As Gouda as Dead (13 page)

“Zach would've had to hold it there and pinch her nose closed to suffocate her. Was he strong enough to do that? He's so slim.”

“He wrestled in high school.”

I thought of my lanky college-aged Internet guru. Wrestling had developed his muscles, too. Now he could lug seventy-five-pound wheels of cheese with ease. Zach Mueller had the same physique. I glanced back at Dottie. The collar of her cowl-neck sweater lay loose. Her neck was exposed. I couldn't see any ligature marks or bruises. Suffocation had to be the method.

Stop, Charlotte! Listen to you. You sound like Rebecca, theorizing à la a television detective.

Ray headed for the wall telephone. “I'm going to call the police.”

“I already did.” Hadn't he heard me before? Was his hearing impaired by grief? “They're on their way.”

He looked at me as if he were surprised by my presence. “Charlotte?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you here?”

“My dog steered me in this direction on our morning walk.” Had Rocket sensed Dottie's death? Had he heard something going down? No. He wasn't an Asta or Lassie. He had wanted to stroll past the pet shop and get a gander of his ladylove cutout. And yet, here I was. Inside the pastry shop, faced with yet another death—murder. “I decided to come in and buy some pastries. Dottie's Sunday morning specials are”—ugh, she was dead; I had to use the past tense—“
were
always her best.”

“That's because she spent all Saturday night preparing them,” Ray acknowledged. He started to pace by Dottie's feet. I caught him glancing at her. His face torqued into a mask of pain. He swung his gaze away. He wore a path in the linoleum until he finally stopped and looked at his watch. “Why aren't the police here yet? They're just around the corner.”

“The precinct is,” I conceded, “but the deputies might be on patrol.” Or at church, I supposed.

Ray grumbled. “I never trusted that Zach kid.”

“You don't know it was him.”

“Who else could have done this? Dottie fired him.”

“I thought he quit.”

“No, she was being polite when she told you that. She fired him.”

“Why?”

“Sloth,” he said. “Proverbs 18:9. ‘Whoever is slack in his work becomes brother to one who destroys.' That's Satan.”

“I thought Zach was a good worker.”

Ray shook his head forcefully. “He wanted it easy. He was always asking for time off. When Dottie fired him, he was angrier than a hibernating bear awakened in winter. He threw trays of pastries and sped off in that car of his. He's got itchy fingers, that kid. He knew about the safe.” Ray gestured toward the rear of the store. “He was always into trouble growing up. Whenever he'd come to the ice-skating rink, he'd start something. An argument. A fight.”

“Why did Dottie hire him in the first place?”

“She said he had a sensitivity toward baked goods, whatever the heck that meant.”

I understood. Baking was an art. Not everyone was good at it. If Zach had a talent for it, then Dottie must have wanted to cultivate that gift. So why would Zach kill his mentor?

I stared at Ray standing on the opposite side of the island, his finger raised in fury, his dead wife at his feet, and suddenly I went cold. What if his rage was bogus? What if he'd killed Dottie? What would his motive have been? Maybe The Ice Castle was suffering financially. Maybe he needed money. If he pawned the brooch, he wouldn't get its full twenty-five thousand dollar value, but perhaps half was enough to solve the problem. Was the brooch even missing? What if Ray had taken out a life insurance policy on Dottie? She had a business to run. Both Matthew and I had invested in what was called
key man
life insurance policies so that, if one of us were to die, the business would be the beneficiary, and the proceeds would go into Fromagerie Bessette to help with the transition.

Wrestling with the theory made me shiver. Honestly, I couldn't believe Ray had killed his wife. From all I'd seen, he had adored Dottie. They had grown up in Providence. They had built a solid life here, with the ice rink and the pastry shop. They had been tireless at raising money for the Providence Children's Fund. And Ray was wearing what I assumed was his Sunday best. He didn't look like he'd killed anyone. There was no evidence of a struggle on his clothing. Wouldn't pastry dough or flour have splattered him somehow? Dottie, though petite in height, had been on the heavy side, and she had spunk; certainly she would have tried to fight off her attacker, unless, of course, the attack came from someone she treasured. A loving hug. A warm embrace. And then
wham
!

Could Ray have forced the breath out of her? Was he that evil? I'd seen him on numerous occasions at The Ice Castle. He had a smile for everyone. He was especially helpful to the kids. One time, I saw him pick up a child who had fallen on the ice. The girl looked like a baby giraffe with her long legs splayed. Ray had dusted her off and had personally escorted her to her folks.

Ray muttered, “Zach Mueller. Yeah, it makes sense.”

I didn't have time to discuss his theory, because right then Urso blazed through the kitchen door.

“Zach Mueller did it,” Ray blurted as if he were set on auto-repeat mode.

Urso didn't address either of us. He took in the scene quickly and crouched beside Dottie. He checked her pulse and her exposed neck, all while whispering notes into the recording device on his cell phone.

When he stood, I said, “Where's Deputy Rodham?”

“Hospital.”

“Still?”

“There were complications. Baby's fine. He'll be out of commission for a few more days.”

It dawned on me that Urso was now two deputies short. Should I offer my services? “Chief—”

“Hush!”

I didn't bristle at the harsh tone. I understood.

Urso circled Dottie, then scoped out the kitchen. He squatted beside the spatula and the flour on the floor but didn't touch anything. He strode to the door leading to the main shop and peered out. He looked back at Dottie. He wasn't trying to figure out a bullet entry angle, so what was he looking for?

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Urso addressed Ray. “Mr. Pfeiffer, I'm sorry for your loss.” During investigations, Urso liked to show respect and call people by their formal names. “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?”

The aroma of coffee made it to my senses. I hadn't noticed it when I'd first entered the pastry shop. Dottie always made a fresh pot. She didn't sell it, but she offered complimentary four-ounce cups to anyone who made a purchase.

“No,” Ray muttered. “No coffee. I never drink coffee.”

“Water?”

“No.” Ray shifted feet and continued to steal glances at his wife. “Zach Mueller killed Dottie. Aren't you going to arrest him?”

“Sir, one thing at a time. I assume you found the body.”

“No, she did.” Ray jutted a finger in my direction.

“You, Charlotte?” Urso said.

I was one of the few Urso never addressed formally; we had known each other for so many years. His gaze was penetrating and unwavering. I winced. “Yes.” What was it with me finding dead bodies? I wasn't psychic. I wasn't drawn to the macabre. “I came in for some pastries. Dottie opens early.”
Opened,
I mentally revised. “I was on my way to work.”

“Why in this direction?”

“I've got Rocket and Rags with me.” I thumbed toward the front of the shop. “Rocket often likes to take the scenic route.” Why in the heck was I being so glib? Was it a defense mechanism? Maybe I was on edge because Urso was staring at me. Hard. I rushed to add, “The dog likes to pass by the pet store to window-shop. There's a girl dog cardboard statue, and—”
Shut up, Charlotte
.
You sound like an imbecile
.
Urso doesn't care about the dog's habits or his love life.
“That route forced me to head south on Honeysuckle. When I saw the shop was open, I came in. The place was empty. I called for Dottie. She didn't answer, so I slipped back here and found her lying there.” I pointed. “Her arms were outstretched. A pastry was crammed into her mouth. Ray—”

He moaned, then crossed his arms across his lean body and tucked his hands beneath his armpits. I suspected, as emotional as he was, the gloves weren't enough to keep him warm.

“Ray what?” Urso said.

“Ray hurried in after me. When he saw her, he couldn't help himself.” I explained how he tried to remove the blockage. I indicated the wad of old Danish. “Chief, I think she suffocated.”

“The medical examiner will be here shortly,” Urso said. “He'll make that determination. Go on.”

Ray cleared his throat. “Zach knew about my wife's brooch.” He explained that it was a family heirloom and why he thought Zach had stolen it. “I'd seen him admire it. I'll bet he sneaked up on her and pinned her with an arm to her windpipe.” He demonstrated in the air. “He was a wrestler in high school. He could have grabbed her, pushed her to the ground, and shoved the pastry inside her mouth.”

Earlier, Ray had said Dottie must have caught Zach in the act of stealing. Was changing up his theory enough reason to believe Ray had killed his wife? No. Everything he'd said before was said in the heat of the moment. I refused to jump to conclusions.

“He must have held the pastry there and pinched her nose closed,” Ray went on, repeating what I'd suggested, “until she was out of air.”

“Like suffocating her with a pillow.” Urso nodded, seemingly agreeing with Ray's assessment. “How do you think he entered?”

“The front door was unlocked,” I said.

“He could have entered through the back, too,” Ray said. An alley flanked the building in the rear.

“Other than the flour and spatula on the floor,” I said, “the scene looks cleaned up. I don't think you'll find fingerprints.”

“All right. No more speculating.” Urso held up a hand. “Let's hold all theories for now. I'm going to secure the area. Mr. Pfeiffer, if you and Charlotte wouldn't mind exiting the building. But please stay nearby. On the sidewalk. I'll need to ask more questions.”

Ray and I moved into the main portion of the shop. The medical examiner, a shaggy-haired man, his eyes partially hidden behind a mane of bangs, jogged in. I pointed toward the back. He expressed his thanks, hoisted the shoulder strap of his kit higher on his shoulder, and mushed ahead.

I retreated to the sidewalk and nuzzled my pets. “Sorry, fellas, we've stumbled onto something.”
Something
?
A murder, for Pete's sake.
Another
murder
. “We're going to be here for a while.” I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed Fromagerie Bessette.

Rebecca started to cry when she heard about Dottie. “She always had a joke to share or a tale to tell,” she murmured. “Is Ray distraught?”

Ray stood a few feet from me, shifting from foot to foot. He looked aimless and dejected.

I whispered, “Yes.”

“How are you doing?” Rebecca asked.

“I'm fine.”

“No, I mean, really? You've seen two bodies in less than a week.”

I shuddered. “I'm alive.”

Urso appeared. I ended the call to Rebecca, pocketed my cell phone, and faced him. He asked Ray and me a litany of questions. A crowd amassed while we responded. When Urso was content to let us go, I hugged Ray and promised him I would do everything I could to find Dottie's murderer. He mumbled one last time that Zach did it, and we parted.

Throughout the remainder of the morning, I roamed The Cheese Shop as if I were lost in a fog. I could rearrange shelves and serve slices of quiche and sandwiches, but I was awful at answering questions about a particular cheese. My mind felt stuck in second gear while trying hard to climb a steep hill. Rebecca, as usual, interrogated me about the crime scene, but I didn't have any answers. I had walked in and found Dottie dead. Ray had entered and had tried to revive his wife. That was all I could remember. I was numb from my feet up.

Around three in the afternoon, when the fog started to lift in my brain and I could communicate with customers again, I roused myself to organize the wine tasting in the annex. We always offered a Sunday wine trio, often of the same type of wine. With Matthew gone, either Rebecca or I had to arrange it, and I was infinitely more wine-savvy than Rebecca, which wasn't saying much. Today's tasting included three Rieslings. Matthew said a common misperception about Riesling was that the grape only produced sweet wine. Not so. A Riesling grape could produce a dry, complex wine. The three we'd chosen to share came from the Alsace region in France, the Mosel region in Germany, and the Columbia Valley in Washington State.

Beside the array of wines, I set a tray of bite-sized cubes of Appenzeller, a firm cow's-milk cheese cured with an herbal brine. Afterward, I perched on a stool beside the antique bar and observed as customers came and went. Some had heard about Dottie and wanted me to tell them about the murder scene, but I refused. Urso would have my head if I revealed an iota of what I knew to anyone other than Rebecca.
Her
he would understand. He knew she would grill me doggedly and I would cave, but he also knew that whatever she gleaned, she would keep to herself—not that I'd told her anything.

At three-thirty, when Jordan entered, I was itching to talk to someone I could trust about new thoughts—evidentiary in nature—that were forming in my mind.

One look at my face and he hurried to me and enfolded me in his arms. “Why didn't you call?”

“I knew you'd be stopping by for coffee.”

“I would've come sooner, but gossip didn't make it north of town. I only now heard about Dottie while getting out of my car. You were there?”

I nodded and led him into the kitchen and seated him at the preparation counter. Rather than make coffee, I pulled a quiche from the refrigerator, cut a slice, and heated it in the microwave. As I did, I told him my initial impression of the crime scene. “Jordan, there was cheese on the counter. Your cheese. Pace Hill Farm Double-cream Gouda. I only realized it moments ago. The stamped gold wrapper had been removed, but there were remnants of it in the sink with the unwashed mixing bowls.”

I set the warm quiche in front of Jordan and provided a fork. “I remember Dottie bragging about how she liked to use local ingredients to make her pastries.” An icy shiver shimmied down my back. I thought of something else. Something I'd told Rebecca. Other than the dusting of flour and the spatula on the floor, the place had looked clean. Had the murderer cleaned up? “You don't think—” I hesitated. The theory was way off base.

“Think what?”

I waved a hand. “You don't want me to speculate.”

He smiled sadly. “That was yesterday. Today you've had another encounter. You have the right to come up with whatever hypotheses you can think of.”

“Okay.” I took the theory out for a test drive. “Could Tim and Dottie's murders be related?”

“How?”

“Because of the Gouda cheese.
Your
cheese. And the fact that the murderer cleaned up after himself.”

“Herself.”

“Himself, herself. Whatever.”

“Don't get snippy.” He took a bite of quiche and downed it, and then set his fork on the plate and pushed the quiche aside. “Go on. I'm not following how the murders could be related. Explain.”

“The murderer scrubbed the floor in your cheese-making facility. I think he—or she—wiped up a mess of flour on the floor at the pâtisserie. It was a rush job.”

“To remove evidence.”

“Exactly.”

“How else could the two crimes be connected?”

“Remember Tim's call to his nephew? He said he
saw
something. Ray Pfeiffer believes Zach Mueller robbed Dottie and killed her. What if Tim saw Zach robbing someone at the pub? Maybe Zach realized Tim was watching. Zach tailed Tim to your farm. They fought. Zach knocked out Tim, dumped his body in the cheese vat, and unleashed the milk.” I explained how Deputy O'Shea and I had seen Zach speeding in the opposite direction as we'd driven to the farm the night of the murder. “Ray thinks that Dottie caught Zach while he was filching from her safe. Zach forced her to the floor and suffocated her. What if Zach, feeling like he wanted to put one over on the police, chose a pastry with your Gouda in it and shoved it into Dottie's mouth? Ray said Zach was a pretty talented baker; he would have known the difference between the pastries.”