Clobbered by Camembert

CHAPTER

While I hotfooted it to Rebecca’s, my boots spanking the wet pavement, selfish thoughts zipped through my mind. Whether I had liked Kaitlyn Clydesdale or not, I had been hoping to ply her for more information about my mother. I knew so little. My mother’s parents had died of natural causes soon after the crash. My mother had no sisters or brothers. The few friends she’d made had married and moved away. Kaitlyn claimed to have been one of those friends. I was hoping that, during the time she was in town, she would tell me more about my mother—her secrets, her passions, what had made her tick. During my childhood years, Grandmère had done her best to fill in the blanks, but a friend who had known my mother for years would have been so much better. With the link gone, I felt a loss deep in my soul.

By the time I reached Rebecca’s red-shingled cottage, a crowd had gathered. Many were popping up and down, trying to see over the heads of someone in front. Rebecca rented her darling abode from my Realtor friend, Octavia Tibble, who owned a half dozen such cottages around town and rented them only to single women who Octavia decided had promise. I looked for her among the crowd but didn’t spot her. She adored Rebecca. Maybe she was already inside demanding Rebecca’s rights.

Heart pounding, I veered toward the white fence that was cluttered with barren rose vines. I slipped through a break in the fence and stole to the front porch.

The top half of the Dutch door hung open. I would lay odds that our illustrious chief of police was already inside. He hated a stifling hot room. Everyone else within the cottage had to be freezing.

As I drew near, Grandmère sidled to my side. “Oh, chérie.” Tears streaked her cheeks. She pulled the ends of her knit burgundy scarf to tighten it. “I am so glad you are here. It is a shame, non?”

“Yes. Tell me what happened.”

“Chief Urso believes our sweet honeybee farmer killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

“Killed? This is a murder scene?”

Neither Urso nor his deputy had hung the yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape yet. At any moment, they might order the crowd to retreat. Before that time, I needed to learn all I could.

“The jury is out,” Grandmère said. When my grandparents moved from war-torn France, they had adapted quickly to the American way of life. Grandmère loved to use Americanisms. “Regarde.” She pointed at the living room, visible from our spot near the Dutch door.

Kaitlyn, wearing the same getup she had worn in The Cheese Shop, lay on her back on a red braided rug. Her body was wedged between an Amish rocking chair and a ladder-back chair; her head was close to the leg of the coffee table. Rebecca’s furnishings were sparse. She and I had gone garage sale hunting one day and had picked up most of the items. She had saved an entire month’s earnings to buy the ruby red love seat upon which Ipo and she were sitting.

The coroner from Holmes County, a contemporary of Urso’s with slicked-back hair and a deeply furrowed forehead, knelt beside Kaitlyn. Latex gloves covered his hands. Gingerly, he turned her chin and inspected her head.

I said, “He sure got here fast.”

Grandmère nodded. “He was having dinner with Chief Urso.”

Umberto Urso, whose sheer size dwarfed the already teensy cottage, stood in profile beside the cobblestone fireplace. A glow from the waning fire made his uniform seem more gold than brown. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his dark hair was mussed, as if he had been scratching it trying to figure out what happened.

Rebecca sat tucked into Ipo. Goldilocks in the presence of Papa Bear couldn’t have appeared more vulnerable. Ipo had slung his meaty arm around Rebecca’s shoulders, but by the look of his trembling chin, he needed consoling, too. Did Urso truly think kindhearted Ipo could kill someone? Why wasn’t anyone speaking?

“Yep,” the coroner broke the silence. “Some kind of wooden baton, I think.”

“Baton?” I whispered to my grandmother.

“He thinks Ipo struck Kaitlyn’s neck with a weapon,” Grandmère answered. “Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “Apparently Kaitlyn fell backward from the blow and hit her head on the table. But they cannot find a weapon, and Ipo is not offering any clues.”

I scanned the room. Six-inch cylinder candles, standing on the pass-through counter to the kitchenette, burned with intensity. The light from a pair of tapers created shadows on the fixings for a cheese tray, which included a wedge of Manchego, Brie, the Chevrot I had suggested, three wood-handled knives, crackers, and a jar of honey. A crystal bowl holding mixed nuts and another containing winter grapes sat on the nearby dining table. Two champagne flutes stood empty beside an unopened bottle of champagne, which rested in an ice bucket.

Earlier in the day, Rebecca had recited the menu for her romantic meal.

I glanced at her. Her lips were swollen. So were Ipo’s. There was no doubt in my mind that they had done it—kissed. What an ending to such a promising evening.

I started to open my mouth to call to Urso when he cut a look in my direction and glared at me. I recoiled. What had I done to warrant such displeasure other than snag a front-row seat? He held my gaze with an unspoken warning: Back off. I glowered to let him know that I wouldn’t budge, not when Rebecca could be in trouble. She was like my little sister. No way was I obeying him because he had a better bully look than I did. I folded my arms and raised my chin ever so slightly. Take that!

“Deputy Rodham,” Urso barked.

The gangly young policeman with a roosterlike hairdo stepped forward from the shadows, his narrow shoulders squared.

“Secure this scene. ASAP. And close that front door.”

Rodham saluted and fetched a roll of yellow crime-scene tape from a satchel. “Move back, folks.” He pressed open the lower half of the Dutch door, which forced me to shuffle aside, then secured and shut the whole door after him.

But I wasn’t done listening yet. He headed left, so I veered right and found a spot near a Bieber tilt-turn window, cracked open enough to ventilate but not refrigerate. Grandmère nestled in beside me.

“What can you see, chérie?”

“Urso is crouching beside the coroner. He’s whispering something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

The coroner responded with a hushed word to Urso. Oh, to be Superwoman and have supersonic hearing.

“Thanks.” Urso rose to his incredible height and faced Rebecca and Ipo, his back to me.

From where I stood, it was like watching a play. Shadows created by the varying light in the room danced on each of the players’ faces.

Rebecca and Ipo sank deeper into the couch, both probably wishing they had worn red clothing and could blend into the background.

“Mr. Ho, you come from Hawaii,” Urso said.

“Yes.”

I stiffened. Where was Urso going with this line of questioning? What significance did it have? Why was he being so hard-hearted? On any other day, he would have called Ipo by his first name.

“Oh, there is your grandfather,” Grandmère said. “He will want to know everything. I will return.” She scuttled away.

A cold draft filled her spot, and then a body did. Sylvie. Lucky me. She was wearing a skintight purple sweaterdress and reeked of patchouli. I wondered if all her Under Wraps items smelled the same. If they did, I would run from the store the moment I entered. Not that I would enter. I had steered clear since it opened.

“Fill me in,” Sylvie said, breathless with curiosity.

“Shhh.”

“Don’t you hush—”

I gave her a sterner than stern look. Without asking, she wedged herself in beside me so that she could peer through the opening.

“Oof,” I whispered.

“Shhh,” she said with a snicker.

Urso continued. “Tell me about your luau jobs, Mr. Ho.”

“I was a fire dancer.” An edge crept into Ipo’s normally gentle tone.

“Fire dancer.”

“Yes.” Ipo’s face pinched with concern. He seemed as baffled as I was by the questions.

Rebecca caught sight of me, and her eyes filled with such pleading that my heart wrenched. I held up a finger to give her hope. For what, I couldn’t be sure—for a miracle answer, a suspect other than Ipo, something. And soon.

“Tell me about the wooden batons used in your ceremonies,” Urso said.

Ipo fidgeted.

“What are they called again?” Urso snapped his fingers, but I would bet dimes to dollars he knew the name. During high school, when most teens suffered wanderlust, Urso had devoured the entire set of James Michener books. He had looked so dorky carrying huge thick tomes to school when the rest of us were trying to read the thinnest books possible.

“Kala’au rods,” Ipo said.

“That’s it. Kala’au rods. Hardwood, right? About nine inches long.” Urso sounded somber. He fisted his hand, as if gripping one of the rods. “You’ve got a pair of them, don’t you?”

Ipo said, “They’re stored in a cabinet at home.”

“I’d like to see them.”

“I didn’t do this,” Ipo said, his voice ripe with intensity.

“He didn’t!” Rebecca echoed. “We never saw this … this Clydesdale woman. Not here, I mean. We saw her in the shop but not here. I don’t know why she came to my house. We were outside.” She slurped in air and started to cough.

Ipo patted Rebecca’s back and clutched her tighter.

“Outside?” Urso said.

“Yes, Chief,” Ipo answered. “We were outside—”

“—smooching,” Rebecca cried. “We smooched for a very long time.”

Urso pivoted to the right, biting down on his lower lip. To keep from laughing? He ran his fingers along the brim of his hat, then turned back to Rebecca and Ipo. “How long were you, um, kissing?”

“How should I know?” Rebecca shifted on the sofa. “It was our first time. I was nervous.”

“So nervous she couldn’t stop giggling,” Ipo admitted.

“Urso, she’s telling the truth,” I blurted.

Urso whirled around. When he spotted me by the Bieber window, he snarled. Not out loud, mind you, but I didn’t miss the extrasensory thrust of his anger. In a seething stage whisper, he said, “Don’t get involved this time, Charlotte.”

He was referring, of course, to the other times I had inserted myself into an investigation. But how could I not? He was attacking Rebecca.

“She’s Amish,” I said. “She wouldn’t lie.”

“Are you sure?” Sylvie whispered.

I stomped my foot to drive her away from me. “U-ey, you can’t possibly think Ipo did this.”

Urso whirled away, and I instantly regretted using his nickname. As the saying goes: Loose lips sink ships. But since grade school I had called him U-ey—for the double U in his name: Umberto Urso. By the way he raked his hand down his neck, I could tell he wouldn’t give me another second of his time. Shoot.

Sylvie nudged me. “Do you think Ipo whacked Kaitlyn with one of those whatchamacallits?”

“Hush!”

“He had motive, from what I’ve heard.”

“What motive?” I glowered at her.

“Kaitlyn was in my shop earlier having a facial and talking about her empire. Ooh, did I tell you? I’ve added a facial room in the back of Under Wraps. I found this glorious woman with great hands. Doesn’t my skin look better?” Sylvie turned her chin, lifting it to remove any glimmer of loose skin. “Mind you, women want more than a dress when they come to a boutique. They want to leave looking smashing. I’ve created a one-stop shop.”

“Stay on topic, Sylvie.”

“Right-o.” She toyed with one of her gaudy purple dangle earrings. “As Kaitlyn left the shop, she said she was heading to Ipo’s farm to have it out with him. It seems he’s hired a lawyer to block her purchase of the Burrell farm.”

“Block it?”

“On the grounds of unfair competition or something, but it sounds like motive to me.” Sylvie punctuated her revelation with a curt nod.

“Miss Bessette.” From behind me, Deputy Rodham cleared his squeaky throat. “I’m going to have to ask you and your friend to move.”

I whirled around and froze, my mouth agape. Over Rodham’s shoulder, I spied someone lurking in the shadows. A man in a trench coat. He looked like he was assessing the crowd.

“Miss Bessette,” Deputy Rodham said, an officious edge to his voice.

“Not now,” I snapped.

That caught the lurker’s attention. He jerked his head in my direction. I couldn’t make out his features before he hightailed it away.