Clobbered by Camembert

“It knocked the wind out of her, like the coroner said. Before I could grab her, she careened backward and struck her head.” He stomped his foot on the grass. “Flesh striking wood sounds like one of those idiot comedy acts. You know, where the guy uses a hammer and splatters a melon.”

“Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”

“I panicked. I tossed the pillows back on the couch, picked up the container of cheese, and ran.” He hung his head and swung it from side to side. “I’ve been dying inside ever since.”

“No jury is going to believe that. You went to a hockey game. You toured the town. You pursued me with flowers.”

“Dang it, Charlotte.” Chip whipped the hockey stick up and held it like a crossbar in front of himself. “You always thought I hated Providence, but I didn’t. I don’t. It’s my home. My parents might have moved away, but my heart has always been here.”

I gaped at him. Was he for real? “You hightailed it to France.”

“It was the wrong thing to do. I see that now. I want you back.”

What Kool-Aid was he drinking to think I would ever want him?

“I was an imbecile,” he said. “I’ve changed.”

Oh, yeah, he’d changed, all right.

“I’ll never hurt anyone again. I promise. You won’t tell Urso, right?”

Yes, I would turn him in the first chance I got. I didn’t say so out loud, but my eyes must have given me away because Chip’s gaze grew steely. So much for true love.

“Uh-uh. Can’t let you do that.” He popped the stick up and sliced the air.

An icy breeze cut past my face. Nerve endings at the tip of my nose tingled. In a panic, I glanced around the tent again, looking for something that I could use to defend myself. The boxes of wineglasses looked too heavy to lift, and none were open. I wouldn’t be able to break a wineglass to use as a sharp weapon. I needed to take my chances and run.

A thunderclap drowned out the sound of my scream. Bright light flashed through the window as I raced toward the door.

Chip blocked me and flailed the hockey stick.

I dodged a blow, dropped to all fours, and scrambled toward the buffet table that served as the cheese counter.

Chip pursued me. “I’m not going to jail, Charlotte. I won’t.”

Air whooshed above my back.

“I wouldn’t last a day and you know it.” He thrashed again. The stick seared the back of my thigh. I howled in pain.

I scrambled under the table and caught sight of the ice chest, lid open. Icicles jutted from inside—the icicles Tyanne must have confiscated from Thomas and Frenchie when they were having a duel. With the temperature remaining below thirty, the icicles had stayed sharp and firm. Hallelujah!

I seized one, swiveled on my knees, and jabbed it into Chip’s thigh. He yowled.

Lungs heaving, I stabbed again. Harder, deeper.

Chip released the hockey stick and hopped on one leg. “You … You … How could you?”

The same way you could have, pal.

I latched on to the hockey stick, clambered from beneath the table, and wielded the stick overhead. “Back away.”

Thunder cracked again, as if echoing my fury.

Chip crossed his arms in front of his face and retreated. His foot caught on the sticky fake grass, and he tumbled to the ground.

At the same time, the tent door flew open.

Urso rushed inside, water dripping off his hat and drawn gun. “What the heck?”

“She attacked me,” Chip said, his voice mousy and put-on. Did he truly think Urso would buy his act?

“Stand down, Charlotte.” Urso waved his free hand and his deputies jogged in behind him.

“He killed Kaitlyn,” I said.

“I know.”

The door squeaked a third time. Jordan, as drenched as Urso and the deputies, entered. In his hands, he held two cell phones. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We heard every word. I called the chief on my assistant’s cell phone so he could listen in.” He grinned. “Nice to see you on the defensive.”

CHAPTER

Later that night, I sat curled into one of the armchairs in my grandparents’ living room with a glass of white wine in my hand. Townsfolk circled the room as well, drinking and laughing, but I didn’t hear a word they said. I was steeped in my own thoughts, which swarmed with doubt. Was it somehow my fault that Kaitlyn had died? If I had given Chip a clearer message when he’d arrived in town, would he have simply gone along with her plan with no thoughts about me … about us? I replayed those last moments with him. If I had agreed to keep things quiet, would he have tried to kill me? Once I had gained control of the hockey stick, he hadn’t made a move for it.

Grandmere bustled into the room, clanging a cowbell. “Dinner is served, everyone. Mangez! ”

As a herd of guests moved toward the dining room, Amy trotted to my chair. “Aunt Charlotte.” She gripped my hand. “Come see.”

“See what?”

“It’s a surprise.”

As I was rising to my feet, Grandmere said, “Wait, mon amie. A word with you first.”

“That’s not fair,” Amy cried.

Grandmere pointed her finger. “Wait in the hall, please.” Amy pouted. Grandmere started to count. “Un, deux, trois …”

“Okay, okay. I’ll wait.” Amy slogged out of the room. I could hear her impatient toe riveting the hardwood floor.

Grandmere gathered the skirt of her burgundy toile dress and perched on the arm of my chair. She smoothed the skirt over her knees and fluffed the hem around her leather boots. “We have had no time to speak all week. So many to-dos, so many upheavals, non?” She patted my hand. “We must discuss what happened to your parents.”

“It’s okay.” I started to rise.

“No, it is not.” Grandmere clutched my wrist and pulled me back down. Her skin was warm, soothing. “I want to set things right.” She leaned forward and stared into my eyes like a mesmerizing fortune-teller. I couldn’t look away. “What did Kaitlyn tell you about that day?”

“My cat … I’d forgotten about Sherbet,” I whispered.

“Ah, yes, Sherbet. An adorable cat. Such pretty orange fur.”

“Kaitlyn said Sherbet distracted Daddy and made him crash.” I pulled my hand free of hers. “She said you blamed Sherbet. You had the cat put down, didn’t you?”

“Oh, cherie, no, it is not as you say.” Grandmere patted her chest with her palm. “It is not the truth.”

“You removed all the pictures of Sherbet from our photo albums.”

“Not because I blamed the cat. I …” She released my hand and ran a finger through my hair, separating the strands one by one, as she had when I was a girl. “You cried all the time. Every time you saw Sherbet, you cried. I believed she was, how do you say, a trigger for your memories. The crash itself and your mother pushing you from the fire. If Sherbet stayed with you, I was afraid you would continue to relive the event and blame yourself.”

“What happened to Sherbet?”

“I gave her to Tallulah Barker.”

And Tallulah never told me? The sly woman.