To Brie or Not to Brie (25 page)

Urso sighed. “How long did they date? A nanosecond? It’s a stretch.”

“But we have to follow all leads, right?”

“Not
we,
Charlotte,
me.
How many times do I—?”

“Got it. I know. I need to butt out.” I held up my hand, as if we were standing in
the same room, then added, “Maybe you should consider making me an honorary deputy.”

He growled. “Like a title would make you act any differently. By the way, I do feel
I owe you one tidbit.”

My ears perked up.

“Hugo Hunter has left the building.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“You’ve heard the phrase:
Elvis has left the building
, haven’t you? Oh, never mind. Hugo has split town, and he’s not answering his cell
phone. And before you ask, yes, I’m following up.” He slammed down the receiver.

A new theory caromed through my brain as I hurried out of the office. Hugo could have
killed Giacomo to protect Jacky, fashioned an alibi of talking to his mother, and
then, realizing the alibi was flimsy as all get out, decided to hightail it out of
town. Could he act more culpable?

Rebecca planted her hands on her hips and gave me the evil eye as I slung on an apron.
“About time you returned to the fold.” She waved a hand, indicating the flock of customers.
“Every one of them is hankering for our special.”

Recently I had discovered Capriole’s Julianna, a lovely raw milk goat cheese, which
had an aged white rind enhanced with natural herbs. It was delicious on a cracker
smeared with sweet jam. It also melted beautifully and turned grits into something
fabulous.

Rebecca said, “Matthew is in the cellar retrieving a dozen rounds for me because you
weren’t here.”

Ignoring her obvious frustration with my tardiness, I said, “I’m back now.”

“And…? What did Urso say? What’s going on? Where have you been?”

“I’ll catch you up once the line peters out.”

“But—”

“Promise.”

Twenty minutes later, when the shop was free of customers,
I perched on one of the ladder-back chairs by the tasting counter. Either standing
all day or packing up the twins’ things was really taking its toll on me. My lower
back ached. I stretched my calves and rotated my head. What I would have given for
a shoulder massage or a hug from Jordan. He and Jacky were probably celebrating her
good news.

“Dish.” Rebecca perched on the other chair and tugged her pencil skirt and the hem
of her apron down a smidge on her thighs.

I started by telling her about Vinnie’s money troubles, his possible inheritance,
and Anabelle’s voodoo-hoodoo history with men.

“I don’t think Anabelle’s ex-boyfriend did this,” Rebecca said.

“You don’t? But what if he was jealous about Anabelle dating anyone else?”

“It’s a reach.”

“And Vinnie’s inheritance?”

“Money trumps most motives.” She raised an index finger to make her point. “Anything
else?”

“Yes. Hugo Hunter is missing.”

“Abracadabra, poof.” She smacked her hands together. “I told you that a magician could
be wily.”

I gave her my opinion about his departure then sighed. “I wonder if Jacky knows? She’ll
be sad. He seemed sweet.”

“There are cheeses that smell sweet,” Rebecca said, “but they don’t taste good.”

I smiled. “I think you have that backward. There are cheeses that smell horrible but
taste great. Époisses de Bourgogne, for example. If you get the smell of the rind
on your hands…”

“…it’s super-gross, but the taste is heavenly.”

There was an urban legend that the cheese was banned from public transportation in
France because it was so pungent at room temperature.

Rebecca drummed her fingers on her thigh. “What does Urso think about Hugo?”

“He’s hunting for him.”

“Hunting for Hunter. Good. Except for one thing. I don’t think he’s guilty.”

“But you just agreed that—”

“Why would Hugo take the risk?” Rebecca thumped the counter once. “His business is
flush, his love life is good, and he doesn’t seem like a cause guy.”

“What do you mean,
cause
guy?”

“You know, someone who wants to right a wrong. I’m still stuck on the money.” Rebecca
twisted the tasting platter on the counter, positioning the cheese in front. “‘Show
me the money.’ Do you know that line?”

“From
Jerry Maguire.
”

“Exactly. Money is a vital force. It makes people do weird things. There was this
Amish farmer, a good friend of my grandfather’s, who left the fold when he didn’t
feel he was getting his fair share. He moved to Pennsylvania and started a bank.”

I gaped. “You’re not telling me he’s a killer.”

“No. But money was the driving force. He gave up everything—his wife, his life, his
religion—to have it. I saw an episode of
The Mentalist
where—”

The front door opened.

Sylvie, still wearing the red kimono, sashayed into the store and trilled, “Charlotte.”
She moved toward me waving a silver Under Wraps bag. Prudence and Iris followed her
in. So did a handsome older man and a pair of thirty-something women—real customers.

I slid off my chair to greet our visitors, but Sylvie cut me off mid-hello. “Charlotte,
take this.” She shoved the gift bag into my hands.

Inside was the red sweater she had tried to get me to buy earlier. I turned to Rebecca.
“Would you help the folks who just entered, please?”

“I’m on it.” She sidled behind the cheese counter and flashed a toothy smile.

I turned to Sylvie and gave her a scathing look. “Sylvie, I’m not buying this.”

“Aha!” Prudence marched toward us, pointing an accusatory finger. “I told you, Iris.
The woman is going around town, hand selling her wares.”

“I am not,” Sylvie said. “That cow bought it for Charlotte.”

“Cow?” I said, not understanding.

“That woman who was in Under Wraps earlier when you were there, love. You know the
one.” Sylvie drew a curvy form with her hands.

“The greengrocer’s wife?” I said.

“That’s the one.” Sylvie tapped her nose. “She’s a cheese hound, and she adores you.
I can’t imagine why.”

The greengrocer’s wife was stout, but she wasn’t a cow. She had a lovely gamine face,
bright eyes, and a buoyant spirit.

“You’re despicable, Sylvie Bessette,” Prudence said. “Calling someone a cow.”

Sylvie whirled on Prudence. “What business is it of yours?”

“You represent Providence. We all do. Every shop owner, every assistant.” Prudence
stared at us, trying to garner support. “The hideous things you say will get around,
and we’ll all bear the brunt.”

“Tosh.” Sylvie fluttered her fingertips. “You’re worried because your business is
suffering.”

“It is not.” Prudence thrust her chin in the air.

“Oh, no? I happen to know that Edy Delaney intends to buy you out.”

Prudence sputtered, “That’s a lie.”

“Is it?” Sylvie jutted a hip.

“My shop is not for sale, do you hear me? It is
not for sale
.”

Iris grabbed Prudence by the arm. “Pru, shh. You’re always warning me not to rise
to the bait. C’mon, Sylvie is not worth it.”

“But she’s a bully,” Prudence whined. “She trashes everyone. Someone has to put her
in her place.”

Iris nipped Prudence’s chin with her fingers and swiveled Prudence’s face. “Look over
there. See that handsome man by the cracker display? Let’s go flirt.”

“Flirt?” Sylvie said. “Puh-leeese. Prudence is about as flirtatious as a thorn.”

“Don’t listen to her, Pru. You’ve got looks and brains.”

Rebecca, who was busy wrapping a wedge of cheese, raised an eyebrow; I stifled a smile.
Perhaps Iris was going a little over the top on behalf of her pal. Prudence might
be smart, but attractive? Maybe dating Stratton had warped Iris’s sense of reality.

Iris steered Prudence to the left. As Prudence passed Sylvie, she snarled; Sylvie
made a not-so-subtle gesture of raking her claws.

“Sylvie,” I hissed.

“What?” She puffed on her fingernails then polished them on her kimono. “Cleopatra
was a lamb compared to—”

“No,” Prudence shouted, causing Sylvie and me to turn.

Iris tugged; Prudence ground her heels into the hardwood floor. I cringed at the scuffmarks
her spiky heels made.

“I won’t do it,” Prudence said. “You can’t make me.” She shook free of Iris and dashed
out of the shop.

Iris followed in hasty pursuit. “Prudence, wait.”

“So much for the path of true love.” Sylvie smirked.

Rebecca rushed to us. “So, Sylvie, is it true about Edy?”

“Is what true?” Sylvie asked, knowing full well what Rebecca ached to hear.

The thirty-something women, with purchases in hand, were exiting. The handsome older
man, unaware of almost
being the object of Prudence’s desire, seemed oblivious to our conversation and content
to browse.

“Is it true that Edy is buying out Prudence?” Rebecca said.

“Of course it’s not true,” I said. “Where would she get the money?”

Sylvie clucked her tongue and patted my shoulder. “Don’t be ignorant, love. Every
woman uses her feminine wiles. If a certain man invests—”

“You don’t mean…” I sputtered. “He couldn’t have…”

Sylvie waltzed toward the exit and tossed a knowing glance over her shoulder. “Trust
me. I know.”

As the door swung shut, Rebecca said, “She might be right. What if Edy overheard you
and Jacky talking about Jacky’s past, and she tracked down Giacomo Capriotti. What
if she told him she would reveal where Jacky was, but only if he would back her new
venture? Money, money, money.”

I gawked at her, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that angle. Silly me, I had presumed
Sylvie’s parting comment implied Urso was Edy’s backer. Running with Rebecca’s theory,
I said, “What if Edy had counted on Giacomo paying her, but he reneged because he
knew she would dun him for more, so she killed him and stole the wad of cash he had
on him?”

“How much money are we talking about? Enough to buy a business? Enough to buy a house?”

“Good point. A hundred bucks isn’t enough to kill for. But if he was carrying thousands
or tens of—”

The sound of dishes breaking shattered the air. Not dishes in the wine annex. Beyond
that, at A Wheel Good Time. And then something slammed the wall and a woman screamed.

“Rebecca, call Urso,” I yelled as I bolted out the door.

Smoky gray clouds tinged with sherbet streaked the sky as I dashed to A Wheel Good
Time. The front door hung open. I paused in the doorway to scan the shop. Jacky sat
hunched on a stool by the sales counter, her body heaving with giant sobs as her foot
worked Cecily’s baby stroller backward and forward. To my right, a mother in a plaid
shift and her daughter in a matching dress huddled by an array of white mugs. The
mother gaped at me; her daughter was shivering. To my left, shards of white pottery
lay scattered on the floor by the wall that abutted Fromagerie Bessette. I peered
into the shadowy recesses at the rear of the store for movement. No one seemed to
be lurking there ready for a second attack. Whoever had trashed the place had vanished.

“Jacky?” I hurried to her and clutched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Her mouth moved, but no words came out.

“Is Cecily okay?” Panicked, I glanced into the stroller. Cecily was asleep, her little
mouth open, her chest rising and falling gently. I turned to the mother and child.
“What happened?”

“A short man…dark-haired…bad skin,” the mother said. “He came in and started arguing.
He threatened Jacky. He said he would tell everyone. What did he mean?”

“I don’t know.” I knelt in front of Jacky. “Was it Vinnie?”

She nodded. “He…He said I ruined his life. I told him I didn’t kill Giacomo. He said
I was missing the point.” She coughed out a near-hysteria laugh.

The mother and child edged nearer. The mother said, “The man swept his arm across
the top shelf. He broke everything.” She waved at the mess. “Then he picked up a pitcher
and shook it at Jacky, and he threw it against the wall. We”—she clutched her daughter
tightly—“wanted to go for help, but we were afraid to move.”

I said, “You did the right thing.”

“Charlotte,” Jacky whispered. “There are free pottery session coupons under the counter.
Please give her two of them. Tell her I’m sorry.”

I did as she asked. After the mother and child shuffled out, I returned my gaze to
Jacky. “I told Rebecca to call Urso.”

“What can he do?”

“He can arrest Vinnie for vandalism.”

“And Vinnie will hire some expensive lawyer to get him off, and he’ll come right back.
Vinnie wants us dead. Cecily and I have to move. We have to leave Providence. We have
to start over.”

“No,” I blurted, knowing I did so for selfish reasons. I adored Jacky but, more importantly,
I didn’t want Jordan to move. And he would. Jacky and her baby were blood. Would he
want me to go with him? Could I? I pushed the thoughts aside. “Look, Jacky, I don’t
think he wants to kill
you. He wants money. He’s desperate. I think he owes a bundle to someone, maybe the
Mob. He’s operating in panic mode. If he were rational—”