As Gouda as Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

regulars for interrupting. “Violet saw Jawbone Jones tear off in his truck. He headed north. She wasn’t sure, but he might have been chasing your uncle. You said Tim wanted to talk to Urso. Maybe he drove to Pace Hill Farm. That’s where Urso is. At Jordan’s bachelor party.”

CHAPTER

    O’Shea raced out of the pub and nearly flew to the precinct parking lot. I made it into the passenger seat of his SUV seconds before he tore off. As he zoomed toward the farmland in the north part of the county, I pulled my cell phone from my purse. Following the first wild turn, I was forced to grab the bar above the passenger side window. So much for being able to dial Urso. Where had the deputy learned to drive that way? Had he trained with NASCAR racers, or had the academy taught him the skill? His teeth looked cemented together.
    â€œDeputy, please slow down.”
    â€œRoads are dry.”
    â€œWe can barely see the pavement.” The sky was pitch-black. There was no moon. The pastoral areas beyond the town’s main roads weren’t lined with street lamps. “All it takes is a patch of ice kicked up by one of the sleighs to make us spin out.”
    â€œDon’t worry.”
    Easy for him to say. My fingers were tingling from gripping the bar. I didn’t dare let go.
    We rounded the bend by Windmill Crest. The ancient windmill at the top was doing its level best to fight off a blustery wind. A Camaro whizzed past us. I couldn’t see the driver’s face, but I recognized the car. Its owner was a young man who worked at Providence Pâtisserie and often delivered the bread we purchased. Right after he zoomed past, we came upon a sleigh moving along the side of the road, just beyond the buildup of old snow.
    â€œDo you see the sleigh, Devon?” Saying his name made me think of the bachelorette party and the way the girls had hooted after uttering his name. How long ago that seemed.
    â€œI’m not blind.”
    He slowed ever so slightly as he passed the sleigh and then resumed speed. I glanced back. The couple, draped in blankets and lit by the glow of hurricane candles mounted on either side of the driver, looked happy and totally oblivious to our plight. If only I was riding in a sleigh with Jordan and not a partner on this wild adventure.
    â€œThere’s the Bozzuto Winery,” I said. Torchlights lit the winding road that led to the winery. It looked so inviting. All week long, expressly for the Lovers Trail festivities, the winery was having a wine tasting, twice daily and once nightly. “Pace Hill is beyond.”
    â€œI know,” he grumbled.
    Don’t shoot the messenger, I thought.
    Pace Hill Farm is an artisanal farm that raises its own cows and turns out about eighty thousand pounds of cheese a year. Seasonally, tourists are encouraged to walk the hiking trails and visit the cheese-making facility. On a typical day in spring, the drive to Pace Hill Farm would have taken us through brilliant green swales and knolls dotted with oak. We would have smelled the sweet aroma of grass wafting through the open windows of the SUV, but today, following a week of snow and temperatures hovering in the teens, all we smelled was the car’s interior, and all we saw were white hills and dales framed by the dark of night.
    The deputy hit the brakes and made a sharp turn onto the road leading to the farm.
    â€œWhat if your uncle didn’t come here?” I asked. “What if he thought better about whatever he was setting out to do and went home? We should have gone there first.”
    â€œBut we didn’t. We’re here.”
    â€œI’ll try to call him.”
    â€œHis cell phone glitched out. Don’t you remember?” Venom filled the deputy’s tone.
    I refused to buckle. “What’s his home number?”
    O’Shea rattled it off. I dared to release my hold on the overhead bar and dialed Tim’s number, but it