Clobbered by Camembert

by Avery Aames

  Georgia hesitated. She glanced at the commemorative Do-Gooder photograph and back at me. “She gave her all to everything.”

  “My grandmother adored her.”

  “Kaitlyn spoke highly of your grandmother, too.”

  I gazed through the glass-top desk, but I couldn’t get a clear view of the briefcase below. Georgia’s slouch ankle boots, which were as saggy as a Shar-Pei’s skin, blocked my line of sight. I craned my head to spy beyond the leather, but I couldn’t make out the words on the file folder. “How long had you known Kaitlyn?”

  “A long time.”

  Again she had hesitated. What was up with that?

  “Tell me about you.” I set my cup of tea on the desk, rose a tad from my chair, and overemphasized tucking the tail of my blazer under my rear. While I did, I scooched my chair an inch to the left so I could get a better angle on the file folder. Squinting, I could read the word Plachette on the tab. There were two more words but I couldn’t make them out. If only I had Supergirl’s vision. “When did you first start working for Clydesdale Enterprises?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “When did you become CFO?”

  “Right away.”

  “You can’t be much older than thirty.”

  She blushed. “Actually, I’m thirty-eight.”

  “No way.” I scooched some more. She had to be thinking I had ants in my pants, but I didn’t care. I had no shame. “I want the name of the skin products you use.”

  She bit back a hint of a smile, reminding me of somebody, but I couldn’t put my finger on whom.

  I eyed the file folder tab again. Plachette: Georgia … something. I needed to stare, but she would catch me if I did. I reached for my cup of tea and accidentally knocked my gloves and scarf to the floor. “Clumsy me,” I said. As my fingers grazed the cashmere, I got a clear view of the file folder tab. Plachette: Georgia Clydesdale.

  Color me stupid. That was why she looked familiar. That was why she had hesitated when I had asked how long she had known Kaitlyn. She was Kaitlyn’s daughter.

  Snagging my things, I returned to a sitting position and studied Georgia. She had Kaitlyn’s eyes and the same haughty cheekbones, but she was at least ten inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter. And her dark curly hair was a stark contrast to Kaitlyn’s blonde straight coif. Did she dye and perm it?

  “What’s wrong?” Georgia said. “You’re staring at me.”

  “You’re Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s daughter.”

  “I—” She pursed her lips.

  “Why keep it a secret?”

  Georgia squirmed.

  “Because she didn’t want people to know how old she was, right?” I said. “She wanted people to think she was in her fifties, and if they found out you were thirty-eight—”

  “You’re wrong. She feared she’d be accused of nepotism.”

  I gaped. “That doesn’t make sense. She owned the company; she set the rules.”

  Georgia examined her chewed-to-the-nub fingernails. “She didn’t think her associates would welcome the idea that they had to report numbers to her daughter. She—” Georgia sneezed and the shawl fell off her shoulders, revealing a skintight plunging neckline black dress. I had seen the same dress on a mannequin in the Under Wraps display window. How dare Sylvie convince the poor girl that it looked appropriate for mourning.

  “Did you tell Chief Urso you were her daughter?”

  “I’ve answered all his questions.”

  But what if Urso hadn’t asked the right questions? I mused. He was a good cop, but a hard-hitting DA, he wasn’t.

  “Did he ask if you were Kaitlyn’s daughter?”

  “He didn’t ask, but I did offer.” She sat taller. “Satisfied?”

  Why hadn’t Urso told me? Because I wasn’t one of his deputies. Because I had no business whatsoever investigating. Except Rebecca had pleaded, and I had promised. I never reneged on a promise.

  I glanced at the briefcase again. Could there be a lucrative will inside that would give Georgia sole proprietorship of the company? That would be a strong motive to kill her mother. How could I get a peek?

  “I have a solid alibi,” Georgia offered.

  She had said the same thing at Fromagerie Bessette. Why did she feel the need to reiterate it? Perhaps guilt was rearing its mighty head.

  “I was at the pub playing darts until closing. Plenty of people saw me.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

  Georgia pulled the shawl back over her shoulders. “My mother and I didn’t get along at times.”

  “Most mothers and daughters don’t.” I’d had plenty of altercations with Grandmère during my teens and early twenties. At the ripe old age of twenty-eight I started to realize she was smarter than I had given her credit for.

  “She could ruffle feathers with the best of them,” Georgia added.

  “I’ll bet she could.” I recalled Sylvie’s tirade about Georgia lambasting Kaitlyn. “Did you like your mother?”

  “Like her?” Georgia’s chin quivered. “Of course, I did. I loved her.”

  “You were heard telling customers at Under Wraps that your mother wasn’t a nice woman.”

  Her chin stopped trembling. “That’s not what I said.” Her voice took on that imperious tone that I had heard from Kaitlyn. “Who told you that?” Her nostrils flared like a bull’s. “What I said was that she wasn’t nice to employees.”

  “Meaning you.”

  “Meaning Chip Cooper, Oscar Carson, that hack developer she found in Columbus, and a ton of others.”

  I tapped the arm of my chair, unable to find a nice way to raise the next question. “Was she nice to her lover?”

  “Sure, why not? Whoever the heck he might be.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No clue. Isn’t that the beauty of having a lover—secrecy? Look, my mother kept a tight rein on everybody. She—” Georgia nipped her upper lip with a tooth, as if trying to curb herself from saying anything more. She glanced at the door. Did she wish she could flee? She fingered her curls. I could see her mind whirring behind her deep brown eyes. “If you ask me, that Barton Burrell is the prime suspect.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted out of his contract, and now, with my mother dead, the contract is null and void. There was a clause in the contract that if something happened to my mother, the deal was canceled.”

  * * *

  When I returned to The Cheese Shop, Rebecca was nowhere to be found. Matthew said she was worried because she hadn’t heard from Ipo after he had left with Urso. She asked for a break to check on him. An hour later, even though she hadn’t returned, we started our cheese and wine-tasting class.

  Members of the class spilled out of the annex into The Cheese Shop. I had known we were going to have a crowd, but word of mouth had doubled the attendance. The hum of excitement was intoxicating.

  I stood near the bar in the annex and held up one of the wooden platters that I had arranged with cheese and fruit. “Don’t worry. Everyone will get to taste.” Individuals beyond the archway popped up, trying to peep over the head of the person in front. “If you don’t have a note card and pencil, wave your hand. Tyanne will come around.”

  Luckily, Tyanne had arrived early to work. She said she was so excited about the upcoming opening of Le Petit Fromagerie that she couldn’t sit at home. She brandished a pack of cards overhead.

  “I’ve got champagne.” Matthew moved from person to person, passing out shots of a luscious Schramsberg champagne from Napa Valley. Champagne was a fail-safe wine selection with cheese, he said. The flavor never intruded.

  “On this platter,” I went on, “we have Brie and Camembert from America, and their French counterparts.” I twisted the platter in my hands. “Notice the mounds of winter red and green grapes. See how they provide a nice contrast to the white-rinded cheeses.” The students weren’t simply tasting cheese. They were trying to learn how to create a lovely presentation
. “Now, in case you didn’t know, cheeses made with unpasteurized—otherwise known as raw—milk cannot be sold in the United States unless they have been aged for at least sixty days.”

  I heard a chorus of: “I didn’t know that.”

  “Why?” Tyanne asked, as I had prompted her to do during the hour before the class began.

  “Because bacteria might grow. However, there are cheese lovers worldwide who might put up a stink if all cheeses were pasteurized.”

  “Moi, for one,” Pépère said as he forged through the crowd with a basket of saltwater crackers. “Pasteurization takes away the full flavor of the cheese.”

  As customers tasted, I heard arguments start up. A couple of people loved the French Brie. A few others preferred the American one.

  “Please, folks,” I said. “The enjoyment of one cheese over another doesn’t mean someone is wrong. It’s all a matter of taste. Now, if you’ll also pay attention to how I added nuts and scoops of honey and brown sugar to the platter. Why do you think I—?”

  “Charlotte!” Rebecca’s voice cut through the murmurs. She wedged between patrons, her face panic-stricken.

  I set the platter down and hurried to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Ipo.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  She shook her head and placed a hand to her chest, gasping for breath. “His instruments. Those”—she snapped her fingers—“what do you call them?”

  “Pu’ili sticks.”

  “They’re missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “As in gone.”

  I raised a reproachful eyebrow.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I know you know what missing means, I’m just so upset. And Chief Urso”—she hiccupped and gripped my wrists—“Urso arrested Ipo. I tried to tell the chief that Barton Burrell might have taken the pu’ili sticks, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  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 muc
h 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.