To Brie or Not to Brie (33 page)

Which made us all cry louder.

* * *

Even before sounding the popgun for the beginning of the race,
Stomping the Grapes
was a success. Hundreds of people accompanied by pets had shown up for the event.
They stood in a huddle at the start line. Children, including Amy and Clair, lined
up at the back of the pack so they wouldn’t get trampled. Amy had a tight hold on
Rocket’s leash.

Grandmère, clad in a brown safari-style outfit, stood at the front of the crowd on
a makeshift dais constructed of apple boxes. “Thank you for coming.” She greeted everyone
using a megaphone to broadcast above the crowd’s chatter. “We have over three hundred
participants. You have no idea how much this means. Tallulah and her furry friends
are very grateful.”

The town’s animal rescuer, Tallulah Barker, a munchkin of a woman, waved from her
spot at the foot of the dais where she was managing a knot of dogs on leashes. Tallulah
wasn’t comfortable with public speaking or leadership, which was why my energetic
grandmother had jumped onboard the project.

“As you know,” Grandmère said, “Tallulah has been rescuing animals since she was ten
years old.” As she continued lauding Tallulah for her dedication, Clair broke from
the rear of the pack and rushed to me. She clutched me around the waist.

“What is it, sweetheart?” I crouched to her level, unsure whether I could handle another
sob fest.

“When I grow up, I want to rescue dogs and cats, too.” Passion gushed out of her.

I stroked her hair. “You can do whatever you want to do. A year ago, you wanted to
be a librarian or own a knitting store.”

“Can’t I do both? Like your friend Octavia. She’s a Realtor and a librarian, and now
she owns the bookstore. And you own a cheese shop and you’re a detective.”

“I’m not a detective.”

“Yes, you are.”

Out of the mouths of babes. I rubbed the back of Clair’s neck. “We’ll discuss what
you want to become every year until you decide.”

“But I won’t be living with you. When will we talk?”

“I’ll be less than a mile away. I’m sure you will see me more than you’d like. And
Meredith is just as good as me—no,
better—at helping young people find their true paths. I promise.” I swatted her rear.
“Now, get back to the race.”

She lingered. “Do you think Rags is lonely at home?”

“He’s probably relishing the peace and quiet.”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Up ahead with Meredith, holding our spot along the route so we can watch you run.”
I had asked Rebecca and Tyanne to man the shop. They were more than pleased to get
a jump on decorating for the night’s rehearsal dinner. “Go, sweetheart,” I said to
Clair. “Wave when you dash past us.”

As she hurried away, I tuned in to the rest of Grandmère’s introduction. “Remember,
the race winds back and forth through the Bozzuto Winery. Stomp those fallen grapes.
They won’t mind. And the winner will take home this trophy.” She held up a gold-plated
urn etched with dogs, cats, and birds. “Don’t forget to look for your friends and
families among the vines and run like the wind.”

Clair dashed to Amy and Rocket, scratched the dog’s ears, and screamed, “Yee-haw!”

Amy echoed the shout.

“Ready, set, go.” Grandmère fired a popgun and then handed it to Tallulah.

The leaders in the race tore ahead. Dust kicked up.

“This way,
mes amis
.” Pépère beckoned Grandmère and me to join him.

Both of my grandparents had worn jeans and tennis shoes, as well. Scuttling ahead
of me, they seemed young and sprightly. I hoped, when I grew to their age, I would
be as energetic.

“It is an intriguing setting for a race,
non
?” Grandmère said.

In autumn, the winery took on a tired look. The vines were nearly bare, the leaves
yellowing, and the twine holding the vines to wire guides was dry. However, the surrounding
hills shimmered with burnt orange trees mixed
among the evergreens, and the skies were a brilliant blue and awe-inspiring.

“
Oui.
Intriguing.” Pépère squeezed her elbow and led her through an arch. I followed.

Minutes after we reached the location that Matthew and Meredith had secured, the first
band of racers barreled past. I recognized a few locals who regularly ran along the
streets of Providence. Both of Urso’s deputies were among them, but not Urso. He was
a walker and an occasional bicyclist.

More people rushed by, including the art gallery clerk, the pastor, the cute barista
as well as the Francophile owner from Café au Lait, and a few tourists I recognized
as customers of Fromagerie Bessette.

Behind them loped a large group of men. Close on their heels was a gaggle of women.
Like girls in a fan club, they dashed toward the men, screaming with glee while waving
their arms overhead.

One of the joyful females, who reminded me of a sausage in her snug cocoa running
outfit, broke from the pack and jogged up the far side of the men’s group. “Yoo-hoo!”
she shouted. “Hey, y’all. You with the wavy hair. Slow up a scooch.” The woman plunged
into the men’s group and nabbed someone’s shoulder.

The other men didn’t slow. The target of the Sausage’s attack tried to escape, but
more of her friends joined her in corralling him. As the dust settled, I realized
they had nabbed Hugo Hunter.

“It know it’s you, Mr. Hunter,” cried a woman in Day-Glo orange who was as skinny
as a carrot stick. “Don’t try to deny it.” She nudged her sausage-shaped friend for
confirmation.

The Sausage nodded. “Please, Mr. Hunter, we love you. Would you sign an autograph?”

I gaped. Why would they want Hugo’s autograph, and
why had they called him Mister? Who was he? To the annoyance of a few oncoming racers,
I spurted toward Hugo. “Out of my way” and “Move aside, lady” came at me in a wave
of angry shouts.
So much for a little friendly competition
. I ignored them and cut through the throng like a herding dog organizing droves of
cattle.

Grandmère yelled, “
Chérie
, what are you doing?”

The Sausage, Carrot Stick, and friends encircled Hugo near a stand of vines. By the
time I reached him, he was signing race entry sheets, which he was pressing against
his knee for support. When he stood up, his swoop of bangs fell into his face. He
brushed them aside and gazed at me.

“Don’t tell me you want one, too,” he sighed.

“Hugo, who are you?” I asked. “Why are they asking for your autograph?”

“You don’t know?” the Sausage said, her southern drawl as sugary as soda pop. “He’s
a famous director.”

“I’m not famous,” he muttered.

“He directs independent films,” Carrot Stick said.

“He’s an auteur,” the Sausage added. “And famous as all get-out. He directed
Evil World
and
The Destruction
and—”

“—
Avoidance,
” Carrot Stick chimed in. “They’re classics in the style of Quentin Tarantino. All
were shot in the South.”

“They’re nonlinear,” the Sausage added.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Carrot Stick flailed her hands to describe. “He uses symbols and expressionism to
depict violence—”

“—to illustrate how violence is not now, and never should be, okay in our society,”
Sausage said. “He’s incredible with actors because he was an actor before he became
a director.”

“He pulls a brilliant performance from everyone,” her friend said.

Suddenly all my feelings about Hugo started to make sense. I remembered the night
Jacky had worried that her
husband was prowling around her house. Something about Hugo had struck me as odd.
He had said things that had sounded rehearsed and, like an acting coach, he had coaxed
answers out of Jacky.

I said to the women, “Did you know Mr. Hunter would be running in the race?”

“Are you kidding?” the Sausage gushed. “We didn’t have a clue. He’s a sneaky devil.
Nobody even knows where he lives. Do you happen to know? Are you just pretending not
to know who he is? Are you really his lover?”

They gawked at me, eager for fan club gossip. I pinched my lips together and shook
my head. Relief swept across Hugo’s face.

“Here, ladies,” Hugo handed them their autographed sheets of paper and forced a smile.
“Keep buying movie tickets.”

“Oh, we will, Hugo, er, Mr. Hunter, we will,” Carrot Stick sang.

The Sausage pulled out a cell phone. “Would you take a picture with all of us?”

Hugo sighed. “Uh, sure.”

The Sausage handed me the phone, and the women clustered around him. I snapped a picture,
checked it for quality, and handed the phone back.

As the women hustled off, I heard the Sausage say, “I look horrible. My hair.”

Carrot Stick said, “Should we ask him to pose in another one?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll Photoshop it. Gee, he was nice.”

Other racers sped by. More dust kicked up. Not seeing the twins anywhere in sight,
I refocused on Hugo.

He shifted feet. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Does Jacky know who you are or what you do?”

“No,” Hugo said. “I’ve kept my life a secret. I like living in Providence. Nobody
knows me. I can be myself here.”

“You leave town often.”

“To shoot films.”

“With no forewarning.”

“I like anonymity. I get raw footage at all times of the day and night. I don’t want
people—fans—stalking me. You saw how they act.” He jutted a hand at the retreating
women. “I need quiet to be creative. I know it’s hard to understand.”

Actually it wasn’t. That was one of the reasons I liked coming into Fromagerie Bessette
so early in the morning—for a peaceful solitary moment in my own environment.

“Did Chief Urso talk to you last night?” I asked.

“Nope. Didn’t know he wanted to.”

“Why didn’t you answer your cell phone when he called you over the past two days?”

“I forgot my charger, and the battery died. I wasn’t expecting calls. Jacky and I
agreed to take a breather from each other.”

“You claimed to be talking to your mother on the night of the murder; however, Chief
Urso contacted her, and she said she couldn’t remember the phone call.”

Hugo sighed again. “I did talk to her, but Mama fell asleep. I put on a jazz CD so
she could hear I was still around when she woke up. She has this illness. It’s a long
story. I worry about her.”

A guy who worried about his mother couldn’t be all bad, could he?

Hugo raked his fingers through his hair. “That night I left the house and went outside
to capture a picture of the quarter moon. I came here, to the winery, and got a great
shot lying on the ground with the vines in the foreground.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“A couple of mice. If it helps, I have footage. It’s time-stamped. In case you don’t
know, the quarter moon comes right before it waxes gibbous. It goes full after that.”
He frowned. “I needed the shot to show the passing of time. I’m filming the full moon
this evening.”

Another notion prickled the edges of my memory. “The
other night, when Jacky thought someone was outside her house, you said you could
protect her. You claimed you were trained in combat fighting. Did you serve in the
military?”

“Nah.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“You heard my fans. I make movies about nonviolence. Look, I was a stage actor. I
learned stage fighting.” He mimed a parry and lunge. “I’m pretty good with an épée.”

“Why did you lie about being with Jacky that night?”

He swallowed hard. “I thought she might need an alibi.”

“You mean you thought she was guilty.”

“She’d told me how horrible her husband was. I”—he squirreled a toe into the dirt,
popping grapes indiscriminately—“I don’t know what I thought.”

“Why didn’t you simply tell Urso you were shooting a film?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, I wanted anonymity. I was afraid if it got around who I
was, my time here was up. People would start flocking to Providence to see me scoop
ice cream.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Those women? There are thousands more like them.” He tilted his head and
twirled a finger at me. “I can see those wheels churning in your head. You’re thinking
more tourists could be good for the town.”

I grinned. He had me pegged.

“They’re not good for me.” He held his hands open, palms up. “I’ll take the footage
to Urso. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Will you keep my secret?”

“Hugo, I’m pretty sure, thanks to your fan club, that your secret has flown the proverbial
coop.”

“Aunt Charlotte.” Amy charged toward me, her legs splattered with grape skins and
grit. Rocket scampered alongside her. “Did you see us?” Amy waved her purple
Stomping the Grapes
ribbon that she had received for finishing. “Halt, Rocket.” She pulled up on Rocket’s
leash. He skidded to a stop and sat. “Good boy.” She ruffled his beard. “Did you see
us running?”

“Of course I did. We all did.” Granted, I had watched from a slightly different angle
than the rest of my family. I slung my arm around her shoulder. “Where’s Clair?”