Clobbered by Camembert (18 page)

“It doesn’t matter.” Rebecca grabbed my hands and guided me in a ring-around-the-rosy dance. “He’s innocent. Ipo’s innocent. I told you, I told you,” she sang.

I broke free and gazed at Tallulah. “Why haven’t you mentioned this to Urso?”

“I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Coming forward with information is never intruding.”

“Point taken.” She paid for her purchases. “I’ll go to the precinct now.”

As she shuffled out with one of our gold totes swinging on her forearm, Amy and Clair sprinted in. With all the people coming and going, it felt like a revolving door had been installed in the shop.

“Aren’t we pretty?” Amy spun in a circle. Her red choir robe fluted out like a toreador’s cape.

Clair copied her. “Don’t we look like professional singers?” Her eyes glittered with pride.

“Very. Where’s Meredith?” The girls had gone on a morning shopping spree with her.

“She had to run.”

“Did she sew the hems of the robes?” I asked. I had planned to take a break and return to the house to finish the job.

“No, Mum did,” Amy said.

“How did she get them?” I had left the robes in the laundry room by my Singer sewing machine and knew I had locked the house after the girls departed with Meredith.

“Um … She let herself in.” Clair nibbled on her lower lip.

“How? She doesn’t have a key.”

“Um … She made a copy of mine,” Clair said. “She was there when we got home.”

“She was what?” I moaned. Sylvie and I would have to have a chat about privacy.

“Uh-oh,” Rebecca said.

“Clair told her not to,” Amy added quickly, always ready to defend her younger-by-a-minute sister. “But you know Mum.”

I did. I was intrigued that the girls were catching on, too.

“By the way, she has some gossip for you,” Amy went on. “She said it had something to do with seeing that Miss Platch … Platt … Plate—”

“Plachette?” I said.

“That’s the one. Mum saw Miss Plachette in the diner talking with an older couple.”

To Sylvie, that could be anyone over forty.

“They were talking about a contract. Mum said they were dressed nicely, but they looked like they were after something.”

That gave me pause. Were they attorneys, hired to help Georgia deal with her mother’s will? Or were they real estate people, interested in following through with the purchase of the Burrell farm and Arlo’s property and whatever other property they could garner?

Amy slipped a sliver of cheese from the platter on the tasting counter, held it to her nose, and inhaled. “What’s this? Smells yummy.”

“Guess,” I said, realizing I had forgotten to set out a nameplate.

She plopped it into her mouth. “Mmm. Savory, slightly crystallized. Piave, from Italy.”

“Good job.”

Amy would make a fine cheese monger one day, if she chose the career.

“Aunt Charlotte,” Clair said. “We left Ragsie playing with Rocket in the backyard. That’s okay, isn’t it?” She looked tentative, as if she couldn’t bear to be told she had done two things wrong in a day. “He’ll use the dog door to get back inside.”

“It’s fine,” I said, though I didn’t know Rags had gotten the hang of the dog door. Maybe having the Briard pup around wasn’t such a bad thing. A creature probably wouldn’t attack Rags with Rocket around, but my fence was short, and almost anything could encroach. Rags, being the scaredy cat that he was, could get spooked. However, not being cooped up in The Cheese Shop office all day might be good for him. I would have to weigh the options.

“Can we go across the street for some hot chocolate?” Amy said.

“Ask Daddy.” Clair hitched her head toward the annex, where Matthew was buffing the wine-tasting counter.

“No. Aunt Charlotte can decide. We’ll come to the tent afterward,” Amy pleaded. “Promise.”

Saturdays weren’t easy for a working parent—I wasn’t theirs but they lived under my roof. I had arranged for the girls to help Tyanne at Le Petit Fromagerie during lunch. They would hand out the souvenir plates. Afterward, they would head to the library to finish their homework, and then meet up with Meredith for a quick dinner before their chorale debut.

“Okay, as long as you stay together,” I said.

They darted out of the shop, hand in hand.

Moments later, Grandmère scurried in. “Emergency!”

I sighed. Was everything going to be a crisis today?

“Your grandfather is making his famous pizza for our theater rehearsal. You know, the hot pepper one.”

“Mrs. O’Leary’s,” Rebecca said. “Named for the woman whose barn caught on fire.”

Pépère loved giving clever names to his creations. Mrs. O’Leary’s pizza was deliciously piquant, with three kinds of peppers, red pepper flakes, garlic, onion, mounds of pork sausage, and Lioni Smoked Mozzarella that was laced with hickory and cherrywood overtones. A beer chaser was needed after every bite of pizza.

Grandmère clucked. “Because we are in rehearsals for
Chicago
, he thought it would be fun to give our actors a Chicago-themed pizza. He is adorable,
non
?”

“Oui
,” I said. “Rebecca, would you fill the order?”

Grandmère gazed at Rebecca and her face turned grave. “How are you,
chérie
?”

“Better,” Rebecca said, “now that we have a new witness.”

“Who?”

Before Rebecca could say Tallulah Barker, Urso pushed open the door and bellowed, “Where’s Jordan?”

CHAPTER

To say my stomach felt like it had jumped on a roller coaster and was doing a loop-de-loop was an understatement. Panic zipped through me. Had Urso found out about Jordan’s past? Had Bozz put two and two together and spilled the beans? Could anyone be trusted with a secret?

I steadied myself by gripping the cheese counter, and in what I was proud to call a level tone, said, “Why do you need Jordan?”

Urso marched across the hardwood floor, offering a quick nod to my grandmother as he passed. “He might have witnessed a crime.”

Eager to contain the conversation, hoping I could control the damage with a private tête-à-tête, I cut around the counter and clenched Urso’s elbow. “Follow me,” I said, pulling him toward the rear exit.

“Where—?”

“Just follow.”

“I will not follow.” He jerked to a stop by the archway leading to the annex and wrenched free. “I’ve got pressing business.”

“U-ey, now is not the time or place to discuss this.”

“Discuss what? All I asked is whether or not you knew where Jordan was.”

“You don’t have to shout,” I said.

“I’m not shouting.”

“You are, too.”

From behind the cheese counter, Rebecca yelled over both of us, “Did you talk to Tallulah Barker, Chief?”

Urso turned toward her, his eyes beady, his nostrils flared. “Should I have?”

“She saw someone charging down the street the night Kaitlyn Clydesdale died.” Rebecca hefted a wheel of Lioni Smoked Mozzarella onto the cutting board. It landed with a thud. “And she also said she could corroborate—”

“Look, Miss Zook—”

“No, you look, Chief.” Rebecca’s voice crescendoed as she lifted a knife and brandished it overhead. “If Tallulah Barker says she saw someone running away from my cottage, it’s important.”

“I’ll get to that,” Urso said, his voice matching hers. “I promise. But right now, I need to find Jordan Pace. He’s not answering his telephone.”

“What’s going on?” Matthew crossed under the archway from the annex, wine bottle and corkscrew in his hands. “Why is everyone yelling?”

“No one’s yelling,” Rebecca shouted.

Matthew smirked. My grandmother seemed mortified. Rebecca set the knife down on the counter and folded her hands into her chest as if in supplication.

Urso said, “Someone stole some ice sculpting tools from the faire. Theo Taylor remembered Jordan passing through the area. He might have seen the thief.”

Tension melted from my shoulders. Urso wasn’t there to haul Jordan to jail for some crime from the past. I had to stop overreacting. On the other hand, our charming town was, yet again, the scene of a crime. Minor—not death—but a crime nonetheless.

“Urso, the other night a thief stole cheese from our tent,” I said. “He attacked me, but he ran off.”

Urso spun to face me. “And you’re just telling me now?”

“I informed security.”

“Someone stole a box of goat cheese from my house, as well.” Rebecca resumed preparing Grandmère’s order. “I wanted to talk to you about that, Chief.”

“What is Providence coming to?” Grandmère said.

“Oh, man.” Urso removed his broad-brimmed hat, scrubbed his hair with his hands, and wedged his hat back on his head. “One crime at a time. This one first.”

Matthew said, “I’ll help you track down Jordan, Chief. Charlotte, any idea where he could be?”

“He said he had meetings scheduled at the farm.”

Matthew handed me the wine and corkscrew and clapped Urso on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll accompany you.” Grandmère turned on her heel.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Bernadette,” Urso said.

“Oui, il est nécessaire.”
She swatted the air. “It is not open for discussion. I am mayor of this fine town. I am going, no argument.” Like a steam engine, she plowed after Matthew and Urso toward the exit.

“By the way, Bernadette, I’ve hired another deputy,” Urso said over his shoulder. “With your approval.”

“Absolument.”

Rebecca flitted after them. “Grandmère. Your cheese.” She held out a gold tote bag. “And Chief, don’t forget to talk to Tallulah Barker.”

“I won’t.”

My grandmother slipped the bag into her crocheted purse and patted Rebecca’s cheek. “If he says he will not, he will not.
Bon courage
.”

I smiled. In the past year my grandmother had done a one-eighty regarding Urso, forgiving him completely for thinking she could have killed someone. Deep down, I felt she wanted to see me end up with Urso and not Jordan.

Urso whipped open the door and let Matthew and Grandmère pass through first. As he started to lumber out, Chip entered, chin tucked in as if bracing against the cold, one hand holding his zippered suede jacket closed. The two butted shoulders. Chip gave Urso a hearty shove, then looked up and recoiled.

Urso grunted his disapproval but pressed on.

“What do you want, Chip?” I said, at my wit’s end from the recent frenetic pace in the shop.

“Yeah, what do you want?” Rebecca echoed.

Chip drew up short, his gaze as hangdog as a scolded puppy’s. He withdrew a plastic-wrapped bouquet of daisies from inside his jacket and offered them to me. “Your favorites.”

They weren’t my favorites anymore, I thought nastily, irritated that he was bringing me flowers, yet again. When would he leave town and take with him all the reminders of our past together? With Kaitlyn Clydesdale dead, he couldn’t have any more business here.

I snatched the flowers and, grumbling thanks beneath my breath, retreated to the counter. I set the daisies as well as the wine and corkscrew that Matthew had handed me beside the cash register, and began wiping down the cutting board and knives with a wet towel. Each swipe felt angry yet justified. Rebecca joined me and grabbed another wet towel. Together, we presented a united front.

Chip sidled to the display barrel in the center of the shop and lifted a package of sourdough crackers. As he examined the box from all angles, he said, “About last night.”

“What about it?” I said.

“I came over to tell you something.” He replaced the crackers, picked up a jar of apple jelly, and put it back. He looked fidgety. His cheek twitched. “Ainsley Smith lied about where he was on the night of the murder. He wasn’t at the hockey game.”

“How do you know that?” I stopped wiping the counter.

Like a wary stray dog, Chip edged closer. “Remember when Ainsley, Lois, and I were in The Cheese Shop the other day? We were talking hockey. Well, Ainsley didn’t mention Lukashenko’s hat trick.”

“What’s a hat trick?” Rebecca asked.

“A single player making three goals in one game,” I explained. “It’s a big deal.”

Rebecca glanced at me. “Mr. Smith said that Luka-what’s-his-name had two goals.”

Chip clicked his tongue. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Maybe it was an oversight.” I resumed wiping.

“No way,” Chip said. “Anybody who had witnessed it would have bragged about it. It doesn’t happen every day. Ainsley wasn’t at that game, babe. He was making up an alibi for that night.”

I frowned. Why was Chip so eager to turn in Lois’s husband? Did he think his good-citizen act would ingratiate himself to me? Jordan didn’t trust Chip. Should I? “Why tell me? Tell Urso.”

“I’m telling you because you were the one who heard Ainsley. You were a witness to the lie. He should have given us a play-by-play. ‘Lukashenko did this. Lukashenko did that.’” Chip grew animated. He pranced in a circle, arms held overhead. “‘Lukashenko scored!’”

“Tell Urso,” I repeated.

Chip stopped his victory dance. “Like he’ll listen to me.”

“Why won’t he?”

“He’s riding me, like old times. Didn’t you see him on the way out of here? He bumped into me on purpose.”

I could’ve sworn it was Chip who had done the bumping, but maybe I had imagined it. Urso had never liked Chip. They had been warriors on the field; warriors for the same girl—me. I had expected Urso to have moved past their history by now. What did he care whether Chip was back in town, unless Chip had made a move on Jacky? Perhaps that was why Urso and Jacky seemed at odds.

“What’s he giving you a hard time about?” I said.

Chip worked his tongue against his cheek. “He asked me where I was when Kaitlyn was killed.”

“He’s asking everybody.”

“I was with Luigi at the pub.” He slipped onto one of the ladder-back chairs at the tasting counter and batted the salamis, which were hanging on a goosenecked hook. The salamis swung to and fro. “Lots of people saw me. Georgia Plachette, for one. She was playing darts. She had a set-to with Luigi.”

I wadded up the wet towel, plopped it on the counter, and gazed hard at him. Why had he felt the need to tell me his alibi? Warning signals flared in my overextended brain. Was Chip having an affair with Georgia? Had corroborating her whereabouts been his real intention in telling me the story? Indict Ainsley and clear Georgia?

Stop it, Charlotte. Jealousy does not become
you!

But I wasn’t jealous, was I? I wanted to solve this crime and clear Ipo. I had made Rebecca a promise. If Urso wasn’t looking in the right direction, I was there to guide him, right? On the other hand, Georgia’s alibi sounded solid. Dozens of people would have seen her at the pub.

I refocused on Chip, wishing he would disappear. From town. From my life. “What was your deal with Kaitlyn?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your contract. What were the stipulations?”

His jaw tensed. He blew an angry stream of air through his nose. “I see how it is.”

“How what is?”

“I had no motive to kill her, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m not—”

“Sure, you are.” He slipped off the chair and started to pace in front of the counter. “Look, I only prospered with her alive. If you don’t believe me—” He jammed a hand inside his jacket and pulled a folded set of papers from a pocket. He snapped the papers in the air. “Would you like to review my contract? Huh?”

“Stop that.”

“Sheesh, Charlotte.” He hurled the papers on top of the flowers and wine that were sitting beside the register, then made a U-turn and stomped toward the exit. At the door, he pivoted. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

As the door slammed, Rebecca swooped up the contract and scanned it. “He’s telling the truth. Like the Burrells, his contract is null and void now that Kaitlyn Clydesdale is dead.”

What law school did she attend?
I thought snarkily, but bit back the comment because Chip’s contract wasn’t what was worrying me. Neither was his angry outburst. I had witnessed him blow before. He would calm down. But seeing him passionate enough to track me down—not only at my grandparents’ house but at The Cheese Shop, as well—made me think again of his objective. He had wanted me to focus my suspicions on Ainsley Smith. Ainsley hadn’t attended that hockey game, or if he had, he hadn’t stayed for the whole thing. So where had he gone?

A notion zipped into my mind. What if Ainsley had been Kaitlyn’s lover? He was married. What if Kaitlyn had wanted to proclaim her love to the world, as I had reasoned before? Ainsley could have become angry. He might have followed her to Rebecca’s. He could have lashed out as a warning to keep quiet. And the rest was history.