For Cheddar or Worse (14 page)

I held up a hand. “Sit.”

She perched on a stool.

“There's no easy way to say this.” My voice cracked. “Someone died.”

Rebecca gasped. “Not Erin. Please tell me it wasn't her.”

“Lara Berry died.”

“Heavens to Betsy. She was young, wasn't she? In her forties?”

“Fifties.”

“Did she die of a heart attack or something?”

The image of Lara lying lifeless on the bed flickered in my mind, and a shiver slithered down my spine. “She was . . . murdered.”

Rebecca leaped off the stool and threw her arms around me. “Oh no! I'm so sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“Who? Why?”

“We don't know anything yet. Erin is a suspect.”

“Uh-uh, no way. Not Erin. She's the nicest lady around. She takes care of her brother, and did you know she teaches Sunday school?”

Yes, I knew. Was she there today? I doubted it.

Rebecca released me. “Erin must be beside herself. How is Andrew handling it? I remember the last time he was in here. He became fascinated with the bell above the door. As big as he is, he could reach it. He kept batting it like a kitten would.” She reached high and chanted: “
Clang, clang, clang
. He likes simple cheeses, you know? White only. He reminds me of my uncle. I'm sure he had autism, too, though I'd bet he didn't see a doctor about it. The Amish . . .” She fingered her hairdo and sighed. “Erin has been so good about being
on the forefront in that regard. She keeps up with all the new therapies, all the new treatments. I promise you”—Rebecca chopped one hand into the other—“she did not do it.”

“I agree.”

“Who found Lara?”

“Jordan and I.”

“Ugh. Not again.” Rebecca grimaced. “What happened? Was she shot? Stabbed?”

“I can't say. U-ey made us promise.”

“Ahem. It's
me.
”

“Sorry.”

“But—”

“No,” I stated firmly. “The police are handling it. That's all I'm going to share.” I steered her toward a trio of platters I had set out in the kitchen. “Bring those in here, please. Before noon, we have to put together three cheese platters for different functions. Providence Playhouse has started rehearsals for its June production. All Booked Up is offering a specialty cheese poetry reading.” I would wager our early-morning, cone-headed customer would attend that. “And the pet store is having an adopt-a-pet day. They want treats to lure in the humans.”

Rebecca lifted the platters and carried them to the main shop. “Each of them will have a challenge negotiating the crowds. The Street Scene is a huge success.”

“Good for my grandmother.” It pleased me to know her efforts had been met with enthusiasm. “Help me with these.” I pointed to a large wheel of Jarlsberg and a wheel of Farmhouse Cheddar Borough Market, made by the fabulous Mary Quicke in southwest England.

I lifted the Cheddar; Rebecca took the Jarlsberg. I set my wheel on the counter, removed its rind, and started slicing. I nibbled a morsel. The flavor was divine with overtones of mint, rarely tasted in a Cheddar, and it had a nice crunch. I fetched a Vermont Creamery Bonne Bouche, which was a creamy ash-ripened goat cheese that reminded me of a hockey puck—a squishy white hockey puck—and added it to the platter, for variety.

“You should have seen how busy we were Friday night,” Rebecca said. “We didn't close until nearly eleven
P.M
. The tasting of Bleu Mont Dairy Bandaged Cheddar was a smash hit!”

“Say, did you see either Victor Wolfman or Ryan Harris in town that night? They're two guys from the brain trust. Do you know who I mean?” I was curious whether one or both of them had lied about their whereabouts.

“Ryan is the muscular one with the—” Rebecca waved a hand over the top of her head, indicating his thicker-on-the-top hairdo. “I saw him passing by. You know, he visited Thursday, before the trust actually started, and he sized up what we had in the counter. He told me about some cheeses from Texas. Have you heard of Pure Luck Dairy? They make goat cheeses that have won all sorts of awards. We should order some.”

“Will do.” I waved a hand. “Go on. You said Ryan walked by Friday night. About what time?”

“Close to closing. He was carrying a to-go cup of coffee and one of those cheese stick thingies.” She wiggled her fingers. “You know what I mean, like a churro but dipped in a caramel cheese sauce. Café au Lait makes the best—”

“You didn't see Victor Wolfman?”

“He's the older guy with the fake tan?”

“That's him.”

Rebecca shook her head. “Nope, didn't see hide nor hair of him, but that doesn't mean anything. Like I said, we were packed. Is it significant?”

“Is what significant?”

She stopped slicing and slammed down her knife. “I can't!”

I startled. “You can't
what
?”

“I can't
not
know what's going on. You're investigating.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are. Why else would you be asking about Ryan or Victor's whereabouts? You're keeping me out of the loop. Talk! Now!”

CHAPTER

“Uh-uh,” I muttered. “I refuse to be bullied.” I kept mute and remained busy. I lined a second platter with a large paper doily; I rearranged the cheese case; I wiped down the counter.

Unfortunately, Rebecca was more stubborn than I was. She stood stock-still, arms folded. Soon her foot started to tap. Then she narrowed her eyes, and I got the feeling she was trying to channel the force from
Star Wars
so she could manipulate my mind. Sadly, her performance worked. My brain was so overloaded with theories, I had to blab. Dang.

“You are incorrigible,” I hissed. “You'll dun me for information until you are blue in the face.”

“Maybe.”

“Fine. I'll spare you, and
me
, the pain. But you can't tell a soul.”

“Promise.”

“Especially Urso.”

“As if.”

I revealed everything. About Lara being smothered; the
locked door; the sealed-shut windows; Kandice hearing the violin; finding a valuable Amati in Erin's armoire. I said, “It's worth at least a million dollars.”

“Erin didn't have a clue?”

“None. However, that's not always the reason someone wants to own something. Often collectors don't care about the value, only how rare it is.”

Rebecca whistled. “My grandmother used to play a violin. Her grandfather made it for her. It was a family heirloom. I remembered the sound. So sweet. She passed it on to my brother, who is a mean fiddler.” Rebecca chuckled at the memory. “Can you imagine Erin's parents giving her something so valuable and not telling her its worth?”

Her comment made me stop. Erin's parents had invested in all sorts of antiques: urns, jade, china. Was that, as Rebecca had asked a minute ago,
significant
? Erin knew the origin of the Waterford vase. How could she not know that her violin was an Amati? Why would her parents have kept that information a secret?

“Tell me who you suspect,” Rebecca pressed. “You know I might ask or say something that spurs your imagination.”

Worry churned inside me. If Urso overheard us . . .

“Uh-uh. We've got work to do.”

“Charlotte. C'mon. Spill.”

I glanced outside. Neither Urso nor his deputies were in sight. The Street Scene wasn't under way yet. Not one customer was heading our direction. And a desperate need to come up with a suspect other than Erin was plaguing me like crazy. Maybe Rebecca's insight would spur my gray cells.

“Fine,” I said. “I think Kandice Witt has it in for Erin.”

“The organizer of the event? Why? She chose Erin's farm for the brain trust.”

“Exactly. A little voice at the back of my mind is wondering why she did that. Emerald Pastures is not the brightest star in Ohio farms. It is suffering and in need of a real facelift. Not just the inn but the operation as well. Kandice could have selected other establishments. Why this farm? And why didn't she tell Erin that Lara Berry was coming?”

“She didn't?”

“Erin was totally surprised. She only had one room left, a room in what used to be the attic.”

“With the sealed-shut windows.”

I nodded.

“Kandice must have known that Lara would be isolated.”

“She wasn't totally isolated,” I said. “There are three rooms on that level. Shayna and Victor occupy rooms on either side of Lara's, although neither had direct access to Lara's room.” I used a sharp-edged knife and cut the Bonne Bouche in half and then in quarters and placed the pieces on the second platter.

Rebecca said, “What's Shayna Underhill like?”

“Down to earth. Real. I don't think she killed Lara, although Shayna and Lara were once partners. Underhill Farm and Creamery won a ton of blue ribbons for its Cheddars, but the glory days ended about twenty years ago.”

“When Shayna and Lara parted ways?”

“Yes.”

“Ouch. That had to hurt Shayna financially.” Rebecca mouthed the word:
motive
. She continued tweaking her platter, making it a visual fantasy by splaying the cheese here and there; cheese shouldn't always be plated in straight rows.

In the silence, I reflected on Shayna and the way she had dealt with Lara over the past two days. Always staring at her, assessing her. Had she been trying to determine whether she could overpower Lara?

Stop it, Charlotte
. Shayna is a good lady. Mother Earth. On the other hand, her room was next door to Lara's, and she had a messy, possibly volatile past with Lara. If there was a hidden access between the rooms, she could have easily slipped in and out. Would Urso tell me if he had discovered something?

Rebecca said, “What about Ryan? What did you say his last name is?”

“Harris. He's a bit of an enigma.” I finished a fan of cheese and covered it with a layer of cheese paper to protect
it from hardening in the air. “He didn't know Lara before coming to the brain trust, but he instantly suffered her wrath. I think she saw him as a competitor. They've both written books and he, like Lara, consulted farms.”

“He seems like a good old boy.”

“With a lot of charm.”

“And a deep dark secret?”

I threw her a bemused look. “Not everyone has one. I think he's sweet on Erin.”

“Aww. She could use a little loving. I never see her with anyone.” Rebecca fetched a jar of homemade strawberry preserves and set it in the middle of the platter she was creating. “The other night, I saw Ryan and Erin playing onstage together at the Street Scene.”

“I didn't spot you there.”

“I was incognito.” Rebecca ruffled her hair in a sassy way. “Actually, I was part of the volunteer cleanup crew. We were all wearing jumpsuits. Very chic.
Not.
” Her mouth quirked up on one side. “Does Erin like Ryan?”

“I think she might, but right now, I doubt she can focus on anything other than proving herself innocent and protecting her farm.”

Rebecca placed cheese paper over her array and started in on arranging another platter. “Say, I just remembered. That Victor guy”—she cut down hard on a round of cheese; her knife clacked the counter—“came in here yesterday. It must have been after . . . you know.”

“The brain trust disbanded.”

“Yeah. He wanted something to snack on. He likes that smelly cheese. Époisses.” She snapped her fingers. “What did you tell me
Époisses
means?”

“It's actually a commune in the Burgundy region of France and has no specific translation, but I've seen it cutely translated by one cheese pundit to mean ‘completely worth the effort.'” Though I preferred hard, nutty cheeses like Cheddar, I occasionally liked the flavor of a strong cheese. “Not many can take the aroma,” I added, “but it's such a
rich paste. Perfect when spread on a baguette and served with a glass of white Burgundy wine.”

My stomach rumbled. I shouldn't have been thinking about eating after the healthy portion of quiche I had ingested, but certain combinations, like those that made me think about my marvelous honeymoon with Jordan when we traipsed across Europe tasting the various wines and cheeses of each country, stirred my senses.

Rebecca arranged the slices of Jarlsberg at the narrow end of the platter. “FYI,” she said, “Victor didn't mention word
one
about the murder.”

“Like I said, Urso advised us to keep mum.”

“But you're talking to me.” She winked.

“If he finds out—”

“I won't blab. I already promised.” She crossed her heart. “Anyway, Victor was going on about how knowledgeable he is about cheese. He is so pompous.” She withdrew a hunk of Tillamook Vintage White Extra Sharp Cheddar from the counter—for the money, one of the best Cheddars around. She cut it into slices and arrayed them on her second platter. “He also said how our stock didn't measure up to what he could offer online. The nerve, right?”

“I'm sure ours can't. We're small and we offer a lot of local cheeses, but his business is gigantic. He ships worldwide.”

“Does he gouge customers?”

Her words drew me up short. Was that the secret Lara had hinted she would reveal about him? Did she have physical proof that Victor was manipulating the market? I said, “I wouldn't have a clue. Why do you ask?”

“He just seems the type. While I was preparing his order, he bragged about how he collected this and that, and he asked why we didn't have any cheese-type antiques in the shop.” Using her knife to make a point, she said, “I told him in no uncertain terms that we weren't that kind of store. He could hightail it over to Memory Lane Collectibles, if that was what he was in the mood to buy. That shut him up.”

I could just picture her telling off Victor, her narrow chin jutted forward, hands fisted on her hips. At times she reminded me of a spunky alley cat, ready for a fight.

“After a while, he left and went across the street to The Country Kitchen.” Rebecca swiped the air with her knife. “Good riddance.”

“He's not my favorite person, either,” I confided as I added some darling disposable knives to the platter I was creating. Next, I packaged up two boxes of gourmet crackers and napkins to go with each platter. “My first encounter with him was overhearing him talking to a woman on the phone. He called her
babe
.”

“Devon calls me
babe.
”

“Victor said it in a sleazy, full-of-himself way.”

“Oh, you mean like:
Hey, babe,
” Rebecca crooned in a low, gravelly timber.

“Exactly.” I moaned. “Ick.”

“Forget him. Back to the crime scene,” Rebecca said. She could be so single-minded it was scary. “Are you sure someone couldn't have come into and gone out of Lara's room through the window?”

I shook my head. “The paint would have shown cracking. The deputy said it didn't. Urso inspected it, too.”

“Then Erin has to be guilty.”

“Or the housekeeper,” I said, “if she's the only other person with a set of keys.” But why on earth the housekeeper would want Lara Berry dead was beyond me. Why Erin would want Lara dead didn't make sense, either, other than to regain possession of her precious violin.

No, Charlotte. Erin is not a suspect. N-o-t!

“Hey!” Rebecca clacked her knife on the cutting board, interrupting my musings. “Maybe someone made a copy of Lara's key when she wasn't looking.”

“That's not a bad idea.” Why hadn't I thought of it? “For a short while, we thought Lara's purse might have gone missing, except it was found in her room, the key inside it.”

“That doesn't mean the killer didn't borrow the key earlier, make a copy of it, and return it to Lara's purse.” She waved her knife at me. “Which of course would make the murder premeditated.”

“The killer couldn't have made a copy. No one left the property.”

“Maybe the killer brought a key-making machine to the inn.”

“Ha! Funny.”

Rebecca jutted a hip. “Got any better ideas?”

I didn't and twirled a hand for her to continue. “What other theories are pinballing around in that overactive brain of yours?”

“That night, the murderer goes to Lara's room and knocks. Lara invites the killer inside.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she was feeling vulnerable. She needed a friend after the fracas downstairs. The killer offers solace. They have a drink. You said there was wine in the room.”

“There was.”

“The killer”—Rebecca resumed fixing up her platter—“who has planned ahead, if my theory about the key is right, doses Lara's drink with some kind of drug. Lara, already tipsy, gets sleepy and lies down on the bed.”

“She may have been perched on the bed already,” I said. “There was only the one chair.”

“All right,” Rebecca said. “Lara gets drowsy. She leans back. She falls asleep. Once the murderer is certain Lara is out for the count, he . . . or she . . . smothers her and then poses her to make it look like she chose to lie down. The killer exits and, using the previously copied key, locks the door.”

I swallowed hard. “That sounds so reasonable, it's scary.”

Rebecca grinned. “I saw that in a movie. Was it
Dial M for Murder
?” She pursed her lips. “No, not that one. I've watched so many television shows and movies lately, the
storylines are blending together. It doesn't matter. I saw it. All Urso has to do is find out who has a copy of Lara's key.”

I dashed to the telephone and dialed the precinct. When Urso answered, I laid out the theory.

“Already thought of it,” he said in a clipped, official tone.

“You did?”

“Well, not me. Jordan. And Quigley. It seems we have a number of amateur detectives on the case.” I imagined Urso leaning forward, drumming his fingertips on the desk, wanting to say something but practicing restraint.