As Gouda as Dead by Avery Aames Page B

“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.”
    â€œI thought the same thing, except she was at the pub. With Paige. No matter what, perhaps you should question Jawbone again.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œIf you’d like me to accompany you—”
    â€œNo. 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.”
    â€œReally?” 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.
    â€œWith Tim murdered at the site . . .” I licked my lips. “A wedding on Jordan’s farm didn’t feel right.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou do that.”
    O’Shea disappeared and I said to Urso, “I’m worried about him. He looks frail. Has he eaten anything?”
    â€œI’m watching out for him.”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œOverjoyed.”
    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.”
    â€œCan 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.
    â€œI have.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œI’m staying here.”
    â€œYou 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—”
    â€œI 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?
    â€œGot a hot date?” I teased.
    â€œMaybe.”
    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