Clobbered by Camembert

CHAPTER

I left Matthew and Tyanne to finish up with the tasting in the annex, and Rebecca and I hightailed it to the Providence Precinct. We rushed into the old Victorian house, bypassed the flock of tourists gathering around the Tourist Information Center that had taken up residence in a nook of the foyer, and approached the new receptionist—a cherub-faced redhead.

She set the bear claw pastry she had been savoring to one side, wiped her fingers with a paper towel, and said, “Oops. Caught me in the act.”

How could she resist? Providence Patisserie donated sweet rolls on a daily basis.

“We need to see the chief,” I said.

“You just missed him. He went to All Booked Up.”

The bookstore was one of my favorite spots in town. Often I slipped in to buy a book, and before I knew it, found myself nestled in one of the many chairs with a stack of recommended titles on my lap, reading while listening to strains of Beethoven or Mozart.

“Let’s go.” Rebecca grabbed my hand and hauled me at a clip out of the building, down the street, and around the corner.

When we arrived at the bookstore, she pushed me through the door first. Like a klutz, I tripped over the checkerboard carpet. I regained my balance, smoothed the lapel of my blazer, and scanned the store, searching for Urso among the teeming crowd threading through the rows of bookshelves.

Rebecca trotted in and plowed past me, hand to her forehead like an Old West tracker. In seconds, I feared she might drop to the carpet to listen for hoofbeats.

“Where’s the fire?” Octavia Tibble plucked my elbow.

I spun around and bit back a smile. No longer was my friend clad in her fortune-teller costume. This time she wore what could only be described as an arctic explorer outfit. In her arms she held a pile of children’s books. At the top of the pile was The Polar Express.

I tapped the book. “I didn’t know you dressed up to purchase books, too.”

“Very funny. I’m actually here on business to broker a deal. Did you know the bookshop is for sale?”

“Who’s the buyer?”

“Me … I hope.” She thumped her chest with pride. “I’ve always wanted to own a bookstore. If I close the sale, I’m giving up real estate forever.” She leaned in. “Confidentially, I hate sellers and buyers calling me at odd hours of the night. They’re never happy.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “I heard the deal between Clydesdale Enterprises and Barton Burrell is null and void.”

Octavia bobbed her head. “There was a death clause in the fine print. I’d missed it.” She glanced past me. “Oh, there’s the store owner. Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

As she hurried off, Rebecca returned, out of breath. “Follow me. I see Urso.”

Urso stood in profile by the end cap of the mystery/thriller section, chatting with someone—a younger man in a stylish suit. I could only make out the edge of the young man’s face.

“Go, go, go,” Rebecca said.

“We shouldn’t interrupt.”

“Do you see mouths moving? No, you do not. Go.” She pushed me like a feisty steam engine trying to force a car off the tracks.

I tried to hold ground, but her will was stronger than mine. I stumbled into Urso with an oof.

He whipped around and barked, “What?”

“A fine way to greet friends,” Rebecca said.

“You’re not my friends when you barge into me like a pair of hoodlums.”

“Sorry to bother you, U-ey,” I said, my voice choked with embarrassment, “but we wanted to discuss your plans for Ipo.”

Urso ran a hand down his neck, his exasperation obvious.

“You know he didn’t do it, U-ey,” I continued.

“Charlotte, just because you’ve helped solve two murder cases in as many years does not make you our number one crime fighter.”

“I—”

“Don’t talk. You either, Miss Zook.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “I’m doing my job. I’ve done my investigative work. I’ve dotted all the Is and crossed the Ts in the murder book.”

A murder book was a chronological order of all the facts related to a case, including forensic information and witness lists. Urso had shown me his last one.

“I’m only missing a murder weapon,” Urso went on. “A murder weapon that happens to belong to one Ipo Ho. When I find that murder weapon—”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but wouldn’t it be considered involuntary manslaughter and not murder?”

Urso snarled. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me Miss Zook has convinced you to watch TV crime shows now.”

“No, I—”

“Crime shows do not have all the answers.”

I bridled. “I happen to know a thing or two about the law.”

“Do you? Where’d you get your information? Google?”

Heat crept up my chest and into my neck. Despite the anger or humiliation or whatever it was that I was feeling, I wouldn’t be put off. I said, “You can’t be certain that the weapon is a pu’ili stick.”

“The coroner is pretty certain.”

“Pretty certain. That sounds iffy.”

“You don’t have motive,” Rebecca added.

“Mr. Ho didn’t want Kaitlyn Clydesdale to compete with his business,” Urso said. “He’d filed an official complaint. With her death, the deal to buy the Burrell Farm is officially off. That’s motive enough.”

“But he has an alibi,” Rebecca said. “Me.”

“Look, I know you love him, Miss Zook, but love is not an alibi.”

“What about Barton Burrell?” she said.

“What about him?”

I said, “Barton Burrell didn’t want to sell, Chief. He has as much motive as Ipo. You have to let Ipo out on bail.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Charlotte, thank you very much. If you don’t mind, I’m conducting business. I’m interviewing a new deputy while showing him the town.” Urso gestured at the young man who was thumbing through a bestselling thriller.

The young man looked up and my breath caught in my chest. He reminded me so much of Chip at that age—buoyant, aspiring. His eyes were as light as Chip’s, too, and his nose equally noble.

I forced my gaze back to Urso. “Is Deputy Rodham quitting?”

“No. I’m trying to beef up our force. We need more men.”

“Or women,” Rebecca said.

“I’m interviewing women, as well,” Urso said, his tone defensive. “In the past few months we’ve had a spike in theft and vandalism.”

I thought of the thief who had raided our Winter Wonderland tent. I had told security. Should I have brought the incident to Urso’s attention, as well? Let it go, Charlotte. Theft of cheese is not related to the matter at hand.

“If that’s all,” Urso said.

Deflated, I started to turn away, then remembered something else I had forgotten to tell Urso and spun back. “Somebody called Kaitlyn when she was in The Cheese Shop,” I blurted. “Whoever it was made her furious. She threatened the caller.”

“It wasn’t Ipo,” Rebecca said.

“Fine. I’ll check it out.” Urso gestured. “Now scoot.”

“Scoot? Did you say scoot? Why …” Rebecca folded her arms. “Uh-uh. This is a public place. We’re not budging.”

Bolstered by her defiance, I lifted my chin. “She’s right. We can stay if we want.”

Urso growled.

I growled back. He was being slack, and that wasn’t like him. I started to wonder again what was going on in his life. Had Jacky dumped him? Was he taking out his frustration on the world? On Ipo?

* * *

Needing to calm down before opening Le Petit Fromagerie to the public, I sent Rebecca back to the shop, and I headed to my grandparents’ house to hold a pity party. I didn’t need a long one, just one lengthy enough to cool off.

I entered through the kitchen and pulled to a stop at the heavenly scent of cinnamon, chocolate, and vanilla. The women of Providence had been baking. A pretty white platter filled with a variety of home-baked cookies was perched on the counter. A gaggle of women sat clustered around the Shaker-style square table. Each wore a turquoise-studded cowboy hat, including my grandmother.

They sang in a united chorus, “Hi, Charlotte,” then continued stuffing envelopes with colorful leaflets of some kind.

My grandmother split from the group and scuttled to me, her arms open wide for a hug. I went into them and drew in her strength for a moment, then pecked her cheek and snatched a cream-cheese Hershey’s Kiss cookie from the platter on the counter. Hershey’s Kisses and I had a longtime love affair. As the owner of a gourmet cheese shop, I knew that I should prefer something more elegant like Scharffen Berger chocolate, but Kisses had been my mother’s favorite candy. How could I resist?

“Chérie, such a delight.” Grandmère took a cheese and jam button cookie for herself and nibbled the edges. “Why are you not at work?”

“I needed a breather.”

“You do too much. You should arrange for personal time.”

“That’s why I’m taking a breather.”

She aimed her forefinger at my nose. “You want to talk about something. I can tell, but I cannot right now. We are so busy.”

“What are you up to?” I gestured at the group of women.

“In honor of Kaitlyn, we have created a local chapter for the Do-Gooders.”

That explained the cowboy hats.

“We will carry on her work. It is good for the soul.” Grandmère winked. “Of course, our first project will be to persuade the organization to support our local theater makeover, as Kaitlyn had planned.” She plucked a flyer from the table and brandished it like a banner. In glimpses, I saw photographs taken at the Providence Playhouse that included Grandmère’s latest plays, No Exit with Poe and The Ballet of Hairspray, as well as rehearsal photos for the upcoming Chicago. “To raise money, we are working on bringing the cast of Glee to do a one-night performance. The show is set in Ohio. It is perfect, non?”

I nodded. “Speaking of Kaitlyn, did you know her CFO is her daughter?”

Grandmère laid a hand on her chest. “I had no idea. What a horrible ordeal for the poor girl.”

Woman, I thought. A woman who was older than I, but I didn’t press the point.

“I didn’t think you liked Georgia, Bernadette,” one of the Do-Gooders said.

“Why don’t you like her?” I asked. My grandmother was rarely wrong about people.

Grandmère fluttered her hand. “It is not mine to say. Gossip is never fruitful.” She addressed her group. “We must let Miss Plachette know our plans to form a Do-Gooder group in her mother’s honor.”

The women nodded their agreement.

“She’ll be thrilled,” I said, though I didn’t believe it for a minute. My last impression of Georgia was of a woman who couldn’t wait to split Providence. Had she killed her mother in hopes of taking control of the company? How much was it worth? “Grandmère, what do you know about Clydesdale Enterprises?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t Kaitlyn share anything with you about her reason to return to Providence?”

“She intended to start a honeybee farm.”

“Did she tell you anything else? I mean, you seemed to be such buddies.”

“Truly, chérie, she was quite private. Perhaps your grandfather might know something. He has been at the Country Kitchen every day this week. You know how gossip abounds at the diner.”

“Gossip that isn’t fruitful?” I said.

She slapped my arm playfully. “Go see him. He is in the dining room with the twins, building an aquarium.”

A moan escaped my mouth. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t imagine taking care of Rags, Rocket, the twins, and fish, too.

“C’est rien,” Grandmère said, reading my mind. “The fish will live here. The girls will visit.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and pushed through the swinging door. The scent of wood stain hung in the air. My grandfather and the twins circled the dining table. Tools cluttered the oak-finished sideboard against the wall.

Amy, wearing a smock smudged with paint, broke from the project and ran to my side. “Aunt Charlotte.” She grabbed my hand as if she hadn’t seen me in days, not simply a few hours. How I wished I could bottle her energy and enthusiasm. “Come see what we’re making.” She pulled me toward the empty mahogany-trimmed aquarium, which sat upon a plastic mat atop the table.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Clair said. Unlike Amy, her smock was spot-free. Her hair was pulled into a clip and fell in wisps around her sweet face. “You can touch it. The wood is dry, right, Pépère?”

“Oui.” Pépère peered over a pair of thick-lensed glasses perched on his nose. “We are starting with the basics. Plants and neon tetra.”

“I love tetras!” Amy held up a plastic bag, which was partially filled with water. Inside, shiny iridescent fish finned about. “They’re so pretty.”

“Tetra fish are found in blackwater and clear-water streams in Brazil, Colombia, and Peru,” Clair said, sounding like a well-read expert. “They are peaceful fish and do well in aquariums.”

“Why are you here?” Pépère asked as he poured a bag of colorful rocks into the bottom of the aquarium.

I told him about my encounter with Urso at All Booked Up.

“He cannot arrest Ipo, can he?” Pépère said. “Not without these … what did you call them?”

“Pu’ili sticks.”

“Without even one instrument in his possession? It is not right.”

Amy stamped her foot. “Chief Urso is horrible.”

“No, he’s not,” I said. “He’s doing his job.”

“But he’s doing it wrong,” she wailed.

Was he? What if Ipo did mean to harm Kaitlyn Clydesdale? Except Rebecca swore that he never left her side that night. Who else would have known about the pu’ili sticks and where to find them?

“How is Rebecca doing?” Clair asked, her face growing more serious by the nanosecond. Whenever Rebecca visited the house, she played board games with the girls. They adored her.

“She’s coping.”

Pépère caught my cautious tone. “Ne t’inquiète pas, chérie.” How could he expect me not to worry? “She will rebound.”

“I’m not so sure. Losing a first love can have such an impact.” I thought of my first love, Chip, but pushed him from my mind. Now was definitely not the time for me to rehash my past.

“She’ll only lose him if he’s guilty,” Clair said.

I brushed her bangs off her forehead, not as certain as she was that our legal system worked to perfection. “Let’s hope so.”

“Girls, spread the pebbles,” Pépère said. “Make them level.”

As Amy and Clair set to work, Pépère wiped his hands on the apron he wore over his shirt and trousers and took a seat in one of the burgundy and gold striped dining chairs. “Pu’ili sticks, eh? I cannot say that I have ever seen those. What a versatile plant bamboo is, non? It is used in so many ways. Gardens, aquariums.” He lifted a bag of bamboo that would serve as the tetras’ undersea world. “What else is made of bamboo, mes filles?”

“Basketry,” Clair said.

“And jewelry!” Amy thumped the table with her palm.

“Oui,” Pépère said. “You know, Charlotte, I heard talk at the Country Kitchen earlier. I cannot remember who said it—perhaps that deputy candidate of Urso’s—he was saying how the marks on Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s neck were not consistent”—he scruffed his chin—“yes, that is the word he used. They were not consistent with a bruise that would have been made by a smooth rod.”

“How so?”

“They were separated. Would a pu’ili stick make this kind of bruise?”

“Possibly. The bands of the bamboo would jut out and not hit the skin flush. There would be spaces in between, so the bruises wouldn’t be one mass.”

He hummed and rubbed his chin again. “What else could make such a bruise and leave fibers?”

“A hatbox-style cheese container could,” Amy said.

“Could not,” Clair countered.

“Could so. It’s got bands on it.”

“It’s made of wood.”

“Not all of them.” Amy took on the same righteous tone that my grandmother did whenever she argued. “Some are made from bamboo.”

“They’re not hard enough,” Clair countered.

“Are, too. Tell her, Aunt Charlotte.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m afraid Clair is—” I stopped myself as an image flickered at the edges of my mind.

“What is it?” Pépère asked.

“On the night of Kaitlyn’s death, Rebecca took a round of Emerald Isles goat cheese to add to her cheese platter.”

“That particular cheese is cased in just such a bamboo container,” Pépère said.

“See?” Amy turned to Clair, who blew air up her bangs in frustration. They fluttered then settled down.

I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I had seen either the cheese or the box when I had scanned Rebecca’s cottage that night from my position beyond the Dutch door. I recalled the makings of the cheese platter on the pass-through counter. Rebecca had laid out a wedge of Manchego, Rouge et Noir Brie, and Chevrot, as well as crackers, cheese knives, and a jar of honey. But I couldn’t remember seeing the goat cheese. I said, “The Emerald Isles box wasn’t there after Kaitlyn died. I would stake my reputation on it.”

Pépère said, “But, chérie, Ipo could not have knocked Kaitlyn over with a box of cheese.”

“What if the box was filled with rocks?” Amy asked.

“That’s a silly question,” Clair said.

“Rebecca says there are no silly questions.” Amy huffed. “Besides, Ipo is strong. Have you seen his muscles?”

“But Rebecca was there,” Clair protested, “and she said he didn’t do it.”

“That is enough, mes filles. No more talk.” Pépère nudged the girls’ shoulders. “Back to our project.”

As they set to work, I thought of Arlo again. What if Kaitlyn’s promise to reveal his secret had sent him over the edge? What if he had lied about not stealing Ipo’s pu’ili sticks? Arlo played cards with Ipo. He might have known where Ipo stowed the luau instruments. He could have gone to Rebecca’s, fought with Kaitlyn, and whacked her with one of the pu’ili sticks. As Kaitlyn fell and struck her head on the coffee table, Arlo could have noticed the cheese platter and, unable to restrain his kleptomaniac compulsion, taken the goat cheese. He had a stash of filched hatbox-style cheese containers in his home.