Clobbered by Camembert (12 page)

The intruder cut around the buffet and dove at me. The attack was so forceful that I pitched forward. I hit the fake green grass floor with both palms, but from the narrow position behind the counter, I couldn’t scramble to my feet. My one route of escape was through the legs of the table. I crawled as fast as I could, bumping my head and then my tailbone.

The attacker didn’t pursue me. Didn’t grasp my ankles. I heard footsteps slapping the fake grass floor, followed by the clackety-clack of the door. Had he fled?

I scooted from beneath the table and saw the tent was empty. I raced to the window. I didn’t see any sign of the thief. He was fast, I had to give him that.

The door squealed open again.

Heart hammering, I turned, hands raised to defend myself.

Jordan drew to a halt, arms held high. A halo of light outlined his rugged frame. “It’s just me. Are you okay? I heard you scream.”

He had heard my pitiful appeal? Let’s hear it for superhuman hearing.

“I’m fine. A thief—”

“Where?”

“He ran that way.” I pointed at the door.

Jordan sprinted out.

By the time I was able to switch on the lights inside the tent, Jordan returned, frowning. “I didn’t see anyone running.”

I sighed. “He probably decided it was safer to blend into the crowd.”

“Who was it?” He gripped my arms. “Did you get a good look?”

“He was wearing a ski mask.” I thought of Arlo, an admitted thief. Before leaving his house, he could have tucked a ski mask in the pocket of his black peacoat. Had he escaped police custody? Had Urso let him go? Granted, the intruder had looked bigger and broader than Arlo, but I had learned in the too-recent past that fear could warp all sense of dimension. I also pictured Oscar Carson, who I had pinned to the ground the other night. He was about the right size. I told Jordan.

He offered a wry grin. “It wasn’t Oscar. I saw him outside watching Mr. Nakamura put the finishing touches on his ice sculpture. Do you think it could have been random? There are a lot of tourists roaming about. What did he take?”

“Cheese. He rooted through the cooler.”

The top of the cooler hung open. I peered inside. The cartons of cheese were jumbled. I couldn’t tell what was missing.

“Maybe he wanted to increase his calcium intake.”

“Very funny.”

Jordan tucked a hair behind my ear, then traced his finger along my jaw. “Just making sure he didn’t take off with your sense of humor, sweetheart.” He wrapped his arms around me.

“Why would anyone risk robbing one of the tents?” I asked. “There are guards roaming the area, around the clock.”

“He saw an opportunity and took it.”

“I should tell Urso.”

“I wouldn’t bother him. He’s got a lot on his plate. Inform security.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

Jordan chuckled. “I doubt it. You probably scared him more than he scared you.”

That might have been true of a mouse, but I wasn’t so sure about a thief.

Jordan drew me in tighter. “Look, whether you’re ready to accept it or not, the world is changing. Providence is changing.”

“Don’t say that.” I loved our town, loved the small-town feel, and the fact that most everybody knew and liked everybody else.

“It’s expanding, and with growth …” Jordan let the sentence hang and kissed my forehead. “People are not as good as you believe them to be.”

A shiver ran through me. Was Jordan one of those people? I pressed away from him. “Speaking of which, you told me something the other day.”

He quirked a grin. “That I love and adore you?”

“That you were taught how to make cheese by a cheese maker named Jeremy Montgomery.”

Jordan’s face grew quiet.

“He died before you were born,” I said.

His expression didn’t change. He wasn’t outraged. He was, in a word, calm. Deadly calm. I wanted to pound his chest. How could he be so composed when my insides were as squishy as an overripe cheese?

“Are you checking up on me?”

“Not me … Meredith …” I swallowed hard, felt my cheeks flush. “She asked how you learned to make cheese, so I told her, and she was intrigued and did a Google search, and …” No matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to get out from under this kettle of glop.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice throaty.

“I do. I want to. But I need to know everything about you. Everything.” I drew in a deep breath and let it out. A spent balloon couldn’t feel more limp. “I promise I won’t tell anybody anything you reveal to me. I know you’re worried about Jacky’s husband coming after her.” Jacky’s husband had abused her. With Jordan’s help, Jacky had moved from New Jersey and changed her identity.

“Jacky’s husband will never come to Providence,” Jordan said.

How could he be so sure?

Jordan ran his fingers down my arms and took hold of my hands. “I’ll bet Meredith looked up the wrong Jeremy Montgomery. Have her try Jeremy K. Montgomery.”

“K?”

“For Kenneth. I didn’t lie. I was a teen when I learned to make cheese. J.K. was Jeremy’s son.”

At that moment, Jacky burst into the tent, her infant strapped to her chest in a BabyBjörn pack. “Jordan, thank God you’re here.” She looked pale, her lustrous brown hair windblown. “My car broke down. Cecily and I need a ride. She has a high fever. The doc is way the heck out on the Emerald Pastures farm.”

Jordan looked at me for permission. I said, “Go.”

He kissed me goodbye, then flew with Jacky and the baby into the night.

CHAPTER

Life can be fortuitous, or it can smack you upside the head with bad timing. The more I thought about how quickly Jordan had fled Le Petit Fromagerie, the more upset I got. I know, I know. I gave him permission to go, but I felt stretched as thin as taffy and I wanted answers. Real answers, not simply another clue. Was he worried that if he told me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth that I would blab? I wasn’t that kind of person. That was Sylvie and a whole bunch of other people, but not me.

“Jordan Pace, you’re going to tell me about your past or else,” I muttered.
Or else
sounded so silly. Would I walk away from him? To what? When I was a senior in high school, I had threatened Chip with an
or else
. Either he attended OSU with me
or else
. He said he wouldn’t, but at the last minute—thanks to a full scholarship—he switched. What if he hadn’t? Would I have ended our relationship? Would I have taken an entirely different path in life?

Not eager to rehash my life’s decisions, I closed up the tent, described the petty thief to security so they could be on the alert, and hustled back to The Cheese Shop. I turned on lights as I went, first to the kitchen for a snack and then to the office.

Rags leaped from the office chair and bounded to my side. He nudged my calves with his head and did a little samba.

“No, I didn’t forget you, fella. I’d planned to get here earlier, but life came at me fast.” I sighed and recited a line from a Robert Burns’ poem. “‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
gang aft agley
.’”

Rags meowed, as if in agreement.

I set my plate of green apple slices and Pace Hill Farm Gouda—a tribute to the task at hand—on the desk, nestled into the office chair, and patted my thigh. “Up!”

Rags hunkered down and sprang into my lap. Before he settled in, he stared at the Gouda. I broke off a teensy corner. He licked it from my fingers, padded in a circle until he found the right spot, and tucked himself into a coil.

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” After pairing a piece of cheese with apple and popping it into my mouth, I woke up my computer with a quick press of a key and clacked the keyboard with my fingertips. Using Google, I searched for Jeremy Montgomery, middle initial K for Kenneth. There were more than two hundred thousand possibilities, and none on the first page looked to be a perfect match. I moaned, wishing mysteries were easier to solve.

Jeremy Kostura was a ditch digger from Montgomery County. Jeremy L. Montgomery was an attorney at law. Duncan K. Montgomery had served in the Civil War. Jeremy G. Montgomery was a player on the K (for Kansas University) football squad.

Go team.

I added
Britain
to my search and the word
cheese
, but only the deceased Jeremy Montgomery’s name came up. No sons were mentioned.

A heavy feeling of foreboding engulfed me. Was Jordan lying to protect me? His sister had been married to a bad man. What if Jordan had been associated with a bad man? He said Jacky’s husband would never find her. Was that because he was dead? How else could Jordan be sure that the man wouldn’t come calling?

I banged my hand on the desktop. “Rats, rats, rats!”

Rags’s head popped to attention.

“Sorry, fella. Not you.” I sighed. How could I explain to my sweet pet that the words rats and Rags were not the same? I scruffed his ears to help him fall back to sleep and tried one more search, only this time I entered:
Kenneth Montgomery
, thinking perhaps this elusive cheese maker didn’t use his first name.

As before, lots of possibilities emerged. An entry halfway down the third page of results caught my eye. J. Kenneth Montgomery was the name of a protagonist in a novel. Montgomery’s occupation:
international
spy
.

I leaned back in my chair, ideas exploding in my brain like fireworks. Had Jordan expected me to stumble upon this name? Was he trying to reveal that he was a spy?

Oh, please, Charlotte, be realistic. Jordan is no Jason Bourne. He’s a cheese farmer. An affineur. A spy doesn’t learn the art of affinage. There’s got to be some other explanation.

But I couldn’t fathom what it was.

* * *

The next morning, while I stood behind the cheese counter and laid out a selection of cheeses for the afternoon tasting class, I sorted through my feelings about last night’s discovery. If Jordan was a spy, could I live with that? What if he had killed someone in the line of duty?

I called him on the telephone, but he didn’t answer. He was probably making his morning rounds on the farm. There was always so much to do: milk the cows, check the temperatures on the cheese caves, and ensure that the apparatuses used to rotate the cheeses were in good operating order. I left a message for him to return my call and hung up.

To quell the pent-up anxiety peppering my system, I went looking for my cousin. I needed someone sane to talk to, but Matthew wasn’t in the wine annex. I glanced at Rebecca in the kitchen, who was hovering beside her boyfriend, Ipo, as he unloaded jars of honey from a box. Now was not the time to burden her with my troubles. But it was time to get to work.

“Rebecca, let’s get a move on,” I said.

She blew Ipo a kiss and joined me at the cheese counter. Standing together, we looked like a team—she in her ivory shawl-necked sweater and slim black trousers, I in my ecru V-neck and slate chinos.

“Perhaps we should start checking with each other regarding our wardrobe,” I said. “I don’t want anyone to think we have a uniform policy.”

“Just good taste,” she quipped.

“Grab that marble tray with the silver handles,” I said. “Lay out a wedge of Tilsiter on it.” The soft yellow, semi-hard cow’s cheese with Prussian origins would look good against the black. “Let’s add the Brebirousse D’Argental.”

She cocked her head, not following.

“You know, the sheep’s cheese with the orange rind and milky goodness. And add that Alabama Fromagerie Belle goat’s cheese. Then let’s set out a jar of raspberry jam and lay a couple of jewel-handled spreaders in the middle.” I glanced behind me. “Do we have any of the Providence Patisserie sourdough bread?”

“Yes.” She fetched a baguette.

“Perfect. Slice it thin and toss the slices into this basket.” I placed a gold napkin into a shallow, square basket and flipped the corners of the napkin over the edges. Easy but elegant. “When the tasting is over, we’re off to the tent. Tyanne is already there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for—” Rebecca gasped and pointed. “What’s he doing here?”

Urso lumbered into the shop, a deep crease forged between his eyebrows. He said, “Where’s Ipo Ho?”

I looked toward the kitchen. Urso didn’t wait for an invitation. He strode between the display barrels, around the cheese counter, toward the rear of the shop, and into the kitchen.

Rebecca said, “Oh, no. He’s going to arrest Ipo.” She scuttled after him. I followed.

“Ipo Ho.” Urso advanced.

Ipo backed into the doublewide refrigerator. If he wasn’t guilty, he sure looked it.

Undaunted, Rebecca wiggled herself between the man she loved and the man who wanted to incarcerate him and tilted her chin upward. “Why are you here, Chief? What are you doing about Arlo MacMillan? Have you investigated him? Is he guilty?”

“Miss Zook, please step aside.”

“I asked you a question.”

“No, you asked me four.”

“Getting technical, are we?”

Urso jammed his hands into his pockets, trying to look as casual as he could, but he didn’t fool me. He was on to something. “I’m investigating everyone I think has motive at this point, okay? Arlo, included.”

“Then why are you here?” Rebecca demanded. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, and you’ve already asked Ipo everything but his suit size.”

“I have one more question for him.”

“Like what?”

Urso prodded Rebecca to one side and addressed Ipo. “Where are your pu’ili sticks, Mr. Ho?”

“His what?” Rebecca looked blank.

Ipo gazed to the right, toward the kitchen’s exit. Was he thinking about bolting?
Don’t be a fool,
I silently urged him. As if picking up my message, he settled his shoulders and raised his head proudly. His guilty mien melted away. “Pu’ili sticks,” he said to Rebecca. “They’re luau instruments, too, about twenty inches long with one end uncut and the rest split into thin strips. They make a shaking-rattling sound when slapped against the body.”

“I’ve seen those,” Rebecca said.

Urso said, “You have?”

“In an episode of
Hawaii Five-O.
They were having this party, and—”

“Miss Zook, please be quiet. Where are they, Mr. Ho?”

Rebecca looked to me for help.

I moved closer. “Chief, I thought you said a kala’au rod was the weapon used to knock down Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

“We’ve changed our minds.”

“You and who, the coroner?”

Urso gave a curt nod. “He found bamboo fibers lodged in Miss Clydesdale’s neck. Bamboo fibers like those found in pu’ili sticks.”

“A pu’ili stick is hardly strong enough to use as a weapon,” I said.

Urso focused the brunt of his gaze on me. “Ipo could have had the stick in his hand and struck her with one end.” He showed us the swift move. “Miss Clydesdale would have stumbled backward and hit her head.” He eyed Ipo. “Is that what happened? Were you serenading Miss Zook?”

“No!” Rebecca mewled like a wounded cat.

Ipo wrapped his arm around her. “Shhh. It’s all right.” He addressed Urso. “Chief, you know I didn’t do this, but if you want to see the sticks, I can show you. They should be in a storage box in my attic.”

“You already showed me—”

“Not that storage box,” Ipo said, his voice steady. “Another one. Half of the instruments belonged to my father’s family. The other half to my mother’s. Theirs was not an approved marriage. In their honor, I have never mixed any of their heritage. I have two separate storage boxes. My mother’s—”

“Let’s go.” Urso headed out of the shop.

Ipo offered a supportive glance to Rebecca and followed Urso.

A thick silence hung in the air after their departure.

“C’mon,” I said to Rebecca. “Back to work.” I strode to the cheese counter and did a mental inventory of what I needed to reorder.

Rebecca trotted after me. “Charlotte.” She clutched her hands in front of herself, begging with more sincerity than any penitent. “Do something. He’s not guilty.”

“Charlotte!” Sylvie barged into the shop.

Prudence Hart hurried in behind her. Both wore horrid thigh-length coats, neither of which went well with the women’s skin tone. Prudence’s was speckled orange, Sylvie’s oxblood red. How they ever convinced themselves that they were fashionistas was beyond me.

Sylvie said, “Wait’ll you hear—”

“Don’t listen to her, Charlotte,” Prudence said.

“Charlotte,” Rebecca whispered.

I petted her cheek. “Get back to work on the platters. I’ll follow up with Urso. Promise. We’ll figure this out.”

Prudence stomped her foot. “She’s been telling everybody that Georgia Plachette said Kaitlyn Clydesdale was not a nice person.”

“But Georgia
is
telling people that,” Sylvie said. “I heard her with my own ears.”

I moaned. I had felt stretched as thin as taffy before, but now I felt like a frayed rubber band ready to snap. I whirled on Sylvie and Prudence and jabbed my finger. “Stop it. Both of you.” I weaved past them to the cheese counter and resumed my slicing.

“Kaitlyn was a wonderful woman,” Prudence said, heedless of my warning.

“You’re only saying that because she came through with a donation to the historical museum.” Sylvie folded her arms across her ample chest. “Money, money, money. Is that all you ever think about?”

I looked at her askance. Like she didn’t?

“But Kaitlyn didn’t come through.” Prudence’s face turned sour.

“She didn’t?” I said.

“No, not for the museum or for the theater.”

“Ha!” Sylvie spread her arms wide. “You see? She wasn’t a nice woman.”

“She died too soon,” Prudence snapped.

“Oh, please. Why are you defending her?” Sylvie rubbed her thumb and forefinger together like a moneylender. “Now you’ll have to wheedle your precious cash from Georgia Plachette, and don’t think that’ll happen anytime soon, love. She’s as tight as the Queen Mother.”

“Psst.” Rebecca tapped my forearm with the flat blade of her carving knife and leaned in for a private conversation. “Maybe we should check out Georgia. Maybe she’ll benefit from Kaitlyn’s death. You know, the CFO takes over or manages the estate or something like that? It could be worth a lot of money to her. Remember how cagey she was when you were questioning her the other day?”

“But how would she have known about Ipo’s pu’ili sticks?” I sighed, wishing Kaitlyn Clydesdale had never come to town and life could return to normal, but then I mentally kicked myself for having such a selfish thought. The woman was dead. No matter how mean she had been, she hadn’t deserved that fate.

“Please, Charlotte, question her.” Rebecca’s voice cracked. “Please.”