère understand.” Matthew looked up at me. “They’re so sorry to hear about . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them slowly. “It’s all my fault. I encouraged Noelle to come here. To take the job. If she’d stayed in Cleveland or taken any of the other opportunities . . . ” His voice was ragged, his words running together.

  “Matthew Bessette, you cannot think that way,” Meredith said, then added, “Girls, let’s go.”

  Matthew swallowed hard. “I’m staying to see if I can help in any way.”

  Meredith traced a loving finger along the back of his neck and herded the girls away.

  “Charlotte.” Urso, a mountain of a man who looked even taller with his police hat atop his head, appeared at the door to the garage and beckoned me. The chief, who was a lifelong friend, would ask for my initial reaction, although I was pretty certain he wouldn’t tolerate much more than that. He didn’t like when I butted into his investigations. On the other hand, Noelle had died on my property. In my garage. While working on my renovation project. Not to mention that I liked her—had liked her—a lot. I had envisioned inviting her to girls’ night out and family dinners.

  I hurried toward him.

  Matthew caught up with me and whispered, “How, Charlotte? Why?”

  I shook my head; I had no answers.

  As we entered the garage, Urso regarded Matthew with suspicion. “Matthew, I don’t think you should—”

  “She was my friend, U-ey.”

  Urso bridled. Pals called him U-ey because of the double U in his name. He hated the nickname, but it had stuck for life.

  “She was also my”—Matthew slicked his tongue beneath his lip—“my . . . my . . .”

  Tears flooded his eyes. They filled mine, too. I threw my arms around him for support. Someone had died. Not any someone. Matthew’s friend and close business associate.<
br />
  We remained in the embrace for a very long moment. When both of us regained our composure, I pressed away from him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He was lying; his skin had turned alabaster white.

  I urged him toward the wall for support. “Is there anyone we should call? She said her parents were dead. Maybe an uncle, an aunt?”

  “I don’t . . . know. She . . . we . . . didn’t discuss family.”

  Urso said, “Matthew, breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Charlotte”—he gestured with a thumb—“walk me through this. One more time, tell me what happened when you entered.” Usually Urso liked to use formal names when conducting investigations. Matthew and I were exceptions.

  I recounted my movements, step by step. I told him about seeing the items turned topsy-turvy and spotting Noelle. “She wasn’t dead yet.”

  Urso crouched beside Noelle and pointed at the weapon. “This is a corkscrew.”

  “Yes, it was a wedding favor from Matthew and Meredith’s wedding.”

  Matthew gasped, apparently not having seen the weapon prior to that moment.

  “You kept the corkscrew in your garage?” Urso said.

  “No. Mine is in the kitchen.” While waiting for the police to arrive, I had checked. The favor I received at the wedding was still in its silver box nestled in a drawer. “That must be Noelle’s. She attended the wedding. Do you remember meeting her? She was in for a few hours and left.”

  Urso grimaced. “If you recall, I was preoccupied with another situation.”

  How could I forget? Our fair town had been in turmoil then, too. After the last murder that had occurred in Providence, a journalist wrote that evil comes with growth, and Providence, which was burgeoning, could not escape what the rest of the world knew to be commonplace. I had wadded up the article and used it to light tinder for a fire.

  “She brought the corkscrew with her,” I said. “As a memento of good times and good fortunes.”

  “Go on.” Urso rose to his full height and eyed the mess of Tupperware boxes, the nails, and the other items that had spilled onto the tarp.