Clobbered by Camembert

CHAPTER

I stood, riveted in the middle of the hothouse, an imaginary vise trying to squeeze the breath out of my chest, but I fought it. After my recent altercation at the old Ziegler Winery, I understood having to make the decision to kill or be killed. I couldn’t fault Jordan for his actions. Not in the least.

“No,” I said finally. “It doesn’t end it for us. But I want to know everything.”

He enfolded me in his arms and whispered, “Can I tell you over a late dinner?”

“Not tonight. I’ve got the faire and the twins’ recital.”

“Then tomorrow when the faire closes.”

“My grandmother’s having her Founder’s Day celebration. I invited you, right?”

He nodded. “Monday night then, and you’d better say yes. I’m not waiting a week for this conversation, and I can’t have it now. I’ve got to swing by the faire, and then I’ve got meetings at the farm.”

I answered yes, and we kissed again.

“Trust me, Charlotte,” he said before parting.

I said I would.

By the time I returned to The Cheese Shop, a horde of teenagers had invaded the place. They chatted and gossiped while waiting to order sandwiches. On Saturdays, to draw a younger crowd, I made sure to offer spicier, less fussy sandwiches like pepperoni and Swiss or salami and a sharp Cheddar. No arugula mushrooms or gooey things, as the twins liked to call them, though they enjoyed all of those gooey things.

“Hi, Miss Bessette,” a couple of girls yelled.

I waved, then tossed the remains of our mid-morning picnic into the trash and ambled to the counter to help Tyanne.

“Charlotte, sugar, guess what?” Tyanne said as she wrapped up a sandwich for one of the teens. “Bozz says I have a facility for numbers and the Internet.”

“Is he here?” I had to admit I had missed seeing my Internet guru’s cute mug.

“He’s in the office updating our web page. He came in early to teach me how to do the newsletter and the books. Isn’t it great? When he starts college, I can be your maven!”

I loved her enthusiasm.

“Hey, Miss B.” Bozz sauntered from the office, hands jammed into his droopy jeans, a sheepish grin on his face. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s that search you’ve got going? Who’s Jeremy Montgomery?”

A quiver of worry shimmied up my back. Had I left the computer on all night? Bozz was smarter than a whip. Could he figure out what I had been doing? Would he rat out Jordan? I needed to be more careful what I left open for view in the office.

“It’s nothing,” I lied.

“Yeah, okay.” He scratched his head.

I changed the subject. “Nice of you to show up once in a while, by the way.”

“It’s hard to make time on school days.”

I patted his shoulder. “I know.”

“Hey, did I tell you? Philby got into Providence Liberal Arts College, too.” Philby was his brainy girlfriend. “We’re hoping to study marketing and get our MBAs so we can manage the family business someday.” The Bozzuto family owned the Bozzuto Winery, which for generations had made delicious white wines and had recently branched out by adding natural sodas to their line.

“Big plans.”

“Yeah, and once I’m wealthy, I might even run for mayor. Watch out, Grandmère.”

Bozz was one of those kids who wanted to stay in Providence forever. Small towns needed young people like him.

Tyanne said, “Sugar, I have to get a move on.”

She was due at Le Petit Fromagerie for the first shift. Rebecca would join her at noon. Matthew and I would helm what I expected to be the busier traffic from late afternoon until dusk. Then we would leave to attend the recital, and Bozz and Philby would man the store until close.

“Can you handle the crowd here?” Tyanne asked.

“Not a problem, but where’s Rebecca?” I spotted Matthew at the bar in the annex, writing on a chalkboard.

“Got me.”

“I’ll take over for Mrs. T.” Bozz slung on an apron and addressed the teens by name as they ordered sandwiches.

Tyanne waved goodbye then trotted off. I followed her to the front door and peered out. It wasn’t like Rebecca not to call in if she was running late. And she was awfully late. Though I didn’t see any sign of her, I urged myself not to worry. Maybe she had made a detour on the way over and gone to the precinct to tell Urso about the missing goat cheese. Maybe she thought that tidbit would ensure Ipo’s quick release.

I started to turn around when I spied Georgia Plachette slinking between a delivery truck and an SUV. She halted and crouched down. Dressed like she was on a reconnaissance mission, she trained a pair of binoculars on the Country Kitchen across the street. I cupped my hands around my eyes to block the morning glare and glimpsed Barton Burrell and his wife, Emma, sitting with Octavia at one of the booths by the window. Was Georgia sleuthing like me? Did she think Barton was guilty of murder? Did she believe he had killed her mother to thwart the sale of his property? Perhaps she had something more nefarious in mind.

Try as I might, I couldn’t shake my reaction to her at the Clydesdale Enterprises office yesterday. She was hiding something. Not simply the fact that Kaitlyn was her mother. Something else. She said her alibi for the night of her mother’s death was flawless. What if, like my grandmother intimated, Georgia had figured out some way to fool the people at the pub into thinking she was there?

A flash of red caught my attention. Rebecca, wearing a fire-engine red raincoat, stormed toward The Cheese Shop, swatting her palm with a rolled-up newspaper. She wasn’t trying to nail a bug. She barged into the shop.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Look!” She flailed the newspaper.

I snatched it from her and unfurled it. On the front page, the reporter, Quigley, had posted a picture of Rebecca angrily pointing a finger.

“I was at the precinct, waiting to talk to Chief Urso, when I saw that.” Rebecca flicked the newspaper with a fingertip. “Quigley must have been wearing some sneaky camera device in his lapel. How dare he!” She stabbed the headline: Luau Sticks Implicate Hawaiian. “I didn’t say that.”

I scanned the article. “He doesn’t say Ipo is guilty.”

“He might as well have. Ooh, I’m so mad at Chief Urso, I could spit.”

My mouth fell open. “At Urso?”

“He’s not doing his job. He’s being lazy.”

“Rebecca, calm down. Urso is always fair.” Well, almost always. But now was not the time to fan the flames.

“Bah!” Rebecca said, sounding like my grandfather as she stomped to the rear of the store and shrugged out of her raincoat. If she had been a cartoon character, steam would have billowed from her ears.

Minutes later, as the teens filed out, our local animal rescuer scuttled in.

“Morning, Charlotte, Rebecca, Bozz.” In her hooded coffee brown winter coat, I was struck by how much Tallulah Barker reminded me of an Ewok from Star Wars. Not only was she cuddly and squat, but she spoke in a high-pitched, garbled voice. I was surprised to see her without any dogs or cats in tow. She was always trying to place one in a good home.

She pitched off her hood and shook out her frizzy curls.

“New hairstyle, Tallulah?” I asked. How many times had she tried a new hairdo over her sixty-plus years? I had seen at least a dozen.

She peered from beneath her longish bangs. “What do you think?” It came out more like whatdoyouthink?

“It suits you.”

“I think it makes me look like a Cocker Spaniel.” She pulled her hair into two floppy ears.

I bit back a smile. Yes, from a certain angle, she also resembled a Spaniel, which was a much more apt and flattering description than an Ewok.

“That’s what I get for going to a cut-rate barber instead of a stylist,” she said. “Silly me, trying to save a dime. I’ll take the usual plus an eighth of a pound of that Salame Toscano. I love the peppery flavor.” She scanned the shop. “Wow, is it ever quiet in here. There are swarms of people milling about the faire.” Typically brief at conversation—Tallulah reserved most of her chatter for her animals—she slipped one of the shop’s wicker baskets over her arm and headed toward the jars of honey and preserves.

I edged behind the cheese counter and said, “Thanks, Bozz. Take a break. I’ll need you when Rebecca leaves.”

“Cool.” He shuffled toward the office.

I glanced at Rebecca, who was angrily cutting four slices of Chabichou—Tallulah’s regular order. Chabichou—the pasteurized version—was a dense, slender cylinder of sweet mild cheese. So why was Rebecca sawing it? I considered removing the knife from my lovable assistant’s hand but decided to let her work through her rage. Neither Quigley nor Urso were within range. The cheese would survive.

The front door chimes jangled. Delilah hurried in. “Alert. I need some Tom Cruise cheese, fast.” She meant Tomme Crayeuse, one of my favorite cheeses with citrus overtones. It was a semisoft cheese with a chalky center. “Got some? I need at least two pounds. We’re trying out a new breakfast sandwich, and it’s a major hit.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I said.

“Oh, sorry. Good morning. Beautiful day. Hurry.”

“What else is in the sandwich?” I fetched a wheel of the cheese—tomme means wheel—set it on the counter, and prepared the order.

“Scrambled eggs and green onions, two slices of TC, three grinds of the peppermill, and a dash of Tabasco. Simple yet zesty.” Delilah plucked at the red ruffled skirt of her waitress costume. “I took a sample to Urso, to see if I could get the inside scoop on the case. He was with that new deputy. A cutie, if you ask me. Dangerous, but in a good way.”

“Uh-oh. Luigi, watch out,” I teased.

Delilah fluttered her fingers, dismissing me. “Luigi doesn’t have a thing to worry about. The new kid’s way too young for me.”

And Luigi was on the near side of old. I kept mum.

“By the way, did you know that those luau thingies are missing?” Delilah continued.

“The pu’ili sticks,” Rebecca cried. “Yes!”

“I asked Urso if he’d thought to look at Arlo’s house for them. Urso said he had, but they weren’t there.”

“He’d better check out Barton Burrell’s house,” Rebecca said, then eyed me. “I know, I know. I sound like a broken record, but Barton’s got motive. You said so yourself.”

I glanced through the front window. Georgia had disappeared and Barton and his wife weren’t in the diner. Had Georgia decided to tail Barton? If she believed he had hurt her mother, might she do something rash?

“Can you hurry up, Charlotte?” Delilah tapped her foot.

I threw her an acid look. I was slicing and wrapping as fast as I could, and she knew it.

Tallulah approached the register, her basket filled with black sesame crackers and an assortment of jams.

“Yum. It looks like you’re having a party, Mrs. Barker,” Rebecca said.

“I like to snack. Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out two small brown paper bags. “I brought treats for the sweets.” Tallulah spoiled Rags and Rocket with homemade kibble.

Rebecca took the bags and set them on a shelf beneath the register, then started ringing up Tallulah’s items. I rounded the counter with Delilah’s order.

Delilah grabbed the packaged cheese out of my hand and said, “Don’t need a tote, thanks. Put it on the diner’s tab.” And she dashed out.

“That girl never slows down.” Tallulah sidled to the tasting counter and plucked a piece of straw yellow Piave Vecchio from the daily platter. She slipped it into her mouth and purred like one of her cats. “Mmmm. It tastes like Parmesan.”

“And Asiago,” I said. “It’s made in Northern Italy.”

“I love it. By the way, Rebecca, if your Ipo needs another person to corroborate his alibi, I can step up.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened with hope. “You can?”

“How?” I said.

“The two of them weren’t, you know, hush-hush.” Tallulah winked, then chortled, the sound reminding me of a tiger chuffing.

Rebecca turned hot pink. “You heard us, too?”

“You betcha.” Tallulah lived next door to Cherry Orchard Park.

“How did you know it was us?”

“Your laughter is very distinctive, my dear. Like crystal chimes. And I almost forgot.” Tallulah tapped the side of her head. “Should I tell Chief Urso that I saw a person run past the park that night?”

“You saw someone?” Rebecca nearly shouted.

“Man or woman?” I asked.

“Not sure. It was too dark. It was a rather tallish shape, running at a clip. Whoever it was made a heck of a noise.”

With Tallulah being so short, tallish would describe almost anyone other than my grandmother.

Using her hands, she outlined the runner, then erased it in the air. “No, that’s not right. I can’t draw worth a lick.”

I wondered if it could have been Georgia Plachette wearing those platform shoes she favored.

“What time was it?” Rebecca said.

“Half past the hour. I was taking four of the pups out for their duty call. Whoever it was held something like a bat.”

“Was it a pu’ili stick?” Rebecca asked, breathless.

Tallulah raised a shoulder and let it drop. “How would I know? It was dark, honey. Didn’t I say that already?”

“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?”