As Gouda as Dead (11 page)

The parking lot was crowded with people. Jawbone was planting a knit cap on his head while walking toward a gray truck. I trailed him, wondering how I could get him to talk to me. What would I ask? I certainly wasn't going to point-blank demand to know whether he had killed Tim.

“Nice truck,” I said.
Lame, but nonetheless, an opening
.

Jawbone swung around. Until now, I'd never really studied him other than from a distance. His skin looked polished to a shine. Did he use men's beauty products? Rebecca, bless her skeptical soul, would speculate that he scrubbed his skin to wash away his sins. Or maybe she wouldn't. She liked Jawbone.

“You and your friend were having quite a discussion,” I said.

“We disagreed about the music. What do you want?”

He had a languid way of speaking. Words hung in the air longer for him than for most people. And a stench clung to his clothes. Had he been drinking something harder, like scotch, at the winery? Where had he gotten it? From hippie Santa? Did they really argue about the music, or had his Santa pal refused to give him another swig from a hidden flask? Did it matter? If I didn't hurry, I'd lose him.

“Do you like this truck model?” I blurted. “My—”
My
what?
Quick. My . . .
“My cousin Matthew is interested in buying a truck. For deliveries. His SUV isn't large enough.” I ran a hand along the rim of the truck's bed while looking at him innocently.

Jawbone leveled me with his piercing blue eyes. Did he see through my ploy? A slow grin formed on his face. “It's reliable,” he said. “Never breaks down.”

“Four-on-the-floor?” I asked, like I knew how to drive one. I'd always used automatic transmission. My former fiancé had driven a car with manual transmission. He had begged to teach me how to use the stick shift. He said it was sexy.

“Yup. It's not a race car,” Jawbone replied, “but a stick shift gives me that feeling of power.”

“How does it take steep hills?”
Really
,
Charlotte?
The hill to Jordan's farm wasn't any steeper than other hills in the area.

“Fine. Never stalls out.” He shifted feet. “The fun thing about the stick is you can even slip it into neutral and coast downhill. Makes you feel like a kid on a sled.”

We shared a smile.

“How are the tires holding up?” I said.

“Recently switched them out. Fifty thousand miles is about the limit.”

I glimpsed his boots:
also new
. Had he gotten rid of his old tires and boots in the past few days to remove evidence?

He opened his truck to climb in. A denim tote bag sat on the seat, unzipped. I spied what had to be over a dozen guns inside the bag. Quickly Jawbone reached for the bag.

I instinctively stepped backward.

Jawbone zipped the bag and shoved it on the floor with a
thud
. The contents within clattered. He slued around and smiled at me again, exposing his wolf-sized incisors. “Did I scare you?”

Indeed he had, but I refused to let on. “You sell guns. Of course you'd travel with guns.”

He leaned in. His breath was warm and rancid. “Was it you that sicced Chief Urso on me, Charlotte?”

“What? No. I . . . We're having a cheese tasting on Thursday. Reservations are filling up. I wanted to make sure you knew about it. I'll be having that special Cheddar you like.”

He assessed me with stern eyes. “I've already picked up tickets. Is that all?”

“Ye-e-es,” I stammered. “That's it. Well, bye.” I raced away, my cheeks red-hot with embarrassment. Luckily, Jordan hadn't seen me make a fool of myself.

***

An hour later, Jordan pulled into the driveway beside my house and parked. I gave him a hug and whispered in his ear, “Come by the shop tomorrow afternoon for coffee and a snack.”

“Meaning you?” he whispered back.

“Yes.” A tingle of delight zinged through me. “And I won't do any theorizing. Promise.”

“Deal.”

I entered the house first, via the kitchen. Amy entered next, ahead of her sister. She clapped her hands to beckon Rags. My adorable Ragdoll bounded to the twins and nuzzled their ankles. He didn't care that they were wearing winter clothes or that he couldn't make nose-to-skin contact. He simply wanted to be close. When Rags caught sight of Rocket, the French Briard that was a gift from the twins' mother and used to live with us until the twins and their father moved in with Meredith, he went airborne with joy.

Quickly I removed the leash from the dog's neck. The two animals tumbled together as if they were gymnastic teammates. I know, cats and dogs don't usually mix as playmates, but Rags wasn't convinced he was a cat, and Rocket didn't care what the heck Rags was. He wanted to play; that was enough for the energetic dog. They took off toward the foyer. Happy barks and meows and a clattering of claws on wood floors ensued.

I kept only one rule at my house on Saturday nights: no television. The twins were more than happy to comply.

“I'm starved.” Clair headed straight for the refrigerator. “What shall we bake?” Honestly, she had grown the most in the past few weeks. She looked downright lean. “Gluten-free, of course.”

I cocked a hip. “Do you think you need to remind me? How long has it been since you moved out?”

“October,” Amy chimed. When Matthew married Meredith.

“That's three measly months,” I said.

Clair giggled. “How about risotto?” The twins had quite an educated palate. Their father couldn't do a lick of work in a workshop or garden, but he was a good cook; Meredith was even better.

“Oh, yum,” Amy said. “Do you have any of that Alpha Tolman cheese?” Jasper Hill Farm's Alpha Tolman cheese was named for a philanthropic dairy farmer from Greensboro, Vermont. An alpine-style cheese, it had a savory, meaty flavor, and melted well. “And we'll need some fresh Parmesan.” Amy was our cheese expert. When she decided she no longer wanted to be a race car driver—previously she'd dreamed of becoming a singer, a pet whisperer, or a world explorer—I figured she would settle down and realize she was born to be a cheesemonger. She had a gifted palate and a nose that could detect the intricate aromas of cheese ninety percent of the time in a blind test.

“How about green onions or shallots?” Clair said. “Do you have those?”

“Slow down. I'm sure we'll find something. Take off your coats and hang them up.” I set out a bowl of water for Rocket and put the bag of food Meredith had brought for him on the counter. “I'll be right back.” I sprinted upstairs. I needed to shed some layers of clothing or I would swelter.

When I returned downstairs, I heard whispering in the kitchen. Stealthily I pressed my ear to the door. I couldn't hear what the twins were saying. I nudged the door open an inch. They stood huddled in the corner of the kitchen by the sink. Clair was shaking her head
no
, but Amy was insisting upon something. The tableau made me think of Tim's last moments on earth. He told his nephew that he had
heard
something, then he revised that to he had
seen
something. Had he seen people whispering? Did he know, without hearing, what they were saying? I revisited my theory that Tim had seen Jawbone and his fiancée plotting to steal that sizeable diamond ring.

Stop it, Charlotte.
It was wrong of me to presume the ring was stolen. I flashed on Jordan's worry about me investigating. What if he was getting cold feet about marrying me because I, more often than I liked to admit, was finding myself in hot water situations or facing off with killers? Could I help it if I was curious by nature? Could I help it if, like Rebecca suggested to Urso, I had a gift for figuring out what happened? I believed part of my ability was due to the fact that I'd lost my parents in a tragic accident. An event that had heightened my senses. An event that made me want—no,
need
—to right the world's wrongs.

I glanced at the phone, pondering whether I should touch base with Jordan, but thought better of it. His kisses—
our
kisses—while on our cross-country skiing trek had been filled with passion. Our parting kiss was nearly as good. No, he wasn't cooling to me. He was concerned. He didn't want me rushing headlong into danger. Though I felt confident that I could handle most instances, I liked that he cared so much.

On the other side of the door, Amy and Clair started sniping at each other.

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

I pushed through the door and cheerily said, “What are you two plotting?”

They spun around and stared at me innocently.

I bit back a snort. “Yeah, right. That works. Pretend you're not guilty.”

They blushed.

“We're—” Clair started.

“Worried about you,” Amy finished.

“She's more worried than I am,” Clair said.

“Am not.”

They playfully punched each other, then asked in unison: “Are you okay?”

“Did you go upstairs to cry?” Clair asked.

“You don't look like you've been crying,” Amy said.

I held up both hands, palms forward. “Relax. I'm not crying. I didn't cry. I'm a big girl—” Lyrics from the song “Big Girls Don't Cry” flitted through my head. I mentally fanned them away and took a breath. “I'm fine.”

“Are you going to marry Jordan?”

“Yes. In May.”

“Yay!” Amy cheered. “On Mother's Day?”

“Or on Memorial Day?” Clair said.

“To be determined.” I pointed at the refrigerator. “Now, let's get supper on the stove and quickly into our hungry stomachs.”

In no time at all, we made a creamy onion risotto, extra heavy on the onions. We threw in diced shallots, too. A week ago I had grilled some extra chicken breasts and had stowed them in the freezer. I thawed three in the microwave, tossed a salad, and we sat down to dinner.

The twins were decidedly boy crazy. Amy still liked Tyanne's son Tommy. Clair had her eye on a new boy who was tall, dark, and handsome like Jordan, and he loved reading as much as she did. In fact, he was reading at a high school level, she bragged—mainly mysteries and adventures. Amy added that Clair had stolen him away from Paige Alpaugh's youngest daughter.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Not.”

“Girls.”

“I would never steal. It's not nice.”

Amy sputtered out a laugh. “Fine. You lured him away with those sexy eyes of yours.”

“Sexy? Why you—” Clair knuckled her sister in the arm.

Amy whelped in mock pain. “You did. I saw you. Like this.” She batted her eyelashes and offered a wink. “And you twirled your hair around your pinky.”

Clair said, “I would never—”

“Girls do it all the time.” Amy demonstrated, coiling her chin-length hair as best she could. “It's a mating ritual. Aren't you paying attention whenever we watch Animal Planet?”

Clair looked to me for help.

“Dishes,” I commanded.

Later, after the twins and I ate cookies and read out loud in the attic, where they vowed that no matter how old they got, they were always going to love the custom we'd started the day they had moved into my house, I tucked them into bed and retreated to the office off the foyer on the first floor.

Thanks to the office's fresh new look—newly painted walls, refurbished desk, and spanking clean carpet—I never tired of snuggling into one of the Queen Anne chairs and finishing off the day with a chapter of a good book.

However, tonight I craved the opportunity to reread my parents' love letters. Maybe my desire was piqued by the fact that I'd found another love note from Jordan tucked into my pocket as I'd removed my parka. Maybe it was driven by the twins' squabble at the dinner table, and I needed grounding. No matter what the reason, I wanted to immerse myself in the past. My parents' past. I hadn't had the opportunity to get to know my parents. I wanted to understand them. This was one of the routes.

When I'd found the letters inside a hidden compartment of the antique office desk last November, I'd stowed them in a pair of airtight Tupperware containers. I had read the letters three times since then. One caught me up each time.

It was so simple, so informal:

Dear Megan, You take my breath away. ~Joe

Joe, not Joseph. It was the oldest letter, dated when they were in high school. It had been love at first sight, my father wrote in another letter, just as it had been for Jordan and me, although I didn't learn Jordan loved me until well into our relationship. I thought that I was the only one who had fallen head over heels in love. When Jordan confided that he had been smitten the instant we met, too, I'd melted into his arms.

Wanting to preserve our love in written form, I hurried up the stairs and fetched Jordan's latest note. Grouped with the one he had tucked into my apron pocket the other day and the one posted on the rear door of The Cheese Shop, I realized that three notes established the beginning of a collection.