by Avery Aames
“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.
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 whe
n 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 widene
d. 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.”
