To Brie or Not to Brie (31 page)

“Are you bored with running The Cheese Shop? Is that it?” Edy persisted. “Let’s end
this. I have an alibi for that night, if you care to hear it. I was with my mother.”

I pursed my lips. Really? Another mother as an alibi? Really?

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Mothers will lie,” Edy continued. “But not my mother. You don’t
know my mother.”

Actually, I did. I had met her a couple of times during high school. Like an aspiring
beauty queen, she had been clipped and exacting, every hair in place, every outfit
perfect. Was that why Edy had adopted the Goth look?

“She’s sick,” Edy said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“She’s in the Providence Nursing Home west of town, and I—” Tears slipped from her
eyes; she swiped them with her knuckles. “I am behind on payments. That’s why I need
a loan. I was turned down. Not that my mother deserves my help…”

“…but that’s what daughters do,” I finished.

Edy hung her head for a long moment and then raised her chin, eyes contemplative.
She let out a sigh. “Look, I know I’ve been a pill to you. I’m not one of your cutesy-pie
friends. I’m not touchy-feely.”

She had seemed pretty touchy-feely with Urso outside the diner the other day, but
I put a cap on that memory.

“You’re probably mad at me because of that cheating incident years ago,” she went
on.

Was I that transparent? Yes, I probably was.

“My mother’s the reason I cheated. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but let me put
it in perspective. She had me when she was forty-five. I was her only child. She had
three miscarriages and then me. I was the miracle baby. She expected me to excel at
all times, in all things. I couldn’t. I was average. I liked to sew and play dress
up. I wasn’t pretty, I couldn’t do a cheerleading yell to save my life, and I didn’t
like to study. So I cheated.” She thumped the table. “I’m not proud of it, but I have
turned over a new leaf. I told Freckles everything.”

I was surprised when Freckles had revealed Edy’s secret to me. Had Edy really changed?
I leveled her with my gaze. “You said you were with your mother the night Giacomo
Capriotti was killed. Can she corroborate that?”

She bit her lip. “I wasn’t
with
her, per se.”

“You lied?”

“No. I was at the nursing home, but I wasn’t in her room.”

“Why not?”

Edy tugged on her left hoop earring. Strawberry blotches popped up on her neck and
face. “Because I’m working a second job to pay the bills. At night, I clean the halls
and rec rooms. I’m not good at it, I hate it, but I do it. Do you know you can’t get
the smell of ammonia off your hands? No amount of hand lotion does it.”

I felt like a heel for asking, but I said, “Did anyone see you?”

“Nurse Ratched.”

A hoot popped from my mouth. “You’re kidding.”

“No, really. There’s a nurse named Rita, but everyone calls her Nurse Ratched. She’s
nasty, like that nurse in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Helmet hair, plastic grin.” Edy imitated the smile. “She makes my mother look like
a saint, which, believe me, is hard to do. You can call her.” Edy twisted her cup
of coffee but didn’t take a sip. “By the way, you’re not the only person in town trying
to solve this murder. I’ve been thinking about it, too. It stinks that Providence
is suddenly a haven for crime. You know what gets me? How did someone lure Giacomo
Capriotti into the Igloo? I mean, the guy was big, right? He could defend himself,
and I doubt the guy was hungry for an ice cream cone.”

I flashed on the bullet found in the freezer wall. Had the killer forced Giacomo into
the Igloo at gunpoint? Should Urso be looking for a second gun?

Not that I didn’t believe Edy—would I ever forgive her for getting me in trouble with
the science teacher?—but on the way back to Fromagerie Bessette, I dug out my cell
phone and called Providence Nursing Home. The cranky nurse that Edy had mentioned
answered in an ultra-crisp tone. Though she was outspoken about Edy’s shortcomings
where mopping floors was concerned, she confirmed Edy’s whereabouts at the time of
the murder. She had seen Edy at least four times during the night. The nursing home
was in lockdown every night; no one entered or left.

Ruling out Edy and Anabelle as suspects and with Vinnie dead, I was back to square
one. Hugo Hunter was missing. Was he dead, too, or was Rebecca right and he was the
person who had murdered Jacky’s husband? Had Urso obtained a warrant to search Hugo’s
home? Had he found a Beretta with bullets that would match the bullet plucked from
the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor’s wall? I dialed the precinct to talk to him, but Urso
wouldn’t take the call.

The rest of the afternoon at The Cheese Shop, Rebecca and I waited on customers. The
Stomping the Grapes
race for the rescue shelter, which was scheduled for tomorrow, and the opening night
of
Hamlet
, which was less than two hours away, had drawn swarms of people. The bed-and-breakfasts
were full. All spots at the camping ground on the Nature Preserve were rented. By
four
P.M.
, we had sold out of every broccolini and pine nut quiche and all of the Slam-Drunk
torpedo sandwiches that Rebecca had made. She had combined the mild semi-soft Drunken
Goat cheese with Sopresatta, a rustic spicy salami, and Finocchiona salami, which
was laced with fennel seeds. To top it all off, she had added a super-spicy red pepper
relish. I had teased her that whoever ate the torpedoes would need an iron stomach.

Around five
P.M.
, Grandmère hurried into the shop. “
Chérie,
I am in desperate need of a meal for the crew.” She sounded frantic, but I had seen
her like this on previous opening nights. “I have prepared the after-party meal, but
I completely forgot snacks. You know that it is
malchance
to run a show on an empty stomach.”

“It is not bad luck. You made that up,” I teased. “What’s wrong?”

She paced in front of the cheese counter, worrying her hands together. “I have not
put on a Shakespeare play for years. What if I have missed the tone?”

“What does Delilah think?”

“She loves it, but she is not a good judge. She is too close to the work.” Grandmère
peered into the cheese counter display. “Please make me a platter, nothing too heavy.
Calabrese salami and a couple of those cheeses, sliced thin.” She pointed to the gourds
hanging over the back counter.

“Caciocavallo,” I reminded her. It was a luscious, pliable Provolone-type cheese from
Italy, perfect for a cheese platter. In Italian,
cavallo
means horse; the cheese was said to have been made originally with mare’s milk. “How
about
some green Cerignola olives and a couple loaves of sourdough bread, too?”

“
Oui
.” She fetched crackers and jars of spiced mustard.

As she was setting the items by the register, Jordan entered through the rear door,
a plaid blanket draped over one arm, the same wicker basket from yesterday in his
hand. A warm breeze followed him inside. As he passed me, he ran a finger along the
back of my neck. I shivered with delight, which, by his wink, I could tell he had
expected. He ogled my grandmother’s purchases and licked his lips. “Looks delicious,
Bernadette.” He joined her at the front of the cheese display. “Am I invited to the
party?”

“
Bien sûr
, Jordan.” She said his name with the French pronunciation, a soft
J
and accent on the second syllable, which pleased me no end. She really was warming
to him. Yay!

He eyed me. “Ready to go to the theater, milady? I have restocked with lemonade chicken,
homemade cole slaw, peppered corn salad, and watermelon.”

My stomach did a cartwheel of appreciation. “Who ate our other picnic?”

“Me.” He patted his firm abdomen. “And a few of my crew buddies. We—”

The front door flew open, and Iris hurried into the shop. “Charlotte. You’ll never
guess who I saw.”

Prudence followed Iris in, but she didn’t utter a word. How the tides had turned,
I mused. Iris was becoming a leader. What a little love and a boost to her career
had done for her spirit. But then Prudence poked Iris with a finger and said, “Tell
her,” and I quickly revised my assessment. Maybe Iris wasn’t a leader…yet.

“Hugo Hunter is back in town,” Iris said. “I saw him.”

“He’s alive?” The relief in my voice surprised me. Didn’t I think he was guilty of
murder?

“I spotted him sneaking into his house.”

Why was he sneaking, and what was Iris doing watching
his house? Had everyone in town turned into an amateur sleuth?

“I was taking my daughter back to work, driving a side route, and we spotted him.
I told you he wasn’t to be trusted.” Iris sidled up to the counter and boldly inserted
herself between my grandmother and Jordan. “He seemed suspicious, if you ask me.”

Grandmère offered an icy glare. “He returned. That shows character.” She didn’t like
to think ill of anyone. She adored the basic premise of American justice:
innocent until proven guilty.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Iris said.

Last week, Iris had implied that Hugo was bad for Jacky. Maybe she knew what Rebecca
had called his super-dark secret. “Do you know why he goes out of town?” I asked.

“No.”

“You said he had a past.”

“All men do.”

I exchanged a look with Jordan. Yes, all men did, but that didn’t make them bad men.

“Is he married?” I asked.

Prudence lassoed Iris with an arm and steered her toward the exit. “You’ve said all
you need to, Iris. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I hurried after them. “Iris, did you date Hugo or something? What do you know?”

Iris opened her mouth to speak, but Prudence said, “Hush. Not another word.” She glanced
over her shoulder and sneered. “Run and tell Chief Urso that Hugo Hunter is back,
Charlotte.”

“No. I’m leaving to watch the performance of
Hamlet
,” I retorted. “Tell him yourself.”

“Ah, but Charlotte, dear,” Prudence said. “You find such pleasure in solving Providence’s
crimes. I would hate to deprive you of that.”

As the door slammed shut, I caught Grandmère and Jordan
stifling smiles. I held up a finger warning them not to say a word.

* * *

Despite Prudence’s taunt, I refused to change my plans. Urso would be attending the
play. He never missed opening night. I would tell him about Hugo when I saw him.

After locking up the shop, Jordan walked with my grandmother and me to the Village
Green. The sun hovered low, its waning rays streaking the dusky sky with shades of
orange.

Grandmère said, “How I love October. It signifies all that is good about change.”

Within the theater arena, Grandmère’s crew had hung silver hurricane lanterns on black
shepherd hooks. The glow was magical. Close to the stage, a grassy area was sectioned
off for picnickers. Behind the picnic section stood rows of rough-hewn benches. People
were taking their seats. A line extended from the box office along the west path.

“This way.” Grandmère handed Jordan and me plastic passes for the picnicking area
to hang around our necks. “Our family receives
carte blanche
.”

Jordan squeezed my hand. “Family. I like that.”

“Me, too.”

We dodged teenage girls in colorful long dresses who were parading through the area
carrying banners with the word
Hamlet
emblazoned on them, and we found a spot on the grass. Jordan spread the plaid blanket.
As we set out the food from the basket, laughter spiraled through the air.

Across the grass, supervisors were allowing children to enter the wine vat. The kids
climbed into the tub of grapes as merrily as if it were a cage filled with plastic
balls and instantly started to stomp. Lucy Ricardo couldn’t have looked happier. Dark
grape juice squirted upward.

“Listen,” Jordan said. “Madrigals.”

A trio of musicians playing a lute, flute, and fiddle emerged from behind the stage.

“Your grandmother has thought of everything.”

The madrigals meandered through the crowd, singing, “Alas my love, ye do me wrong,
to cast me off discourteously; and I have loved you so long, delighting in your companie.”

To my surprise, Jordan joined in the chorus. “Greensleeves was all my joy; Greensleeves
was my delight. Greensleeves was my heart of gold, and who but my Lady Greensleeves.”

I elbowed him. “Watch out. Grandmère is looking our way. What do you bet, she’ll want
you to star in her next musical production?”

“No way.”

“Oh, yes, way. Yoo-hoo. Grandmère.”

“No.” Jordan covered my mouth.

I ducked from his grasp. “Oho, methinks thou doth protest too much. I—”

Jordan stopped me by planting his lips on mine; I melted. We remained in an embrace,
kissing longingly until we heard someone clear her throat.

We broke apart and gazed at our visitor. A flush of embarrassment warmed me.

“Am I interrupting?” Rebecca said while twisting the picnicking area pass that hung
around her neck.