Clobbered by Camembert

“I’m so sorry,” Freckles said, still chuckling.

“I’m not.” Meredith patted Freckles on the back. “None of us were reaping the benefit of the class for some reason.”

“My twelve-year-old told me there’s hyper-electricity in the air. Winter brings it on.” Freckles was always packed with trivial information. She and her husband homeschooled their daughter. “Frenchie and hubby are doing a physics experiment on the topic this very minute with our other munchkin watching from the stroller.”

“I wasn’t talking about physics,” Delilah said. “I was talking about chemistry.” She turned to Jacky. “C’mon, give. What’s up with you and Urso?”

At least they had backed off discussing Rebecca and Ipo’s situation.

“Nothing.” Jacky tucked her yoga mat under her arm. “I mean, things are fine. Everything’s fine.”

As Delilah pleaded for more, Meredith tweaked my elbow and whispered, “By the way, I Googled the guy that Jordan said taught him to make cheese—Jeremy Montgomery.”

Her presumption that I would want to know made me prickly—was I that easy to read? I glanced at Jacky to see if she was listening in. She wasn’t. She seemed intent on stalling Delilah’s interrogation. I said, “Go on.”

“I’m worried,” Meredith said.

“Why?”

Meredith chewed on her lower lip then proceeded. “He died before Jordan was born.”

My insides percolated with apprehension. Why would Jordan lie to me? “Are you sure?”

Before she could respond, the front door of the yoga studio burst open.

Bozz, my teenaged Internet guru, hurtled inside. Chest heaving for breath, he brushed longish bangs off his forehead and gasped. “Miss B! I just got a text.”

Big deal. I would bet he received nearly two hundred texts a day.

“It’s from Chief Urso!”

My heart snagged in my chest. “What did it say?”

“He … He”—Bozz bent over and sucked in air—“he couldn’t reach you.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of my purse. We were required to turn off all cell phones for the yoga class.

“It’s about Rebecca.” Bozz offered me his phone.

I snatched the phone from his palm, and as I read, my knees went weak.

Kaitlyn Clydesdale was lying dead in Rebecca’s cottage.

CHAPTER

While I hotfooted it to Rebecca’s, my boots spanking the wet pavement, selfish thoughts zipped through my mind. Whether I had liked Kaitlyn Clydesdale or not, I had been hoping to ply her for more information about my mother. I knew so little. My mother’s parents had died of natural causes soon after the crash. My mother had no sisters or brothers. The few friends she’d made had married and moved away. Kaitlyn claimed to have been one of those friends. I was hoping that, during the time she was in town, she would tell me more about my mother—her secrets, her passions, what had made her tick. During my childhood years, Grandmere had done her best to fill in the blanks, but a friend who had known my mother for years would have been so much better. With the link gone, I felt a loss deep in my soul.

By the time I reached Rebecca’s red-shingled cottage, a crowd had gathered. Many were popping up and down, trying to see over the heads of someone in front. Rebecca rented her darling abode from my Realtor friend, Octavia Tibble, who owned a half dozen such cottages around town and rented them only to single women who Octavia decided had promise. I looked for her among the crowd but didn’t spot her. She adored Rebecca. Maybe she was already inside demanding Rebecca’s rights.

Heart pounding, I veered toward the white fence that was cluttered with barren rose vines. I slipped through a break in the fence and stole to the front porch.

The top half of the Dutch door hung open. I would lay odds that our illustrious chief of police was already inside. He hated a stifling hot room. Everyone else within the cottage had to be freezing.

As I drew near, Grandmere sidled to my side. “Oh, cherie.” Tears streaked her cheeks. She pulled the ends of her knit burgundy scarf to tighten it. “I am so glad you are here. It is a shame, non?”

“Yes. Tell me what happened.”

“Chief Urso believes our sweet honeybee farmer killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”

“Killed? This is a murder scene?”

Neither Urso nor his deputy had hung the yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape yet. At any moment, they might order the crowd to retreat. Before that time, I needed to learn all I could.

“The jury is out,” Grandmere said. When my grandparents moved from war-torn France, they had adapted quickly to the American way of life. Grandmere loved to use Americanisms. “Regarde.” She pointed at the living room, visible from our spot near the Dutch door.

Kaitlyn, wearing the same getup she had worn in The Cheese Shop, lay on her back on a red braided rug. Her body was wedged between an Amish rocking chair and a ladder-back chair; her head was close to the leg of the coffee table. Rebecca’s furnishings were sparse. She and I had gone garage sale hunting one day and had picked up most of the items. She had saved an entire month’s earnings to buy the ruby red love seat upon which Ipo and she were sitting.

The coroner from Holmes County, a contemporary of Urso’s with slicked-back hair and a deeply furrowed forehead, knelt beside Kaitlyn. Latex gloves covered his hands. Gingerly, he turned her chin and inspected her head.

I said, “He sure got here fast.”

Grandmere nodded. “He was having dinner with Chief Urso.”

Umberto Urso, whose sheer size dwarfed the already teensy cottage, stood in profile beside the cobblestone fireplace. A glow from the waning fire made his uniform seem more gold than brown. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his dark hair was mussed, as if he had been scratching it trying to figure out what happened.

Rebecca sat tucked into Ipo. Goldilocks in the presence of Papa Bear couldn’t have appeared more vulnerable. Ipo had slung his meaty arm around Rebecca’s shoulders, but by the look of his trembling chin, he needed consoling, too. Did Urso truly think kindhearted Ipo could kill someone? Why wasn’t anyone speaking?

“Yep,” the coroner broke the silence. “Some kind of wooden baton, I think.”

“Baton?” I whispered to my grandmother.

“He thinks Ipo struck Kaitlyn’s neck with a weapon,” Grandmere answered. “Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “Apparently Kaitlyn fell backward from the blow and hit her head on the table. But they cannot find a weapon, and Ipo is not offering any clues.”

I scanned the room. Six-inch cylinder candles, standing on the pass-through counter to the kitchenette, burned with intensity. The light from a pair of tapers created shadows on the fixings for a cheese tray, which included a wedge of Manchego, Brie, the Chevrot I had suggested, three wood-handled knives, crackers, and a jar of honey. A crystal bowl holding mixed nuts and another containing winter grapes sat on the nearby dining table. Two champagne flutes stood empty beside an unopened bottle of champagne, which rested in an ice bucket.

Earlier in the day, Rebecca had recited the menu for her romantic meal.

I glanced at her. Her lips were swollen. So were Ipo’s. There was no doubt in my mind that they had done it—kissed. What an ending to such a promising evening.

I started to open my mouth to call to Urso when he cut a look in my direction and glared at me. I recoiled. What had I done to warrant such displeasure other than snag a front-row seat? He held my gaze with an unspoken warning: Back off. I glowered to let him know that I wouldn’t budge, not when Rebecca could be in trouble. She was like my little sister. No way was I obeying him because he had a better bully look than I did. I folded my arms and raised my chin ever so slightly. Take that!

“Deputy Rodham,” Urso barked.

The gangly young policeman with a roosterlike hairdo stepped forward from the shadows, his narrow shoulders squared.

“Secure this scene. ASAP. And close that front door.”