As Gouda as Dead (26 page)

I eyed Tyanne, who was busy with her children. I looked for Jordan; he was still in line at the concession stand. Above the stand hung a sign that read:
Go Team!

Teamwork.
Rebecca and I had guessed that Ray and Jawbone had worked as a team, but the truth was, Ray and Violet were the team players. Who had come up with the plan, Ray or Violet? Did it matter?

I spied Violet standing alone at the edge of the rink, searching the crowd. For a glimpse of Ray? Violet hoped to have kids one day. Had she and Ray killed so they could start building that family, sooner rather than later?

Violet looked my way. Her eyes widened. In them I saw apprehension. She raced toward the rear of the rink where skates and other equipment were stored. My cell phone was in the locker that Jordan and I had rented. I didn't have time to retrieve it and dial Urso. I called out to Jordan, but he didn't hear me. I didn't see a deputy anywhere in the vicinity.

Shoot!

I couldn't wait for help. I couldn't let Violet flee. I sped off the ice and tore after her, teetering on the blades of my skates as I galumphed across the rubber flooring. The double doors to the equipment room were always open. No room attendant was in sight. No skaters were standing in line waiting for equipment.

Violet skirted around the rows of shelving and disappeared down an aisle that held cascades of hockey sticks and helmets.

I went after her. A long narrow bench separated the passage. Separated us.

“Violet,” I said. “Stop.”

She spun around. “Ch-Charlotte.” She stumbled over my name. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The poet Robert Southey wrote: “Innocence is like a polished armor; it adorns and defends.”

Except Violet didn't look innocent, or pretty. She appeared older. Not a teenager. Not even a fresh young woman. Her face had turned as pale as her hair. Her eyes, which were outlined heavily with purple liner, blinked rapidly.

I said, “You attacked me in the dog park.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Someone held me up at knifepoint and stole my ring. My dog attacked the mugger.” I peered at her calves.

She glanced down as well. A dark six-inch bruise was visible through the beige stockings. She gazed at me again, her eyes hard.

“You came after me because you thought I figured out about Ray and you.”

“Ray and me? I don't know what you're talking about.”

“When you gave me Jordan's origami note, you fumbled with folded blue notes from your purse. Notes from Ray. You figured I knew they were love letters, and you panicked.You followed me to the dog park, and you attacked me. You wanted me to think the mugger was Jawbone or Zach. So I would go running to Chief Urso. To divert the investigation.”

“This is crazy talk.”

“There were other telltale signs, Violet. Both Ray and you implicated Jawbone in Tim's murder. That establishes that you were in the parking lot outside the pub at the same time.”

“So?”

“On another occasion, you said that Ray didn't like Dottie's pastry. How would you know that?”

“I heard him talking one time. Big deal.”

“You seemed surprised to hear that Ray was helping Dottie in her shop. Not just surprised. Miffed, come to think of it. In addition, there were the quick exchanges between you and Ray, in the pub and outside my shop. At first I thought you were offering him your condolences, but looking back, I remember how you touched him. Gently, lovingly.” I tilted my head. “Tim saw you and Ray outside the pub that night, didn't he? He saw you in a tender embrace. Did he hear you plotting to kill Dottie?”

Violet drew up taller. She raised her chin in a condescending way and sniffed. “Charlotte, honestly, sweetie, you are letting this theorizing for the police go to your head. If you're not careful, your flock of followers will flee faster than a flurry of pheasants.”

I bit back a snort. How long had she worked on that alliterative phrase? Ever since she'd assailed me in the park? “You're guilty, Violet. Even if you didn't kill Dottie, you are an accessory to murder.”

“An accessory? But I didn't . . . Ray—”

“Shut up, Violet!” Ray stormed around the corner, skates clattering over his shoulder. “Don't say another word!”

Ray strode down the aisle, the skates batting his chest. His gloved hands were clenched. His face looked harder than rock salt. His lips—I'd never noticed his mouth before—were thin and pulled back, baring teeth that didn't match. Some were brighter than others, as if he'd had some replaced. He must have played hockey, like my ex, and lost a few in on-ice battles. Had he been an enforcer? The muscles in his forearms flexed with tension.

I backed up, hands feeling behind me for balance. I rammed into the stand of hockey sticks. I clutched one with both hands.
Wrong, Charlotte. You need the weapon in front of you.
But if I tried to do that, wouldn't Ray or Violet hurtle toward me?
Teamwork.
I thought of Jordan. Had he noticed that I was missing from the ice? Had someone told him I'd called out to him? Would he come searching for me?

“You killed Tim, didn't you, Ray?” I said. “You left the pub that night, under the auspices of getting Dottie's overcoat—something you'd planned, I imagine, to grab a stolen moment with Violet. You two met around back, out of sight of people entering the pub. You talked about your plan to kill Dottie so the two of you could be together. When did you realize Tim overheard you?”

Ray didn't say anything for a moment and then shrugged. “When I heard him beat tracks away from us.”

“You knew where he was headed: to find Urso. You knew where Urso was: at Jordan's bachelor party. You fetched Dottie, told her some cockamamie story about Tim arguing with Jawbone, then whisked her back to your house and dropped her off. Where did you tell her you were going?”

“To the store for coffee.”

“Ray,” Violet cried. “Stop talking!”

“But you don't drink caffeine,” I said.

“Decaf. She bought the lie.”

“Ray!” Violet warned again.

“Quiet!” he ordered.

I juggled the hockey stick to my right hand. I was perspiring. The grip felt slick and unmanageable, but I held on tight. “How did you catch up to Tim before he could talk to Urso?”

Ray snickered. “Bad luck for him, good luck for me. That old piece of junk of his, the truck he always bragged about being so reliable, stalled out along the way. I pulled up to Pace Hill Farm seconds after he did.”

Wow. The irony of that made me wince. Tim had loved that truck and had trusted it with his life. I edged the hockey stick toward my hip. No sudden moves. I would only have one chance to swing. “How did you get Tim to go into the cheese facility?”

“I told him I just wanted to chat.” Ray splayed his hands. Mr. Friendly. “A few minutes in private, I said, and we could clear up any misunderstanding. I told him Violet and I were joshing around. He didn't believe me. That's when I pulled out my gun.”

It was the same scenario I'd fashioned when I'd suspected Jawbone was the killer.

“You own a gun?” I said.

“You bet I do. I stow it in the glove compartment of my truck. I transport a lot of cash to the bank on Saturdays. The ice rink is a cash cow. No two-bit thief is going to get the jump on me.”

Was he packing now? Was his pistol anchored at the arch of his back? If I wielded the hockey stick, would he shoot me and flee?

“But Tim did get the jump on you,” I said, vamping for time, hoping somebody would realize I was missing. “Inside the facility.”

“Yeah.”

“So you whacked him.”

“All it took was one good blow to the back of his thick skull.” Ray mimed the action. “He lurched forward and slammed into the vat. Out for the count.”

That was when the button on Tim's shirt must have popped off.

“Then you hoisted him, unconscious, into the vat and unleashed the milk,” I said. “Did you make sure he'd drowned?”

“You bet I did.”

Violet gagged, but I didn't glance her way. Ray was the danger. Ray, with his meaty arms and powerful fists.

I pressed on. “Next, you raced away and called Violet. That was a risk, but you had to take it. You didn't have time to write a note on a flyer and post it on the kiosk.”

Ray looked impressed. “You figured that out?”

“I sure as heck didn't tell her,” Violet blurted.

“You told Violet to stay at the pub,” I theorized. “Being with Paige gave her a solid alibi. Next, the two of you plotted to frame Jawbone. You'd seen him at the pub. He was a good foil. Violet knew about Jawbone having the set-to with Tim. Perfect. Except his alibi held up and his motive was weak when it came to Dottie. So you needed another patsy. Enter Zach. How could you have known he'd have a solid alibi, too? He was sleeping with his girlfriend at the time Dottie died.”

Neither Ray nor Violet said a word.

I inched the hockey stick forward, keeping it pressed against my leg. “Why didn't you ask Dottie for a divorce?”

“He did,” Violet hissed. “She wouldn't give him one.”

“Did you force Ray's hand, Violet? Did you say, ‘Marry me, or else'?”

Violet eyed Ray with venom. “Dottie knew what was happening. She was losing him, but she dug in. She vowed she would never let him go. It was all her fault.”

I gawped.

“If she'd granted him the divorce, we could have gotten married. I'd be pregnant by now. Dottie would be alive with that . . . that pastry shop she treasured. But no, Dottie had to have it her way.”

“Violet, hush,” Ray said.

“Don't hush me. You weren't in love with her anymore. She didn't take care of herself. She let herself go.”

“Ray?” I said. “Did you ask Dottie for a divorce?” It was a common complaint in broken heart columns that some men would tell their lovers they wanted a divorce, but they never found the courage to confront the wife.

He nodded. “I did, but you know Dottie.”

Knew.

“She could be a tough cookie. She looked soft around the edges, but she was all business. When she lost the baby, something inside her changed. She refused to try again.”

“I heard she couldn't have children anymore.”

“Nah. That wasn't true. She decided she didn't want one. She wanted
me
. Only me. Oh sure, we would give to the charities and she would volunteer, but she wanted me. She
needed
me. It became too much. I never had a free moment.” He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “When I went to the pâtisserie that morning, I begged one more time for a divorce, but she wouldn't grant it. She said, ‘Over my dead body.'”

“And you obliged by shoving a Pace Hill Farm Gouda–filled pastry in her mouth and suffocating her.”

Ray didn't disagree.

“Was that how you and Violet had plotted to kill her?” I asked.

“Are you insane?” Violet said. “He was going to use arsenic. Dottie kept it in the shop to kill varmints.”

“A pinch or two a day.” Ray's mouth curled up. “Who'd have known a thing?” His lip caught on a tooth, which produced a vile-looking grin. “Killing her at the shop that day, sure, it was spur of the moment, but it was inspired, if I do say so myself. Tim, drowned in the cheese vat; Dottie, suffocated with the cheese pastry.”

I shuddered.

“Ray, end this now. Kill Charlotte,” Violet said. “She'll talk. You know she will. She'll spoil everything.”

Was this how the first murder had come about, Violet prompting Ray to action?
Go after Tim. Get him.

“Wait!” I blurted. “Dottie's brooch, Ray. Did you—”

“Shut her up, Ray!” Violet aimed a finger at me. “Do it now before anybody figures out where she is!”

“Ray,” I said. Anything to steer his attention to me and not to Violet. “Did you steal it?”

“Yeah. What do you care?” Ray moved toward me. A skate on his shoulder bobbled. He glanced down as if the skate had given him a novel idea, and quicker than a whip, he removed a pair from his shoulder. Gripping the shoelaces, he swung the skates like a lasso.

In the nick of time, I drew the hockey stick in front of me and blocked Ray's attack. The skate wound around the stick like a ball struck in a game of tetherball. Ray tried to pull the skate free, but his efforts made the laces tighten. He released the set of skates.

The stick, with skates attached, was unwieldy, but I could still hoist it. I swung out. The shoe of a skate struck Ray on the side of the head. He careened backward. His knees struck the bench. He toppled to the ground and his head struck a locker with a
clack
.

“Ray!” Violet shouted, then she whirled on me. “You!”

She came at me with a knife—the same knife she'd used to mug me. Where had she been hiding it? Inside her slim jacket? I struck out with the skating shoe–hockey stick mess. The stick part hit her forearm. She released the knife; it fell to the ground. I ran at her and wrestled her backward into the stand of hockey sticks. She slid into a muddled heap.

At the same time, Jordan rushed into the area—no cups of cocoa in hand, only an expression of grim determination. “Charlotte, are you—”

“I'm fine. Check Ray.”

Jordan did. “He's breathing. He has a pulse. He's unconscious.”

“How did you find me?”

“Tyanne said you'd disappeared. I called 911.”

“Hands up!” a man shouted.

Jordan and I obeyed.

Umberto Urso strode down the aisle. Deputy O'Shea entered next. Both had guns drawn.