Clobbered by Camembert

myself not to worry. Maybe she had made a detour on the way over and gone to the precinct to tell Urso about the missing goat cheese. Maybe she thought that tidbit would ensure Ipo’s quick release.

I started to turn around when I spied Georgia Plachette slinking between a delivery truck and an SUV. She halted and crouched down. Dressed like she was on a reconnaissance mission, she trained a pair of binoculars on the Country Kitchen across the street. I cupped my hands around my eyes to block the morning glare and glimpsed Barton Burrell and his wife, Emma, sitting with Octavia at one of the booths by the window. Was Georgia sleuthing like me? Did she think Barton was guilty of murder? Did she believe he had killed her mother to thwart the sale of his property? Perhaps she had something more nefarious in mind.

Try as I might, I couldn’t shake my reaction to her at the Clydesdale Enterprises office yesterday. She was hiding something. Not simply the fact that Kaitlyn was her mother. Something else. She said her alibi for the night of her mother’s death was flawless. What if, like my grandmother intimated, Georgia had figured out some way to fool the people at the pub into thinking she was there?

A flash of red caught my attention. Rebecca, wearing a fire-engine red raincoat, stormed toward The Cheese Shop, swatting her palm with a rolled-up newspaper. She wasn’t trying to nail a bug. She barged into the shop.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Look!” She flailed the newspaper.

I snatched it from her and unfurled it. On the front page, the reporter, Quigley, had posted a picture of Rebecca angrily pointing a finger.

“I was at the precinct, waiting to talk to Chief Urso, when I saw that.” Rebecca flicked the newspaper with a fingertip. “Quigley must have been wearing some sneaky camera device in his lapel. How dare he!” She stabbed the headline: Luau Sticks Implicate Hawaiian. “I didn’t say that.”

I scanned the article. “He doesn’t say Ipo is guilty.”

“He might as well have. Ooh, I’m so mad at Chief Urso, I could spit.”

My mouth fell open. “At Urso?”

“He’s not doing his job. He’s being lazy.”

“Rebecca, calm down. Urso is always fair.” Well, almost always. But now was not the time to fan the flames.

“Bah!” Rebecca said, sounding like my grandfather as she stomped to the rear of the store and shrugged out of her raincoat. If she had been a cartoon character, steam would have billowed from her ears.

Minutes later, as the teens filed out, our local animal rescuer scuttled in.

“Morning, Charlotte, Rebecca, Bozz.” In her hooded coffee brown winter coat, I was struck by how much Tallulah Barker reminded me of an Ewok from Star Wars. Not only was she cuddly and squat, but she spoke in a high-pitched, garbled voice. I was surprised to see her without any dogs or cats in tow. She was always trying to place one in a good home.

She pitched off her hood and shook out her frizzy curls.

“New hairstyle, Tallulah?” I asked. How many times had she tried a new hairdo over her sixty-plus years? I had seen at least a dozen.

She peered from beneath her longish bangs. “What do you think?” It came out more like whatdoyouthink?

“It suits you.”

“I think it makes me look like a Cocker Spaniel.” She pulled her hair into two floppy ears.

I bit back a smile. Yes, from a certain angle, she also resembled a Spaniel, which was a much more apt and flattering description than an Ewok.

“That’s what I get for going to a cut-rate barber instead of a stylist,” she said. “Silly me, trying to save a dime. I’ll take the usual plus an eighth of a pound of that Salame Toscano. I love the peppery flavor.” She scanned the shop. “Wow, is it ever quiet in here. There are swarms of people milling about the faire.” Typically brief at conversation—Tallulah reserved most of her chatter for her animals—she slipped one of the shop’s wicker baskets over her arm and headed toward the jars of honey and preserves.

I edged behind the cheese counter and said, “Thanks, Bozz. Take a break. I’ll need you when Rebecca leaves.”

“Cool.” He shuffled toward the office.

I glanced at Rebecca, who was angrily cutting four slices of Chabichou—Tallulah’s regular order. Chabichou —the pasteurized version—was a dense, slender cylinder of sweet mild cheese. So why was Rebecca sawing it? I considered removing the knife from my lovable assistant’s hand but decided to let her work through her rage. Neither Quigley nor Urso were within range. The cheese would survive.

The front door chimes jangled. Delilah hurried in. “Alert. I need some Tom Cruise cheese, fast.” She meant Tomme Crayeuse, one of my favorite cheeses with citrus overtones. It was a semisoft cheese with a chalky center. “Got some? I need at least two pounds. We’re trying out a new breakfast sandwich, and it’s a major hit.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I said.

“Oh, sorry. Good morning. Beautiful day. Hurry.”

“What else is in the sandwich?” I fetched a wheel of the cheese—tomme means wheel—set it on the counter, and prepared the order.

“Scrambled eggs and green onions, two slices of TC, three grinds of the peppermill, and a dash of Tabasco. Simple yet zesty.” Delilah plucked at the red ruffled skirt of her waitress costume. “I took a sample to Urso, to see if I could get the inside scoop on the case. He was with that new deputy. A cutie, if you ask me. Dangerous, but in a good way.”

“Uh-oh. Luigi, watch out,” I teased.

Delilah fluttered her fingers, dismissing me. “Luigi doesn’t have a thing to worry about. The new kid’s way too young for me.”

And Luigi was on the near side of old. I kept mum.

“By the way, did you know that those luau thingies are missing?” Delilah continued.

“The pu’ili sticks,” Rebecca cried. “Yes!”

“I asked Urso if he’d thought to look at Arlo’s house for them. Urso said he had, but they weren’t there.”

“He’d better check out Barton Burrell’s house,” Rebecca said, then eyed me. “I know, I know. I sound like a broken record, but Barton’s got motive. You said so yourself.”

I glanced through the front window. Georgia had disappeared and Barton and his wife weren’t in the diner. Had Georgia decided to tail Barton? If she believed he had hurt her mother, might she do something rash?

“Can you hurry up, Charlotte?” Delilah tapped her foot.

I threw her an acid look. I was slicing and wrapping as fast as I could, and she knew it.

Tallulah approached the register, her basket filled with black sesame crackers and an assortment of jams.

“Yum. It looks like you’re having a party, Mrs. Barker,” Rebecca said.

“I like to snack. Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out two small brown paper bags. “I brought treats for the sweets.” Tallulah spoiled Rags and Rocket with homemade kibble.

Rebecca took the bags and set them on a shelf beneath the register, then started ringing up Tallulah’s items. I rounded the counter with Delilah’s order.

Delilah grabbed the packaged cheese out of my hand and said, “Don’t need a tote, thanks. Put it on the diner’s tab.” And she dashed out.

“That girl never slows down.” Tallulah sidled to the tasting counter and plucked a piece of straw yellow Piave Vecchio from the daily platter. She slipped it into her mouth and purred like one of her cats. “Mmmm. It tastes like Parmesan.”

“And Asiago,” I said. “It’s made in Northern Italy.”

“I love it. By the way, Rebecca, if your Ipo needs another person to corroborate his alibi, I can step up.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened with hope. “You can?”

“How?” I said.

“The two of them weren’t, you know, hush-hush.” Tallulah winked, then chortled, the sound reminding me of a tiger chuffing.

Rebecca turned hot pink. “You heard us, too?”

“You betcha.” Tallulah lived next door to Cherry Orchard Park.