Clobbered by Camembert

sign. Most had polished off their meals. A few of the cast had climbed onto the raised platform located at the rear of the stage, which would hold the five-piece combo during the show.

“Do you need anything?” Pepere asked a pair of actresses who were dressed like sexy prison inmates. “Are there enough beverages? Is everyone happy?”

How could they not be content? The peppery aroma of Pepere’s pizzas filled the air.

He spotted me and waved for me to join him. “Cherie. Welcome. How do you like our flashy sign? It has been donated from a touring Broadway company.” He plucked a wedge of pizza from a platter and bit off the tip. Melted cheese and bits of pork sausage dripped between his fingers. He slurped it into his mouth. “Have some.” He encouraged me with his elbow.

I fetched a paper plate and viewed the selections of cheese and salads that Pepere had also provided, but chose the pizza. The aroma was the lure. One bite and I moaned my pleasure. Hints of hickory, cherrywood, and garlic popped in my mouth. “Oh, wow,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Extra garlic; that is the key.”

We ate the rest of our pizza in silence.

When we finished, he said, “How did your errand go?” His eyes twinkled with mock-judgment. “You were snooping, I assume.”

“I don’t snoop.”

He chortled. “It is your nature, as it is your grandmere’s. Did I ever tell you about the time she investigated a crime at the Harvest Moon Ranch? She—”

“Etienne.” The stage manager, a spark plug of a woman, hustled down the aisle of the theater toward the stage. “We have a minor lighting problem. Can I borrow you for a second?”

“But of course.”

“Wait.” I tugged on my grandfather’s sleeve. “What did Grandmere do?”

“It matters not. But I remember she said one must possess all the pieces of the puzzle and then adjust one’s thinking when it came to clues.” He tapped his forehead.

“Adjust one’s thinking? What does that mean?”

“I do not know. She quoted Hercule Poirot. ‘It is the brain, the little gray cells on which one must rely. One must seek the truth within—not without.’ She solved the crime that afternoon.”

As Pepere toddled down the stairs and hurried with the stage manager to the lighting booth at the rear of the theater, I wandered back to the buffet while contemplating Hercule Poirot’s advice. Did I possess all the information—all the clues—I needed to solve the puzzle of Kaitlyn’s death? What was I missing?

“It can’t be true!” a svelte actress yelled. She was standing in the wings, conversing with a shorter, perkier actress wearing a red silk teddy.

“It is. Now, keep your voice down.” Miss Perky looked around to see if people were listening in. They weren’t.

Except me, of course. What rumor could have made the svelte actress so upset?

Miss Perky adjusted the length of a garter on her garter belt. “Chicago, the musical, is based on the play of the same name. The reporter, Maurine Dallas Watkins, wrote about real-life murderesses. The character of Billy Flynn is based on two actual lawyers.”

“I’ll bet those lawyers didn’t tap-dance,” the svelte actress said.

“Probably not.”

“So why does our Billy have to tap-dance?”

I grinned. So that was what had disturbed the svelte one. Big deal.

“Because his whole court case relies on his tapping out the points to the jury,” Miss Perky explained.

I started to move away, but stopped when I heard Miss Perky add, “Barton would have been so much better in the role. You know what the gossip is about Barton, don’t you? He was having an affair with that woman.”

“Where’d you hear that?” the svelte one asked.

“At that clothing store.”

At Under Wraps? If Sylvie had picked up some big scoop, why hadn’t she pranced into The Cheese Shop and lauded it over me?

The svelte actress cut a look over her shoulder at me. Had I talked out loud?

Miss Perky flitted her fingers, as if to say, Forget about her. She’s no one.

I sidled away from the gossiping girls, but I couldn’t shake what my grandfather had said about adjusting my thinking. I had always connected Barton to Kaitlyn because of the sticky terms of their real estate contract. What if Barton had been Kaitlyn’s lover? What if she had lured him the same way she had lured Ainsley Smith? But to what end? She already had a real estate contract with Barton. She didn’t need to blackmail him for a piece of property. Was it possible, despite their age difference, that they had been truly in love?

* * *

Around four o’clock, I entered our Winter Wonderland tent, which was bustling with customers. Rebecca and Matthew stood at the counter, handing out slices of our three cheese selections. To my surprise, Tyanne had returned, as well. She held a tray of plastic stemware, each glass filled with about two ounces of wine. Her cheeks were flushed as crimson as her sweater.

I shrugged out of my coat and tweed jacket, folded them, set them with other coats on the lowest shelf of the baker’s rack, and sidled behind the counter.

Matthew eyed his wristwatch and then me. “About time you showed up.”

“I’m not late.” I tweaked the collar of his tan pin-striped shirt, which looked stylish beneath the shop’s chocolate brown apron. “Were you able to help Urso track down Jordan?”

“Yes. They’re on the hunt for the thief.”

“And Grandmere?”

“Is sticking to them like glue.”

I slipped an apron from beneath the counter and put it on over my jewel-necked sweater. “Why is Tyanne here?”

“She said she needed to keep busy. Theo has the kids. I’m teaching her all about wine. Watch this.” Matthew cleared his throat. “Tyanne, tell the folks about the Sin Zin.”

Like a TV display model, Tyanne flourished her hand in front of a plastic glass, and in an announcer-sized voice, said, “Sin Zin. It’s zesty with a hint of vanilla and berries.” Customers flocked to her for a glass.

Matthew beamed like a proud professor. “Isn’t she a natural?”

I nodded. Was there anything Tyanne couldn’t do? Except possibly keep her marriage together—a marriage she had emotionally left years ago, I reminded myself.

Rebecca edged closer to me and whispered, “What happened with Ainsley Smith?”

I explained in two sentences.

Matthew gave me a reproving look. Sotto voce, he said, “Don’t you think you’re taking this investigation thing too far? We have a police force.”

“Of three,” I said.

“Three’s better than two.”

“Are you kidding? We have three people working for us at The Cheese Shop, not to mention Pepere and Bozz on occasion, and we can barely make do. Urso and his crew can’t oversee an entire town. We should have a formidable force by now.”

“That requires”—Matthew rubbed his fingers together—“cash.”

Rebecca said, “Charlotte, I almost forgot, there’s a guy—”

“Ix-nay on the investigation alk-tay,” I said.

Meredith, pretty in an emerald jacket, biscuit-colored silk blouse, and brown slacks, sauntered into the tent and waved.

I sliced my finger across my neck, indicating that we should end the conversation. Meredith would give me what-for if she knew that I was nosing around. After last year’s run-in with a criminal, suffice it to say, she was overly protective of me—hence the self-defense lessons.

Apologizing to the crowd, Meredith scooted around them and headed for us. She cozied up to Matthew and planted a kiss on his cheek, then frowned at me. “Oh, no. Not again. What are you investigating now?”

“I’m not.”