As Gouda as Dead by Avery Aames Read Free Book Online Page A

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?”
    â€œI don’t know yet, but—”
    â€œCharlotte, 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.
    â€œWhat are you still doing here, Charlotte?” he asked.
    â€œI came with Deputy O’Shea.”
    â€œI’ll get you a ride back to town.”
    â€œNo. Listen.” I touched his sleeve. “I don’t mean to overstep. I know you’ve looked for tire tracks and footprints by the truck.”
    â€œThere’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.”
    â€œRight.” 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.”
    â€œThe killer must have considered that. The linoleum was mopped clean.”
    â€œAre you kidding? While everyone was here at the party?”
    â€œPretty bold, I know.”
    â€œUrso, Tim said he saw something. What if he saw the guy—”
    â€œThe
guy
?” Urso’s mouth twitched. “Charlotte, usually you’re an equal opportunity amateur sleuth. A murderer can be a he or a she.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhat we have to find out is what Tim saw.”
    â€œWe—”
    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