To Brie or Not to Brie (9 page)

“Not always.”

“Just find out what’s going on. Keep rumors from starting. Rumors aren’t good for
the town.”

“She is right,
chérie,
” my grandmother said. “Go. I will tend to the customers.”

Judging by how many people on the street and sidewalks were running east toward the
ice cream store, she wouldn’t have much to do.

“And
chérie
,” Grandmère whispered, bidding me to her side. “Do not tell your grandfather about
the murder. I do not want him to get sicker.”

A crime scene worked like a magnet. Saturday was always a busy day in Providence,
but more people than I had seen in weeks crowded the sidewalks and spilled into the
street. A couple of waiters stood outside La Bella Ristorante. A few women hovered
by the bay window at All Booked Up, looking in the direction of the Igloo Ice Cream
Parlor.

Rebecca and I elbowed our way to a cluster of locals who had gathered in front of
the store, among them Edy, who looked as pale as a corpse bride. Where had she found
a black maxi-length vintage dress? Upon awakening, had she sensed something dire in
the air and dressed for the occasion? And what was with the silver studs piercing
her upper lip and side of her nose? All I could think was ouch, ouch, ouch.

Stop it, Charlotte. You’re being mean.

I peered around her into the Igloo, one of Providence’s favorite hangouts, a shop
that embraced Old World charm. Its name was etched into the window in sepia ink. The
antique
décor and fixtures inside were dark bronze. The floor was patterned with black-and-white
one-inch octagonal tiles set in a checkerboard pattern. Locals and tourists often
took photographs of the scrolled, twenty-by-six-foot mirror hanging behind the aged
oak ice cream counter. The yoga studio, which was located above the ice cream shop,
looked dark. The owner always traveled during October.

“Is Chief Urso in the shop?” I asked. I didn’t see anyone milling about inside.

Edy said, “He’s in the back with the Igloo staff and the coroner. The scuttlebutt
is the guy was killed after closing.”

“My baby.” Iris zigzagged through the crowd, arms jutting forward.

I dodged in front of her. “Iris, stop.”

“But she’s in there.” She stabbed a finger at the Igloo. “My baby. He’s probably grilling
her right now.” Iris’s
baby
was one of the two high school seniors that the Igloo had hired as servers. Everyone
referred to them as the Scoops. They had wrists of steel.

I said, “Calm down, Iris, I’m sure she’s fine. Chief Urso is probably asking the standard
questions. ‘Where were you last night?’”

“In my orchid garden,” Iris said.

“Not you. Your daughter. The chief will want to know what your daughter did after
work. What she did this morning. When she arrived to prep the store.” The Igloo Ice
Cream Parlor didn’t open until four
P.M.
and remained open until midnight.

“Oh, there’s…” Iris pointed to her right. “He’ll know how to fix this.”

She hurried through the swarm of bystanders toward a man who was hard to miss—Stratton
Walpole, the local dog groomer and star of
Hamlet,
who was as sturdy as an oak tree, though he was thinning on top and a little too
old for the role, in my humble opinion. My grandmother said he had given the best
reading and added that a wig and
makeup would mask his drawbacks. As if prepared to go to rehearsal, Stratton and a
few buddies carried Renaissance costumes. When Iris joined him, he slipped his muscular
arm around her shoulders.

Beyond them, I saw Hugo Hunter hotfooting it toward us, pumping his arms like a professional
athlete.

I pressed through the crowd and edged toward the front door. Rebecca followed.

Hugo staggered toward me. Drenched in perspiration, he rested his hands on his thighs.
“My car broke down. I ran…Is Chief Urso inside?” His gaze darted to the front door
and back to me. “The chief called me. Said my employees found a body when they came
on their shift. Said a tourist was murdered in the freezer after closing.” His voice
rasped with anxiety. “Why would someone do that? In my store?” He ran his fingers
through his hair, drew in a deep breath, and pushed open the front door.

Through the picture window, I caught sight of the Scoops and Urso. All were emerging
from the rear of the store. The Scoops grabbed their things from behind the counter
and raced out of the store.

Iris flew to her daughter, gripped her shoulders, and asked who died. When her daughter
muttered, “Capriotti,” my insides clenched. Had I heard her right? Was Jacky’s estranged
husband, Giacomo Capriotti, lying dead inside? I gazed back into the Igloo.

Hugo headed for the rear of the store. Urso stopped him and put a hand on his chest.
Hugo resisted. He tried to see over Urso’s shoulder. Urso gripped his elbow and steered
him to a stool by the counter. Urso asked a question. Hugo shook his head. Urso asked
something else. In explanation, Hugo tapped his watch, then spoke some more, his mouth
and hands working in conjunction.

Knowing I would get nothing from watching their silent play, I pivoted, searching
for Iris and her daughter. I wanted
details to relate to Jordan and Jacky, but the Isherwoods were gone.

Rebecca poked me. “Charlotte, the chief is coming out. Get ready.”

“To do what?”

“Grill him.” She shoved me into Urso as he emerged through the front door.

I skidded to a halt and tilted back my head. The sun’s glare hit my eyes. I shielded
them so I could assess Urso’s face.

His eyes grew dark, his mouth tight. “What are you doing here, Charlotte?”

“What do you think?” I said—a snappy retort, if ever there was one—glad that the words
I’m here to grill you
hadn’t escaped my lips.

He huffed, then held up his hands like Moses ready to part the Red Sea. “Folks.” The
crowd hushed. “Please go back to your jobs or homes or whatever you were doing. This
is police business.”

A grumbling murmur swept through the throng.

“Who died?” A heavyset man’s voice rose above the others.

“I heard it was an out-of-towner,” someone yelled from far back in the crowd.

“Did Hugo Hunter do it?” Stratton asked, his voice resonant.

“I will not comment,” Urso said.

I gripped Urso’s elbow and cleared my throat. “Chief, is the victim’s name Giacomo
Capriotti?”

Urso snapped a hard look over his shoulder. If I were a gnat and his gaze a laser,
I would have been zapped. “Where did you hear that?”

Rather than get Iris’s daughter in trouble, I glanced at the deputy who lingered by
the front door. He was a true blue cop, but he was no palace guard.

“He doesn’t know squat,” Urso said. “Where did you get your information?”

My shoulders sagged. “One of the Scoops.”

He gave me a cold, hard look. “Do you know the victim?”

I inhaled.

Rebecca gasped. “You do, don’t you? Who is he?”

I kept mum.

Urso’s eyes narrowed to slits of distrust. “Charlotte.” He reminded me of my grandfather,
when I said the dog ate my homework. We didn’t have a dog at the time. Pépère had
been hurt that I hadn’t trusted him with the truth.

I wriggled with guilt. Should I tell Urso what I knew, or should I protect Jacky and
Jordan until I talked to both of them?

“Charlotte,” Urso hissed.

“I know
of
him,” I blurted. “Hugo told me the man was killed in the freezer. Is that true?”

“How did he die, Chief?” Rebecca said.

Urso shook his head. “Uh-uh, Miss Zook. I’m not giving out any information until Charlotte
tells me everything she’s got.” He tapped his foot, waiting.

“What’s that on your shoe, Chief?” Rebecca pointed.

Urso glanced down. “Ice cream cone crumbs.”

“Was the freezer a mess?” she asked.

Urso remained stoic.

“Was there a struggle? Will the killer have bruises?”

“Miss Zook, you can give up trying to coax something out of me.” Urso’s mouth quirked
up on the right. “I repeat, you won’t get another word out of me until Charlotte spills
what she’s got.”

I opened my hands. “But I don’t know anything.”

“You do, too.” Edy wedged between Rebecca and me. Had she followed us to listen in?
“Giacomo Capriotti is Jacky’s husband. I overheard you and Jordan talking at Sew Inspired
Quilt Shoppe the other day.”

She’d heard us? At the bridesmaids’ dresses fitting? We had been whispering. Gack.

No fonder of her now than I had been in high school, I craned my neck and glowered
at her. Her eyes wavered. A niggling suspicion crept into my brain. “You’re hiding
something,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You are. Your eyes are”—I jutted an accusatory finger—“cutting left and right.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Edy blinked rapidly. “They are not.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

I tried in vain to figure out how Jacky’s husband had located her. What would have
made a guy in New Jersey contemplate coming to Providence, Ohio? I said, “Did you
call him, Edy?”

“No.”

“Did you tell him where he could find Jacky? You had days to track him down.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Maybe you need money. Maybe you asked him to pay you for the information.”

“I do not need cash. I have a steady job at Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe, or have you
forgotten? And I like Jacky.” She twitched her nose with smug satisfaction. “Try again.”

“How else would Giacomo Capriotti have tracked her down?” I demanded.

“Maybe Prudence contacted him. She overheard, too. She—”

“Ladies, enough,” Urso snapped, glaring from me to Edy and back to me. “Charlotte,
who is Giacomo Capriotti?”

I turned my back on traitorous Edy. “Jacky Peterson was married. Is married,” I revised.
“To Capriotti. But he beat her. He threatened her at gunpoint.”

“Was he shot?” Rebecca asked. “Did he bring a gun with him? Did he and his killer
struggle for control?”

“He wasn’t shot,” Urso said. “Go on, Charlotte.”

“Fearing for her life, Jacky relocated to Providence. Jordan helped her change her
name and set her up in business.” I cocked my head. “I guess she didn’t tell you all
this when you were dating her.”

Urso’s face turned sour. Bringing up his failed relationship with Jacky wasn’t smart
on my part.

“Did Jacky kill him?” Edy asked.

“No way,” I hissed, wishing Urso would disappear so I could throttle her. “She did
not kill her husband.”

“She’s got motive,” Edy said. “She was abused.”

“She’s not capable of murder.”

“Abused women lash out at—”

“Stop it, Edy,” I yelled. “You do not know everything, no matter what you might think.”

“What about Jordan?” she demanded, not cowed by me in the slightest. “Tell her about
the eyewitness, Chief.”

“What eyewitness?” I asked.

Edy smiled smugly. “Late last night, Anabelle was at the bookshop, and she saw someone
tall running from the scene of the crime.”

“How did you know about—?” Urso sighed. “Don’t tell me, the Scoops told you. I knew
I should’ve kept those girls inside longer.”

“And threatened them with obstruction of justice,” Rebecca added.

Urso shot her a hard look.

“Jordan is tall,” Edy said.

“You’re tall, too,” Rebecca countered.

“Not as tall as he is.”

“Jordan didn’t do this,” I shrieked. “And Anabelle is so short that even I would seem
tall to her.” Except, I noted, that Anabelle always wore high-heeled shoes—wedges,
boots, and even sandals with three-inch soles. “Urso, Jordan did not kill Giacomo
Capriotti.”

Urso rubbed his chin as if, despite my plea, he were considering the possibility.

“Jordan seems like the protective type to me,” Edy said.

I whirled on her. “That’s enough, Edy Delaney, do you hear me? Neither Jordan nor
Jacky killed anyone.”

Edy gave me an
oh, really
glance, and I fought hard to stifle the urge to pop her in the nose. She was fast
becoming my Least Favorite Person in Providence, a title that, up until now, I had
bestowed upon Sylvie and/or Prudence, depending on the day. Edy must have sensed my
desire—maybe she saw my fisted hands—because she huffed, turned on her heel, and threw
over her shoulder, “If you need me, Chief, you know where to find me.”

“Chief, when does the coroner think the murder occurred?” Rebecca asked.

“Sometime after the shop closed, most likely between twelve and two
A.M.
”

Relief swept over me. “Jordan is cleared,” I said. “He was with me all night.”

Urso stiffened. He couldn’t still be hoping that I would throw over Jordan for him,
could he?

I pressed on. “Jacky is innocent, too. She was at her house with Hugo Hunter. He must
have told you that when you questioned him a bit ago.” I didn’t offer that Jacky suspected
her husband had returned to town and had been lurking around her house. Urso didn’t
need to add malice aforethought into the equation. I said, “How did Giacomo Capriotti
die?”