Clobbered by Camembert

Rodham saluted and fetched a roll of yellow crime-scene tape from a satchel. “Move back, folks.” He pressed open the lower half of the Dutch door, which forced me to shuffle aside, then secured and shut the whole door after him.

But I wasn’t done listening yet. He headed left, so I veered right and found a spot near a Bieber tilt-turn window, cracked open enough to ventilate but not refrigerate. Grandmere nestled in beside me.

“What can you see, cherie?”

“Urso is crouching beside the coroner. He’s whispering something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

The coroner responded with a hushed word to Urso. Oh, to be Superwoman and have supersonic hearing.

“Thanks.” Urso rose to his incredible height and faced Rebecca and Ipo, his back to me.

From where I stood, it was like watching a play. Shadows created by the varying light in the room danced on each of the players’ faces.

Rebecca and Ipo sank deeper into the couch, both probably wishing they had worn red clothing and could blend into the background.

“Mr. Ho, you come from Hawaii,” Urso said.

“Yes.”

I stiffened. Where was Urso going with this line of questioning? What significance did it have? Why was he being so hard-hearted? On any other day, he would have called Ipo by his first name.

“Oh, there is your grandfather,” Grandmere said. “He will want to know everything. I will return.” She scuttled away.

A cold draft filled her spot, and then a body did. Sylvie. Lucky me. She was wearing a skintight purple sweaterdress and reeked of patchouli. I wondered if all her Under Wraps items smelled the same. If they did, I would run from the store the moment I entered. Not that I would enter. I had steered clear since it opened.

“Fill me in,” Sylvie said, breathless with curiosity.

“Shhh.”

“Don’t you hush—”

I gave her a sterner than stern look. Without asking, she wedged herself in beside me so that she could peer through the opening.

“Oof,” I whispered.

“Shhh,” she said with a snicker.

Urso continued. “Tell me about your luau jobs, Mr. Ho.”

“I was a fire dancer.” An edge crept into Ipo’s normally gentle tone.

“Fire dancer.”

“Yes.” Ipo’s face pinched with concern. He seemed as baffled as I was by the questions.

Rebecca caught sight of me, and her eyes filled with such pleading that my heart wrenched. I held up a finger to give her hope. For what, I couldn’t be sure—for a miracle answer, a suspect other than Ipo, something. And soon.

“Tell me about the wooden batons used in your ceremonies,” Urso said.

Ipo fidgeted.

“What are they called again?” Urso snapped his fingers, but I would bet dimes to dollars he knew the name. During high school, when most teens suffered wanderlust, Urso had devoured the entire set of James Michener books. He had looked so dorky carrying huge thick tomes to school when the rest of us were trying to read the thinnest books possible.

“Kala’au rods,” Ipo said.

“That’s it. Kala’au rods. Hardwood, right? About nine inches long.” Urso sounded somber. He fisted his hand, as if gripping one of the rods. “You’ve got a pair of them, don’t you?”

Ipo said, “They’re stored in a cabinet at home.”

“I’d like to see them.”

“I didn’t do this,” Ipo said, his voice ripe with intensity.

“He didn’t!” Rebecca echoed. “We never saw this … this Clydesdale woman. Not here, I mean. We saw her in the shop but not here. I don’t know why she came to my house. We were outside.” She slurped in air and started to cough.

Ipo patted Rebecca’s back and clutched her tighter.

“Outside?” Urso said.

“Yes, Chief,” Ipo answered. “We were outside—”

“—smooching,” Rebecca cried. “We smooched for a very long time.”

Urso pivoted to the right, biting down on his lower lip. To keep from laughing? He ran his fingers along the brim of his hat, then turned back to Rebecca and Ipo. “How long were you, um, kissing?”

“How should I know?” Rebecca shifted on the sofa. “It was our first time. I was nervous.”

“So nervous she couldn’t stop giggling,” Ipo admitted.

“Urso, she’s telling the truth,” I blurted.

Urso whirled around. When he spotted me by the Bieber window, he snarled. Not out loud, mind you, but I didn’t miss the extrasensory thrust of his anger. In a seething stage whisper, he said, “Don’t get involved this time, Charlotte.”

He was referring, of course, to the other times I had inserted myself into an investigation. But how could I not? He was attacking Rebecca.

“She’s Amish,” I said. “She wouldn’t lie.”

“Are you sure?” Sylvie whispered.

I stomped my foot to drive her away from me. “U-ey, you can’t possibly think Ipo did this.”

Urso whirled away, and I instantly regretted using his nickname. As the saying goes: Loose lips sink ships. But since grade school I had called him U-ey—for the double U in his name: Umberto Urso. By the way he raked his hand down his neck, I could tell he wouldn’t give me another second of his time. Shoot.

Sylvie nudged me. “Do you think Ipo whacked Kaitlyn with one of those whatchamacallits?”

“Hush!”

“He had motive, from what I’ve heard.”

“What motive?” I glowered at her.

“Kaitlyn was in my shop earlier having a facial and talking about her empire. Ooh, did I tell you? I’ve added a facial room in the back of Under Wraps. I found this glorious woman with great hands. Doesn’t my skin look better?” Sylvie turned her chin, lifting it to remove any glimmer of loose skin. “Mind you, women want more than a dress when they come to a boutique. They want to leave looking smashing. I’ve created a one-stop shop.”

“Stay on topic, Sylvie.”

“Right-o.” She toyed with one of her gaudy purple dangle earrings. “As Kaitlyn left the shop, she said she was heading to Ipo’s farm to have it out with him. It seems he’s hired a lawyer to block her purchase of the Burrell farm.”

“Block it?”

“On the grounds of unfair competition or something, but it sounds like motive to me.” Sylvie punctuated her revelation with a curt nod.

“Miss Bessette.” From behind me, Deputy Rodham cleared his squeaky throat. “I’m going to have to ask you and your friend to move.”

I whirled around and froze, my mouth agape. Over Rodham’s shoulder, I spied someone lurking in the shadows. A man in a trench coat. He looked like he was assessing the crowd.

“Miss Bessette,” Deputy Rodham said, an officious edge to his voice.

“Not now,” I snapped.

That caught the lurker’s attention. He jerked his head in my direction. I couldn’t make out his features before he hightailed it away.