Clobbered by Camembert

She dug in her heels. “Ooh, and if for any reason you need to break into the inn, take along some sunglasses. If you snap off the ends”—more demonstration—“you can use the arm of the glasses like a pick, but if Urso were to catch you, he wouldn’t know you were breaking and entering. You’d merely have broken sunglasses. Cool, huh?”

Why couldn’t she get hooked on family-friendly shows? “Go,” I repeated.

As she scurried out of the shop, I considered making a plaque to honor the event: Rebecca obeyed Charlotte, inscribed with a date. I kept gold paper and glitter pens that I used to make signs for the shop in a drawer in the office.

“Bozz!” I called.

He didn’t answer.

“Bozz?” I dashed to the office and saw a Post-it note stuck to the computer screen: Philby called. Had to go. Hope it’s okay.

No, it wasn’t okay. I couldn’t leave the shop unattended. What was I going to do now? Rebecca would never forgive me if I let the opportunity to question Ainsley Smith slip away.

The front door chimes jingled. I hurried into the shop, spotted my grandfather, and nearly applauded.

“Bon soir, cherie.” He toddled to the counter, a look of concern pinching his forehead. “Have you seen your grandmere? I sent her for cheese, but she didn’t return. I have got hungry actors, and you know what that means.”

I explained that Grandmere had fetched the cheese, but she had run off to help Urso.

“I knew something was up.” He shook his pudgy finger. “She is getting too old for this life as mayor.”

“She isn’t old. Shakespeare said, ‘April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.’”

“Now you are quoting Shakespeare, too?” he grumbled. “So like your grandmere. I suppose I must return to the theater empty-handed.” He snatched a piece of cheese from the platter on the tasting counter and slipped it into his mouth. “Ah, Piave. One of my favorites. Merci. Au revoir.”

“Wait. Could you … Would you manage the shop for an hour? Please, Pepere. It’s not busy. The actors can run lines without you. Hunger will make them focus, no? I have an errand.”

“An errand?” He raised one eyebrow. “Ma petite-fille. You think you are as sly as your grandmere, but you lack years of practice.”

“Perhaps I do,” I said, but I wasn’t dim-witted. I fetched a heart-shaped cheese called Rivers Edge Chevre Old Flame from the display case. It was a silky, bloomy-rind goat cheese—a specialty offered only in February—and just to my grandfather’s liking. I sliced off a sliver and offered it to him. He reached, and I snatched it back. “Uh-uh, not unless you watch the shop for me.”

“Diablesse. You know I can’t refuse. Fine, fine. I will stay.” He slipped the cheese into his mouth and his face lit up with delight.

Ah, if all men could be so enticed.

* * *

Ainsley Smith sat in one of the wicker porch chairs at the front of Lavender and Lace. A plaid blanket lay across his lap. The Shih Tzu, Agatha, sat on top of the blanket.

As I strolled up the front path, Agatha yipped a greeting. Ainsley glanced at me, but pretending he hadn’t seen me, spanked out the creases of the newspaper he held in his hands and zeroed in on the headlines.

I snickered. Did he honestly think I hadn’t seen him look?

Agatha shimmied, padded in a circle, and settled back down.

I climbed the steps and said, “Hello, Mr. Smith,” offering him due respect.

“Charlotte.” He peered at me, this time clearing his throat. “Didn’t see you there.” A jackrabbit being stalked by a wolf couldn’t have looked more wary. Had Chip alerted him? No, he wouldn’t have done that.

I kneaded my hands together, ruing the fact that I had run out of Fromagerie Bessette without donning gloves. Real smart. At least I had slipped on my coat. “Brisk, isn’t it?”

“I’m dressed for it.” He wore a heavy peacoat, corduroy trousers, leather gloves, and Timberland boots. Wisps of his thinning red hair poked out from beneath a lavender knit cap, no doubt one of Lois’s many creations. How she loved the color lavender.

“Got a moment to chat?” I said.

He squirmed.

I took that as a yes and plunked down into the chair opposite him. The rattan squeaked beneath my weight. The chill in the air cut through my coat and up the legs of my trousers, but I wasn’t about to ask if we could go inside. I wanted him on edge with no time to regroup. “I heard some news. Gossip, probably.”

He folded his paper and tucked it between his thigh and the side of the chair. “Hungry?” he asked. The front door was open a crack, and the flavorful aroma of pot roast wafted through the screen door, but he wasn’t inviting me for lunch. He lifted a pretty floral plate from the table beside him and offered me a frosted cookie. His hand shook ever so slightly.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“So what’s your news?” He popped a cookie into his mouth and fed a crumb to Agatha, who licked his fingers in thanks.

“It’s about that hockey game.”

He swallowed the cookie and replaced the plate on the table. “Which one?”

“That Bluejackets game you went to on the night of Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s death. You were talking about it at the shop. Lois gave you the tickets as a birthday present.”

He stroked his chin, as if culling the memory from a distant place in his mind. “Oh, yeah, I remember. We played the Kings.”

“That’s the one. Did you stay for the whole game?”

“Sure did.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t go often. I’ve got to relish every minute when I get the chance.”

“I know what you mean. I’m that way at an OSU football game.” I pumped my arm overhead. “Go Buckeyes.” I made the warbling sound that had become a standard cheer at games.

Ainsley chuckled and his shoulders relaxed. He was getting into my rhythm. Rebecca would have been proud of me.

“So what’s the gossip?” he asked.

“It was about their star. Luka … Luka . . .”

“Lukashenko.”

“That’s the guy’s name.” I smacked my thigh in agreement. “I heard Lukashenko achieved a hat trick that night. That must have been great to see.”

“It was.”

“Except I don’t remember you mentioning the hat trick when you were in The Cheese Shop yesterday. You told us he’d scored two goals.”

Ainsley blanched but quickly recovered. “My mistake.”

“So, you did see it. How did it play out? Did he score in each period?”

“Um, gee …” He tapped his head with a knobby finger. “The old noggin’s not as good as it used to be.”

“Maybe you missed seeing one.”

His eyes drew to narrow slits.

“Perhaps you were someplace else,” I went on, throwing him a bone. “Maybe you were buying food at the concession stand.”

He bobbed his head. “That was it. I ate my way through the game. The hot dogs at the arena are the best.”

“Slathered in beans and cheese.”

“And onions,” he added.

“You need a fork to eat them.” The thought made my mouth water. My grandfather had tried to duplicate the recipe, but his beans were always missing something. I had suggested extra molasses and maybe a dash of white pepper. “Except”—I shook a finger—“there are television screens by every concession stand. You should have seen the play. Fans would have been going wild.”