Clobbered by Camembert

by Avery Aames

  “You need a bandage.”

  “Is it bleeding? No, it’s not. Let me up.”

  “You cannot go walking into suspects’ houses alone, chèrie.” Grandmère waited in the doorway, her voice crackling with authority. How long had she been standing there?

  “I wasn’t alone. I was with Rebecca.”

  My grandmother gave me the evil eye.

  Agreeing with her, Rags yowled and paced at my feet like a sentry. Rocket yipped from his position on a tiger-striped pillow in the corner. He looked at me with hangdog eyes, as if admitting it was a weak response, but I should forgive him because he was only a puppy. Upon hearing of the incident at Oscar’s, the twins had insisted the pets be brought to Fromagerie Bessette to comfort me. As much as I loved our menagerie, what I wanted was love without the communal judgment. And air to breathe. The tiny office was super cramped. At least my grandmother had convinced the twins to remain in the wine annex.

  “Oscar wasn’t a suspect,” I added, trying to defend my actions.

  “Everyone is a suspect.” Rebecca reentered the office carrying the nineteenth or twentieth bag of ice. I had lost count at fourteen. She skirted the desk and handed the bag to me. “Apply for twenty minutes.”

  “Yes, doctor.” I winced when I placed the ice on the wound. A bump, my foot. The bruise felt about the size of a doorknob. On a giant’s house.

  “Chérie, I’ll get you that slice of quiche now.” Pépère kissed my cheek and traipsed out of the office.

  “I’m hot on your trail,” I said, struggling to sit.

  “Not without our help,” my grandmother admonished. “Rebecca, some assistance please.”

  They each clutched one of my elbows and helped me rise.

  Resembling a teetering three-legged-race team, we squished through the door. Over my shoulder, I gave a word of warning to Rags and Rocket. “Behave.” Both looked at me with mournful eyes as if wondering how I could ever think they would do otherwise.

  “Are you sure you don’t know who it was that attacked you?” Rebecca asked.

  “For the last time, I’m positive.” I tried to break free of my captors.

  They clinched me more tightly.

  “You said he smelled like horses,” Grandmère said.

  “Hay,” Rebecca countered.

  “Both,” Grandmère said. “And he was wearing dark clothing.”

  “And taller than you,” Rebecca added.

  “Taller than any of us,” I said. “And he was wearing a mask.”

  “What was his eye color?” my grandmother asked.

  I moaned. “Just because I slept doesn’t mean I don’t remember you asking me all of these questions before.”

  “Close your eyes and try to remember.”

  “Oh, please, Grandmère.”

  “Try. Adjust your thinking.”

  There was that phrase again. What wasn’t I adjusting? I was looking outside the box. Everyone was a suspect. Heck, if I didn’t know better, I would even suspect myself. I closed my eyes for a nanosecond and reopened them. “I can’t see a thing. Not a darned thing. Now, release me.” I wrested free, exasperated and exhausted. Keeping the ice pack on my forehead and using one hand to plead my case, I said, “It’s a blur.”

  My grandmother itched to grab hold of me again, but I backed away.

  “Could it have been Arlo MacMillan?” she asked.

  “Or Barton Burrell?” Rebecca said.

  “For all I know, the intruder was a thief who had nothing whatsoever to do with Kaitlyn’s death. Look, I’m not psychic. Stop badgering me.”

  I trudged into the shop, self-doubt squeezing the air out of me. Were Oscar’s attacker and the thief at the tent one and the same? Was he a tourist or a local? Could I travel, inn to inn or house to house, looking for someone who owned a ski mask? Maybe in my panic I had overestimated the height and size of him. Maybe the scent of horses and hay I had picked up had come from the properties around Oscar’s house and not from the intruder. Everyone north of town owned horses.

  “If only Oscar were lucid,” Rebecca said.

  Poor Oscar was lying in a coma on a hospital bed. The attacker had knocked him out cold. If I hadn’t shown up, would Oscar be dead? If I hadn’t used Jordan’s self-defense technique, would I? The thought made my head throb.

  As I reached the cheese counter, Amy raced from the wine annex and threw her arms around my waist. “Aunt Charlotte, you’re awake.”

  Clair followed suit. She said, “Thomas, Tisha, and Frenchie came with us.”

  Tyanne’s towheaded children were perched on the stools by the marble tasting counter, helping themselves to slices of Monterey Jack. Frenchie, Freckles’s eldest daughter who was older than the twins by three years and usually the model of good behavior, stood beside them, flailing Thomas with her red braids.

  “Stop it,” Thomas cried.

  Frenchie persisted.

  Tisha said, “Mommy kicked us out of the tent. Frenchie and Thomas were sword fighting with icicles.”

  Thomas said, “Other kids were doing it, too.”

  “They were doing it outside, you goon.” Tisha gave her brother a stern look, then turned her attention back to me. “Mommy told us to skedaddle.”

  Amy latched onto my sweater and drew me to her level. “Thomas is still being a pill to me,” she whispered.

  “I’m sure he’ll change, in time.”

  “Ha! Never. Men.”

  My niece—a cynic at the tender age of nine. I smiled, which sent another shooting pain to the knot on my forehead. So much for an ice pack dulling the ache. Note to self: no more smiling for a decade.

  “Chérie.” Pépère flourished a rust-colored stoneware plate, set with a slice of sweet potato–nutmeg quiche, beneath my nose. “Come sit and have your treat.”

  “Matthew,” my grandmother called to my cousin, who was polishing glasses behind the antique bar in the wine annex. “A glass of Pellegrino water for Charlotte.”

  I tossed the ice pack into the sink behind the counter and followed my grandfather and the heavenly scent to a mosaic café table. I nestled into a wrought iron chair and eyed the pale orange quiche appreciatively, then dove in. Pépère must have added extra nutmeg and maple syrup to his recipe. The luscious concoction melted in my mouth. I mumbled my thanks.

  Neither Pépère nor Grandmère acknowledged me. They hovered on either side, hands folded in front of them, making me feel like a fish in a fishbowl. With a very bad lump on its head. Lucky me.

  Matthew set a stemmed glass of sparkling water on the table and settled into the chair opposite me. “Do you have a headache?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Next time—”

  “There won’t be a next time,” I promised.

  “Thanks be to God,” Grandmère said.

  Pépère steepled his hands and said a French blessing of his own.

  “Liar.” Matthew chuckled. “Sure, there will. You’re my sassy, headstrong cousin.”

  “I’m not headstrong.”

  Sylvie flounced into the annex and said, “Yes, you are.” The sheer sleeveless dress she wore was better suited for the middle of July, but I didn’t have the energy to tell her she had no common sense. “You’re as headstrong as Matthew, Charlotte, hence that nasty bump. Bullheadedness runs in the Bessette veins, doesn’t it, love?” She peered at Matthew, who flinched.

  My grandmother clucked her tongue and elbowed Pépère. Without a word, he ushered her into The Cheese Shop. He preferred that Matthew handle his marriage issues alone. Unfortunately, I was slow on my feet.

  “You need to think before you leap, Charlotte,” Sylvie persisted.

  “Who asked you?” I said, the words not nearly combative enough. If only I could master a tough New Jersey accent. I couldn’t. When I had tried to do one in a high school play, I had sounded like a mixed-up urchin from Ireland.

  “And you’re bossy,” Sylvie continued, undaunted. She flung her faux ocelot coat over the b
ack of a chair and fluffed her hair. “You push people around.”

  Matthew bounded to his feet. “Sylvie, this is a private conversation.”

  “It’s not private unless you’re whispering.”

  “Leave.”

  “Matthew, I’ve got this.” I clambered to my feet, ready to have it out with his ex once and for all. “Sylvie, I do not boss.”

  “Yes, you do. Listen to your tone.”

  Blood swelled in my head, but I fought off the dizziness. “I delegate. There’s a difference.”

  “Tosh! There’s no difference. You’re a general like your grandmother. People talk.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Matthew scooped up Sylvie’s coat and thrust it into her arms. “Out! Now!” He muscled his ex-wife toward the stone archway.

  “Ooh, Matthew,” she cooed. “I like it when you’re so manly.”

  “Can it.” He released her. “Round up the girls and take them and the animals back to Charlotte’s house. And remember, be on your best behavior.”

  Sylvie huffed. “I’m always on my best behavior.”

  He snorted. “Might I remind you about the canapés smacking your face last night?”

  Sylvie went silent. She mashed her lips together, as if she was pondering a comeback but couldn’t come up with anything quite good enough. After a moment, she said, “Fiddle-dee-dee,” like Scarlett O’Hara, and waltzed out of the annex into The Cheese Shop.

  Matthew turned back to me. “She’ll never change.”

  I thought of Amy’s cynical words about Thomas. Was it possible that nobody changed? Would I? Could I?

  I gazed at my cousin. “Matthew, am I bossy?”

  “You’re a woman who cares a tad too much, but you’re never bossy.”

  I mumbled my thanks, then said, “I should get going. I’ve got to pack up the tent at Winter Wonderland.”

  “Don’t bother. Pépère and I did that already. Tyanne’s got the rest under control.”

  Tyanne. What a gem she had turned out to be. Our Winter Wonderland venture could have been a disaster without her.

  Matthew chucked my chin and returned to the wine bar. “I’ve got some Bordeaux, 2005 Château Puygueraud, Côtes de Francs. Want a sip? Might help the headache.”

  He poured a thimbleful of wine into a glass. I sipped and savored.

  “It’s a flashy wine with hints of licorice and chocolate,” he said. “It should go great with the dinner tonight, don’t you think?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Grandmère’s Founder’s Day bash is right after the faire closes. Did you forget? How bad is that bump on your head? Or is old age creeping in?”

  I glowered at him. “I’ll always be younger than you.”

  Ignoring his laughter, I gathered my plate, glasses, and utensils and slogged into the kitchen. By the time I returned to The Cheese Shop, the place was bustling with customers, many clamoring for larger portions of the cheeses we had been offering at the faire. Jordan and Jacky and baby Cecily waited among them. Jordan smiled at me and I attempted to smile back, though I was pretty sure I looked like I was grimacing. I strolled to the rack of aprons by the door.

  Jordan made a beeline for me and ran his hand down my arm. “That’s some bruise. Are you all right? I stopped by earlier, but you were asleep and your grandmother shooed me away.”

  “Your self-defense refresher course probably saved my life.” I filled him in on what had happened.

  He wrapped his arms around me and breathed warmly into my ear. My forehead smarted, but I didn’t protest. A loving hug was worth the twinge.

  After a long moment, he held me at arm’s length. “You’re going home to rest, right?”

  “Soon,” I lied. There was too much to do. I slipped a brown apron from a hook, looped it around my neck, and tied the strings in a bow at the arch of my back.

  “How about a nice quiet dinner at my place later?” he said.

  “Can’t. Grandmère’s party. You’re coming, aren’t you?” Maybe the hyper-electricity in the air that Freckles had talked about was making everyone forgetful.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” Jordan peered into my eyes. “In the meantime, because I know you won’t go back to bed, take breaks. Regular breaks. A bop on the head can have lasting effects.”

  How would he know? How many brawls had he gotten into as a restaurateur? I snipped off the thought, not in the mood to rehash what was already solved. He was in the WITSEC program. He had witnessed something bad. He had killed somebody in self-defense. Soon he would enlighten me with details.

  I strolled to my spot behind the cheese counter and called, “Forty-five.”

  Jacky waved a paper number in the air. “Me.”

  Jordan joined his sister at the front of the line.

  “What’ll it be?” I asked.

  “Everything.” Jacky toyed with her baby’s feet, which dangled through the holes of the BabyBjörn pack. “That Minerva Amish butter cheese looks good.”

  “Great choice. It’s creamy and melts well.”

  “And that Capriole O’Banon, too.” Jacky peered into the case and read the label I had posted: “A superb goat cheese. Named for the governor of Indiana. How fascinating.” She stood up. “What’s it wrapped in?”

  “Chestnut leaves soaked in Woodford Reserve Bourbon.”

  “We’ll take some of each,” Jordan said. He also ordered the last two prosciutto, pesto, and Provolone sandwiches in the case.

  As I reached for the sandwiches, a previous debate started up again in my mind. About Arlo. Provolone was Arlo’s favorite cheese, so why would he have stolen a box of Emerald Isles goat cheese from my tent or from Rebecca’s cottage? Because he was a kleptomaniac; he couldn’t help himself. Kaitlyn had known his secret and used it to get her way. But what if someone, like Oscar, had learned about Arlo’s proclivity? What if Chip had taken a picture of Arlo in the act of stealing, and Oscar, upon seeing the picture, had decided to dun Arlo for money to keep Arlo’s secret quiet? Would that have incensed Arlo? His chicken farm abutted Ipo’s honeybee farm. In a matter of minutes, Arlo could have stolen to Oscar’s bungalow, attacked Oscar—and subsequently me—and then sprinted back to his place. Except I wasn’t sure Arlo was large enough to have been my attacker. Only minutes ago, I instinctively said the attacker was taller than Rebecca. She was at least three inches taller than Arlo. Besides, Arlo had confessed to Urso about his kleptomania. His secret was no longer a mystery.

  No, someone else had attacked Oscar and me, but who?

  Focus, Charlotte. You have customers waiting.

  I slipped Jacky and Jordan’s purchases into a gold bag, tied it with a grosgrain bow, and met them at the register.

  While paying, Jordan said, “You look a little dazed, sweetheart. What’s up?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “On Mars?”

  “Venus,” I said.

  “Try to stay grounded.” He winked and another wave of sexy sensations streamed from my head to my toes. If I didn’t have some intimate one-on-one time with him soon, I would burst. “I’m off to the farm,” he said. “I’ll catch up to you later.”

  As I started to rewrap the cheeses, Pépère ambled from the kitchen to the rear door. “Charlotte, I am going to Le Petit Fromagerie. Is there anything specifically you’d like me to do?”

  I turned to blow him a kiss goodbye and froze in my spot, my gaze riveted on what he was doing. He was looping his apron on the hooked rack at the rear of the shop while nudging the rack to level. The move prompted a memory of Ainsley Smith nudging his hockey stick in the great room at Lavender and Lace. Not nudging. Adjusting. Had I missed a totally obvious clue? Ainsley had told Lois that he was setting the hockey stick right. Had there been some other motive for his action? Had he returned to the bed-and-breakfast, not to filch the hockey stick but to set something right, as in remove evidence?

  I took the theory a step further. What if Urso and the coroner had been wrong about the pu’ili
sticks being the murder weapons? Could a hockey stick leave ridged marks on a woman’s neck? The stick wasn’t made of bamboo, but perhaps shards of fiberglass resembled bamboo under a microscope.

  “Aunt Charlotte,” Amy called. “Frenchie wants to know if we can have some Camembert. I know it’s expensive, but . . .”

  The world turned strangely silent. I glanced at the kids and a quiver of excitement coursed through me as multiple ideas melted into one—Camembert, hockey sticks, my playful pets, and hyper-electricity.

  Was the supercharged air causing people to act not only forgetfully but irrationally? Had Ainsley Smith snatched the hockey stick from the wall of the bed-and-breakfast, tracked down Kaitlyn Clydesdale at Rebecca’s, and argued with her? Had he flailed the stick at her? When the stick didn’t hit its mark, had he, like Rags and Rocket, turned a hatbox-style cheese container—not of Camembert, but of goat cheese—into a hockey puck? Rebecca had brought a round of Emerald Isles goat cheese home to serve to Ipo. If Ainsley dropped the disk of cheese on the floor and swung hard, could he have propelled the cheese into Kaitlyn’s throat with such force that she fell backward to her death?

  The Emerald Isles goat cheese box was made of bamboo. While building the twins’ aquarium, Pépère had suggested that the box could have left ribbed marks similar to what the coroner had found, but at the time I couldn’t figure out how a hatbox-style container of goat cheese would have made contact with Kaitlyn’s neck.

  Now I had an idea.

  CHAPTER

  I was pretty sure that Urso wouldn’t accept my theory. I needed evidence. When the crowd at Fromagerie Bessette thinned, I removed my apron, put on my camel coat, scarf, and gloves, and hurried to the office for my purse. Rags, who was nestled into the crook of Rocket’s forearm on the tiger-striped pillow, looked up. His ears perked. Why in heavens hadn’t Sylvie taken them home as Matthew had asked? Oooh, that woman.

  “No treats,” I said.

  He mewled.

  “All right. You win.” I rummaged in the side drawer of the desk and pulled out the small brown bag of Tallulah Barker’s homemade kibble. I set a handful of kibble on the floor. Rocket stirred and yipped. I said, “Sorry, pup. You’ll eat what Rags eats.” I replaced the bag then nabbed a Hershey’s Kiss from my private stash. I pulled out the strip of paper and unwrapped the foil. I plopped the candy into my mouth and hummed. Exactly the kind of fortification I needed.