As Gouda as Dead (5 page)

“There's not supposed to be any milk in there,” Jordan said.

Urso shook his head. “I still don't get it.”

“It's too soon,” I explained. “The staff doesn't release the day's draw of milk from the refrigeration tanks until four
A
.
M
.”

“Here's how it works.” Jordan used his hands to describe the method. “The cheese maker pours the milk into the clean vat. Next, because we vat pasteurize the milk, we heat the milk to one hundred and forty-five degrees for thirty minutes, and then add starter culture to kick off the process. Then”—Jordan struggled to catch his breath—“rennet is added and so forth. The milk thickens. After a time, we separate the curds and whey, and . . .” He rolled his hand to signify the rest of the lengthy procedure.

“But the milk shouldn't be there right now,” Urso said.

“Correct. This is wrong.”

Urso squinted. “Are you suggesting—”

“No,” Jordan cut in.

“Couldn't be,” I chimed.

“Wait a sec,” O'Shea nearly shouted. “You don't think my uncle tripped and fell in the vat, do you?”

I wasn't thinking that he tripped. The floor was flat; there was no way for Tim to have tripped. And the vat was filled with milk. I doubted Tim had filled it.

“If he's in there, we've got to get him out!” O'Shea rushed toward the edge of the vat. “He must have come looking for you in here and—”

“Why would he have done that?” I said. “It's obvious the party was in the house.”

But O'Shea wasn't listening to me. “Where's the drain? There's a drain, isn't there?” He squatted and stared beneath the vat. There were a few inches between the bottom of the vat and the floor to allow for drainage.

“Hold on, kid.” Urso tapped O'Shea on the shoulder. “This is all conjecture. Maybe the milk-filled vat is a prank.” He turned to Jordan. “It's your bachelor party night. I'll bet Tim stole in here and pulled the chain to release the milk purely to mess with you. He's planning to tell you there are ghosts on the farm.”

“Pretty expensive prank,” I said.

Jordan spun around. “Tim, are you here? Come on out. You got me.”

But Tim didn't appear. The lights started to buzz overhead. Other than that, nothing made a peep.

I perused the room for some telltale sign that might reveal that Tim had been in the facility. Why would he have come in here instead of Jordan's house? Violet Walden claimed that both she and Ray Pfeiffer had seen Jawbone Jones tear out of the pub's parking lot. Had Jawbone caught up with Tim? Had the two fought? What beef could Jawbone have had with Tim? I hadn't noticed two sets of tire tracks outside, but I hadn't been looking. The road and parking area had been recently plowed by a snowplow; the pavement was clear.

“Where's the plug for the drain?” O'Shea repeated.

Like the young deputy, I dropped to my knees and searched beneath the vat for the drain. Something small and shiny glinted on the floor. “Hey, look.” I reached for it but couldn't quite grasp it. My arm wasn't long enough. “Urso, help me out.”

Urso squatted beside me. He extended his arm and nailed the object. He rocked back on his heels and opened his palm to reveal a silver-tooled button.

O'Shea gasped. “That's . . . that's from my uncle's shirt.” Tim liked to wear plaid shirts, especially ones made by a seamstress in town. “He's in there. C'mon. Do something.”

Urso raced around the vat. “Let's empty this.”

Jordan said, “That'll take too long.” He dashed to the wall and seized three cheese-making tools that looked like rakes. He handed one to Urso and one to O'Shea.

Working together, they propelled the rakes through the vat of milk. It didn't take long to locate Tim. When they drew him out of the milk, I gagged. He was dead, of course.

Jordan fetched a large plastic tarp from his barn, and Urso and O'Shea hauled Tim onto it. I saw the deputy wipe his eyes a couple of times with the back of his sleeve. Jordan and Urso did, too. None of them lost total control. Me? I was a mess of tears. What was Tyanne going to do when she heard? She would be devastated.

While waiting for the coroner to arrive, Deputy O'Shea and Urso moved to the side to chat. I caught snippets of the conversation. The deputy was making the case that Tim was murdered. He ruled out the release of the milk as a prank, reiterating what I'd said, that it was an expensive practical joke, and his uncle wasn't into waste. Secondly, the bruise at the back of Tim's head. Thirdly, Tim had called the deputy, upset. And lastly, two witnesses, Violet and Ray, had seen Jawbone drive off in his truck when Tim left the pub.

Moving to join them, I said “U-ey,” but quickly revised it to “chief.” In a professional setting, he preferred that I not use the nickname he'd been given back in grade school, because his name, Umberto Urso, had two capital
U
s. “Jawbone owns Lock Stock and Barrel.”

“What's your point?”

“He has all sorts of guns at his disposal. Maybe he forced Tim at gunpoint to go into the cheese-making facility and climb into the vat. Or maybe he sneaked up behind Tim, butted him on the head, and pushed him in.”

“Jawbone is a former Olympic biathlete hopeful,” Urso said. “He's good with guns. An ace shot. Why go to the trouble of filling the vat and putting Tim in it when he could just shoot him? And what motive would Jawbone have to kill Tim?”

“I don't know yet, but—”

“Charlotte, go home. Try not to think about it. I'm on the case.”

Dejected, I retreated to Jordan's porch. I couldn't go home. I'd come with the deputy. And, honestly, how could I put the murder—I was certain it was murder—from my mind? Tim was a friend. He was killed on my fiancé's property. Jordan stood at the front door. His face was flushed, his eyes glistening with tears that he refused to let fall. One by one, he informed his bachelor party guests what had happened. He advised each of his friends to head to Urso for questioning. According to what I could overhear, no one had a clue that Tim had arrived on the property. No one had seen a thing.

A half hour later, a chill took residence in my back. I shivered and shuddered. I kept picturing Tim's body, his clothes drenched with milk, and all the life—the vitality—drained from his face. Before I knew it, a series of gallows humor jokes ran roughshod through my mind.
Death was not Gouda; it was bad. Tim got creamed. Tim met with a cheesy death
. I pinched myself to make my wicked mind quit while it was behind.

A screech ended my mental tirade.

Urso's other deputy, Rodham, who reminded me of the Road Runner with his spear of red hair, leaped from the cab of his truck. As he approached Urso, another notion came to me. I raced toward them. Rodham whipped around, hands ready to strike. He was clearly on tenterhooks, not because of a fresh murder, but because his wife was due any minute with baby number two.

Urso swung an arm out to keep Rodham in check. Urso looked weary. His eyes were red-rimmed in the same way that Deputy O'Shea's were. He and Tim had been good friends. They hadn't been contemporaries; Tim was—
had been
—older. But Urso had appreciated a good beer, and Tim had appreciated a man who liked to fish.

“What are you still doing here, Charlotte?” he asked.

“I came with Deputy O'Shea.”

“I'll get you a ride back to town.”

“No. Listen.” I touched his sleeve. “I don't mean to overstep. I know you've looked for tire tracks and footprints by the truck.”

“There's a muddle of prints,” Urso said, “all of which could belong to any number of people in town. Most people around here use the same snow tires. They wear the same boots.”

“Right.” That was one of the notions that had struck me. “But did you check the linoleum in the cheese-making facility? A telltale print on the smooth surface might show the way the killer walked. Heavy on the inside or outside of his foot.”

“The killer must have considered that. The linoleum was mopped clean.”

“Are you kidding? While everyone was here at the party?”

“Pretty bold, I know.”

“Urso, Tim said he saw something. What if he saw the guy—”

“The
guy
?” Urso's mouth twitched. “Charlotte, usually you're an equal opportunity amateur sleuth. A murderer can be a he or a she.”

“I believe this killer is a man.” A few months ago, after helping solve the murder of a stranger in town, I had begun to feel confident about my ability to process information. I wasn't a policeman. I wasn't a professional detective. But I had good instincts, which I relied upon. “Here's why. I doubt a woman could have overpowered Tim, who was a pretty big man, and hurled him into that vat.”

Urso smiled wearily. “True.”

“What we have to find out is what Tim saw.”

“We—”

I held up a hand. “Don't fight me on this. You're tired; I'm tired. Hear me out. What if Tim saw a crime outside or near the pub? Like a robbery or a beating?”

“Or he saw a bear roaming the streets or a missing kid whose face is on a milk carton.”

“Don't tease.”

Urso sighed. “Please, I beg you, don't think about this. It's my job.”

“And Tim was my friend.
Our
friend. Jordan's friend, too.” Tim and Jordan had knocked back more beers than Urso and Tim had, and they'd talked about their mutual affection for the restaurant business. And music. Both men loved jazz and the blues. “Tim deserves swift justice. You need everyone's input to get this solved.”

“I'll consider whatever you say. Fair?”

I nodded.

Urso scrubbed his dark hair with his fingertips then beckoned Jordan. “Would you mind taking Charlotte home? I need my deputies to remain here, and I don't think she should stay the night, in case—”

“In case what?” I asked. “In case I have more theories? In case I—”

“Hold on,” Urso snapped. “Don't get defensive. I just said I'd take your hunches into account. But I don't want you here in case the killer decides to come back.”

I threw a panicked look at Jordan.

“Don't worry.” Jordan ran a hand along my arm. I'd never seen him look so shattered. His jaw was tight, his right cheek twitching. Obviously finding a dead body—not just any dead body; a friend's body—on his farm was sapping him of his usual verve and focus. “Whoever killed Tim is not coming back, not with all these cops around.” Jordan glowered at Urso for even suggesting the idea. “But the chief is right. You should go home.” He steered me toward his Explorer.

On the drive, we didn't talk about the murder. We didn't talk about our bachelor and bachelorette parties. We kept silent, the hum of the heater and my occasional involuntary moans the only sounds to disturb the night.

After he checked out my place to make sure all the windows and doors were secure, my cat Rags trailing us and chugging his concern, Jordan drew me into his arms.

“Jordan, I'm scared.”

“I told you, with the police at the farm—”

“No. Not for you. Not for me. For Providence. How many murders can this town handle before the tourists are convinced to stay away and the locals are compelled to move? There's already one Providence in Ohio that's a ghost town. I don't want there to be a second.”

“Sweetheart, you know our town is no more dangerous than the next one. We've just had our bad luck of it lately.”

“What about your farm? What's going to happen to it?”

He ran his hand along the back of my head and sighed.

“One day at a time?” I whispered.

He forced a tight smile. “That's my motto.” He kissed me gently. “Get some sleep. Things will look brighter in the morning. In fact, tomorrow, why don't you put Rebecca in charge of the shop? Then pick up some of those pastries I like, and come back to the farm. I'll whip you up breakfast, and we'll make a new memory.”

After Jordan left, I called Tyanne. I didn't want her to hear the news from anyone else. The poor thing burst into heaving sobs. I asked if she wanted company, but she begged off. She would rally, she said. A Southern belle always did. Next, I called Rebecca to fill her in. She, too, broke down. When she regained her composure, I asked her to man the shop in the morning. Her response was so spirited, you would have thought I'd asked her to defend her country. I made two more calls to Delilah and my grandmother, and then I crawled into bed and allowed Rags to cuddle me. However, I didn't sleep more than a total of fifteen minutes, because I kept having horrid dreams of my wedding day becoming a shambles, or cows attacking trucks, or rivers of milk flooding and destroying Providence.

And I dreamed about finding Tim. Who had killed him and why?

On Friday morning, I awoke feeling parched and irritable. Realizing Jordan was right, we needed time together to mourn, the first thing I did after I went to Fromagerie Bessette to prepare a batch of Bosc pear and ham quiche, was head to Providence Pâtisserie to buy pastries for Jordan and me. The shop opened an hour before we did.

I neared the front door and spotted Dottie Pfeiffer and her husband Ray inside. He seemed to be trying to take a tray of baked goods out of her hands; Dottie was resisting. I remembered my conversation with Violet at the pub last night. She said the Pfeiffers were also at the pub. She claimed Ray could have seen Jawbone Jones chase after Tim. What else might Ray have noticed?

If only I knew what Tim had seen. A pickpocket? A runaway starlet? A drug deal going down? Yes, even in quaint Providence, drugs existed.

I opened the door and entered. Ray, who reminded me of a fitness guru with his ropy muscles, angular features, and thick wavy hair, quickly backed away from Dottie. It never ceased to amaze me how insufficiently dressed he was. Year-round, he only wore jean shorts and a white T-shirt. Brrr. Maybe working in a virtual icebox like The Ice Castle skating rink inured him to cool temperatures. On the other hand, he always wore gloves. I would imagine he donned them to protect his fingertips from what was known as cold burn.

“Ray, hon,” Dottie said. “C'mon.”

Where was Dottie's assistant, Zach Mueller, the kid that had sped past Deputy O'Shea and me last night?

“Need some help, Dottie?” I asked.

“I'm fine, Charlotte. Thanks.” Prior to buying the pâtisserie, Dottie had owned a modest shop near the grocery store northwest of town. Though her product was always good, she hadn't had the best location. When she moved and started offering free tastings at her current shop as well as supplying fresh product daily to the police precinct, she won the hearts and minds of Providence.

Ray shuffled away while muttering something that sounded like he wasn't happy with his wife's exercise regimen. He added:
A woman your age.
Dottie, who was a doughy woman with unruly red hair that she kept tucked into a hairnet, couldn't be much older than forty-five. She looked miffed, but I supposed if she was running shorthanded, she couldn't shoo away free help.

“It's so nice to see you, Charlotte. What can I get you?” Dottie asked. “Prune Danish? Cherry?” Deep crevices, created from years of smiling all the time—other than a few seconds ago—formed in her cheeks. “Or have you come in for some of those goat cheese Danishes that Jordan likes? I've added a touch of rosemary to switch it up. Think he'll mind?” Sometimes Dottie and I shared recipes. She was the first to figure out that I added white pepper to the pastry shells for the quiches we made at The Cheese Shop.

“I'm sure he'll devour them.”

“Ray, fetch me a set of waxed pastry bags, would you? I'm fresh out. That darned Zach.”

“Where is he?” I said.

“He quit on me, the thankless, no good—”

Ray returned and muttered something that sounded like
lying thief.

“Now, hon, we don't know that.” Dottie caressed his bare forearm.

Ray cut Dottie a snide look. To all appearances, he did know, or he certainly wasn't going to be dissuaded. He tossed a packet of pale-pink waxed bags to her and started to leave. “If there's nothing else . . .”

“Ray, wait,” I said. “I don't know if you've heard, but Timothy O'Shea was found dead late last night.”

Ray looked stunned.

Dottie covered her mouth. “Heavens.”

Ray said, “Poor guy. What happened? Heart attack?”

“No.” I didn't think it was my place to go into details. “The police will be forthcoming.”

“The police?” Dottie gasped.

“Was he murdered?” Ray asked.

I nodded. “Sometime between nine and ten
P
.
M
.”

“Did Belinda Bell do it?” Dottie asked. “She had a beef with him.”

“Dottie, don't go spreading rumors,” Ray said.

“She did!” Dottie sliced the air with her hand. “The noise. She couldn't stand it. She was all over Tim, exactly like she is with us.”

“
You
,” Ray said.

Dottie glowered. “She also didn't like the over-imbibing and the drunken behavior on the street.”

I cleared my throat. “I heard you two were at the pub last night.”

“We were.” Dottie blinked back tears. “We saw Tim. He was always so happy, teasing the customers the way he did. Oh my, his poor family.”

“He doesn't have a family,” Ray said.

“Does too. All those nephews. His brothers.”

“But no wife.”

“Ray, don't be insensitive.” Dottie bit out the words. “Not everyone is meant to be married. And he was dating that darling Tyanne. Why, she must be distraught.”

“She is,” I said, wondering how my friend had survived the night.

Dottie fluttered her hand in front of her mouth. “Charlotte, what did you want to ask? We'll do anything to help.”

“Violet Walden was at the pub with Paige Alpaugh, and they said—”

“Paige,” Dottie sniffed. “She should keep her health tips to herself. ‘Sugar is the devil,' she says. What is wrong with her? Sugar is no worse than anything else in this world. My, oh my, but she's a nosy-nose sometimes, like that Belinda Bell.”

“Dottie, don't be mean-spirited,” Ray cut in. “Stay on topic.”

“Yes, hon, of course. Charlotte, I apologize. Do go on. You were talking about Violet and Paige.”

“Violet said Tim drove off in his truck. Not long after, she saw Jawbone Jones speed away in his. She wasn't sure if Jawbone was chasing Tim. She thought you, Ray, might have seen something, too.”

“Me?”

“You did, hon,” Dottie said. “Remember? When you went outside to get my overcoat.” She punched him lightly and then addressed me. “Ray told me to leave it in the car. It would be warm enough in the pub he said, and I, like an idiot, listened to him. Then, of course, I got cold.” Snuffling, she quickly pulled out a tissue that she'd tucked inside the sleeve of her dress. She blew her nose and promptly spritzed her hands with sanitizer solution. “Charlotte, you said the goat cheese pastries, right? Of course you did. Anyway, hon,” she addressed her husband, “remember when you came back inside a few minutes later?”

Ray scratched his ear and shook his head.

“Yes,” Dottie persisted. “You told me Jawbone confronted Tim or something. Tim tore off, and then Jawbone ground that truck of his into gear. Maybe you don't remember because we left right after.”

“No, I remember. Sure I do.”

“Now who's the one that's dotty?” Dottie jibed, making light of her name.

“Jawbone confronted Tim?” I asked.

“Finger to his chest, that's what Ray said.” Dottie mimed the gesture. “Typical boorish male behavior. Where do they learn to be so aggressive? If I had boys, they'd be little gentlemen.”

Ray grunted.

I regarded him. “Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

“Nah. I was too far away.”

Using tongs, Dottie lifted two pastries from a tray and set them into a waxed bag. “Charlotte, just so you don't get the wrong idea and think we have a bone to pick with Jawbone—” She hesitated, apparently realizing the play on words she had made:
bone, Jawbone
. “He's a nice enough man. A Good Samaritan, I'd imagine. He donates to the Providence Children's Fund every time he comes in here.” She pointed to a red donation pot sitting on a table by the exit. The fund benefited kids who needed to attend afterschool programs. “Not that you'd be able to tell by Jawbone's looks. Scruffy.” She shuddered. “No matter.” She wiggled her fingers. “Like I said, he's nice enough. He's always humming whenever he comes into the shop. Yes sirree! He's a hummer. Come to think of it, maybe he wasn't poking Tim. What do you think, hon? Maybe Jawbone was giving him something, like a business card. Your eyes aren't the best, you know.”

“Then why would Jawbone chase Tim?” he asked.

“Got me.”

“What direction did he head, Ray?” I said.

“Jawbone turned right out of the lot.”

Exactly like Violet claimed.

“Huh,” Dottie said. “Doesn't he live south of town? Not far from your grandparents, Charlotte.”

If Jawbone did live south of town and he went in the other direction, maybe he'd had a reason to follow Tim. Had Jawbone apprehended Tim at Jordan's farm? Had he confronted him with a gun? Had he forced Tim into the cheese-making facility, knocked him out, and drowned him?

My stomach started to churn. Tamping down the anguish that was climbing up my throat, I thanked Dottie, paid for the pastries, and headed toward the exit.

“If there's anything we can do,” Dottie added.

“There is. Tell Chief Urso what you saw.”

“Will do.” Dottie nudged Ray. “One last thing, Charlotte. Not that it means anything, but Violet was flirting with Tim something awful.”

“She wasn't flirting with him,” Ray countered.

“Sure she was, hon. She's sweet on him. A woman knows.” Dottie gave me a shrewd look. “You might ask her what was bothering Tim. And, in the meantime, you might ask Frank Mueller how he feels about Violet putting the moves on Tim.” Frank Mueller, Zach Mueller's father, owned Café au Lait. “Frank and Violet, well . . . everyone knows. They've been lovers for years.”

“Not true,” Ray said.

“Just saying.” Dottie winked.