As Gouda as Dead (23 page)

“We've never discussed it. I think I want children. Do you? What if I've passed my prime? What if I can't have any? What if I'll be a horrible mother?”

“Sweetheart—”

Ray skated up to us, edging to a stop and spraying up ice. An array of skates hung over his shoulder by the shoelaces. Often, he would change out skates for people who didn't pick the correct size the first time around. “Hey, you two. Lookin' good.” He whacked Jordan on the arm. He spun around so he was skating backward, facing us. “Charlotte, I saw you do that last move.” He wiggled his hips. “You've got rhythm.”

I grinned. “That was me trying not to fall.”

“Don't kid a kidder.” He pointed at Jordan and me. “You two should come to the couples' skate on Saturday. There'll be prizes. The sign-up list is over—”

“Ray!” An older version of Dottie with her doughy features and unruly red hair called from an entrance onto the ice. Wobbly-kneed, she skated toward him. Two other similarly shaped redheads followed.

Ray grimaced. “Dottie's sisters. They won't leave me alone.”

“They care,” I offered.

“They hover. They want me to talk it out. Share my feelings. The oldest is a therapist.” He rolled his eyes. “Like I could ever—” His voice caught. Creases dug into his forehead. “The younger one wants to take over the pâtisserie, but Dottie wouldn't have wanted that. It was her baby. Her sister will make a shambles of it. She's not a baker.”

“Ray!” the eldest sister called again, beckoning him with an urgent hand.

“Come to the event Saturday,” Ray repeated, then skated off to join his sisters-in-law.

Like a band of harpies, they latched on to him and picked at him nonstop. I could tell Ray wasn't listening. His gaze veered to the right, as if he was searching for someone to save him. I could only imagine how lost he felt, without Dottie or children to comfort him. His loss made me think again about my dilemma. Did I want children? Did I want someone, in addition to Jordan, to love and cheer me as I grew older? Would I be able to find happiness without the
more
that comes with family? Would Ray?

The activity through the afternoon at the shop was constant: slicing, arranging, double-checking napkins and wineglasses, setting out pads and pencils for customers to make notes at tonight's event. If we didn't provide the latter, customers could get snippy, claiming they wouldn't be able to remember one cheese or wine from the next. Notes were vital.

Amidst the furor, Rebecca apologized for having to run off to a dress rehearsal. Pépère, too. My grandmother couldn't do without him when it came to lighting and stage preparation. I waved good-bye with an easy spirit. All was in control. Nothing could go wrong.

Fifteen minutes before customers were set to arrive, a lanky guitarist set up in the wine annex. Matthew thought music would add texture to the evening. Accompanied by an acoustic piano to establish his rhythms, the guitarist set to work.

Tyanne sidled to me. “Ooh, isn't he good? I love romantic tunes.” So far, the musician's playlist had included “Maybe I'm Amazed,” “Still the One,” and “Just the Way You Are.” She offered a bowl that had been stuffed with gold-sprayed Styrofoam, into which she'd inserted cheese pops—like cake pops, only made with cheese. “Taste these, sugar. They're the perfect appetizers when moving around a soiree such as this. A customer doesn't have to linger over one cheese tray. My mother used to make them all the time. These are more gourmet than Mama's, of course. They're made with mascarpone cheese as well as a yummy Gouda, honey, dried cranberries, and sunflower seeds.”

I bit into one and savored all the flavors and textures. “I want the recipe.”

“Done. By the way, I love what you're wearing.”

After skating, I'd hurried home to change into my favorite ecru sweater and chocolate corduroy trousers.

At that moment, Eddie Townsend entered the shop, his hair askew, his suit rumpled. He was rummaging in a black leather satchel that hung strapped across his chest. First one pocket, then another.

“Lose something?” I asked.

“My work diary.” His words slurred together. His nose and cheeks were a ruddy red, which was a stark contrast to the whiteness of his beard. Had he had a wee bit to drink? “I keep notes on everything I say or do after six
P
.
M
.” He tapped his head. “The mind isn't what it used to be.”

Overindulging in liquor will do that,
I thought. He was too young to have memory lapses like my grandmother.

“I don't want to forget anything I taste tonight.”

“Don't worry. We have notepads for all the customers.” I pointed him in the right direction. “Remember to try the chocolate and cheese combinations.”

He thanked me and moved off.

Tyanne giggled. “Luckily this is a walking event. I wouldn't trust him behind the wheel of a car.”

Jordan joined us and handed each of us a glass of sparkling wine. He looked so handsome in his jeans, white shirt, and blazer. I flashed on how he would look in his suit when we got married but pushed the image from my mind. May first would come soon enough.

“Which one is this?” I asked.

“The Schramsberg,” he said. “I don't think I need to taste any other.”

I took a sip and agreed.

“By the way, the Thistle Hill Farm Tarentaise cheese on the tasting counter . . .” Jordan kissed his fingertips. “What a great pairing with that fig jam. People are devouring it.”

“They should. It's organic and very carefully made.”

A mixture of men and women entered the shop.

“There sure are a lot of singles here tonight,” I said. Most of Matthew's wine tastings seemed to draw singles. I wasn't sure why. It wasn't like the wine annex was a bar, but I think tasting wine allowed singles to talk freely, about the nose, aroma, and flavor of a wine, perhaps making it easier to meet people than going to the pub and trying to engage in conversation while watching sports.

“Doesn't Violet look lovely?” Tyanne wiggled her fingers in Violet's direction. Violet, dressed in an orchid sweater and matching slacks, was standing near the arch leading to the wine annex. Her marshmallow hair was swept into a sexy updo. “Prudence or Sylvie must be stocking a lot more purple-colored items for Violet and that neighbor of yours.” Everything my neighbor Lois wore was a shade of purple. She'd even named her bed-and-breakfast Lavender and Lace.

“Say, is that Paige's daughter?” Tyanne gestured toward the entrance.

Paige and her eighteen-year-old daughter, Pixie, walked into the shop and paused. They looked similar, with their luscious manes of hair and their toothy smiles. Paige spotted Violet and waved, and then she steered Pixie toward her.

Right behind them entered Jawbone and Ilona. Jawbone acknowledged me with a wink. Why did a shiver of fear crawl down my back? Ilona eyed Pixie, who peeked over her shoulder as if to make sure her mother wasn't watching before turning back and smiling ever so slightly at Ilona. I thought of Rebecca's comment that Zach and Pixie were like Romeo and Juliet. Stolen moments. Missives sent via friends. Chance meetings. Had Zach done something dastardly to hide their secret from Pixie's mother?

“Charlotte!” Delilah walked in with Urso. Were they officially
out
? Hooray. No more keeping me and everyone else in town in the dark about their relationship. Delilah had dressed in a cheery red ensemble and looked almost diminutive tucked into Urso. He'd wrapped his arm around her waist. Both radiated confidence.

I wanted to shout
Yay!
but showed a modicum of decorum.

Jordan and I joined them.

“Who's on duty?” I asked Urso. “With you here and Deputy O'Shea at dress rehearsal?”

“Rodham. Why?” He winked. “Got any hot new tips for me?”

Delilah elbowed him.

“I'm not joking,” he said.

Matthew appeared carrying a tray of champagne glasses. “Hey, young lovers. Take two. Jordan, do you mind if I borrow Charlotte for a moment? I could use a hand.”

“She's on the clock. Feel free.”

I pecked Jordan on the cheek and followed Matthew. “What's up?”

“Help me pour and take a tray around,” he said. People were huddling by the bar in the wine annex. “Let's even out the crowd.”

I always found it funny how, at parties, people jammed in near the food and beverages. Completely empty, non-claustrophobic areas could be found if you simply edged away from the action.

While I made the first pass at handing out glasses, I caught sight of Ray Pfeiffer in his standard shorts and T-shirt—far be it from him to dress up for a cheese and wine event. He stood with Dottie's sisters, all of whom were dressed in their Sunday best. I sidled toward them to offer tastings. They were in the middle of a conversation.

“Pastry is not healthy,” the eldest sister said. “Too much sugar and fats.” She knuckled Ray on the arm. “Admit it. You feel the same way. I heard you and Dottie argue about it.”

“We didn't argue.”

“You're trim. You've got a regimen. I'm not sure our little sis”—the eldest gestured to the heaviest of the sisters—“should take on the bakery. Ray, what do you think?”

Ray's arms hung at his sides, hands gloved as they always were. One hand rubbed against his pocket, as if he itched to get whatever was inside. Did he need a smoke? Did he need to grab his car keys and hightail it away from his in-laws?

“Champagne?” I said, thrusting the tray toward them. “Actually, it's sparkling wine.” I explained the difference.

Ray looked positively gleeful for the intrusion. He took a glass and moseyed away from the sisters, who continued to debate the value of keeping the bakery.

I resumed circulating and spied Pixie Alpaugh standing by herself, looking wistfully out the window at the street. Was she hoping to catch sight of Zach? I doubted he would pass by. He should be at work by now. I slipped up to her and said, “We have some non-alcoholic cider in the main shop.”

Pixie whirled around. Tears streaked her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“My mother.” She spit out the word. “She's so . . . stubborn. It's always got to be her way.
Her
schedule.
Her
rules. She doesn't care about anything I might be feeling.”

I recalled my musings at the ice-skating rink. Did I really want kids? Did I want my child to hate me at the age of eighteen? He or she would; it was a given. To a teen, parents grew more and more stupid before they ever became smart again.

“What did she do?” I said. “Is it about Zach?”

Pixie's eyes widened. “How do you know about him?”

I tilted my head. “Word travels fast around Providence. Are you in love with him?”

She didn't answer; she didn't have to. Clearly, she was.

“Supposedly, you are his alibi for the morning Dottie Pfeiffer was killed. Is that true? He talked to you around seven
A
.
M
.?”

“That's right. We talked for a long time.”

“Have you told Chief Urso?”

Pixie gnawed on her lower lip. Hadn't she spoken to Urso? If not, why not? Because her testimony would be a lie?

Matthew called my name and twirled a finger, indicating I should continue serving.

I signaled
one minute
. “You know, Pixie, my cousin has a friend who can check phone records. He could prove whether or not you were talking to Zach during the time you claim.”

Pixie looked right and left, as if trapped.

I set the tray of drinks on a bistro table and edged forward. “Are you lying?”

“Okay, we only talked for a minute,” she conceded.

I knew it!

“But that's because”—she looked around again—“my mother left the house, and I wanted him to come over.”

“At seven in the morning?”

“We only get small windows of opportunity. Like I said, my mother has me on a short leash. She . . . made bad decisions when she was my age. She got pregnant—with me. My dad . . . he . . .” She hitched a shoulder. “My mom's deathly afraid I'll make the same bad choices. But I won't.” She hitched a shoulder. “Zach came over, and we . . . I'm old enough. We do it safely.”

I didn't need a graduate degree to know what
do it
meant. “Were you together last Thursday?” I asked. The night Tim was killed.

“How did you know about—”

I cut her off. “People saw you. Why did you and Zach meet in the parking lot at the pub?”

“I needed to make sure my mom's car was there.” She smiled sheepishly. “Then we went back to my house to . . .” She let the sentence hang.

“You're wearing a ring on your left hand,” I said. Pixie wore a lot of rings, but that one was special. It was a thin gold band with one teensy diamond on it. Nothing elaborate. Not the one the thief stole from me. “The other day at Sew Inspired, your mother figured out about you and Zach, didn't she?”

Pixie chewed her lip. “She was furious. When we got home, she slapped the walls and slammed cabinet doors. When I told Zach, he said he'd make it all better. He would talk to her. He would ask her for my hand, real official-like. He came over last night, but what did she do? Told him to leave.” She snuffled with disgust.

Last night was when the mugger attacked me. “When was he there?”

“Around now.”

“Dusk?”

She nodded.

“What was he wearing?”

“Beige trousers and white shirt. He was dressed for work. Why?”

“No reason.” Zach couldn't have been the assailant that stole my ring; the timing was off.

Pixie crossed her arms over her chest and slouched. “My mom is such a grouch. I hate her.”

I rested a hand on her arm. “No you don't. She's trying to protect you. All moms try to control their kids. Not just yours.” Mine couldn't have, of course, but my grandmother, in my mother's stead, had been vigilant. I whispered, “Are you and Zach planning to elope?”

“What?” She scrunched her nose. “Why would you think that? No! We're going to take our time. He wants to go to chef school. I want to go to college. I've got brains. I want to run a corporation. We've got plans.”

Kids and their dreams. I smiled. “Tell your mom that. Put her at ease. She's worried you'll run off.”

The music stopped. I looked in Paige's direction. She had left Violet and was walking toward the wine cubbies with the guitarist, who had yielded his chair and guitar to Jawbone. Ilona stood beside Jawbone, encouraging him to play. He started by tuning the guitar. Then deftly, he launched into a soulful blues song, one I didn't recognize. Had he written it? Matthew was grinning; he, like I, enjoyed the blues.

I turned back and caught sight of Violet, who wasn't listening to Jawbone play the guitar. She was watching Paige and the guitarist forlornly, which made me wonder whether he was the guy that Violet liked. I turned back to Pixie. “Talk to your mom,” I repeated, then retrieved my tray of filled wine flutes and headed to Violet.