As Gouda as Dead by Avery Aames Page A

At the end of
Love Letters
, the lifelong friends do not wind up together. The bad decisions they make throughout their lives destroy all possibility of a future for them together.
    â€œYou must come to auditions tonight,” Grandmère said. “It will boost your spirit.”
    â€œThe auditions are tonight?” Rebecca sounded gleeful.
    â€œ
Oui
. We moved them up a week. Why?”
    â€œBecause I want to audition.”
    â€œ
Mais bien sûr
. We would love to have you.” Grandmère winked at me. “We have a budding actress in our midst.”
    â€œMore like a budding ham,” I teased.
    Urso entered the shop, removing his hat as he did. “Ladies.”
    Deputy O’Shea trailed him. He looked glum; there was no spark in his gait. Why would there be? I ached at the sight of him. I could tell by the way Rebecca was clutching her arms that she felt the same. I was sure she wanted to comfort him, but now was not the time, not when he was so brittle that he might crack, and certainly not in front of his boss.
    â€œHello, chief. Hello, deputy,” Grandmère said, eyeing them as if they were prey. “You could not have arrived at a more opportune moment. I was telling Rebecca and my granddaughter that we are holding auditions at the playhouse tonight. Both of you should audition.”
    â€œNo, thank you, Bernadette,” Urso said. “I told you before that I’m not an actor. Besides, I have an investigation to conduct. Now, my deputy on the other hand—”
    â€œNo, sir,” Deputy O’Shea said curtly.
    â€œI have removed you from the case, young man.”
    I bit back a smile. Young man. Urso barely had five years on his deputy.
    â€œYou’ve got to do something to keep your mind in gear,” he continued.
    Deputy O’Shea looked as chastised as a wayward puppy. “But, sir—”
    â€œI will not change my mind. That’s the end of it. A family member does not work a case.”
    â€œAnd a best friend does?”
    Urso scowled.
    â€œDeputy Rodham’s wife is due,” O’Shea added.
    â€œAnd I’ll
make
do. Got me?”
    Rebecca said, “Actually, Mrs. Rodham is on her way to the delivery room right now.” She gestured toward the exit. “That last customer told me.”
    â€œSir,” O’Shea said.
    â€œNo. Rodham will be back on duty in less than twenty-four hours.” Urso ended the discussion by spinning around and peering at the selection of sandwiches in the case. On any given day, we put together a few dozen of them. “Charlotte, I’ll take the six-inch soppressata with Jarlsburg, spicy mustard, and pepperoncinis.”
    â€œNot the foot-long?”
    â€œI’m on a diet.” He patted his stomach. I could tell he was lying. He probably didn’t have any appetite but knew he had to force something down to keep up his strength.
    â€œDo you want anything, deputy?” I asked.
    â€œThe same,” he said, sounding defeated.
    Grandmère tapped his elbow. “I look forward to having you audition.”
    The deputy shrugged.
    A grave silence fell upon all of us.
    I removed the sandwiches from the display case and sliced each in half on a diagonal, then I wrapped them in our specialty paper as I would a present, folding the ends and sealing them with our logo stickers.
    Grandmère broke the awkward moment. “Might I ask what is going on with the investigation, Chief Urso?”
    â€œWe have no clue who killed Timothy O’Shea, ma’am,” Urso said in a no-nonsense manner, the chief of police politely responding to a question put to him by the mayor. “Or why. So far, I can’t find anyone that holds a grudge against him. I’ve questioned everyone who was at the pub. A few contend that Tim raced off in his truck.”
    â€œYou have one suspect,” I said. “Jawbone Jones. Also, Dottie Pfeiffer suggested that Councilwoman