Clobbered by Camembert

“CSI,” Clair added.

“Uh-uh.” Amy shook her head. “It was Murder, She Wrote.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” I said. “Don’t tell me Rebecca gave you her list of favorite mystery shows.”

“It wasn’t Rebecca,” Amy said.

“It was Mum,” Clair chimed in.

Oh, my. Matthew needed to have a talk with Sylvie. The twins were too young to be watching adult detective shows. They were also too young to be listening to me theorizing with my grandfather about murder. I would have to monitor my own behavior, as well. Monkey see, monkey do.

The door to the kitchen swept open. Grandmere glided through carrying a tray filled with glasses of water, paper napkins, plates, three little bowls filled with dipping sauces, and a colorful serving dish mounded with fried circles of goodness. The zesty aroma made my mouth water.

“Girls, wash your hands,” Grandmere said. As the twins skipped from the room, she set the tray on the dining table. Using tongs, she transferred some zucchini circles to a plate. “So, cherie.” She handed the plate to me. “Did you and your grandfather solve the problems of the world?”

Making sure the girls weren’t within earshot, I filled her in on Ipo, the pu’ili sticks, the missing goat cheese, and the angry telephone call between Kaitlyn and the mysterious caller.

Grandmere pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. “What if someone wanted to frame Arlo?”

“Like who, and why?” I dipped a zucchini circle into the peach jam sauce, plunked it into my mouth, and licked my fingertips. Heaven.

“Georgia Plachette. If she is Kaitlyn’s daughter, as you say, she had much wealth to gain.” She looked at both my grandfather and me, but Pepere kept mute.

“How would she have known about Ipo’s luau instruments?” I asked.

“Word gets around.” Grandmere handed me a napkin.

“She has an alibi on the night of Kaitlyn’s death,” I said. “She was playing darts at the pub.”

“Did you question everyone at the pub to corroborate? No, I think not. And are you sure she did not take a short break, short enough to run a few blocks and have it out with her mother?” Grandmere held up a finger. “I believe—”

The doorbell jangled its merry dingety-ding.

Grandmere looked at Pepere. “Mon ami, are we expecting anyone?”

“Maybe Urso picked up my message and decided to seize my phone and declare me a public nuisance.” I chuckled.

“What are you talking about?” Grandmere said.

“De rien. It’s nothing.” Prepared for a head-to-head with our illustrious chief of police, I strode to the door and opened it. I was more than surprised to find Chip standing there.

“Hey, babe.” A porch light cast a hazy glow over him. A dusky orange and gray sky served as his backdrop. He whipped his wool cap from his head and clutched it in front of him. That was when I spotted the flowers; he was carrying a fistful of daisies.

As swift as lightning, my flight instinct kicked in. I wanted to run. Not hear. Not see. Chip had brought flowers. Was he wooing me? And why, for heaven’s sake, did he look so disarmingly handsome in his zippered suede jacket, black turtleneck, and jeans? I had to remind myself that we weren’t good together. At the end of our relationship, we were snarling like cats and dogs. Not to mention, I was in love with Jordan.

“I stopped by Fromagerie Bessette,” Chip said, apparently not picking up on my distress. “Rebecca told me you’d be here. Can we talk?”

“I’ve got to leave for the faire.”

“I’ll escort you.”

“No.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

“Chip, look, I can’t.” No flowers. No date. No future. I wanted him to stop pursuing me.

“Charlotte, please, I—” Chip’s eyes widened. He was looking past me, over my shoulder.

I could feel my grandfather move in behind me, breathing through his nose like an enraged bull. I could only imagine his perturbed glare. He had never liked Chip. He said Chip’s standards in the kitchen were too low. I deserved someone who took more care, someone who didn’t cut corners. When I had first met Jordan at a cooking class at La Bella Ristorante, I had noticed how precise he was at slicing vegetables. Not prissy. Exact. Where in the heck was he? Why hadn’t he returned my call? I needed to grill him about my Internet search.

“Barre, toi,” Pepere said, then repeated in English, “get lost.” He nudged me to one side and took a confident step forward.

Chip steeled his jaw. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I just want a minute of your time, Charlotte. Don’t go all weak on me and hide behind your grandfather.”

There it was. A snipe. Other snipes—years old—peppered my mind. He had said I wasn’t smart. He had called me untalented and provincial. He was wrong, wrong, wrong, of course, but old tapes were hard to erase.

“Barre, toi, or I’ll boot you down those steps.” My grandfather might have been in his seventies, but he was strong from lifting wheels of cheese all his life. And I was sure he thought he had righteousness on his side.

Chip didn’t budge. “It’s about the hockey game.”

“She does not give a whit about going to a hockey game with you. Barre, toi. One, two, three . . .”

“I don’t want to ask her to a hockey game,” Chip said, then added something about a hat trick.

“What?” I said.

“Never mind.” He flopped his cap onto his head and then blustered down the path, scuffing his heel every third or fourth step.

“Temper, temper,” Pepere said as he closed the door and bolted it.

“Pepere, he came to tell me something.”

“Bah! He tricks. He fools.” He turned to me and clutched my arms. “Cherie, he is not worth your heartache. You are better off with Jordan. He is a man who knows the world. A man who knows what is right and what is wrong.”

“Pepere—”

“No! Let me finish.” He released me but held my gaze. “Jordan is a man who knows how to love and love fully. I have seen much of life. I know these things. This man, this Chip—what kind of a name is that for a man? He is not for you. He is selfish and vain, but I am sorry if—”

I put my fingers to his lips. “Shhh. I know, Pepere. You can relax. You are watching out for me, and I appreciate it.” I kissed his cheek and shooed him to my grandmother.

As I watched them embrace, a frizzle of uneasiness ran through me. Was Jordan the man for me? Would he still be, once I learned his full story?

CHAPTER

Clair and Amy insisted on holding my hands and skipping to Winter Wonderland. My grandparents scuttled behind us, Pepere still muttering about Chip’s sudden appearance and Grandmere telling him to hush. I wished she could tell my mind to hush, as well. Seeing my ex-fiance with flowers in his hand had thrown me off-kilter. What I wouldn’t give for a week of simple, carefree thoughts and a heart-to-heart chat with Jordan.

I tugged on the girls to pick up their pace. We had decided to walk as a family—they to their rehearsal and me to the opening of Le Petit Fromagerie.

Dusk was rapidly settling into darkness, but as we drew near to the faire, the sky grew brighter. A glow emanated from the twinkling lights outlining the white tents and the clock tower.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Clair said.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t catch my breath enough to speak. When, oh, when could I fit more aerobic