Clobbered by Camembert

“Yes, you do. Listen to your tone.”

Blood swelled in my head, but I fought off the dizziness. “I delegate. There’s a difference.”

“Tosh! There’s no difference. You’re a general like your grandmother. People talk.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Matthew scooped up Sylvie’s coat and thrust it into her arms. “Out! Now!” He muscled his ex-wife toward the stone archway.

“Ooh, Matthew,” she cooed. “I like it when you’re so manly.”

“Can it.” He released her. “Round up the girls and take them and the animals back to Charlotte’s house. And remember, be on your best behavior.”

Sylvie huffed. “I’m always on my best behavior.”

He snorted. “Might I remind you about the canapes smacking your face last night?”

Sylvie went silent. She mashed her lips together, as if she was pondering a comeback but couldn’t come up with anything quite good enough. After a moment, she said, “Fiddle-dee-dee,” like Scarlett O’Hara, and waltzed out of the annex into The Cheese Shop.

Matthew turned back to me. “She’ll never change.”

I thought of Amy’s cynical words about Thomas. Was it possible that nobody changed? Would I? Could I?

I gazed at my cousin. “Matthew, am I bossy?”

“You’re a woman who cares a tad too much, but you’re never bossy.”

I mumbled my thanks, then said, “I should get going. I’ve got to pack up the tent at Winter Wonderland.”

“Don’t bother. Pepere and I did that already. Tyanne’s got the rest under control.”

Tyanne. What a gem she had turned out to be. Our Winter Wonderland venture could have been a disaster without her.

Matthew chucked my chin and returned to the wine bar. “I’ve got some Bordeaux, 2005 Chateau Puygueraud, Cotes de Francs. Want a sip? Might help the headache.”

He poured a thimbleful of wine into a glass. I sipped and savored.

“It’s a flashy wine with hints of licorice and chocolate,” he said. “It should go great with the dinner tonight, don’t you think?”

“Tonight?”

“Grandmere’s Founder’s Day bash is right after the faire closes. Did you forget? How bad is that bump on your head? Or is old age creeping in?”

I glowered at him. “I’ll always be younger than you.”

Ignoring his laughter, I gathered my plate, glasses, and utensils and slogged into the kitchen. By the time I returned to The Cheese Shop, the place was bustling with customers, many clamoring for larger portions of the cheeses we had been offering at the faire. Jordan and Jacky and baby Cecily waited among them. Jordan smiled at me and I attempted to smile back, though I was pretty sure I looked like I was grimacing. I strolled to the rack of aprons by the door.

Jordan made a beeline for me and ran his hand down my arm. “That’s some bruise. Are you all right? I stopped by earlier, but you were asleep and your grandmother shooed me away.”

“Your self-defense refresher course probably saved my life.” I filled him in on what had happened.

He wrapped his arms around me and breathed warmly into my ear. My forehead smarted, but I didn’t protest. A loving hug was worth the twinge.

After a long moment, he held me at arm’s length. “You’re going home to rest, right?”

“Soon,” I lied. There was too much to do. I slipped a brown apron from a hook, looped it around my neck, and tied the strings in a bow at the arch of my back.

“How about a nice quiet dinner at my place later?” he said.

“Can’t. Grandmere’s party. You’re coming, aren’t you?” Maybe the hyper-electricity in the air that Freckles had talked about was making everyone forgetful.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” Jordan peered into my eyes. “In the meantime, because I know you won’t go back to bed, take breaks. Regular breaks. A bop on the head can have lasting effects.”

How would he know? How many brawls had he gotten into as a restaurateur? I snipped off the thought, not in the mood to rehash what was already solved. He was in the WITSEC program. He had witnessed something bad. He had killed somebody in self-defense. Soon he would enlighten me with details.

I strolled to my spot behind the cheese counter and called, “Forty-five.”

Jacky waved a paper number in the air. “Me.”

Jordan joined his sister at the front of the line.

“What’ll it be?” I asked.

“Everything.” Jacky toyed with her baby’s feet, which dangled through the holes of the BabyBjorn pack. “That Minerva Amish butter cheese looks good.”

“Great choice. It’s creamy and melts well.”

“And that Capriole O’Banon, too.” Jacky peered into the case and read the label I had posted: “A superb goat cheese. Named for the governor of Indiana. How fascinating.” She stood up. “What’s it wrapped in?”

“Chestnut leaves soaked in Woodford Reserve Bourbon.”

“We’ll take some of each,” Jordan said. He also ordered the last two prosciutto, pesto, and Provolone sandwiches in the case.

As I reached for the sandwiches, a previous debate started up again in my mind. About Arlo. Provolone was Arlo’s favorite cheese, so why would he have stolen a box of Emerald Isles goat cheese from my tent or from Rebecca’s cottage? Because he was a kleptomaniac; he couldn’t help himself. Kaitlyn had known his secret and used it to get her way. But what if someone, like Oscar, had learned about Arlo’s proclivity? What if Chip had taken a picture of Arlo in the act of stealing, and Oscar, upon seeing the picture, had decided to dun Arlo for money to keep Arlo’s secret quiet? Would that have incensed Arlo? His chicken farm abutted Ipo’s honeybee farm. In a matter of minutes, Arlo could have stolen to Oscar’s bungalow, attacked Oscar—and subsequently me—and then sprinted back to his place. Except I wasn’t sure Arlo was large enough to have been my attacker. Only minutes ago, I instinctively said the attacker was taller than Rebecca. She was at least three inches taller than Arlo. Besides, Arlo had confessed to Urso about his kleptomania. His secret was no longer a mystery.

No, someone else had attacked Oscar and me, but who?

Focus, Charlotte. You have customers waiting.

I slipped Jacky and Jordan’s purchases into a gold bag, tied it with a grosgrain bow, and met them at the register.

While paying, Jordan said, “You look a little dazed, sweetheart. What’s up?”

“Just thinking.”

“On Mars?”

“Venus,” I said.

“Try to stay grounded.” He winked and another wave of sexy sensations streamed from my head to my toes. If I didn’t have some intimate one-on-one time with him soon, I would burst. “I’m off to the farm,” he said. “I’ll catch up to you later.”

As I started to rewrap the cheeses, Pepere ambled from the kitchen to the rear door. “Charlotte, I am going to Le Petit Fromagerie. Is there anything specifically you’d like me to do?”

I turned to blow him a kiss goodbye and froze in my spot, my gaze riveted on what he was doing. He was looping his apron on the hooked rack at the rear of the shop while nudging the rack to level. The move prompted a memory of Ainsley Smith nudging his hockey stick in the great room at Lavender and Lace. Not nudging. Adjusting. Had I missed a totally obvious clue? Ainsley had told Lois that he was setting the hockey stick right. Had there been some other motive for his action? Had he returned to the bed-and-breakfast, not to filch the hockey stick but to set something right, as in remove evidence?

I took the theory a step further. What if Urso and the coroner had been wrong about the pu’ili sticks being the murder weapons? Could a hockey stick leave ridged marks on a woman’s neck? The stick wasn’t made of bamboo, but perhaps shards of fiberglass resembled bamboo under a microscope.

“Aunt Charlotte,” Amy called. “Frenchie wants to know if we can have some Camembert. I know it’s