As Gouda as Dead by Avery Aames

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.
    â€œRay, 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?
    â€œNeed some help, Dottie?” I asked.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œI’m sure he’ll devour them.”
    â€œRay, fetch me a set of waxed pastry bags, would you? I’m fresh out. That darned Zach.”
    â€œWhere is he?” I said.
    â€œHe quit on me, the thankless, no good—”
    Ray returned and muttered something that sounded like
lying thief.
    â€œNow, 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 . . .”
    â€œRay, 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?”
    â€œNo.” I didn’t think it was