Clobbered by Camembert

I steadied myself by gripping the cheese counter, and in what I was proud to call a level tone, said, “Why do you need Jordan?”

Urso marched across the hardwood floor, offering a quick nod to my grandmother as he passed. “He might have witnessed a crime.”

Eager to contain the conversation, hoping I could control the damage with a private tete-a-tete, I cut around the counter and clenched Urso’s elbow. “Follow me,” I said, pulling him toward the rear exit.

“Where—?”

“Just follow.”

“I will not follow.” He jerked to a stop by the archway leading to the annex and wrenched free. “I’ve got pressing business.”

“U-ey, now is not the time or place to discuss this.”

“Discuss what? All I asked is whether or not you knew where Jordan was.”

“You don’t have to shout,” I said.

“I’m not shouting.”

“You are, too.”

From behind the cheese counter, Rebecca yelled over both of us, “Did you talk to Tallulah Barker, Chief?”

Urso turned toward her, his eyes beady, his nostrils flared. “Should I have?”

“She saw someone charging down the street the night Kaitlyn Clydesdale died.” Rebecca hefted a wheel of Lioni Smoked Mozzarella onto the cutting board. It landed with a thud. “And she also said she could corroborate —”

“Look, Miss Zook—”

“No, you look, Chief.” Rebecca’s voice crescendoed as she lifted a knife and brandished it overhead. “If Tallulah Barker says she saw someone running away from my cottage, it’s important.”

“I’ll get to that,” Urso said, his voice matching hers. “I promise. But right now, I need to find Jordan Pace. He’s not answering his telephone.”

“What’s going on?” Matthew crossed under the archway from the annex, wine bottle and corkscrew in his hands. “Why is everyone yelling?”

“No one’s yelling,” Rebecca shouted.

Matthew smirked. My grandmother seemed mortified. Rebecca set the knife down on the counter and folded her hands into her chest as if in supplication.

Urso said, “Someone stole some ice sculpting tools from the faire. Theo Taylor remembered Jordan passing through the area. He might have seen the thief.”

Tension melted from my shoulders. Urso wasn’t there to haul Jordan to jail for some crime from the past. I had to stop overreacting. On the other hand, our charming town was, yet again, the scene of a crime. Minor—not death—but a crime nonetheless.

“Urso, the other night a thief stole cheese from our tent,” I said. “He attacked me, but he ran off.”

Urso spun to face me. “And you’re just telling me now?”

“I informed security.”

“Someone stole a box of goat cheese from my house, as well.” Rebecca resumed preparing Grandmere’s order. “I wanted to talk to you about that, Chief.”

“What is Providence coming to?” Grandmere said.

“Oh, man.” Urso removed his broad-brimmed hat, scrubbed his hair with his hands, and wedged his hat back on his head. “One crime at a time. This one first.”

Matthew said, “I’ll help you track down Jordan, Chief. Charlotte, any idea where he could be?”

“He said he had meetings scheduled at the farm.”

Matthew handed me the wine and corkscrew and clapped Urso on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll accompany you.” Grandmere turned on her heel.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Bernadette,” Urso said.

“Oui, il est necessaire.” She swatted the air. “It is not open for discussion. I am mayor of this fine town. I am going, no argument.” Like a steam engine, she plowed after Matthew and Urso toward the exit.

“By the way, Bernadette, I’ve hired another deputy,” Urso said over his shoulder. “With your approval.”

“Absolument.”

Rebecca flitted after them. “Grandmere. Your cheese.” She held out a gold tote bag. “And Chief, don’t forget to talk to Tallulah Barker.”

“I won’t.”

My grandmother slipped the bag into her crocheted purse and patted Rebecca’s cheek. “If he says he will not, he will not. Bon courage.”

I smiled. In the past year my grandmother had done a one-eighty regarding Urso, forgiving him completely for thinking she could have killed someone. Deep down, I felt she wanted to see me end up with Urso and not Jordan.

Urso whipped open the door and let Matthew and Grandmere pass through first. As he started to lumber out, Chip entered, chin tucked in as if bracing against the cold, one hand holding his zippered suede jacket closed. The two butted shoulders. Chip gave Urso a hearty shove, then looked up and recoiled.

Urso grunted his disapproval but pressed on.

“What do you want, Chip?” I said, at my wit’s end from the recent frenetic pace in the shop.

“Yeah, what do you want?” Rebecca echoed.

Chip drew up short, his gaze as hangdog as a scolded puppy’s. He withdrew a plastic-wrapped bouquet of daisies from inside his jacket and offered them to me. “Your favorites.”

They weren’t my favorites anymore, I thought nastily, irritated that he was bringing me flowers, yet again. When would he leave town and take with him all the reminders of our past together? With Kaitlyn Clydesdale dead, he couldn’t have any more business here.

I snatched the flowers and, grumbling thanks beneath my breath, retreated to the counter. I set the daisies as well as the wine and corkscrew that Matthew had handed me beside the cash register, and began wiping down the cutting board and knives with a wet towel. Each swipe felt angry yet justified. Rebecca joined me and grabbed another wet towel. Together, we presented a united front.

Chip sidled to the display barrel in the center of the shop and lifted a package of sourdough crackers. As he examined the box from all angles, he said, “About last night.”

“What about it?” I said.

“I came over to tell you something.” He replaced the crackers, picked up a jar of apple jelly, and put it back. He looked fidgety. His cheek twitched. “Ainsley Smith lied about where he was on the night of the murder. He wasn’t at the hockey game.”

“How do you know that?” I stopped wiping the counter.

Like a wary stray dog, Chip edged closer. “Remember when Ainsley, Lois, and I were in The Cheese Shop the other day? We were talking hockey. Well, Ainsley didn’t mention Lukashenko’s hat trick.”

“What’s a hat trick?” Rebecca asked.

“A single player making three goals in one game,” I explained. “It’s a big deal.”

Rebecca glanced at me. “Mr. Smith said that Luka-what’s-his-name had two goals.”

Chip clicked his tongue. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Maybe it was an oversight.” I resumed wiping.

“No way,” Chip said. “Anybody who had witnessed it would have bragged about it. It doesn’t happen every day. Ainsley wasn’t at that game, babe. He was making up an alibi for that night.”

I frowned. Why was Chip so eager to turn in Lois’s husband? Did he think his good-citizen act would ingratiate himself to me? Jordan didn’t trust Chip. Should I? “Why tell me? Tell Urso.”

“I’m telling you because you were the one who heard Ainsley. You were a witness to the lie. He should have given us a play-by-play. ‘Lukashenko did this. Lukashenko did that.’” Chip grew animated. He pranced in a circle, arms held overhead. “‘Lukashenko scored!’”

“Tell Urso,” I repeated.