Clobbered by Camembert

“You just missed him. He went to All Booked Up.”

The bookstore was one of my favorite spots in town. Often I slipped in to buy a book, and before I knew it, found myself nestled in one of the many chairs with a stack of recommended titles on my lap, reading while listening to strains of Beethoven or Mozart.

“Let’s go.” Rebecca grabbed my hand and hauled me at a clip out of the building, down the street, and around the corner.

When we arrived at the bookstore, she pushed me through the door first. Like a klutz, I tripped over the checkerboard carpet. I regained my balance, smoothed the lapel of my blazer, and scanned the store, searching for Urso among the teeming crowd threading through the rows of bookshelves.

Rebecca trotted in and plowed past me, hand to her forehead like an Old West tracker. In seconds, I feared she might drop to the carpet to listen for hoofbeats.

“Where’s the fire?” Octavia Tibble plucked my elbow.

I spun around and bit back a smile. No longer was my friend clad in her fortune-teller costume. This time she wore what could only be described as an arctic explorer outfit. In her arms she held a pile of children’s books. At the top of the pile was The Polar Express.

I tapped the book. “I didn’t know you dressed up to purchase books, too.”

“Very funny. I’m actually here on business to broker a deal. Did you know the bookshop is for sale?”

“Who’s the buyer?”

“Me … I hope.” She thumped her chest with pride. “I’ve always wanted to own a bookstore. If I close the sale, I’m giving up real estate forever.” She leaned in. “Confidentially, I hate sellers and buyers calling me at odd hours of the night. They’re never happy.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “I heard the deal between Clydesdale Enterprises and Barton Burrell is null and void.”

Octavia bobbed her head. “There was a death clause in the fine print. I’d missed it.” She glanced past me. “Oh, there’s the store owner. Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

As she hurried off, Rebecca returned, out of breath. “Follow me. I see Urso.”

Urso stood in profile by the end cap of the mystery/thriller section, chatting with someone—a younger man in a stylish suit. I could only make out the edge of the young man’s face.

“Go, go, go,” Rebecca said.

“We shouldn’t interrupt.”

“Do you see mouths moving? No, you do not. Go.” She pushed me like a feisty steam engine trying to force a car off the tracks.

I tried to hold ground, but her will was stronger than mine. I stumbled into Urso with an oof.

He whipped around and barked, “What?”

“A fine way to greet friends,” Rebecca said.

“You’re not my friends when you barge into me like a pair of hoodlums.”

“Sorry to bother you, U-ey,” I said, my voice choked with embarrassment, “but we wanted to discuss your plans for Ipo.”

Urso ran a hand down his neck, his exasperation obvious.

“You know he didn’t do it, U-ey,” I continued.

“Charlotte, just because you’ve helped solve two murder cases in as many years does not make you our number one crime fighter.”

“I—”

“Don’t talk. You either, Miss Zook.” He jabbed a finger in her direction. “I’m doing my job. I’ve done my investigative work. I’ve dotted all the Is and crossed the Ts in the murder book.”

A murder book was a chronological order of all the facts related to a case, including forensic information and witness lists. Urso had shown me his last one.

“I’m only missing a murder weapon,” Urso went on. “A murder weapon that happens to belong to one Ipo Ho. When I find that murder weapon—”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but wouldn’t it be considered involuntary manslaughter and not murder?”

Urso snarled. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me Miss Zook has convinced you to watch TV crime shows now.”

“No, I—”

“Crime shows do not have all the answers.”

I bridled. “I happen to know a thing or two about the law.”

“Do you? Where’d you get your information? Google?”

Heat crept up my chest and into my neck. Despite the anger or humiliation or whatever it was that I was feeling, I wouldn’t be put off. I said, “You can’t be certain that the weapon is a pu’ili stick.”

“The coroner is pretty certain.”

“Pretty certain. That sounds iffy.”

“You don’t have motive,” Rebecca added.

“Mr. Ho didn’t want Kaitlyn Clydesdale to compete with his business,” Urso said. “He’d filed an official complaint. With her death, the deal to buy the Burrell Farm is officially off. That’s motive enough.”

“But he has an alibi,” Rebecca said. “Me.”

“Look, I know you love him, Miss Zook, but love is not an alibi.”

“What about Barton Burrell?” she said.

“What about him?”

I said, “Barton Burrell didn’t want to sell, Chief. He has as much motive as Ipo. You have to let Ipo out on bail.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Charlotte, thank you very much. If you don’t mind, I’m conducting business. I’m interviewing a new deputy while showing him the town.” Urso gestured at the young man who was thumbing through a bestselling thriller.

The young man looked up and my breath caught in my chest. He reminded me so much of Chip at that age— buoyant, aspiring. His eyes were as light as Chip’s, too, and his nose equally noble.

I forced my gaze back to Urso. “Is Deputy Rodham quitting?”

“No. I’m trying to beef up our force. We need more men.”

“Or women,” Rebecca said.

“I’m interviewing women, as well,” Urso said, his tone defensive. “In the past few months we’ve had a spike in theft and vandalism.”

I thought of the thief who had raided our Winter Wonderland tent. I had told security. Should I have brought the incident to Urso’s attention, as well? Let it go, Charlotte. Theft of cheese is not related to the matter at hand.

“If that’s all,” Urso said.

Deflated, I started to turn away, then remembered something else I had forgotten to tell Urso and spun back. “Somebody called Kaitlyn when she was in The Cheese Shop,” I blurted. “Whoever it was made her furious. She threatened the caller.”

“It wasn’t Ipo,” Rebecca said.

“Fine. I’ll check it out.” Urso gestured. “Now scoot.”

“Scoot? Did you say scoot? Why …” Rebecca folded her arms. “Uh-uh. This is a public place. We’re not budging.”

Bolstered by her defiance, I lifted my chin. “She’s right. We can stay if we want.”

Urso growled.

I growled back. He was being slack, and that wasn’t like him. I started to wonder again what was going on in his life. Had Jacky dumped him? Was he taking out his frustration on the world? On Ipo?

* * *

Needing to calm down before opening Le Petit Fromagerie to the public, I sent Rebecca back to the shop, and I headed to my grandparents’ house to hold a pity party. I didn’t need a long one, just one lengthy enough to cool off.