Clobbered by Camembert csm-3

by Avery Aames

  “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.

  As I drew nearer to Urso and Jacky, I could hear passion in Jacky’s tone.

  “. . . not your property, understand?” She gave his chest a final slap, then turned on her heel and dashed away.

  Was Urso being too territorial? Was that the problem festering between them? Only last year, Jacky had confided that one of the major problems in her marriage had been that her husband had demanded to know where she was at all times. Every relationship needed breathing space.

  Pretending I had heard none of their conversation, I put on a game face and nabbed Urso before he could run off. He was still our chief of police, and he had a murder to solve.

  “What’s up?” His eyes looked strained, his jaw tight. “I was planning on returning your call.”

  I told him about Barton Burrell’s new alibi. “Quigley said Barton was taking Emma to the hospital. It was a regular occurrence. I know she lost more than one child to a miscarriage. Perhaps she was pregnant again and something happened.”

  “Why lie?” Urso said.

  “Exactly. Something’s up with—”

  “Whoa!” A roar and applause exploded from the crowd around Delilah and Luigi.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Flames flared from the skillet. The sight triggered something in my mind, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what.

  Adjust your thinking, my grandfather had said, and I tried, but nothing registered.

  And then, like a vision, through the flames I caught sight of Barton Burrell hurrying after Emma. I didn’t see their three boys anywhere. Barton grabbed his wife’s arm and spun her around. She mouthed easily understood words—You lied—and raised her hand to smack him. He gripped her wrist, then his gaze turned sad. In slow motion, he released her, and as if he was working hard to harness his anger, stormed away.

  Emma staggered backward. She looked ready to fall.

  I raced to catch her.

  CHAPTER

  I slung an arm around Emma. The dormant grass between the tents was soggy from melted snow, and moisture would soak through her wool coat and corduroy slacks in seconds, but I didn’t think she could remain standing. She was vibrating with anxiety. I guided her to the ground.

  “Wait. Have her sit on this, Charlotte.” Urso removed his jacket and placed it directly beneath Emma. She gave him a look of thanks. He pivoted and eyed the people circling us. “Show’s over, folks. Give the lady room.” As the crowd dispersed, he knelt on one knee beside us. “Do you want some water, Mrs. Burrell?”

  She nodded. Urso rose to his feet and strode off.

  “What’s going on, Emma?” I said, keeping my tone gentle and unthreatening. “Why did Barton stomp away?”

  “Angry.”

  Got that. “Why?” I said.

  “Kids,” Emma muttered.

  “What about the kids?” Getting one-word answers was frustrating. I stroked her hair. “C’mon, you can talk to me.”

  “Girls.”

  “You have boys.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Almost had girls.”

  I took hold of her hand. She gripped my fingers like a vise as her eyes searched mine for something. Support? Redemption?

  Urso returned with a bottle of water, uncapped it, and passed it to me.

  I pressed it into Emma’s hands. “Drink.” She did, but not enough. I said, “Sip more if you can.”

  She drank hungrily, then coughed hard. When the coughing subsided, she whispered, “I started the argument.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “So difficult … Anniversary.”

  “It’s your anniversary?”

  She shook her head sharply. “A baby. We lost a baby.”

  Now I was getting the picture. “You miscarried a year ago.”

  “I get so angry. And I”—she covered her mouth with the back of her hand—“I—”

  “Urso!” Delilah squealed. “Quick!”

  A whoosh split the calm. The throng around the La Bella Ristorante cart screamed.

  The Italian flag on the concession cart had caught on fire. Huge licks of flame rose from the skillet. Heat tumbled through the air. A spit of fire flew sideways and fell to the ground.

  Urso bolted to the cart. “Back up! Everyone! Delilah, fetch a fire extinguisher.”

  Extinguishers wer
e located every fifty to one hundred feet throughout the faire. Ten years ago a fire on Founder’s Day had destroyed a quarter of the tents. No people were hurt, only merchandise, but Grandmère vowed it would never happen again. She had summoned extra city funds to pay for safety precautions.

  I turned back to Emma, who looked dazed with fear. The reflection of fire danced in her hazel eyes. “C’mon, Emma, on your feet.”

  She resisted and whispered, “Barton lied.”

  “On your feet,” I repeated. “It’s not safe here.”

  “He lied.”

  “I heard you. And I know he lied. You weren’t home that night watching TV. Please get up.”

  “Coming through, Charlotte.” Delilah raced past me with a pair of fire extinguishers and gave them to Urso and Luigi.

  “That night …” Emma allowed me to hoist her to a stand. She was heavier than she looked. Sturdy bones, my grandmother would say. “ … the night Kaitlyn Clydesdale died, Barton and I were driving.”

  Even though the crisis was contained, I struggled to move her away from the commotion to a quieter spot in between a cluster of tents. I said, “You were going to the hospital.”

  She shook her head.

  “Where were you going?”

  “To a rehab clinic.”

  I gaped at her. “Do you have an addiction?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Earlier, when Barton and his sons had found her, he had removed a soda bottle from her hands. Had it been filled with liquor or laced with pills? Had she separated from them a second time and found another source to nurse her habit, thus reigniting Barton’s wrath?

  I said, “You and Barton lied to Chief Urso because you didn’t want people to know you had an addiction.”

  “Don’t talk to her, Emma!” Barton hustled toward us, the front of his overcoat flapping open. He reminded me of a hawk ready to descend upon its quarry. He snatched Emma from my grasp and looked down his nose at me. “You have no right to snoop around our lives.”

  I faced him. “Why did you lie to Chief Urso?”

  “What did you tell her?” he demanded of his wife.

  I said, “You went back and forth to a rehab facility with regularity.”

  “No,” Emma whispered.

  She could deny it, but I knew what she had said.

  “That’s a lie,” Barton yelled.

  “You thought people in town would suspect Emma had an addiction.” I kept my gaze fixed on him. “You were worried about your reputation.”

  “No, Charlotte,” Emma said, this time more firmly. “I don’t have an addiction.”

  I shot her a look. “But you said you were at the rehab facility that night.”

  “Only that night. Every other week we were going to the hospital for checkups.”

  “Useless checkups,” Barton grumbled. His shoulders sagged.

  “That night, it was the anniversary of”—Emma sucked back a sob—“of our last baby miscarrying. I couldn’t handle it. I took pills. A lot of pills. I needed my stomach pumped. We went to the rehab facility because we knew they’d keep it private.” She sighed. “Yes, Barton was worried that people would think the worst.” She eyed him. “You did.”

  Barton pulled Emma closer and kissed the side of her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  She mouthed: Me, too. “Where are the boys?”

  “With your mother.” Barton glowered at me. “If you say a word, Charlotte . . .”

  “I’m not the nightly news, Barton, but unless you tell Chief Urso the truth, you could be a suspect in Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s death. Watching television with your wife is not a good alibi, no matter what you think. And you need a good alibi. Word is that you didn’t want to sell your property. You wanted out of the contract, but Kaitlyn wouldn’t let you renege.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “There are also rumors that you were having an affair with her.”

  “What? No frigging way!” He released his wife and smacked his gloved hands together. “I’ll bet she started that rumor herself, dang it. Kaitlyn was a horrible woman. She preyed on us. At times I thought of killing her. I imagined ways I would do it.”

  “An actor’s mind is a creative sinkhole,” Emma said. “Luckily, he’s a farmer by day.”

  “Kaitlyn knew every facet of our lives,” Barton went on.

  “Did she blackmail you to coerce you to proceed with the deal?”

  “No, she didn’t have to. She knew what we owed. With three boys and medical insurance and the cost of keeping the farm, she knew we were strapped. But I wouldn’t have put it past her to blackmail some of the more stubborn folk who didn’t want to sell. Our property was the lynchpin.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m not sure. I heard her telling Chip Cooper that she was after Urso’s parents’ property, too.”

  I gaped. Could that have been the property that Jacky and Urso had been arguing about? Did their argument have nothing to do with their relationship? Perhaps Kaitlyn had wanted to own the entire north section of town. I recalled Lois saying that Kaitlyn owned cattle farms, sheep farms, wineries, and more. It was the more that worried me now. Visions of combining lush green landscapes weren’t scudding across my mind; visions of megastores and strip malls popping up on the north side of town were. According to Lois, Kaitlyn hated for things to be behind the times. Had she planned to update Providence by destroying the very thing that made Providence a desirable place to raise a family? I wasn’t concerned about competition for The Cheese Shop. A megastore wouldn’t carry many gourmet delights nor offer tastings, but a megastore might carry books and clothing and cause places like All Booked Up and The Spotted Giraffe to lose sales.

  Emma said, “And now her CFO is after the properties.”

  “Georgia Plachette?”

  “She’s evil.”

  “Shhh, honey.” Barton wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders again. “We don’t want to malign an innocent.”

  “She’s not innocent,” Emma hissed. “She’s a shark. She looks so vulnerable with that curly hair and that pixie smile, but she’s wicked.” She shot an earnest look at me. “She’s been stalking us, Charlotte. Trying to get dirt on us. She said things to my children. To my children! And to my doctor. And my hairdresser. She said we weren’t honorable because we wanted out of our contract. You should question her, Charlotte. I wouldn’t put it past her to have hired someone to off her mother.”

  The words hit me like a flat-ironed pan. Had Tyanne been right about that angle?

  “If you’re going to question her, do it quickly,” Emma added. “I think she’s getting ready to leave town. I saw her entering Violet’s Victoriana Inn at a clip.”

  I thought of Oscar shaking his phone to me in the pub and his look back at Georgia. I could have sworn he had been the frightened one. Was Georgia afraid of Oscar because he could pin a murder on her? Had she hired him to do it?

  I raced back to the crepe cart to invite Urso to join me for a chat with Georgia before she hightailed it out of town, but he wasn’t there. I cornered Delilah, whose nose was smudged with soot. She smelled like fire-extinguisher foam.

  “Where’s Urso?” I said.

  “On an urgent mission.” Delilah smirked. “Starts with a J and ends with a Y—Jacky,” she added, as if I hadn’t guessed. “She stopped by the cart, crooked a finger, and he was off in a flash. Why do you need him?”

  I didn’t have time to explain.

  CHAPTER

  In her brochures, Violet called her Victoriana Inn a state-of-the-art bed-and-breakfast. In my humble opinion, the terms were mutually exclusive. While Lois had decked out the Lavender and Lace B&B in cushy couches, exquisite old carpets, and lace curtains, Violet had streamlined her inn using spartan furniture, no carpeting, and sleek blinds. Lois lured customers with home-cooked meals; Violet’s chef offered spa food that would make even a vegetable-loving rabbit lose weight. From the rear of Lavender and Lace, guests could take long walks i
nto the hills. At the back of Violet’s Victoriana Inn, there was a gym filled with stair steppers, treadmills, and weight machines. If I were on vacation, I would opt for Lavender and Lace every time.

  But Violet’s Victoriana Inn didn’t lack for clientele. The parking lot was filled with BMWs, Mercedes, Lexuses, and other high-end automobiles. The great room swarmed with well-dressed people talking about their days’ adventures.

  Violet, wearing a white jogging suit that was one size too small for her chunky shape, danced behind the reception desk, keeping time with the jazzy music being piped through the overhead speakers. Her marshmallow-colored pigtails flopped in syncopated rhythm. “Hi, Charlotte. Can’t stop. On a diet.” Violet’s weight swung like a pendulum. Up thirty pounds, down thirty pounds.

  “I’m looking for Georgia Plachette.”

  “At this time of night?” She huffed and puffed.

  “It’s not even nine yet.”

  “That’s late in Providence.”

  “Please, Violet.”

  She grabbed a white towel from beneath the check-in counter and wiped the sheen of perspiration from above her fleshy lips. “It’s so sad what Georgia is going through. Did you know she’s Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s daughter?”

  I nodded. I didn’t add that I suspected Georgia might have put a hit on her mother. Too much information. “Is she here?”

  “Funny you should ask. I just called her room to say her guests had arrived.” She wiggled her fingers at the elderly woman and gentleman who had been at the pub with Georgia. They sat on a stiff-backed bench that was situated between two perfectly trimmed and potted ficus trees. “Georgia’s packing. She’s heading off with them soon.”

  “Are they her grandparents?” I asked, to verify my assessment.

  “Sure are. Sweet couple. I hear they’re going back to California to have a burial at sea.” She wrinkled her nose. “Me, I’m all about ritual. A person should have a real funeral service and be buried in a casket in a cemetery. This whole ashes-to-ashes thing gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  Cremation didn’t bother me. My parents had specified in their wills that they wanted whoever survived them to bury their remains at the top of Kindred Hill. My grandparents had asked that an oak be planted on top of their ashes. From the center of town, I could see the thirty-year-old oak tree, and I drew strength from it.