As Gouda as Dead (19 page)

In the end, I followed my friends' and grandfather's advice. I breezed into Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe and paused inside the door. Paige stood at the rear, huddled with other mothers near the tartan plaids. Each mom was admiring the work her teenage daughter was doing on a sparkly T-shirt. The class was a regular occurrence and no part of the Lovers Trail events. Paige's eldest daughter, an angelic girl with a mane of gold hair and the lightest eyelashes I'd ever seen, held up her artwork for her mother's approval. Rings adorned every finger of both hands. Paige, rather than assessing her daughter's work, snatched her daughter's left hand. She said something. The girl wrenched away and fled to the restroom at the rear of the shop.

Freckles, who was dressed in her signature orange, approached me with a broad smile. “Charlotte, hi! What brings you in this evening? The twins aren't scheduled for a class.”

“I'm not here for that.” Matthew's girls took classes at Sew Inspired. Meredith, Grandmère, or I would pick them up. Their mother, Sylvie, was boycotting the shop—forever—because Freckles had made the twins' dresses for their father's wedding.

“Oh my. I know why.” Freckles fluttered her fingers. “We never finished your dress. The hem. Come here.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the dressing room. For a bitty thing—she wasn't even five feet tall—she was strong. Daily workouts, as well as lifting huge bolts of fabric, contributed to her power. “Let's get it done.”

“I don't have time.”

“Uh-uh, no arguments.” She pushed me into the storage room at the rear. It wasn't a dressing room, but it served the purpose.

She handed me my cocktail-length dress, which was ecru silk with lace cap sleeves and a lace overlay on the bodice. She'd added a dappling of gold beading. It was so pretty, I nearly cried.

Don't dwell, Charlotte. The month of May is right around the corner.

“Put it on. I won't take
no
for an answer.” She started to tug on my sweater.

Knowing I couldn't dissuade her, I obeyed, slithering out of my clothes and into the dress.

“How are you doing?” she continued. “Are you depressed? Silly question. Of course you are. You didn't simply postpone the wedding, you also found two—” She stopped herself from saying more. “Listen to me. What a dolt. Happy thoughts. Happy-happy. Here, let me zip you.” She whistled as she spun me around. “It fits like a glove. Perfect! Step on the platform in front of the three-way mirror. I'll get my pin cushion.” She ran off and returned in seconds. “How do you feel about the hem being at the middle of the knee? Okay? It's a very classic, chic look. I can go longer or shorter—”

“Middle is fine.”

“I'll have it ready by tomorrow. Do you have a new date set? Is Tyanne arranging a location?”

“Freckles, slow down. We haven't set a date. We'll get married in May.”

“May? That's eons away.”

“Only three months. And, yes, Tyanne will still be our wedding planner. But the dress isn't why I came in.”

“Why, then?”

“I need to talk to Paige.”

“About?”

I didn't want to blurt out the theory that my comrades and I had concocted seconds before. I needed a few facts first. I also intended to see Paige's eyes when she responded. Was she still in the shop, waiting for her daughter to reappear from the restroom, or had I lost my opportunity? “You know Paige pretty well, don't you?” I asked. “I mean, you hang out.”

“Occasionally. Our oldest girls are the same age. They do gymnastics together, and they're both waiting to hear on their college applications.”

“You also attend Paige's blogging seminars, right?”

“How did you know?”

“I saw you at the Bozzuto Winery the other day.”

“That was such a fun day. Wine, women, and song.” Freckles laughed. “That was Paige's description. Catchy, don't you think? She's a wizard with that kind of stuff. Logos and slogans. She has so many tips on how to grow a business it's mind-boggling. I have reams of notes. ‘Go on a social networking site every day. Share something personal. Let your fans get to know you. Create a street team.' Do you know what that is? You give away things so that people following you online will help spread the word about your site. Teamwork, she says, is vital to any plan.”

Teamwork, as in having a partner to commit murder?

Freckles continued. “Paige is the most organized person. Why, she's the only woman I know who wakes up every morning with a to-do list and accomplishes it. ‘One foot in front of the other,' she says. If any of us balk at a suggestion, she tells us straight out that we're our own worst enemies. ‘Doubt sabotages productivity.'”

“Maybe I need a class with Paige.”

Freckles stood, brushed off her hands, and gestured for me to remove the dress. “But that's not what you want to know, is it?” She unzipped me. “You have something on your mind. I've seen that look before. Does it involve the murders? Do you think Paige can fill in some blanks, like maybe she saw something, but she doesn't realize she saw something?”

“Er, not exactly.”

“She's got her finger on the pulse of Providence.”

But is it a beating pulse?
I wondered wryly.

I put back on my clothes and handed the wedding dress back to Freckles. “What I wanted to know was whether Paige might be involved somehow.”

Freckles inhaled sharply. She hurried to the drapes that separated the storage room from the main shop and peeked out. Quickly, she stole back to me. With a finger to her lips, she whispered, “She's still here. Go on. Tell me how.”

I explained my reasoning.

“But Paige couldn't have killed Dottie,” Freckles said. “She had a foodie blogger meeting Sunday morning. I know because I attended.”

“I didn't see you at the kiosk.”

“The kiosk? I don't know about that. We met at Paige's house at six
A
.
M
.”

“Why so early?”

“Because Paige likes to get a jump on the day. Why else?” Freckles laughed. “I had to scoot at the end of the meeting. It ran over by a half hour. I was going to be late for church, and my hubby hates if I'm late. Paige doesn't attend, so what does she care?”

“Paige was at the meeting the whole time?”

“Do you think she'd let anyone else run one of her meetings?” Freckles snorted. “Not likely.”

If I put the timetable together right, there was no way Paige could have murdered Dottie. Ray said he had left her for one hour; that set the time of death between 6:30 and 7:30
A
.
M
., when I'd arrived. And there was no reason to think Paige had a hand in Tim's death. I thanked Freckles for her input and left the shop without approaching Paige.

When I arrived back at Fromagerie Bessette, the lights were off; my grandfather had left. I found Rebecca in the office changing into skinny jeans, a black turtleneck, and dance shoes. Someone must have told her that was what theater people wear; prior to now, I'd never seen her in a pair of jeans.

She said, “Pépère took Rags and Rocket. He wanted some cuddle time. Hope that was okay. He'll drop them off at your house later.”

“Of course.”

“So, how'd it go?” Rebecca asked. “Did you wheedle a confession from Paige?”

“No. I heard another impeccable alibi. Cross her off our list.”

“Wait a second. Couldn't one of her acolytes have done both murders?”

“Acolytes?”

“New word for the day. It means—”

“I know what it means: admirer; hanger-on.” I grinned. “I really don't see that as a possibility. Even Freckles said that Paige is too controlling. She wouldn't assign something as critical as murder to someone who might mess it up or leave evidence.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

“Go to rehearsal. I'm heading across the street to eat. We'll rethink this in the morning.”

Clearly miffed—Rebecca wanted answers as badly as I did—she hoisted her tote onto her shoulder and left grumbling and mumbling.

In desperate need of a warm meal and small talk, I dashed across the street to The Country Kitchen. As I entered, Delilah and her waitstaff were sashaying down the middle of the restaurant singing a bluesy rendition of Elvis's “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Whenever a patron made an Elvis selection on the jukebox, the waitstaff sang. It was part of the fun and flavor of the diner.

Delilah waved at me.

Slipping past her, I said, “Have you seen Urso lately?”

She shook her head and held up two fingers:
two minutes to go
.

I perched on one of the stools at the red Formica counter and perused the menu. Cheese-anything sounded good. The diner often bought cheese from us and used it that day in a recipe. When I read that the special was raclette potatoes with rosemary, I closed the menu. Perfect. My mouth started to water in anticipation.

“Let me eat in peace!” a woman said loudly enough to be heard over the music.

I spun on my stool and spied Octavia, sitting in a booth by herself.

“Did you hear me?” Octavia said to a frothy woman, with cheeks tinged the same pink as the ream of paper she was clutching to her chest. “Go!”

The woman scurried away and out of the restaurant. Octavia never lost her temper. What had happened?

I slid off my stool and hurried to her table. “Are you okay?”

Octavia frowned. “Bad me. I'm so mean. That poor woman didn't deserve my wrath. All she was doing was promoting a Lovers Trail event at her new candy shop, but honestly, I come in here so rarely. What are the odds that I would be accosted twice in the same night?”

“Did she accost you?”

“No. Not really. All she did was give me a flyer.” Octavia tapped a piece of paper that was lying on her table.

“Then who did?”

“Belinda Bell. She claimed she didn't get my rent check.”

“She dunned you for payment?” I said, shocked.

Octavia scowled. “I paid her. I always do, on the first of the month, like clockwork. I don't even risk the mail. I drop it through the slot of her shop door. I can only imagine she moved my envelope into a junk mail pile and tossed it out. I suggested that, but she—” Octavia clucked her tongue.

“Is she hard up for money?” It made me wonder again whether Bell had the wherewithal to have killed Dottie to get her hands on the cluster brooch.

“Ha! She's as rich as sourpuss Prudence with the same amount of bluster.” Octavia fluttered a hand. “She wants what she wants, sooner rather than later. Don't we all?” She patted the tabletop. “Join me?”

The music stopped. Delilah tapped me on my shoulder. “I've got a few seconds,” she said.

I thanked Octavia for the offer but begged off and returned to my seat at the counter.

Delilah took my order, put it on the spindle for the chef, and returned. “Like I said,” she began, as if we were in the middle of a conversation, “I haven't seen Urso. He's been really busy. He must be interviewing ten people a day. He hit every shop owner on Honeysuckle Street.”

Where Providence Pâtisserie was located.

“Not to mention, he's all over Ray about Dottie. He's also questioning Dottie's family, all of whom have arrived in town, and every supplier of goods to the pastry shop. The milk and butter deliveryman, the cheese and fruit guys. He's leaving no stone unturned.” She sighed. “I've got to give him credit. He's diligent beyond words.”

“If you haven't seen him, how did you learn all that?”

“The precinct clerk came in for a late afternoon snack. Boy, is she chatty.” Delilah poured me a glass of water. “I did leave a message for Urso about Aurora's call to me, but he didn't ring me back.” She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her apron, scanned it for messages, and then eyed me with a sly smile as she dropped the phone back in the pocket. “I'll bet you'd like to get your hands on this baby.”

How well she knew me. If I could review her call list, maybe I could see who her lover was—could it possibly be Urso? No. He wasn't returning her calls, either. Soon, when I had the energy to scrabble, I would make her confess. Urso, too.

“Get my raclette potatoes,” I ordered.

Snickering, she strutted away.

Someone at the far end of the diner spanked a table. I swiveled on my stool and caught sight of Jawbone sitting with Zach's mom, Ilona. I recalled Rebecca saying she had seen them entering the diner earlier. Ilona appeared a bit frazzled. She was shaking a tablet as if trying to wring information from it.

Jawbone swatted the table a second time. “Dang!”

Mr. Nakamura, the hardware store owner who used to practice law in Cleveland and often did legal work for clients in Providence, sat with the couple. He appeared the epitome of calm, but when didn't he look like that? None of them had meals on the table, only beverages. And paperwork, strewn end-to-end.

Why had Jawbone spanked the table? What had upset him? Was he consulting Mr. Nakamura on a legal matter? A plea bargain, perhaps, although Nakamura didn't typically do criminal work; he specialized in divorces and real estate contracts. I remembered Violet telling me that Jawbone had wanted to purchase the pub. With Tim out of the way, was Jawbone moving ahead with that plan? According to Deputy O'Shea, he and his cousins weren't interested in keeping the place.

“Aiyee!” Ilona shouted, much to the surprise of everyone in the diner. “We got it. See?” She held up an iPad to her tablemates. “Here. Right here. Proof!” Like a display floor model, she spun in her seat to show the rest of the customers. “Jawbone is innocent. We have a copy of our Face It exchange.” Face It was a face-to-face cell phone application. “No court will be able to disprove digital proof. You're free, babe. Free!”

Curious, I scrambled off my stool and moved closer.

Mr. Nakamura was peering at the iPad.

“I asked my geek friend,” Ilona was explaining, “who got a copy of the exchange from the cloud.” The cloud was computer-speak for an ethereal Internet data-collection space. “This”—she stabbed the screen—“proves Jawbone was talking to me the entire time that he said he was.”

Mr. Nakamura uttered something I couldn't make out.

“Yes,” Ilona continued. “I know he was stupid to drive that way.” She leveled Jawbone with a withering stare. “Bluetooth, babe. Bluetooth.”

Jawbone flicked her arm with a finger, but a grin spread across his face.

“Take this to Chief Urso. Show him.” Ilona thrust the tablet at Jawbone. “I'll pay the tab.”

Hurriedly Jawbone and Nakamura rose from the banquette and raced out of the diner.

Ilona raised a hand to get a waitress's attention.

I sidled to her table.

“Charlotte.” She reached out as if we were old friends. “Isn't it wonderful?”

The two of us had never met. How did she know my name? Maybe she'd read the proprietor names on the window of Fromagerie Bessette.

“I'm so glad you get to hear this.” Ilona pulled me into the booth and pushed aside the beverage glasses. “I know you found Timothy O'Shea, and I know he was your friend, and I'm so sorry—so sorry—that he died, but Jawbone is innocent.” She drummed the table with her fingertips. “Ooh, I love that man, and I knew he didn't do it. Having proof is powerful, isn't it? So who else do you suspect?”

I couldn't believe she was being so open with me. “Ms. Mueller,” I began.

“Call me Ilona.”

“Ilona.” How could I possibly say that I also suspected her son of murder? I'd been thinking about Zach, on and off, ever since I'd realized he was connected to all involved. I worked my lower lip with my teeth. “I think that's the police's business.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “You've got a reputation. Don't deny it. I'm not saying you're meddlesome, but you are inquisitive and compassionate. Word gets around. I listen. Now, who else?” She drummed the tabletop again. Her fingernails looked raw from chewing.

“Ilona,” I sputtered.

“I know. You're probably thinking,
Who is this woman?
We've never met. Never chatted. I'm not a cheese person. Never have been.”

“Lactose intolerant?” I asked.

“Actually there's all sorts of food I can't eat. The doctor says it's because I'm such a
sensitive little girl
, the patronizing jerk.” She hiccupped out a laugh. “Thankfully, I can eat chocolate. I'd perish without chocolate.”

Close up, she had an appealing face: a few freckles, a simple nose, and a naturally turned-up mouth. The look didn't match with her messy-hair/rattail hairdo choice. I wasn't quite sure what to make of her.

“I'm sorry if I'm coming on too strong,” she continued, “but I'm excited. So, what's the scoop?”

“Ilona, I'm sorry, I can't tell you a thing. I'm not privy to Chief Urso's investigation.” I sighed. When would he get back to me? If ever. I wanted to help. I know, I know. As Belinda Bell had rudely pointed out, I had plenty on my plate, with The Cheese Shop and family, but I also cared about Tim and Dottie, whom I'd considered my friends. I wanted resolution for Tyanne and Tim's family. And my mind was whirling with theories.

“My son says he was questioned in regard to Dottie's murder.” Ilona scrunched her cute nose. “Can you imagine? Both my men under scrutiny? Zach wouldn't hurt a fly. He's as gentle as a lamb.”

As long as she'd brought up the subject . . .

I said, “I heard he gets into scrapes.”

She waved her hand. “Past tense. Back when he was thirteen. Not now. He was so angry then. At his father. Zach felt he needed to defend me. His father was . . .
is
a player. He didn't hide the fact. Zach thought his father's bad choices reflected on me. It didn't matter that we'd been divorced over a decade.” She sighed. “My son can be quite the romantic.”

Was he a romantic right out of a Shakespeare play? Would he slay an enemy to preserve a secret?

“When Zach grasped that I really and truly was fine,” Ilona added, “he stopped lashing out.”

“I heard he was a wrestler in high school.”

Ilona smiled. “He still wrestles in an amateur league.”

Interesting.

“It's a small group, but it keeps his skills up and his aggression low.” She tilted her head warily, like a wren waiting for a larger bird to attack. “You want to ask me something, don't you?”

I nodded. “Zach used to date Belinda Bell's daughter.”

“Indeed he did. They were quite a sweet couple.”

“Would he do anything to win her back?”

“Gack, no. He's
so
over Aurora. She dumped him when she left town. He's moved on.”

“To whom?”

“To Paige Alpaugh's daughter, Pixie.” Ilona leaned forward. “Shh, don't tell anyone, but they're engaged.”

I flashed on the myriad rings Paige's daughter wore on her fingers. At Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe, Paige had snatched her daughter's hand; the girl had fled. Had she been wearing a promise ring? Had that incensed Paige? And when Paige visited The Cheese Shop to fill out a contest form, she'd reacted oddly when I'd said Zach's alibi was talking to his girlfriend at seven
A
.
M
.

“For obvious reasons,” Ilona went on, “the two-year age difference being one and Zach's bad reputation being the other, Paige does not want Zach to date her precious girl.” Ilona chuffed like an irritated cat. “As if children listen. Zach and Pixie see each other on the sly.”

“How did you find out?”

“My son never hides anything from me. I might be the only one who knows about their relationship.”