Clobbered by Camembert (23 page)

CHAPTER

While we were in the pub, a light snow had started to fall outside. Now, a thin layer decorated the ground. Flakes dusted my face as Tyanne and I sprinted through the Winter Wonderland tents. I dialed Urso to tell him about the new information on the Burrells. When he didn’t answer, I followed with a call to the precinct. The clerk said she wasn’t sure she could reach him. He was indisposed.
Indisposed
, I wanted to shout; he was with Jacky. If I wished, the clerk said she would patch me through to one of the deputies, both of whom were on non-urgent calls.

“Sugar, hear that?” Tyanne said. “The recital’s starting. We might better get a move on.”

The lilting strains of a piano sonata that my grandmother had written to herald the start of the recital filtered through the faire’s speakers.

Not wanting to arrive late to the songfest, I left a message for Urso or one of his deputies to call me, and dashed ahead.

The recital “hall” was housed in an oversized tent with a gaping entrance and white poles that held up the center peak. Rows of polished wooden benches, set in graceful arcs, faced a stage that was thirty feet wide. On the stage there was a three-tiered semicircle where the girls would stand. A combo band, consisting of an electric piano, guitar, and drums, was wedged into a tiny spot on the right of the stage.

Dusting snowflakes off my face, I hurried to the buffet that was set up against the tent wall. Tyanne followed. Grandmère trundled around the table, setting out napkins, forks, and shimmery blue paper plates. Pépère poured plastic cups of his spiced cider and set them in lines.

I pecked my grandmother hello. “The song you wrote is lovely, and the food looks yummy, Grandmère.” I reached for a cider, but she thwacked my hand.

“Shoo. No eating or drinking until after.”

“Spoilsport.”

She clucked her delight.

The table was laden with a variety of dishes. Fromagerie Bessette had supplied the pepperoni-apple quiches. Providence Patisserie had provided breads and pastries. Other locals had made casseroles and an assortment of appetizers.

“By the way,” I said, “did you catch the thief?”

“No, but Urso said not to worry. He has an idea who it is.” She touched my cheek. “You’re perspiring,
chérie
. Are you all right?”

“Tyanne and I ran the whole way here.” I spotted a sign in front of a Crock-Pot that read:
Tyanne’s Creole Casserole
, and I turned to her. “When did you have time?”

“This morning.” She twirled a finger. “Slow cookers make everything so easy. Plop the items in and switch on the heat. It’s my mama’s recipe.”

I gave her a knowing look. She had arrived at The Cheese Shop before eight, which meant she had to have made the casserole at the crack of dawn. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

She shook her head. “I will soon.”

I drank in the scent of sausages, onions, and spices, and my stomach grumbled. Silly, I know. After eating the ciabatta appetizer at the pub, I shouldn’t have been hungry in the least, but tasty aromas always stirred my taste buds.

“Oh, there are my kids.” Tyanne waved to her children. “Thomas. Tisha. Mama’s—” She halted and dropped her arm to her side when her husband emerged through the tent opening with his Lolita-esque girlfriend.

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.

“Fine, sugar.” Like a steel magnolia, Tyanne shook off any sign of distress and pasted on a big smile. “My little darlings need me to be a good role model. Don’t you agree?” She squeezed my arm for support, whispered, “Thanks,” and then she zigzagged through the crowd toward her children.

I admired how resilient she was. Theo would have to watch out for himself in divorce court.

“Charlotte!” Matthew called. He sat at the center of the third row of benches, flanked by Meredith and Sylvie. Their coats were piled on the bench beyond Meredith.

Sylvie, still clad in her ridiculous antebellum outfit, said, “I’ve saved you a seat right next to me, Charlotte.”

Oh, lucky day.

I scooted down the aisle. As I settled into my spot, Sylvie handed me a program. I read the list of songs that the girls would be singing and recognized many from my youth. “Meredith, did you see?” I leaned around Sylvie and pointed at a title on the program.

Meredith snickered. “Hope they can make it all the way through.” She was referring to an incident from our past.

Matthew made a face, letting me know that he remembered the event. When Meredith and I were slightly older than the twins, we had sung in the Winter Wonderland chorus. Meredith was notorious for making me laugh at the most inconvenient times. For one rousing rendition of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”—a song the twins were going to sing—I had been given a solo. During my moment in the sun, Meredith, who was standing beside me, repeatedly cleared her throat, pretending she had a frog in it—imitating me, of course. I could have clocked her. Luckily neither of the twins had solos. I could only imagine what precocious Amy would have done to Clair—or vice versa.

I chuckled to myself and continued reading.

“By the way, what are you wearing, Charlotte?” Sylvie plucked the sleeve of my tweed jacket. “How
tres passé
.”

“Actually, I purchased it recently.” I wasn’t lying. I had found the jacket at a secondhand store in Columbus that specialized in businesswomen’s attire. I liked the neutral tone, the wing collar, and the one-button front.

“What is fashion coming to?” Sylvie sniffed. “You and Prudence Hart have a lot to learn. Speaking of Prudence, she’s so mad at your grandmother about starting a Do-Gooder chapter without inviting her. I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end—”

“Shhh. The recital is starting.”

A dozen girls in scarlet robes trotted onto the stage and formed two lines.

“There are our babies, Matthew. Amy! Clair!” Sylvie rose from the bench and waved her arms like she was guiding in a 747 airplane.

Matthew looked like he wanted to disappear into the fake green grass flooring.

The conductor, none other than my friend Octavia, strode in front of the chorale. She swept back the folds of her chorale robe and, facing the audience, took a brief bow. Then she pivoted, brushed her cornrow braids over her shoulder, and struck a baton on the music stand. The musicians began and the chorus launched into a breezy version of “Let It Snow” followed by “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” “She Loves You,” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

In between the fourth and fifth songs, Sylvie said, “Like I was saying, Prudence is so mad—”

I flicked her hoopskirt. “Sylvie, please. Wait until the songfest is over.”

“I’m simply saying that your grandmother had better watch her backside. You never know when someone like Prudence might thwack her with one of those … those”—she flicked her finger toward the stage—“batons.”

I followed to where she pointed and a shiver wriggled up the back of my neck as Octavia raised one hand overhead to hold the girls in a vocal pause. In her other hand, she poised the baton, ready for the downbeat. The image made me think of the weapon that was used to fell Kaitlyn Clydesdale. Had she seen the attack coming or had she been taken by surprise? Had she arrived at Rebecca’s cottage to argue with Ipo, only to find that someone had followed her? Whoever it was had arrived with the pu’ili stick in hand. Was it Arlo, trying to keep her from telling the world about his kleptomania? Or Oscar, who had wanted to be released from his employment contract? Or her daughter, Georgia, who stood to inherit cash and possibly control of Clydesdale Enterprises? I wouldn’t rule out Barton Burrell either, despite Quigley’s assertion that Barton had not one but two alibis that might stand up in court. Barton’s real estate contract bound him to sell, and Emma wanted to nullify it. And then there was the rumored affair—

“O-o-o-oh.” The chorus of girls held a long note, drawing me back to the moment at hand, and then they broke into a bubbly version of “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.”

As they headed into the second verse, Sylvie whispered, “You know, I was a great singer when I was young. I started a band. We called it Spicy Chicks.”

I whispered, “Shhh.”

“When the Spice Girls stole the name and became famous, I was ready to wreak bloody havoc on them. I was so jealous.”

Another theory about Kaitlyn’s death invaded my thoughts. Was jealousy the reason for the attack? I didn’t believe Lois had hurt Kaitlyn. Though she was upset now, she had a backbone of iron. She wouldn’t have let Ainsley’s momentary fling with Kaitlyn drive her to violence. Had some other wife lashed out? Emma Burrell, perhaps?

The girls finished singing, and Octavia turned to the crowd.

“For our finale …” Octavia spread her arms and beckoned us all to stand and join in the singing of “America, the Beautiful,” one of my all-time favorite songs. The lyric about amber waves of grain perfectly depicted the hills of Ohio in autumn.

When the song ended, the audience cheered. The applause died out and folks started to filter from the benches toward the buffet.

Sylvie trailed me like a shadow, chattering about her failed musical career. Matthew and Meredith followed.

“Sylvie Bessette!” Prudence plowed into the tent.

Everyone turned to stare.

“Aha. There you are.” Prudence charged through the crowd, her arms pumping like pistons. “How dare you.”

Matthew moaned. “What did you do now, Sylvie?”

“Nothing,” Sylvie replied, but I saw amusement in her eyes. She had done something, all right. On purpose.

“You have crossed the line.” Prudence reached the buffet, plucked a handful of canapés, and without an ounce of hesitation, hurled.

Canapés pelted Sylvie in the face and chest. One slipped down her lacy cleavage.

Sylvie plucked it out, dropped it on the ground, then winked at me. Before I could stop her, she grabbed a pepperoni-apple quiche and raced at Prudence. With the precision of a slapstick clown, Sylvie planted the quiche in Prudence’s face. For extra effect, she twisted it a quarter-turn.

My grandfather looked shocked. Grandmère couldn’t hide her glee. I gave her a stern look. She flitted a wrist, pooh-poohing me.

“Why you—” Prudence scooped the quiche custard off her face and flung the goop to the ground. “I’ll have you know that my dress shop is not under investigation for infestation.”

Oh, my. Rumors heaped upon more rumors.

“Whoever would have suggested such a thing?” Sylvie countered.

“I know it was you,” Prudence yelled.

“Liar!”

“Slut!” Prudence grasped Sylvie’s bodice and yanked.

Sylvie thwacked Prudence’s hands with her lace fan and snapped her jaw as if she meant to bite.

“Enough. Stop it, both of you.” I grabbed Sylvie’s shoulders and, tugging with all my might, pried her away.

Matthew and Meredith reined in Prudence.

“I’ll take you to court, Sylvie Bessette,” Prudence said, struggling to get free.

“Not before I see your dreadful boutique fold, you cow.” Sylvie broke free of me, swooped her antebellum skirt into a bundle, and skulked out of the tent without a goodbye.

Amy and Clair and the rest of the singers raced toward us, mouths agape.

“Where’s Mum going?” Clair said. Her eyes glistened with tears.

“What happened?” Amy looked to Matthew for an answer.

He took the high road and kept quiet.

* * *

A short while later, after helping my grandparents clean up the mess, Matthew, Meredith, and I steered the twins out of the tent and into the cool night. Snow had stopped falling and the temperature had risen a smidge, turning the pretty layer of white into mush. The twins, intent on making squishy sounds in the wetness, quickly forgot about their mother. As they played, they chattered with excitement about the songfest.

“Did you hear the redhead miss the high note?” Amy said.

“Did you see Thomas smiling at Amy?” Clair asked.

“Did you notice Mrs. Tibble mouthing each and every word?” they said in unison.

The aroma of warm liquor and the tinkle of happy laughter drew my attention. Ahead, Delilah hovered beside the La Bella Ristorante concession cart—a cute red box on wheels, fitted with gas burners, a stainless-steel serving station, and a flagpole brandishing an Italian flag. Luigi and one of his sous chefs were assembling Italian
dulce
crepes. A hand-scrawled sign gave the filling ingredients: ricotta cheese and Grand Marnier. A crowd of tourists and townsfolk stood nearby, transfixed as Luigi poured the liqueur into a skillet and set the skillet on a burner.

But my gaze was drawn to a spot beyond them, by the ice sculpture of the giant tooth. Urso and Jacky were having what looked like an intense conversation. Plumes of warm breath clouded the air in front of Jacky’s mouth. A frown creased her pretty face. She poked Urso’s black Patagonia jacket with her finger to make a point.

“Matthew, girls. I’ll see you at home. I need to chat with Urso.” I kissed the twins and gave them a mock-stern look. “Make sure you brush your teeth for two minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,”
they sang à la the Beatles and, giggling, ran ahead of Meredith and their father.