As Gouda as Dead (9 page)

I left the inn feeling an incredible urge to sprint to the police precinct to bring Urso up to date with my findings. Granted, he rarely appreciated my unsolicited input, but with one deputy benched for the remainder of the investigation and the other unavailable because his wife was giving birth, I was willing to risk Urso's wrath.

Despite the chilly weather, vendors were out in droves along the north edge of the Village Green. They were offering everything from candy to handmade jewelry. One vendor was luring a flurry of people with tastings of hot cocoa. A couple singing a vintage Beatles' love song at the top of their lungs skipped to the end of that line. A group of teens nearly twirled into me while trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues.

I spotted Ray Pfeiffer among the crowd, taping something to a kiosk, most likely a flyer for the ice-skating rink's upcoming Lovers Trail event. When he finished, he joined a few other guys who were standing in line to purchase flowers. One of the guys offered Ray a cigarette. He lit up. However, when he realized Zach Mueller, the rangy young man who'd recently quit the pastry shop, was also in line, Ray dropped the cigarette to the ground, demolished it with his boot heel, and glowered at the kid. If looks could kill.

Zach caught sight of Ray. His lip twitched in a snarl, but he made tracks in the opposite direction, right past a balloon artist at a pushcart. Thanks to the force of Zach's departure, Mylar balloons, in the shapes of wedding bells or hearts, bopped against one another. The balloon artist shouted something at Zach, who made a rude gesture and ran straight at me, almost knocking me down. I
eek
ed. He swooped his shaggy bangs out of his eyes, but he didn't offer an apology. No
oops
. Nothing.

Nice
, I mused.

Deputy O'Shea, who was standing in line for a balloon, caught sight of me and yelled, “Are you okay?”

I nodded. He moved ahead to receive a balloon and held a finger to his mouth. I winked, offering my silent pledge that I would not tell Rebecca anything about the gift I was certain she was going to receive.

Inside the Victorian house that served as the Providence Precinct—the Tourist Information Center shared the foyer space—I saw a group of women huddling in the corner. They looked sly, like they were keeping the world's greatest secret. When a toothy redhead spotted me, she tapped another's elbow. I knew the redhead—her name started with an S. She was always complaining, upset with a homeowner's board or the PTA. One by one, her pals turned to gawk at me.

Ah, if only I had the nerve to do something risqué and shock them all.

Instead, I strode to the clerk, a gray-haired woman with a heart-shaped face. I explained my mission and was instantly permitted access to Chief Urso.

I found him in his office, sitting behind his desk. He was outlined by a halo of sunlight that filtered through the Levelor blinds covering the window behind him. The sandwich he'd received earlier at the shop sat uneaten on his desk, the wrapper still sealed with stickers.

Urso rose slightly.

I waved him to sit back down. “Don't stand on my account.”

“What's up?” He guiltily eyeballed his uneaten sandwich.

“Don't worry. I'm not offended,” I said. “My appetite is at an all-time low, too. I simply stopped in to give you an update on something I learned.”

He heaved a sigh. “You're not actively pursuing—”

“No. Well, not on purpose. Rebecca's right. You could temporarily deputize me.”

“Charlotte—”

“Tim was my friend, U-ey. I'm going to ask questions.” I sat in the chair opposite his desk like an equal. He didn't boot me out, so I continued. “Something Dottie Pfeiffer said made me want to follow up. Did she or Ray come in and talk to you?”

“No.”

I told him about Dottie inferring that Violet had a thing for Tim. “She said they flirted that night. So, wondering whether Violet had an inkling about what Tim might have seen, I decided to contact her.”

“You
what
?”

“Don't raise your voice. I visited her at the inn. I asked a few questions. Nothing official.”

He scowled at me.

I folded my arms across my chest. “She denied flirting with Tim. In fact, she denied any relationship at all.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Yes, which means I can cross Frank Mueller off my list of suspects.”

“
Your
list?”

I ignored the snarky remark. “According to Dottie, Frank was carrying a torch for Violet, but if Violet wasn't interested in Tim, then—”

“You can rule out Frank either way. He has a solid alibi. He was at Jordan's party. With me.”

“I missed seeing him there.”

“He was.”

“Great,” I said.
Case solved
. “Moving on . . . I asked Violet about Jawbone Jones again. Remember, she was the one who had seen him drive off.” I filled Urso in on Violet's claim that Jawbone threatened to
get
Tim if he didn't sell the pub.

Urso said, “However, as Violet said, that happened over a year ago, and Jawbone didn't lash out. Maybe she's casting suspicion on someone else to take the focus off of her.”

“I thought the same thing, except she was at the pub. With Paige. No matter what, perhaps you should question Jawbone again.”

“I will.”

“If you'd like me to accompany you—”

“No. You have a business to run, and don't you have a wedding on Sunday?”

I shifted in my chair. “I guess Tyanne hasn't called you yet. We're going to postpone the wedding.”

“Really?” Urso raised an eyebrow. He wasn't showing a renewed interest in me. A few months ago, he had finally given up trying to woo me. He realized that I was truly in love with Jordan and would never change my mind about marrying him, the current postponement notwithstanding.

“With Tim murdered at the site . . .” I licked my lips. “A wedding on Jordan's farm didn't feel right.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't want you or anyone to feel pity for me . . . for us. Jordan and I will set another date.” I felt the sudden urge to speak to Jordan. I'd forgotten to call him on my break. Would he have time to talk now? He had so many issues to deal with: his employees, his product, and the fate of his farm—to sell or not to sell.

Deputy O'Shea rapped on the doorjamb. His cheeks look blistered from the cold. “Chief.” The balloon he'd purchased bobbed merrily beside his head. “I'm going out for some air.”

“You do that.”

O'Shea disappeared and I said to Urso, “I'm worried about him. He looks frail. Has he eaten anything?”

“I'm watching out for him.”

“The same way that you're looking out for yourself?” I motioned toward his uneaten meal.

He opened the wrapper and took a bite of the sandwich. “Happy?” he asked while chewing.

“Overjoyed.”

He glanced at the clock on the wall and his eyes brightened. He stood up and pushed the sandwich aside. “Sorry to cut this short. I've got to go.”

I rose to my feet. “You know, U-ey, I've been dying to ask you something.”

“Can it wait?” He fetched his overcoat and hurried toward the door.

Actually, it couldn't. I followed. “I was wondering whether you've decided to run your brother's campaign in Virginia or not.” A few months ago, his brother, a budding politician, had started to pursue Urso. If he took the job, he would leave Providence.

“I have.”

“And?”

“I'm staying here.”

“You are? That's great.” A rush of relief washed over me. I appreciated my friend and didn't want to see him relocate; not to mention we needed someone with his integrity and wits as our chief of police. “What made you decide—”

“I can't talk now.”

Cavalierly, he gestured that I should move through the doorway first. That was when I became aware of something I hadn't picked up on earlier. Despite the tragic loss of a dear friend, Urso seemed lighter and more at ease with himself. Was he, like so many others in Providence, enjoying the season of love?

“Got a hot date?” I teased.

“Maybe.”

I nearly cheered. Urso, above all, deserved happiness. He saluted as he exited toward the parking lot. I left through the foyer.

On my way, I sneaked to the buffet table that held the daily delivery of pastries from Providence Pâtisserie. As I plucked a bite-sized raspberry crème fraîche turnover from the tray, I heard some chatter.

Councilwoman Bell, a towering pear-shaped woman in her early fifties with a cap of black hair and a grimace that cut a slash across the lower portion of her broad face, had joined the mix of conspiratorial women. Prudence Hart, a sour dress-shop owner, looking as lean as ever in a lemon-colored winter coat—the color made my mouth pucker—had also linked up with the group.

The ladies strolled toward the clerk, who sat taller in her chair.

Uh-oh.

Bell took the lead. “We have a complaint.”

“You always do,” the clerk quipped.

“Three things. One. The noise level around town has got to be reduced,” Bell said in a booming tone that suggested she could out-
noise
any noise level. “Two. What is it with all of these vendors in the streets? Who authorized them to park helter-skelter? And three. Have you seen the public display of singing and dancing?”

I was astonished that Bell would be upset with general frivolity. Her daughter was an actress in Los Angeles; she had recently won the starring role in a television series. I remembered how the girl, back when she was in high school, would parade around town singing or emoting at the top of her lungs. She had performed at the Providence Playhouse a couple of times. She was very talented, if a bit precocious.

“Now, Belinda,” the clerk said. “This is a merry time. People are in love. They're celebrating. Cut them a little slack.”

“Cut them—” Bell sputtered. “I . . .
we
”—she twirled a finger in the air to include her band of complainers—“are standing firm. Claim form, please.”

“Councilwoman, be reasonable.”

Bell exhaled with force, which caused her entire frame to wobble.

“Fine.” The clerk, who had a bit of the devil in her, took a moment to tuck some of her wispy hair back into her bun with a bobby pin, then she rose and shuffled to a file cabinet. Leisurely—could she move any slower? I wondered with amusement—she withdrew a form from a drawer.

“Hurry up,” Bell ordered. She looked like a human geyser. Any minute, she would boil over and steam would burst out the top of her head in one long spew. I flashed on Dottie and Violet's assessments of the councilwoman. Could she have seen Tim drive away from the pub and, in a fit of rage, chased after him? Had she caught up to him at Jordan's farm?

“Here you are.” The clerk extended her arm and waved the form. “Fill this out to your heart's content. When you're done, put it in my inbox, which you can see is pretty darned full, but I'm sure I'll have time to attend to it in the next century.”

“Why, you—”

“Breathe, Belinda.” The clerk grinned. “Inhalation is guaranteed to extend your longevity.”

I suppressed a smile.

Bell turned on her heel and pushed her gaggle of friends toward the corner in which they had first convened. Bell whispered something to Prudence, who bobbed her head vehemently. I heard Bell say, “We're doing it. It's settled. She's out.
O-u-t.
Agreed?”

I gulped. If they were intent on getting the clerk fired, I would vouch for her. She had done nothing wrong. On the other hand, if some other woman was the target of the group's wrath, I pitied the poor soul.

By the time I returned to The Cheese Shop, it was late afternoon. I hurried in, my intent to call Jordan. I wanted to tell him that I'd found his note, and yes, yes, yes, I wanted to go on a date, but I didn't get the opportunity, because Rebecca waylaid me.

She clasped my hands. Hers were clammy and trembling. “I need you to come.”

“Where?”

“To the auditions. I need moral support.”

“But—”

“Rags can come, too. Please!”

I couldn't believe she was this nervous. Whenever she needed to put one over on someone—like, say, Urso—she was fearless. On the other hand, back in the Amish fold, she had never acted. Sure, she'd played imagination games with the younger children, but the Amish reluctance to be self-promoting or vain—a concept known as
Gelassenheit
—was key to understanding why she had never found the courage to get onstage until now. I looked around the shop for the balloon O'Shea was supposed to have brought her on his break, but I didn't see it. Maybe she had stowed it in the office. If I reminded her about how much he cared for her, perhaps she would have more courage.

“Have you seen Deputy O'Shea?” I asked.

“No. Why? Is something wrong?”

Not wrong
,
I thought, but curious. Why had he told Urso he was going out for some air if not to visit Rebecca and present her with his whimsical gift? Had he gone on a different adventure? Was he investigating his uncle's death without Urso's approval? Heaven forbid Urso found out.

“Did he say he wasn't going to audition?” Rebecca asked, her voice tight with panic. “Did he say he didn't want me to do so?”

“Stop it.” I tried to pry loose from her viselike hold, but to no avail. “You're so edgy you're going to drive yourself mad.”

“You're right. I . . . I . . .” She let go and rotated her hand in front of her body in a wavelike motion to encourage breathing. “Inhale for four counts”—she obeyed herself—“and exhale for four counts. Again . . .” Soon the trembling ceased. “Wow, it worked! I learned that on a self-help tape I bought off the Internet.” She held up a fisted hand so I would knock knuckles with her.

I complied.

“Now, please say you'll come.” She crossed to the tasting counter, nudged a ladder-back stool out of her way, and fetched a morsel of the specialty-of-the-day cheese, Boerenkass Gouda, which we imported from the Netherlands. She offered it to me.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” I plopped it into my mouth. Boerenkass was a delicious two-year cheese with rich notes of caramel and a hint of cashews.

“But of course. And I'm throwing in this, too.” She hurried behind the cheese counter and raced back with a decorative bag in hand. She thrust it at me.

Inside was a clear plastic box filled with sliced cheeses, jam, crackers, a plastic knife, and a bottle of spring water.

“Something to tide you over during auditions. The cheese is Rogue Creamery TouVelle.”

“Mmm. TouVelle.” The semihard cow's milk cheese tasted like chocolate and nuts with a teensy tang.

“Your favorite.”

“My current favorite.” I had many more depending on the season and the setting. I've tasted over five thousand cheeses in my lifetime. I have certain favorites for dinner, others for appetizers, and others that are best eaten as a dessert, perhaps with a glass of port.

“Say you'll come. Ple-e-ease!”

She was as giddy as a kid on Christmas. How could I deny her?

***

Whenever I entered the Providence Playhouse, I felt a grand sense of purpose. My tireless grandmother loved putting on plays. According to her, viewing plays ennobled the spectator. It didn't matter whether the work was a musical or a straight play, a farce or a tragedy; the opportunity to get immersed in the moment of what she called
la vie imaginaire—
imaginary life
—
was a gift one should not refuse.

In the foyer, a bunch of volunteers were putting up decorations in honor of the upcoming Lovers Trail fest, including typical hearts and cupids. A string of hearts was draped from one end of the plate glass window to the other. One huge sign read:
Welcome to the
Love Letter
auditions!
In addition, smaller signs were posted on the walls with sayings like:
All you need is
Love Letters;
When you invest in
Love Letters
, you invest in life
; Love Letters
is where the heart is
. A table covered in a red checked cloth held sweet treats like heart-shaped cake pops, red-sprinkled cookies, and cherry-chocolate truffles that my grandmother must have made. She enjoyed keeping her actors, whether cast in the play or auditioning, fed and inspired. A pianist at an upright piano was playing very recognizable love songs—my grandmother's attempt to get the actors in the mood.

“Follow me,” I said to Rebecca, nabbing a cake pop before going into the theater.

With Rags in my arms, I sauntered toward the stage, where my grandfather was pounding a nail into what was the most minimal set I'd ever seen at the theater. Black drapes hung on the sides of the stage. One wide black drape hung at the rear. Two platforms stood in the center of the stage, one platform with a window suspended over the rear edge, the other platform with a painting of a town suspended at its rear edge. On each platform stood two chairs and two writing desks with lamps.

Pépère rose to his feet and finger-combed his thinning white hair. “Ah,
c'est très agréable de tu voir, petite-fille
.”

I smiled. “It's lovely to see you, too, Pépère.”

“Where is everybody?” Rebecca asked. Her voice sounded thin with tension. “Aren't the auditions tonight? Do I have the wrong day? The wrong time?”

I gawped at her. Had she missed all the fanfare in the foyer?

Rebecca spun in a circle. “Where are the auditions going to be held?”

“
Droit ici
,” Pépère said. “Right here. Rebecca, sweet girl, do not worry. Bernadette—” He waved his hammer.

My grandmother's name was Bernadette; my grandfather's was Etienne. I, of course, had referred to them as Grandmère and Pépère all my life.

“She has taken all those who wish to read into the black-box theater for a brief—” Pépère whirled the hammer again, this time searching for a word.

“Chat,” I suggested.

“
Oui
. Chat. To prepare them with the background of the characters and the play.”

“You mean I'm late?” Rebecca cried.

“No. They just left. Go, Rebecca. That way.” He pointed. The black-box theater, an intimate ninety-nine seat auditorium, was located at the rear of the theater complex.

“Break a leg,” I said. No one was entirely sure where the expression
break a leg
came from. Some thought it meant if an actor performed well, the actor would take a bow, which, back in Shakespeare's time when all actors were male, required the pose of bending or
breaking
one leg accompanied by the genteel swoop of a hand. Others believed that if an actor performed well, he would break through the
leg
—or the side curtain—of the theater to return to the stage for applause. No matter what, saying
good luck
was bad luck.

Rebecca thanked us both and sprinted away.

“
Chérie
, come sit with me.” Pépère slotted his hammer into his tool belt and descended the stairs into the theater. He sat down in a loge seat in the front row and eyed my package. “You have brought dinner?”

“Sugar treats aren't enough for you?” I teased.

“A man needs sustenance.”

“It's only a snack, but I'll share.” I set Rags on the floor. He wouldn't roam. He liked to stay close to my feet. I opened the bag, removed the goodies, and handed my grandfather a slice of the TouVelle.

He hummed his appreciation as he did whenever he ate cheese. He adored all types, ergo the reason he and my grandmother had opened Fromagerie Bessette so many years ago. I think he missed running the shop, but Grandmère didn't want him standing all day. It was much better for him to keep active by taking walks, working in the garden, and helping out at the theater. She also didn't want him adding to his expanding girth. A morsel of cheese here and there was fine; hanging around temptation for eight or more hours a day was frowned upon. No one would get fat eating an ounce of cheese a day. Moderation, she instructed, was the proper way to live life.

Minutes later, Grandmère led the actors back into the main theater. I recognized many as regular participants in the Playhouse's works. Rebecca, graced with a Mylar balloon, walked beside Deputy O'Shea. Both looked vibrant and in love, yet both appeared nervous, too. Rebecca's mouth looked tight. O'Shea seemed to have an itchy ear. He was rubbing it repeatedly. A friend back in high school did that whenever he was telling a tall tale. Did O'Shea feel he couldn't be truthful with the material, or was it a nervous tic?

Over the course of the next two hours, I watched the auditions. Though I was no critic, I couldn't help but assess the performances. I'd sat in on many auditions in the past at the behest of my grandmother. When auditions concluded, she would ask for my opinion, as if I knew what made one casting decision better than another. Sometimes it was all about honesty. Did I believe the actor?

For all auditions, Grandmère wanted variety, so, as in the past, she asked the actors to read different scenes from the play. In
Love Letters
, the initial correspondence between the two childhood friends is teasing and mocking. They do not acknowledge that they love each other until after two failed marriages. However, when they finally hook up, their eternal love, which is so obvious through their written correspondence, cannot survive the woes that life has thrown at them. Every bit of the play's dialogue is read from their lifelong letters. Yes, the actors have to instill the reading of the letters with emotion, but there is no impetus to prance around the stage or to use one's arms grandiosely.

In between auditions, Grandmère continued to remind the actors to take his or her time with the material. She urged them to
feel
it. She had paired Rebecca with Deputy O'Shea. Rebecca did a nice job; she didn't overact. O'Shea seemed natural, too. He didn't read overly loud; he didn't force the lines; his itchy-ear syndrome vanished.

By the end of the night, because my grandmother had asked the actors to read nearly every piece of the material, I was weeping with regret. When Grandmère collected the last set of scripts, an overwhelming sense of doom enfolded me. I rested my head against the seatback and drew my arms across my chest.

Grandmère approached. “
Chérie
, are you unwell?”

I blinked back tears.

“Ah, you are crying,” she said. “It is the play. It is
marvellieux, non
? So rich with expression. It stirs the emotions.”

“
Oui
,” I lied. What was really coursing through my mind was my own personal drama. Watching the auditions had made me wonder again whether Jordan and I were destined to fail.

Oh, poor me.
Buck up,
I urged.

Pretending to be strong—I was in a theater, after all, so playacting was to be expected—I planted my feet on the ground and stood up.

“Ah, much better,” Grandmère said. “There is your smile.” She tweaked my cheek and returned to the stage.

Rags nudged my ankles.

I scooped him up. “Don't worry, fella. I wouldn't forget you.”

“Charlotte.” Rebecca ran toward Rags and me and threw her arms around us. “Wasn't it wonderful?” she shouted over the hubbub of the other excited actors. “Oh, the thrill of acting. I love it. I get these goose bumps right in the pit of my stomach and I feel all heady. That's good, right? Did you have a wonderful time? Wasn't everyone fabulous?” She lowered her voice. “Well, everyone except that bleached blonde. She sort of overacted, don't you think? And that guy with the comb-over. He's so full of himself.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. My woes melted away. “Yes, I had a great time. And you did a super job.”

“Devon did, too, right?”

“Yes, the deputy is a natural.”

“Sheesh! I almost forgot.” Rebecca fished in the pocket of her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I meant to give this to you earlier. I found it taped to the back door of The Cheese Shop as I was coming in from gathering herbs from the hothouse.” The town had a communal garden in the alley behind the store. “But I was so nervous about auditions, I forgot all about it.” She thrust the paper into my hands.

I whipped it open; it was another love note from Jordan. He missed me. He wondered if I'd found his earlier note. He couldn't wait to see my beautiful face. He ended it by writing:
With love,
~
J
.