As Gouda as Dead (20 page)

I wondered about that. Paige had called Zach a ne'er-do-well, which implied that she knew about the relationship and didn't approve. I said, “You don't seem to mind that they're a couple.”

“I believe in love,” Ilona crooned, then snickered. “Pixie is a doll, and she understands Zach. He's a creative, like me. He wants to be a French chef.”

Don't hold your breath,
I mused. I'd dated a guy that my friends had dubbed Creep Chef. I'd been thrown for a loop when he left me in the lurch to pursue his lifelong dream.

Ilona said, “After Dottie fired Zach, he got a job at La Bella Ristorante.”

“As a chef?”

“I wish. No, as a waiter, but with the promise to graduate to the kitchen staff as soon as a position becomes available.” She twisted the diamond ring on her finger. She caught me watching her and stopped abruptly. “Not all girls understand creatives like Zach. Aurora certainly didn't. Life was all about
her
.”

“I heard Aurora and Zach were talking on the telephone the morning Dottie Pfeiffer was killed.”

Ilona gaped. “That's impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because he was talking to Pixie.”

“How do you know?”

“I already told you. He tells me everything.” Ilona grumbled. “How dare Aurora lie about something like that! Did her mother put her up to it? I wouldn't put it past Belinda to—”

“Hold on.”

“If Chief Urso gets wind, who knows whether he'll believe Zach and Pixie were on the phone at the time?”

“Wait. I might have misspoken. You see, Aurora called Delilah to check up on Zach, and Delilah assumed they had talked that morning.” Dang. I should have nailed down that lead. Heat suffused my cheeks. “It's great to know Zach has a solid alibi. I'm sure Chief Urso will believe him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“I'm calling the chief right now.”

“Perfect.” I couldn't slip away fast enough.

After I finished my meal and exited the diner, I was thinking about Zach and his conversation with Pixie Alpaugh when whom did I spy?
Zach.
Not twenty feet from me. My grandmother has told me that thoughts can conjure up a telephone call from a person, but could thoughts summon a person in the flesh? No way. My mental powers were not honed to that degree.

Zach was walking past The Silver Trader jewelry store, acting as though he wasn't interested in the display window, but he was. He peeked in three times before moving on. Was there a piece of jewelry he was admiring, or was he casing the joint?

Bad, Charlotte! Cut the kid a break.
But how could I? I was as curious as all get-out. Zach couldn't have enough money to buy something in the shop, not working as a waiter at La Bella Ristorante. Tips were good, but not that good. Was he a thief? Had he stolen Dottie's brooch? Had his mother lied about his alibi? Mothers could be fierce protectors.

With no particular place to be, I hung back and observed him. He jammed his hands in his pockets and strolled toward the corner. Before he reached it, Ilona Mueller appeared. Next to her, Zach looked tall and muscular and intimidating. Ilona threw her arms around him and ruffled his hair. She said something to him. He grinned from ear to ear.

At the same time, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whipped around, so edgy that I threw my hands up to defend myself.

Jordan backed up, arms raised, a big smile on his face. “Whoa, don't punch me. Whatcha doin'?” He knew exactly what I'd been doing.

In spite of the dozens of people roaming the street, I hurled myself into his arms for a hug and a kiss. Nobody seemed to pay attention to us; we were one of many enjoying the pleasures of a fond embrace. It was, after all, the most romantic week of the year.

When we came up for air, I said, “How did you know I'd be here?”

“I ran into Rebecca on her way to the theater. She said you went to the diner for dinner. Without me.”

“You didn't answer my phone call. I assumed you were busy.”

“Never assume. When you tried to reach me earlier, I was tending to a sick cow.” He lifted my chin and kissed me again, simply, deliciously.

We strolled the streets, drinking in the atmosphere. We didn't speak about what I'd gleaned at the restaurant from Ilona Mueller until we were back at my house, sitting at the kitchen table with warm mugs of fresh-brewed coffee and a plate of raspberry gem cookies. Rags and Rocket galloped around our feet, begging for love.

I obliged them with nuzzles and cooing and a treat for each, then said, “No more.” Obediently, the pets settled down.

“Okay,” Jordan said. “One more time. Why would it matter whether it was Aurora or Pixie talking with Zach at the time of the murder?”

“With conflicting alibis, Zach looks like he's hiding something.”

“Unless they're not conflicting. Have you questioned him?”

“I don't—”

Jordan smirked.

“Fine,” I conceded. “I inquire, occasionally, and people tell me things.”

“But you haven't talked directly to Zach.”

“No.” I took a sip of coffee and let it warm me.

“Have you talked to Pixie?”

“Like Paige would let anyone get within ten feet of her precious girls.”

Jordan winked. “Apparently Zach has gotten within ten feet.”

A notion began to take form in my mind. “Do you think Paige would kill Dottie and set Zach up to take the fall so her daughter would be free of him?”

“That's a stretch.”

I took a cookie and bit into it. “I've left messages for Urso.”

“But he hasn't returned your calls?”

“No. I'm sure he thinks he's protecting me, Jordan, but who is helping him? Not his deputies. Not the county. He's on his own. Have you seen him lately? He looks tired and strained. His eyes—” I wiggled my fingers beside mine. “He's hurting, Jordan. He needs answers about Tim's murder as much as you and I do.”

Jordan ran a finger along the back of my hand. “He might be hurting, but he has other things on his mind, too. Life things.”

“Life things?”

“Okay,
love
things.”

“Do you think?”

Jordan nodded. “He was in the park earlier today, buying flowers and balloons. I doubt they're to decorate his office.”

My heart filled with hope. “I was wondering about that when U-ey hurried off to lunch the other day. He said he had a date, and he nearly broke his neck to dash across the street when Paige and her girlfriends were at The Country Kitchen.”

Jordan kissed my cheek. “Despite the curves life throws at us, we rally. He will, too.”

***

Jordan left at eleven
P
.
M
. He wanted to check on the sick cow and oversee the first milking. I tossed and turned.

At dawn on Wednesday, I awoke with a start. There were no sounds, nothing alarming. I was just tense. Meredith, Matthew, and the twins were due back today, so I decided to take Rocket for his bath. I dressed quickly, ate a light breakfast of apple slices paired with Cheddar, and then leashed up Rags and the dog and we strolled to Tailwaggers. On weekdays, they accepted early risers at seven fifteen. At first, the Briard was more than delighted to get a glimpse of the cardboard statue of his ladylove in the window, but when I led him inside and he believed I was going to abandon him—forever—he howled like a trapped animal. I did my best to reassure him that
forever
was less than eight hours, but he didn't believe me. Luckily the owners of Tailwaggers were gifted with animals and calmed him immediately.

At Fromagerie Bessette, while I booted up the computer in the office and checked email, Rags settled into his favorite spot. An hour later, I made a dozen pine nut and asparagus quiches and threw together some sandwiches using Bear Hill, a Grafton Village sheep's cheese that was fruity and nutty, and Creminelli's bacon salami, which was made with Duroc pork and all-natural cooked American bacon. The combination was superbly flavorful.

Midmorning Paige sauntered into the shop with two of her pals. She explored the store and poked her head into the annex. I flashed on how delighted Urso had acted the other day when he'd spied Paige and the same two women entering the diner. Was Paige the one Urso had his eye on, or was it one of the other two? Did Paige know? Maybe she had come into the shop hoping to catch sight of him.

“Help you, ladies?” I asked.

Paige pushed her friends toward the barrel set with wineglasses. “Be with you in a sec,” she said to them and ambled toward me. She offered a big toothy grin. “Charlotte, how are you?” She dragged out each syllable.

“Fine.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Was she playing some kind of guess-the-book game? Did she want me to yell:
Alice in Wonderland
? She swatted the air. “What is it with you? Always asking questions.”

I gulped. Had Freckles spilled that I'd suspected Paige of murder? “I don't know what you're talking about,” I said, being as vague as possible.

“A birdie told me you want to join my blogging education group.”

My shoulders eased instantly. I hadn't been found out. Freckles had kept the secret. “Yes,” I said. “But I'll bet you have a long waiting list of applicants.” Honestly,
applicants
? Had I regressed to being thirteen years old? Would she assume I was trying to butter up the most popular girl in school? How inane! Besides, hers wasn't the only club. There were others in town that knew their way around social networking.

The front door swung open and Ray Pfeiffer hurried in. A gust of cold wind trailed him inside. I shivered.

“Charlotte,” he cried. “Help!” No one was pursuing him. He wasn't in trouble. He was wearing black shorts, black T-shirt—his churchgoing attire for Dottie's memorial service.

Paige swatted the air. “Take care of Ray. We'll talk. I might . . .
might
have an opening. Let's go, girls.” She twirled a finger and her posse exited with her. As she passed Ray, I heard her say, “So sorry about Dottie. So sorry.”

Ray accepted her condolences and rushed to the counter. His forehead was pinched with tension. His eyes looked red-rimmed from crying.

“Aren't you cold?” I simply had to ask. The tawny sweater and corduroy pants I'd worn were barely keeping me warm.

“Never. I've always had good circulation.” He pulled off his gloves and pointed at a cheese in the cabinet. “I'd like a pound of that Taylor Farms Maple Smoked Farmstead Gouda, sliced thin.” The cheese, slowly smoked using maple wood chips and therefore milder than cheeses that were smoked using hickory chips, had won numerous awards from the American Cheese Society. “My in-laws”—he heaved a sigh—“are hungry.”

“Where did you hold the service?”

“In the ravine. At the ch-chapel.” His voice broke; his eyes welled with tears. He must have remembered that he had been at the chapel the day Dottie had died instead of with her at the shop. He mashed his lips together before pressing on. “What will go with that cheese? Dottie would have wanted me to serve a tasty spread.”

“Apricot or fig jam would be a lovely choice. And crackers, of course.”

“A loaf of Dottie's bread would have been nice,” he muttered. “But it will have gone bad by now.”

“Not necessarily. If she had some bread refrigerated, it might still be good. Bread lasts longer than you think.” I hesitated. “Um, Ray, when will you clear out the remainder of her baked goods?”

“I don't know. I haven't been given the okay.” More mashing of lips. The muscles in his jaw ticked.

“Have you considered donating the food to the poor? Maybe if you asked Chief Urso with that caveat, he would consent.”

His eyes brightened. “What a great idea.”

I helped him pick out the crackers and jam and stowed them in a gold bag. While paying, he said, “Thank you. For all your help. And”—he cleared his throat—“for being there at the end with Dottie.” On a mission to contact Urso, he exited with a jauntier gait.

On the sidewalk, he ran headlong into Violet.

Rebecca cut around them and blazed through the front door. “Sorry I'm late.” She tore to the back of the shop, shrugged off her coat, strapped on an apron, and joined me at the counter. While slinging her hair into a ponytail, she said, “We went long at rehearsal and I overslept, and . . . well, I apologize.”

“No worries. Only one paying customer so far.” I jerked my chin in Ray's direction. He was still talking to Violet. She touched his elbow and mouthed what I could only imagine was sincere sorrow at his loss. Seconds later, he moved on, and Violet entered the shop.

“Hello, Charlotte.” She flung back the furry hood of her parka and stamped her feet. “Good weather for jackrabbits.”

The snow was drizzling down and turning wet and sloppy the moment it hit the ground.

“Do you have any Fromager d'Affinois on hand?” she asked.

“Plenty. How much?”

“Three pounds. It'll be my specialty on the cheese plate this afternoon.”

While filling her order, a car whizzed past the shop. Not just any car. A souped-up Camaro. I flashed again on the night Tim died, when Deputy O'Shea and I saw Zach speeding in the opposite direction. Had he been coming from Jordan's farm? Had he followed Tim there? Had Tim caught him doing something wrong outside the pub? Zach was too young to have been inside.

I said, “Violet, at the pub on the night Tim died, do you remember seeing Zach Mueller when you went outside for a smoke?”

“Why would you care if—” Violet's eyes widened. “Oho! You think Zach killed Dottie, and now you're trying to link the two murders. You think Tim might have caught Zach doing something illegal.” Her eyelids fluttered, as if she were turning her gaze inward to picture the evening. “Zach . . . hmm . . .” She tapped the knob of her chin. “Now that you mention it, I did see him. In that car of his. He was parked near the rear of the lot.”

“Parked?” I said. Maybe he was scouting out someone to rob. “Did you see him—”

“Someone was in the car with him,” Violet added. “A girl.”

I perked up. “Pixie Alpaugh, Paige's daughter?”

Violet screwed up her mouth. “Wow! Do you think? I guess it could've been. I remember how the parking lot light glistened on the girl's golden hair.”

Rebecca shot me a look. “I thought Zach had a thing for Mrs. Bell's daughter.”

“We were wrong about that,” I said. “He's in love with Pixie.”

“Uh-oh,” Violet mumbled. “Paige will not be pleased, if it's true.”

Rebecca thrust a forefinger in the air. “What if Tim passed by Zach's parked car and overheard Zach and Pixie plotting to elope, you know, like Romeo and Juliet?”

“Elope?” Violet squeaked. “Double uh-oh.”