Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (7 page)

As I started to leave the garage, a thought flew into my mind. I slapped my thigh. “U-ey, I just remembered something. When I entered, I smelled a marshy odor. It was probably the mud on Noelle’s shoes, but the mud looks dry right now, so you can’t really pick up the scent.”

Urso crouched beside Noelle and inspected the undersides of her shoes. “Do you know where she might have been?”

“She mentioned taking a hike. Maybe she went to Kindred Creek.”

“At night?”

“I warned her that it was too dark, but she seemed set on the idea. She wanted to explore Providence before she settled into her new job. She’d called it a quest. Maybe Boyd Hellman caught sight of her on her outing and followed her back here.”

Urso shook his head. “But there isn’t a second set of muddy footprints. Is this guy smart enough to have removed his dirty boots?”

• • •

By the time Urso and his deputies left, I felt drained, and to be honest, no matter what kind of bravado I had put on earlier, I didn’t feel like sleeping alone in my house. Humbled and shivering, I gathered up Rags and headed to Lavender and Lace. With all the comings and goings at my place, I was surprised that a crowd hadn’t collected on the street by the B&B to gossip.

Guests sat on the porch having tea and scones. Lois kept space heaters turned on through the winter.

“Welcome, Charlotte.” Lois passed across the front door threshold. Agatha, her Shih Tzu, scampered alongside. “I’m so glad you called.”

I hadn’t; Urso had, to guarantee that a room was available. Talk about a lack of trust. I said, “I don’t mean to be an inconvenience.”

“Nonsense, we always like company, don’t you know.” Lois knotted the belt of her lavender sweater, tucked a loose hair behind her ear, and then nuzzled Rags’s neck. “There are lots of people in town for Thanksgiving holidays. Why, I have more grandparent guests than I can count. They’re all in to see the play at the theater. However, I have a few rooms empty. I always keep at least one . . .” She paused. Had she meant to add that she kept one room ready for her husband, should he reappear? A whisper of sadness filled her eyes, but she pushed it aside. “Tea?”

“I’d love some.”

I entered the great room and instantly felt calmer. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Many guests had cozied up to the fire. Others played board games or chatted at the various groupings of chairs and sofas. I settled into a corduroy chair—lavender in color, of course; Lois had a passion for purple—and seconds later Lois returned with a Haviland Rose china set and a plate of homemade raisin cinnamon scones with a side of clotted cream. Locally, Lois was famous for her scones. I set Rags on the floor, and he immediately grappled with Agatha. The dog yipped, and the two tore off toward the kitchen. “Play nice,” I called.

“Don’t worry about them,” Lois said. “Two peas in a pod. I swear your cat is a dog.” She nodded toward the scones, beaming with pride. “These are freshly made and piping hot from the oven. I’m planning to make a batch of gluten-free scones for your niece.”

“How sweet of you.”

“I miss seeing the girls running around the yard. All that lovely energy.” After setting my tea to steep, Lois nestled into the chair opposite mine. “Now, tell me what happened. Why were the police at your house? Did you have a break-in?”

“Worse. A murder.”

She shuddered. “To think what this world is coming to.”

I was pleased how confidential Urso and his deputies had kept the investigation so far. In the past, when a murder occurred, within seconds the town knew and journalists showed up to cover the story. A small town grapevine could be a positive or negative thing.

In a hushed tone, I related what had happened in my garage.

Lois shook her head with dismay. “How horrid.”

“Did you happen to see anyone running from the house earlier?” I said. “Man or woman?”

“I didn’t, I’m sorry to say. I’ll ask the other guests if they saw anything and report back. I’ve been busy. I served a full meal. Leg of lamb with mint jelly and all the fixings. We ended with a cheese course, as you advised me, with that scrumptiously smooth Doux de Montagne cheese, almonds, green grapes, and a drizzle of honey. Everyone raved.”

My stomach grumbled in protest. I hadn’t eaten at the theater, and my appetite had been squelched after finding Noelle. Until now. I picked up a scone and bit into it. Melt-in-your-mouth tender.

“Dear girl, you look spent. Put down the scone. I’ll fix you a plate of real supper, and then let’s get you settled in your room. You didn’t bring a suitcase.” She rose. “It matters not. Guests can sleep in the raw, if it suits their fancy.”

A short while later, Lois, carrying a supper tray, beckoned me to follow her.

I gathered up Rags. As we trudged upstairs, the notion that the killer had disappeared mighty fast dawned on me. Was he a guest at the inn? “Lois, do you have a guest named Boyd Hellman registered here?”

“No. Why, dear? Is he the killer?”

“No. I was . . . Never mind.” I clutched Rags closer to my chest, unwilling to reveal all of the facts of the case to Lois. Urso would have my hide.

As Lois used a key to open the door of my room, I reflected again on Noelle’s last words:
hell’s key.
A key was an island, an inset in an atlas, a list of answers to a test, a code breaker, and so much more. What had she meant? Why couldn’t I have saved her?

I slept fitfully, dreaming or
nightmaring
—if that was a word—about Noelle fighting off her killer. At dawn, I startled awake. Had Noelle struggled? Why did it matter? How could I find out? I scooped up Rags and slipped out of the B&B vowing to repay Lois for her hospitality with a cheese basket filled with Brie, Camembert, and Fromager d’Affinois. She liked creamy cheeses.

When I reached home, I sprinted down the driveway, set Rags on the grass to explore, and headed to the garage. Crime scene tape crisscrossed the side door, but that didn’t stop me from clicking on the garage door opener and entering. It was my property.

Crisp air swirled around me and the tarp crackled beneath my feet as I tiptoed toward where Noelle had lain. I stopped beside the secretary desk and ran my hand along its smooth bare wood. I begged the desk to tell me about the tragedy, but it revealed no secrets. A raw feeling gripped my insides. Noelle had been selfless. Who had ended her life so young? Why? She had dedicated her last hours on earth to helping me get one step closer to completing my renovations. She hadn’t known me well, nor I her, and yet I felt that we could have become fast friends. I owed her a speedy answer to the question.

Even though I knew Urso and his men had reviewed every inch of the scene, I searched for telltale signs of the killer’s identity. I was no forensic expert, but thanks to Rebecca’s insistence, I had watched plenty of crime shows on TV. I saw no footprints. No fibers. No stray hairs. Last night, other than seeing the boxes of nails and other garage items turned inside out, I hadn’t noticed signs of a struggle. Had Noelle and her killer been discussing something? Had the attack come as a surprise? Her clothes hadn’t been torn. I hadn’t noticed scratches on her face. Had she known her killer? If only she had written a message, something like
Hellman was here.

If wishes were horses . . .

I heard a swoosh behind me, then a huge clatter. I swung around, my pulse pounding and relaxed instantly. Rags, the sneaky devil, had followed me in. His vigorous tail had caught the cord of the sander and pulled the thing to the ground. Dust rose up as Rags disentangled himself and bolted toward me, eyes blazing with fear. He sprang into my arms. I scruffed his ears and said, “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s leave this horrible place.”

Before exiting, I tried to commit everything I saw to memory. Perhaps the fresh memory would trigger a past one.

Over the course of the next half hour, I fed Rags, took a shower, donned the most colorful clothes in my wardrobe for an emotional boost, and downed a single cup of coffee. I couldn’t eat. The image of Noelle lying dead curdled my stomach.

When I arrived at The Cheese Shop, I had a craving to do something normal or at least semi-normal or I wouldn’t function. In
Culture Magazine
,
a publication dedicated to all things cheese, I had read about a way to infuse humor into a cheese shop. I would insert flags with eclectic sayings on them into wedges of cheese in the display case—sayings like
Don’t be blue; eat blue.
Or
This is the cheese you’d ditch your boyfriend for.

Grabbing toothpicks, construction paper, and scissors, I set to work.

An hour later, Rebecca entered, her face pinched with concern.

“I heard what happened,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to stir the gossip mill.”

“Then you shouldn’t have stayed the night at Lavender and Lace.” She planted her hands on her narrow hips. “At two
A.M.
, Lois was online chatting up everyone. She’s such a gossip. So, who do you think killed Noelle?”

I held up my hands. “No. I don’t want to speculate.” Though, of course, I was rehashing the event in my head.

“If you don’t, who will?”

“Chief Urso is on top of this. Let’s you and I keep our noses out of it.”

“But—”

“No.” I pointed to the Chiriboga Blue, a German cheese made in the French Roquefort tradition, and the Bayley Hazen Blue, which was Jasper Hill’s delectable flagship cheese, crumblier than most blues but developed to hold up under challenging retail conditions. “Set those two at the front of the display case so everyone can read the sayings on the flags.”

Rebecca scanned the tags I had inserted and sniggered. “These are cute. Can I write a few?”

“Sure.”

“By the way, I heard that Noelle said something to you before she died.”

“Who told you—” I peeked into the wine annex. Had Matthew participated in the social networking hullabaloo? Only he, Urso, and I knew what Noelle had said—and possibly the deputies. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Keeping those words secret might have been important to the investigation. “Go to work,” I ordered.

Rebecca saluted while mumbling, “Spoilsport,” under her breath. Real adult.

By ten
A.M.
, customers were laughing and calling to friends on the street to come inside and read the cheese tags. Laughter was the best medicine, my grandfather often reminded me, and hearing my customers’ chuckles helped keep the bad memories from the night before at bay. Laughter also increased sales. By eleven
A.M.
, Fromagerie Bessette had sold out of all blue cheese.

At noon, Matthew sidled up to me. “Hungry? Want to grab some lunch?”

“A quick bite in the office,” I said. “I don’t want to leave Rebecca out here alone. We are busy-busy with Thanksgiving Day gift baskets and weekend parties.”

“Where are Bozz and Tyanne?”

I explained. Bozz, a part-timer, had called to cancel his work shift. He was a first-year college student and was bogged down with midterms. Our other part-timer, Tyanne, was also the town’s premier wedding planner. Currently she was busy prepping Liberty Nelson’s wedding.

“Okay, we’ll eat fast. Grab two of those sandwiches.” In addition to daily quiches, we offered gourmet sandwiches, but once they sold out, we didn’t make more. Matthew pointed at the Mortadella and Scharfe Maxx Swiss cheese torpedoes layered with peppers and red onions. “I’ll fetch a couple of sparkling waters, unless, of course, you want to try the Plavac Mali from Croatia.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s what a pinot and cab franc would taste like if they had a lovechild. Zinfandel is one of the two parent varietals of Plavac. I’m offering it at this afternoon’s tasting.”

“You’re on. But just a smidgen.” I signaled a thimbleful. Drinking wine midday made me crave a long winter’s nap.

When I settled into the chair at my desk, Rags hopped into my lap. He kneaded my thighs with his claws and meowed like the dickens. Last night, he had acted like nothing was wrong, but I sensed something more today. Perhaps his trek into the garage had disturbed him on a deeper level. If only he could talk. Would I have to hire a cat whisperer to determine the problem? I pulled a treat out of the lower desk drawer and waved it under his nose. He slurped it into his mouth and begged for more.

“What’s his problem?” Matthew said as he shuffled into the office.

I arched a brow.

“Never mind,” Matthew said. “Stupid question. He’s a sensitive soul. He knows Noelle is dead.” He handed me a Riedel “O” Series glass containing a small portion of ruby red wine and raised his own glass. “
À votre santé
.”

“
À la votre
.”

Matthew sat in the chocolate brown director’s chair that I had picked up at a garage sale. In silence, we bit into our sandwiches. The combination of the salami, cheese, and peppers made me swoon. Scharfe Maxx, a robust Swiss cheese made near Lake Constance in north Switzerland, was one of my favorites. Homemade rennet was key to its extraordinary complexity. I adored the lingering flavor of mushrooms.

After finishing half of his sandwich, Matthew wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “Do you think Urso is going to track down Boyd Hellman?”

“Of course he will. Don’t worry.”

Matthew set his sandwich on the desk and slumped forward in his chair, elbows perched on his knees, head cradled in his hands.

“What aren’t you telling me, Matthew?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Were you involved with Noelle?”

“No!”

Rags startled and hurtled to his feet. He padded in a circle in my lap.

“Shh,” I cooed. “Lie down.” He obeyed.

“Noelle was . . .” Matthew’s voice drifted away.

“She was what?”

Matthew didn’t answer at first and then in a whisper, he said, “She was the first assistant sommelier I ever had. We became good friends.”

“How good? You don’t know whether she had any other family.”

“And you didn’t know anything about Jordan for a long time.”

“Touché.”

Matthew shrugged. “Noelle was very private.”

“Did you know Boyd Hellman? Had you met him?”

“I’d already relocated here when she got involved with him. For the second time. She broke it off the first time because . . .” Matthew sighed. “They were teens. Boyd did something stupid. He participated in a couple of petty thefts. No arrests. Kid stuff. But Noelle couldn’t stand it. She kicked him out. He reentered her life a few years ago and somehow convinced her he had changed. He claimed he was an upstanding guy. Salt of the earth.” Matthew shook his head. “I urged her to keep away from him, but sometimes smart people make dumb decisions. If only I . . . I want to make sure that U-ey is doing all he can.”

“He will. He’s good and diligent. We’re so lucky to have him.”

“Yeah, but without your help in the past—”

“He’ll get this done. Promise.”

Matthew laced his fingers behind his neck and gazed up at the ceiling. “Noelle said, ‘Hell’s key.’ Why?”

“About that. Did you mention those words to others?”

“No.”

“Huh. Rebecca heard it from someone. I guess one of the deputies must have leaked it.”

Matthew nodded. “I can’t get the words out of my head. She had to be accusing Boyd of murder.”

“Not necessarily.” I reiterated all the synonyms of the word
key
that had popped into my head when I had entered my room at the bed-and-breakfast last night.

“It’s used in music, too,” Matthew said.

“Was Noelle a musician? I heard her sing along with O.A.R. last night. She had a nice voice.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Matthew leaped to his feet. Rags jolted and hissed at Matthew, who growled back. “Man, this is so frustrating.”

“Tell me about it.” I nuzzled Rags behind the ears to calm him. “I feel guilty for letting Noelle stay home while I went out.”

“It’s not your fault. She wasn’t the kind of person you could tell what to do. She had a mind of her own. She was like a Mustang. Stubborn and wild. That was the thing that won Shelton over. That’s why he hired her. He liked her spirit.”

And it was probably the thing that Boyd Hellman hated about her.

Matthew wrapped up the other half of his sandwich. “I’m going to store this in the fridge and head to the cellar. Need anything from down there?”

“More blue cheese.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Chiriboga. Bayley Hazen Blue. Any we have, please. We ran out of all of them at the cheese counter. I haven’t had time to send Rebecca down to restock.”

“Thanks for listening,” he said as he slipped out of the office.

I didn’t quite know what I had listened to, but I said, “Sure thing.”

When I returned to the shop, the place was empty of customers. I found Rebecca bent over, tweaking the display in the window. I tapped her back.

She swooped to a stand. “Sheesh, you startled me.” She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and tugged on the hem of her sweater, which had crept up beneath her apron.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I thought the display could use more of the fun descriptions you’ve been adding to the cheeses. So . . .” She held up two toothpick flags and read: “
For a quick pick-me-up, try Beehive Cheese Co.’s Barely Buzzed
.” She giggled. “Or listen to this one.
Want something smokin’ sexy in your home on Thanksgiving? Try Three Ring Farm’s Up In Smoke
.”

“Smokin’ sexy?”