Clobbered by Camembert

purpose.

“You have crossed the line.” Prudence reached the buffet, plucked a handful of canapes, and without an ounce of hesitation, hurled.

Canapes pelted Sylvie in the face and chest. One slipped down her lacy cleavage.

Sylvie plucked it out, dropped it on the ground, then winked at me. Before I could stop her, she grabbed a pepperoni-apple quiche and raced at Prudence. With the precision of a slapstick clown, Sylvie planted the quiche in Prudence’s face. For extra effect, she twisted it a quarter-turn.

My grandfather looked shocked. Grandmere couldn’t hide her glee. I gave her a stern look. She flitted a wrist, pooh-poohing me.

“Why you—” Prudence scooped the quiche custard off her face and flung the goop to the ground. “I’ll have you know that my dress shop is not under investigation for infestation.”

Oh, my. Rumors heaped upon more rumors.

“Whoever would have suggested such a thing?” Sylvie countered.

“I know it was you,” Prudence yelled.

“Liar!”

“Slut!” Prudence grasped Sylvie’s bodice and yanked.

Sylvie thwacked Prudence’s hands with her lace fan and snapped her jaw as if she meant to bite.

“Enough. Stop it, both of you.” I grabbed Sylvie’s shoulders and, tugging with all my might, pried her away.

Matthew and Meredith reined in Prudence.

“I’ll take you to court, Sylvie Bessette,” Prudence said, struggling to get free.

“Not before I see your dreadful boutique fold, you cow.” Sylvie broke free of me, swooped her antebellum skirt into a bundle, and skulked out of the tent without a goodbye.

Amy and Clair and the rest of the singers raced toward us, mouths agape.

“Where’s Mum going?” Clair said. Her eyes glistened with tears.

“What happened?” Amy looked to Matthew for an answer.

He took the high road and kept quiet.

* * *

A short while later, after helping my grandparents clean up the mess, Matthew, Meredith, and I steered the twins out of the tent and into the cool night. Snow had stopped falling and the temperature had risen a smidge, turning the pretty layer of white into mush. The twins, intent on making squishy sounds in the wetness, quickly forgot about their mother. As they played, they chattered with excitement about the songfest.

“Did you hear the redhead miss the high note?” Amy said.

“Did you see Thomas smiling at Amy?” Clair asked.

“Did you notice Mrs. Tibble mouthing each and every word?” they said in unison.

The aroma of warm liquor and the tinkle of happy laughter drew my attention. Ahead, Delilah hovered beside the La Bella Ristorante concession cart—a cute red box on wheels, fitted with gas burners, a stainless-steel serving station, and a flagpole brandishing an Italian flag. Luigi and one of his sous chefs were assembling Italian dulce crepes. A hand-scrawled sign gave the filling ingredients: ricotta cheese and Grand Marnier. A crowd of tourists and townsfolk stood nearby, transfixed as Luigi poured the liqueur into a skillet and set the skillet on a burner.

But my gaze was drawn to a spot beyond them, by the ice sculpture of the giant tooth. Urso and Jacky were having what looked like an intense conversation. Plumes of warm breath clouded the air in front of Jacky’s mouth. A frown creased her pretty face. She poked Urso’s black Patagonia jacket with her finger to make a point.

“Matthew, girls. I’ll see you at home. I need to chat with Urso.” I kissed the twins and gave them a mock- stern look. “Make sure you brush your teeth for two minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” they sang a la the Beatles and, giggling, ran ahead of Meredith and their father.

As I drew nearer to Urso and Jacky, I could hear passion in Jacky’s tone.

“. . . not your property, understand?” She gave his chest a final slap, then turned on her heel and dashed away.

Was Urso being too territorial? Was that the problem festering between them? Only last year, Jacky had confided that one of the major problems in her marriage had been that her husband had demanded to know where she was at all times. Every relationship needed breathing space.

Pretending I had heard none of their conversation, I put on a game face and nabbed Urso before he could run off. He was still our chief of police, and he had a murder to solve.

“What’s up?” His eyes looked strained, his jaw tight. “I was planning on returning your call.”

I told him about Barton Burrell’s new alibi. “Quigley said Barton was taking Emma to the hospital. It was a regular occurrence. I know she lost more than one child to a miscarriage. Perhaps she was pregnant again and something happened.”

“Why lie?” Urso said.

“Exactly. Something’s up with—”

“Whoa!” A roar and applause exploded from the crowd around Delilah and Luigi.

I glanced over my shoulder. Flames flared from the skillet. The sight triggered something in my mind, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what.

Adjust your thinking, my grandfather had said, and I tried, but nothing registered.

And then, like a vision, through the flames I caught sight of Barton Burrell hurrying after Emma. I didn’t see their three boys anywhere. Barton grabbed his wife’s arm and spun her around. She mouthed easily understood words—You lied—and raised her hand to smack him. He gripped her wrist, then his gaze turned sad. In slow motion, he released her, and as if he was working hard to harness his anger, stormed away.

Emma staggered backward. She looked ready to fall.

I raced to catch her.

CHAPTER

I slung an arm around Emma. The dormant grass between the tents was soggy from melted snow, and moisture would soak through her wool coat and corduroy slacks in seconds, but I didn’t think she could remain standing. She was vibrating with anxiety. I guided her to the ground.

“Wait. Have her sit on this, Charlotte.” Urso removed his jacket and placed it directly beneath Emma. She gave him a look of thanks. He pivoted and eyed the people circling us. “Show’s over, folks. Give the lady room.” As the crowd dispersed, he knelt on one knee beside us. “Do you want some water, Mrs. Burrell?”

She nodded. Urso rose to his feet and strode off.

“What’s going on, Emma?” I said, keeping my tone gentle and unthreatening. “Why did Barton stomp away?”

“Angry.”

Got that. “Why?” I said.

“Kids,” Emma muttered.

“What about the kids?” Getting one-word answers was frustrating. I stroked her hair. “C’mon, you can talk to me.”

“Girls.”

“You have boys.”

She sucked in a breath. “Almost had girls.”

I took hold of her hand. She gripped my fingers like a vise as her eyes searched mine for something. Support? Redemption?

Urso returned with a bottle of water, uncapped it, and passed it to me.

I pressed it into Emma’s hands. “Drink.” She did, but not enough. I said, “Sip more if you can.”