Clobbered by Camembert

CHAPTER

Perched on one of the dining chairs at my grandparents’ table, I whipped my cell phone from my purse and dialed Urso to tell him my renewed suspicions about Arlo. Urso didn’t answer his phone—no big surprise. He probably saw my number on his caller ID and opted to ignore me, the toad. I dialed a second time, listened to three cheery rings and an annoying beep, hung up and dialed again. I could be a pest when provoked.

Grandmère pushed open the dining room door and peeked in. “Charlotte, my ladies are leaving, and I am putting together a snack for the girls before they go to their chorale rehearsal. Are you hungry? I am cooking Parmesan zucchini circles. Votre favori.”

My mouth watered instantly. At about the twins’ age, I had gone through a cycle where I had wanted zucchini every day for a month—probably because it was growing rampant in my grandparents’ garden. My grandmother couldn’t brew a decent pot of coffee, but she could cook up a storm—in a variety of styles. Back then, she had made stuffed, baked, and barbecued zucchini for me. She had incorporated it into bread, pasta, salads, and even hamburgers. I couldn’t remember the last time she had made circles—succulent pieces of zucchini dipped in a Parmesan batter and fried to a golden brown. Major comfort food. Exactly what I needed when irritated with our dear, sweet, dedicated chief of police.

I said, “I’d love some, thanks! Can you hurry?”

“Five minutes.” She disappeared into the kitchen. The door swung shut.

Pépère said, “Girls, remove the aerator from the box and place the pieces on the table.”

As the twins obeyed, I entered Urso’s number on speed dial and pressed Send again. And again and again. I muttered under my breath. He was adding a second deputy to his roster. He could certainly spare a moment to answer my call. If I’d had the time, I would have tracked him down to tell him to take a long walk off a short pier, but I only had fifteen minutes, tops, before I had promised to open Le Petit Fromagerie at the faire. When Urso didn’t answer after my twelfth attempt, I stabbed End on my cell phone.

“What’s wrong, Aunt Charlotte?” Clair rested a supportive hand on my shoulder.

“Nothing. I’m just mad at a friend.”

“At Chief Urso?” Amy said.

How did she know? I hadn’t spoken his name aloud during any of my phone call attempts.

“Amy, hand me the screwdriver,” Pépère said.

She plucked it from a wicker basket and held it out to him, handle first.

“Why are you mad at Chief Urso?” Clair asked.

“Because Aunt Charlotte wants to tell him that some cheese boxes are made from bamboo,” Amy said. “Right?”

“Girls, fetch me a cloth.” Pépère gestured at the stack of cloths on the buffet.

As they scuttled to do his bidding, he lasered me with a look. I got the message. It was time to end this conversation. For the girls’ sakes. I set the cell phone on the dining table and twirled it in a huff. Watching it spin, I thought of Kaitlyn Clydesdale and the telephone call that had incensed her. Was the call crucial to the case? Had Urso followed up?

I picked up the phone and dialed Urso one more time. If he could link the telephone call to Arlo and connect Arlo to the missing goat cheese, he might be able to weave this murder mystery to an end.

As I waited through three more rings, Pépère laid his hand over mine. “Let it go, chérie.”

“This time I’m leaving a message.”

“Do not burn the bridge.” He held up his hands. “I am only saying.”

The girls trotted to him and, giggling, flapped their white cloths at me like surrender flags.

I covered the mouthpiece and mock-snarled, “Very funny.”

They giggled louder. Pépère snatched the cloths, warned them with a stern finger, and started to polish pieces of the aerator to a shine.

I listened to Urso’s greeting message. After the beep, I forced my voice to be light and deliberately charming. “Urso, it’s me, Charlotte. I was wondering—did you happen to follow up on the mysterious phone call to Kaitlyn Clydesdale? I have a tidbit of a thought to offer. Call me.”

When I hung up, Pépère said, “A tidbit of a thought?”

I shrugged. Fine, perhaps I had sounded phony. Urso would have to deal with it.

Amy said, “Didn’t Chief Urso already pull up telephone records?”

“Of course, he did,” Clair said. “That’s one of the first things the police do.”

I gaped. “Where did you two learn something like that?”

“On TV,” they said in unison.

“CSI,” Clair added.

“Uh-uh.” Amy shook her head. “It was Murder, She Wrote.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” I said. “Don’t tell me Rebecca gave you her list of favorite mystery shows.”

“It wasn’t Rebecca,” Amy said.

“It was Mum,” Clair chimed in.

Oh, my. Matthew needed to have a talk with Sylvie. The twins were too young to be watching adult detective shows. They were also too young to be listening to me theorizing with my grandfather about murder. I would have to monitor my own behavior, as well. Monkey see, monkey do.

The door to the kitchen swept open. Grandmère glided through carrying a tray filled with glasses of water, paper napkins, plates, three little bowls filled with dipping sauces, and a colorful serving dish mounded with fried circles of goodness. The zesty aroma made my mouth water.

“Girls, wash your hands,” Grandmère said. As the twins skipped from the room, she set the tray on the dining table. Using tongs, she transferred some zucchini circles to a plate. “So, chérie.” She handed the plate to me. “Did you and your grandfather solve the problems of the world?”

Making sure the girls weren’t within earshot, I filled her in on Ipo, the pu’ili sticks, the missing goat cheese, and the angry telephone call between Kaitlyn and the mysterious caller.

Grandmère pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. “What if someone wanted to frame Arlo?”

“Like who, and why?” I dipped a zucchini circle into the peach jam sauce, plunked it into my mouth, and licked my fingertips. Heaven.

“Georgia Plachette. If she is Kaitlyn’s daughter, as you say, she had much wealth to gain.” She looked at both my grandfather and me, but Pépère kept mute.

“How would she have known about Ipo’s luau instruments?” I asked.

“Word gets around.” Grandmère handed me a napkin.

“She has an alibi on the night of Kaitlyn’s death,” I said. “She was playing darts at the pub.”

“Did you question everyone at the pub to corroborate? No, I think not. And are you sure she did not take a short break, short enough to run a few blocks and have it out with her mother?” Grandmère held up a finger. “I believe—”

The doorbell jangled its merry dingety-ding.

Grandmère looked at Pépère. “Mon ami, are we expecting anyone?”

“Maybe Urso picked up my message and decided to seize my phone and declare me a public nuisance.” I chuckled.

“What are you talking about?” Grandmère said.

“De rien. It’s nothing.” Prepared for a head-to-head with our illustrious chief of police, I strode to the door and opened it. I was more than surprised to find Chip standing there.

“Hey, babe.” A porch light cast a hazy glow over him. A dusky orange and gray sky served as his backdrop. He whipped his wool cap from his head and clutched it in front of him. That was when I spotted the flowers; he was carrying a fistful of daisies.

As swift as lightning, my flight instinct kicked in. I wanted to run. Not hear. Not see. Chip had brought flowers. Was he wooing me? And why, for heaven’s sake, did he look so disarmingly handsome in his zippered suede jacket, black turtleneck, and jeans? I had to remind myself that we weren’t good together. At the end of our relationship, we were snarling like cats and dogs. Not to mention, I was in love with Jordan.

“I stopped by Fromagerie Bessette,” Chip said, apparently not picking up on my distress. “Rebecca told me you’d be here. Can we talk?”

“I’ve got to leave for the faire.”

“I’ll escort you.”

“No.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“Chip, look, I can’t.” No flowers. No date. No future. I wanted him to stop pursuing me.

“Charlotte, please, I—” Chip’s eyes widened. He was looking past me, over my shoulder.

I could feel my grandfather move in behind me, breathing through his nose like an enraged bull. I could only imagine his perturbed glare. He had never liked Chip. He said Chip’s standards in the kitchen were too low. I deserved someone who took more care, someone who didn’t cut corners. When I had first met Jordan at a cooking class at La Bella Ristorante, I had noticed how precise he was at slicing vegetables. Not prissy. Exact. Where in the heck was he? Why hadn’t he returned my call? I needed to grill him about my Internet search.

“Barre, toi,” Pépère said, then repeated in English, “get lost.” He nudged me to one side and took a confident step forward.

Chip steeled his jaw. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I just want a minute of your time, Charlotte. Don’t go all weak on me and hide behind your grandfather.”

There it was. A snipe. Other snipes—years old—peppered my mind. He had said I wasn’t smart. He had called me untalented and provincial. He was wrong, wrong, wrong, of course, but old tapes were hard to erase.

“Barre, toi, or I’ll boot you down those steps.” My grandfather might have been in his seventies, but he was strong from lifting wheels of cheese all his life. And I was sure he thought he had righteousness on his side.

Chip didn’t budge. “It’s about the hockey game.”

“She does not give a whit about going to a hockey game with you. Barre, toi. One, two, three . . .”

“I don’t want to ask her to a hockey game,” Chip said, then added something about a hat trick.

“What?” I said.

“Never mind.” He flopped his cap onto his head and then blustered down the path, scuffing his heel every third or fourth step.

“Temper, temper,” Pépère said as he closed the door and bolted it.

“Pépère, he came to tell me something.”

“Bah! He tricks. He fools.” He turned to me and clutched my arms. “Chérie, he is not worth your heartache. You are better off with Jordan. He is a man who knows the world. A man who knows what is right and what is wrong.”

“Pépère—”

“No! Let me finish.” He released me but held my gaze. “Jordan is a man who knows how to love and love fully. I have seen much of life. I know these things. This man, this Chip—what kind of a name is that for a man? He is not for you. He is selfish and vain, but I am sorry if—”

I put my fingers to his lips. “Shhh. I know, Pépère. You can relax. You are watching out for me, and I appreciate it.” I kissed his cheek and shooed him to my grandmother.

As I watched them embrace, a frizzle of uneasiness ran through me. Was Jordan the man for me? Would he still be, once I learned his full story?