Clobbered by Camembert

display window. How dare Sylvie convince the poor girl that it looked appropriate for mourning.

“Did you tell Chief Urso you were her daughter?”

“I’ve answered all his questions.”

But what if Urso hadn’t asked the right questions? I mused. He was a good cop, but a hard-hitting DA, he wasn’t.

“Did he ask if you were Kaitlyn’s daughter?”

“He didn’t ask, but I did offer.” She sat taller. “Satisfied?”

Why hadn’t Urso told me? Because I wasn’t one of his deputies. Because I had no business whatsoever investigating. Except Rebecca had pleaded, and I had promised. I never reneged on a promise.

I glanced at the briefcase again. Could there be a lucrative will inside that would give Georgia sole proprietorship of the company? That would be a strong motive to kill her mother. How could I get a peek?

“I have a solid alibi,” Georgia offered.

She had said the same thing at Fromagerie Bessette. Why did she feel the need to reiterate it? Perhaps guilt was rearing its mighty head.

“I was at the pub playing darts until closing. Plenty of people saw me.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

Georgia pulled the shawl back over her shoulders. “My mother and I didn’t get along at times.”

“Most mothers and daughters don’t.” I’d had plenty of altercations with Grandmere during my teens and early twenties. At the ripe old age of twenty-eight I started to realize she was smarter than I had given her credit for.

“She could ruffle feathers with the best of them,” Georgia added.

“I’ll bet she could.” I recalled Sylvie’s tirade about Georgia lambasting Kaitlyn. “Did you like your mother?”

“Like her?” Georgia’s chin quivered. “Of course, I did. I loved her.”

“You were heard telling customers at Under Wraps that your mother wasn’t a nice woman.”

Her chin stopped trembling. “That’s not what I said.” Her voice took on that imperious tone that I had heard from Kaitlyn. “Who told you that?” Her nostrils flared like a bull’s. “What I said was that she wasn’t nice to employees.”

“Meaning you.”

“Meaning Chip Cooper, Oscar Carson, that hack developer she found in Columbus, and a ton of others.”

I tapped the arm of my chair, unable to find a nice way to raise the next question. “Was she nice to her lover?”

“Sure, why not? Whoever the heck he might be.”

“You don’t know?”

“No clue. Isn’t that the beauty of having a lover—secrecy? Look, my mother kept a tight rein on everybody. She—” Georgia nipped her upper lip with a tooth, as if trying to curb herself from saying anything more. She glanced at the door. Did she wish she could flee? She fingered her curls. I could see her mind whirring behind her deep brown eyes. “If you ask me, that Barton Burrell is the prime suspect.”

“Why?”

“He wanted out of his contract, and now, with my mother dead, the contract is null and void. There was a clause in the contract that if something happened to my mother, the deal was canceled.”

* * *

When I returned to The Cheese Shop, Rebecca was nowhere to be found. Matthew said she was worried because she hadn’t heard from Ipo after he had left with Urso. She asked for a break to check on him. An hour later, even though she hadn’t returned, we started our cheese and wine-tasting class.

Members of the class spilled out of the annex into The Cheese Shop. I had known we were going to have a crowd, but word of mouth had doubled the attendance. The hum of excitement was intoxicating.

I stood near the bar in the annex and held up one of the wooden platters that I had arranged with cheese and fruit. “Don’t worry. Everyone will get to taste.” Individuals beyond the archway popped up, trying to peep over the head of the person in front. “If you don’t have a note card and pencil, wave your hand. Tyanne will come around.”

Luckily, Tyanne had arrived early to work. She said she was so excited about the upcoming opening of Le Petit Fromagerie that she couldn’t sit at home. She brandished a pack of cards overhead.

“I’ve got champagne.” Matthew moved from person to person, passing out shots of a luscious Schramsberg champagne from Napa Valley. Champagne was a fail-safe wine selection with cheese, he said. The flavor never intruded.

“On this platter,” I went on, “we have Brie and Camembert from America, and their French counterparts.” I twisted the platter in my hands. “Notice the mounds of winter red and green grapes. See how they provide a nice contrast to the white-rinded cheeses.” The students weren’t simply tasting cheese. They were trying to learn how to create a lovely presentation. “Now, in case you didn’t know, cheeses made with unpasteurized—otherwise known as raw—milk cannot be sold in the United States unless they have been aged for at least sixty days.”

I heard a chorus of: “I didn’t know that.”

“Why?” Tyanne asked, as I had prompted her to do during the hour before the class began.

“Because bacteria might grow. However, there are cheese lovers worldwide who might put up a stink if all cheeses were pasteurized.”

“Moi, for one,” Pepere said as he forged through the crowd with a basket of saltwater crackers. “Pasteurization takes away the full flavor of the cheese.”

As customers tasted, I heard arguments start up. A couple of people loved the French Brie. A few others preferred the American one.

“Please, folks,” I said. “The enjoyment of one cheese over another doesn’t mean someone is wrong. It’s all a matter of taste. Now, if you’ll also pay attention to how I added nuts and scoops of honey and brown sugar to the platter. Why do you think I—?”

“Charlotte!” Rebecca’s voice cut through the murmurs. She wedged between patrons, her face panic- stricken.

I set the platter down and hurried to her. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Ipo.”

“Is he hurt?”

She shook her head and placed a hand to her chest, gasping for breath. “His instruments. Those”—she snapped her fingers—“what do you call them?”

“Pu’ili sticks.”

“They’re missing.”

“Missing?”

“As in gone.”

I raised a reproachful eyebrow.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know you know what missing means, I’m just so upset. And Chief Urso”—she hiccupped and gripped my wrists—“Urso arrested Ipo. I tried to tell the chief that Barton Burrell might have taken the pu’ili sticks, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

CHAPTER

I left Matthew and Tyanne to finish up with the tasting in the annex, and Rebecca and I hightailed it to the Providence Precinct. We rushed into the old Victorian house, bypassed the flock of tourists gathering around the Tourist Information Center that had taken up residence in a nook of the foyer, and approached the new receptionist—a cherub-faced redhead.

She set the bear claw pastry she had been savoring to one side, wiped her fingers with a paper towel, and said, “Oops. Caught me in the act.”

How could she resist? Providence Patisserie donated sweet rolls on a daily basis.

“We need to see the chief,” I said.