Clobbered by Camembert (16 page)

I explained.

“You mean the cheese is gone, as in someone stole it?” Rebecca sucked in a breath. “I’ll bet it was that Arlo. That puts him in my house. Do you think he’s the murderer?”

“Not so fast.”

“Do you remember that day Miss Clydesdale came into the shop? Arlo was standing by the Camembert and goat cheese display with that customer … you know the one.” She snapped her fingers. “Remember the dad with all the children in heavy winter coats? Big buttons on the coats. You made sandwiches. Urso came in and bought his usual. Oh, look, there he is.”

“The dad?”

“Urso, the pill.”

I caught sight of him through one of the tent windows, introducing the new deputy-hopeful to locals. Seeing the young man made me think again of Chip standing on my grandparents’ porch, hat and flowers in hand. I was a wimp to have allowed my grandfather to scare him off. I should have confronted Chip and told him to stop pursuing me. On the other hand, he had claimed he’d come to tell me something. If that were so, why had he brought flowers? Should I have given him the chance to explain?

“Tell Urso about the missing cheese,” Rebecca said.

“Now?”

“No time like the present.” She prodded me.

Before she had pushed me two steps, a jaunty guy with shaggy hair sauntered into the tent. “Hey, Rebecca! Got a sec?”

“Fiddlesticks.” Rebecca uttered a teensy growl. “When did he get back in town?”

“Who is he?” I asked. He looked familiar—charming, with spirited, aware eyes.

“Don’t you remember Quigley?” Her tone was as tart as a cheese that had gone bad.

The man zipped through the throng saying, “I’m not cutting in line, folks, promise.”

Rebecca met him at the end of the counter and thrust a finger at his chest. “Stop right there! You’re mean. And spiteful. And manipulative.”

He smirked. “I am not.”

“You took advantage of me when my armor was off.”

“The phrase is ‘when your armor was down.’”

Rebecca sputtered. “Ooh, you make me so mad.”

“May I quote you?” he gibed.

When Quigley offered a lopsided grin, it all came back to me. He was the reporter. A year or so ago, Rebecca had fallen for him hard until she found out he was dating other women. Lots of them. With money.

“You’re so cute when you get angry.” Quigley smoothed the lapel of his plaid blazer. “Beautiful, in fact.”

“O-o-oh,” Rebecca repeated, longer and shriller. She raised her arm, palm flat. Tension vibrated through her muscles. I could tell she wanted to slap him, but she held back. I was proud of her for showing restraint. I wasn’t sure what our customers would do if a fracas broke out. “Leave before I clobber you.”

“Gimme a quote.” Quigley held up a tape recorder. “Just one.”

“Not on your life.”

“Not even to save your boyfriend?”

“He’s innocent.”

“The police have evidence,” Quigley said.

“Ipo doesn’t know where those pu’ili sticks disappeared to. He hasn’t seen them in years.”

“What pu’ili sticks?”

Rebecca yelped. “You tricked me.”

“I did nothing of the sort.” He switched off his tape recorder.

“Racaille,”
Rebecca said, adopting one of Pépère’s favorite words—French for rascal.

“I’ve been called worse. See ya.” Chuckling, Quigley sauntered from the tent like a cocky duck, tilting to and fro.

Rebecca grumbled. “I wouldn’t put it past him to have framed Ipo.”

“To gain what?” I asked. “You?”

“He’s a Lothario. That’s what your grandmother called him. He’s only interested in a woman if it benefits him. Good thing I never kissed him.”

She harrumphed and set back to work. In the ensuing calm, I started thinking about Kaitlyn’s Lothario. Had he been after more than sex? Property, perhaps? Or a return of property acquired by blackmail?

CHAPTER

The evening sped by so fast, I felt like I had purchased a ticket on a bullet train. I had hoped that Jordan would stop by the Le Petit Fromagerie tent, but he hadn’t. I’d also hoped Urso would seek me out, but he hadn’t either, the skunk.

As I strolled home, tighter than an over-wound yo-yo, I remembered I had set my cell phone to vibrate. I fetched it from my purse and saw that Jordan had called. He had left a message around ten thirty. He said he’d been busy helping Urso’s mother with a calamity at Two Plug Nickels Farm. In a charming put-on twang, he added that he was tuckered out and hitting the hay. Before signing off, he whispered that he adored me. Though I cherished hearing his voice, something about his words fell flat. I didn’t want to question him on the telephone; I needed to talk in person. But it was an inappropriate hour for me to show up on his doorstep. Our discussion would have to wait until morning.

When I arrived home, I spotted a light on in the bedroom next to mine. The twins must have fallen asleep reading and forgotten to turn off their bedstand lamp. I tiptoed into the house through the kitchen, flicked on the swagged chandelier over the kitchen dining table, and spotted Rags and Rocket nestled together in Rocket’s dark brown wicker bed. The vision tickled me. A few months ago, I never would have thought the two could resolve their differences, let alone be best pals.

As I crept up the stairs, a few treads creaked beneath my footsteps, which reminded me that I needed to accomplish something on my home improvement to-do list soon.
One to-do item a month
had become a new mantra.

I reached the landing and heard Matthew speaking to the twins.

“No more questions,” he said.

“Please, Daddy, one,” Clair cried.

Questions about what? Egged on by a voice in my head that sounded curiously like Rebecca’s, I stole to the door and pressed my ear to it.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Matthew said, the exasperation in his voice palpable.

“Will we be wearing flowers in our hair?” Clair asked.

Aha. They were talking about the wedding. Had he given them a specific date? Something more concrete than Meredith’s nebulous
autumn
?

“Yes, if you want. Flowers, tiaras, you name it,” Matthew said. “Now, I know you’re keyed up from rehearsal, but it’s time for sleep.”

“Daddy, wait,” Amy said. I heard a thump and then bare feet padding across the area rug. “Mum said …” She went silent.

“It’s okay,” Matthew said. “You can tell me what she said. I can only imagine.”

Me, too.

“Mum said you and Miss Meredith don’t have a future together, and we shouldn’t count on a wedding. Please, Daddy, please,” Amy went on, her voice filled with passion. “Please have a future.”

Her words stung the pit of my soul. Tears sprang forth like a fountain. Not for Amy. Not for Clair, either. Matthew and Meredith were going to be together for life. Sylvie’s prediction would not come true. But I ached because of my own fears. Did I have a future with Jordan? Would we be able to resolve our differences? Without knowing the truth about him, I couldn’t even contemplate it.

* * *

When I woke the next morning, my pillow was still damp from my tears. I hustled into my cheery bathroom—one of my recent to-do projects that had turned out right. To the shower and the backsplash behind the sink, I had added a strip of white tiles, which had been hand-painted with sprigs of herbs. White lace curtains trimmed with pale green ribbon finished off the face-lift. Baby steps, Pépère said, were key to finishing home-makeover projects. If I made reasonable goals, I might finish the list, which numbered in the hundreds, in three years.

“Now to tackle you, Charlotte,” I whispered while assessing the damage that crying through the night had done to my face.

First, I applied warm tea bags to my swollen eyes. Next, I massaged in dollops of face cream and added a dab of blush to my cheeks. I finished off my personal makeover with a jewel-necked turquoise sweater, tan trousers, a silk matka tweed jacket that tied it all together, and my most comfortable loafers. The ensemble boosted my overall mood. After downing a sinful breakfast of sourdough toast tiered with raspberry jam, slivers of Bosc pears, and warm Brie, I took a brisk walk with Rocket and Rags, and by seven a.m., I felt almost normal. Almost.

Before heading to work, I left yet another message for Urso.

* * *

A couple of hours later, I was glad I had taken the effort to put myself together. I was standing in The Cheese Shop’s kitchen, setting baked apple slices on a set of pepperoni quiches, when Jordan entered through the rear door. No warning, no call. Granted, I probably had flour dust all over my face, but at least the rest of me looked decent enough.

“Morning,” he said, looking like a hero out of a romance novel—distressed leather jacket, white henley shirt tucked into jeans, tousled dark hair, smoldering eyes, and a denim knapsack slung over one shoulder. Something inside me went
snap
, in a good way. “Hungry?” He tapped the knapsack. “Thought we could catch a bite.”

“You bet.” I would never turn down a meal with him. I brushed off whatever flour might be clinging to my face and tucked my hair behind my ears, a tingling sensation of anticipation coursing through me.

Tyanne, who had arrived early to work and had turned out to be quite deft with pie shells, whispered, “You look great, sugar. Go on.” She shooed me to leave.

Jordan headed toward the rear exit, and I balked. “Where are you going?” I said. “It’s colder than a polar bear’s toenails outside.”

“I thought we’d have our meal in the hothouse.” He grinned. “Need a jacket?”

The moment I had arrived at the shop, I had removed my tweed jacket; it hung on the coat rack. But I shook my head. The co-op vegetable garden behind the shop was dormant and uninviting, but the town’s communal hothouse was a toasty seventy-two degrees. Tomatoes and herbs thrived in the steady warmth.

We slipped out the door and into the cold.

As we entered the hut, the scent of basil tickled my nose. But all my senses heightened when Jordan set the knapsack on a potting table, drew me into his arms, and kissed me like a romantic hero should—deeply and intimately. Heaven. Minutes passed before we came up for air.

When we did, he eyed his satchel. “I whipped up some fortification.” From the knapsack, he withdrew two brown restaurant to-go-style boxes. He popped the lid off one and beckoned the aromas to waft into the air.

I drew in the luscious aroma of brown sugar pancakes topped with melted Gouda and figs, and my stomach did a happy dance.

“I’ve brought warm syrup, too,” Jordan said.

“Yum.”

Jordan fetched a forest green fleece blanket, napkins, and utensils from his knapsack, and arranged our picnic on the floor. He had even thought to bring a thermos of French Roast coffee. We nestled onto the blanket and dug into our breakfast, the flavors bursting in my mouth. When I finished my last bite, the need to discuss my Internet search findings reared its ugly head. I had to have answers. I urged myself to speak but words wouldn’t come. My throat felt clogged with emotional cotton.

“I got your phone call,” Jordan said, breaking the poignant silence. “You sounded worried. Is it about Chip? I heard he came to your grandparents’ house. He and your grandfather fought.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“Your grandmother told Urso’s mother, who told me.”

“Ahhh.” My grandmother might not like idle gossip, but she could dish it. “Words. It was nothing.”

“That guy isn’t right, Charlotte. He puts me on edge.”

“You barely know him.”

“And you? How well do you know him?”

“I was engaged to him.”

“But he’s been gone for how long? People change.”

“He’s—”

Jordan tapped my leg to quiet me. “He came here with Kaitlyn Clydesdale and now she’s dead. He could be the killer, Charlotte.”

“Oh, please. Chip, a killer? He’s—”

“—hot for you, and hotheaded, to boot. He took on your grandfather. Sweetheart, even you know that’s just plain stupid.” Jordan traced a line up my sleeve to the tip of my chin. Shivers ran through me. He leaned forward and kissed me gently. “You’re like a magnet right now. Even if Chip’s not the guy to fear, how about the looter that came into your tent the other night?”

“He didn’t want to hurt me, either.”

Jordan frowned. “Don’t be naïve; you’re a perfect target.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re pretty and a wee bit cocky. Get up.” Jordan slid the coffee and our breakfasts to a spot beneath a stand of hothouse tomatoes, hopped to his feet, and stretched out his arms. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“What do you mean?”

“Show me your defensive moves. You’ve been taking classes with Meredith.”

“Not for a while.” Our weekly self-defense classes ended in November.

“You shouldn’t get rusty.” He beckoned with both hands. “C’mon. Up!”

Eager to show how scrappy I was, I scrambled to a stand, and without warning, rushed him. He grabbed me by the arms, whisked me like a broom, and landed me on the green fleece blanket. Gently. But I was down.

“Sheesh.” I fingered the hair at the nape of my neck, wishing I could wipe the self-satisfied grin off his face. “Guess I wasn’t ready.”

He offered a hand and pulled me up. “Ready now?”

“Absolutely.” I would show him. “Reach for my shoulder.”

He did. As I had been taught, I blocked him with my forearm. He groped for my other shoulder. I mirrored the block. While I gloated over my quick reflexes, he took hold of the first shoulder, whipped me around, and pinned my wrist up between my shoulder blades.

“Uncle!” I said.

He spun me around and stared at me gravely. “As I thought. Brash with no oomph.”

I scowled. Good thing Meredith hadn’t seen the display. She would have teased me for weeks.

“I’m going to teach you a few more moves,” Jordan said.

A flutter of desire zipped through me. How I wished we would continue the lesson in my Victorian home. In my bedroom. Once he answered my questions.

“The natural effect of real aggression,” he went on, cooling my flames, “causes what some call an adrenaline dump. That means high volumes of adrenaline shoot through the attacker. You’ve got to be able to bring the guy down. Got me?”

I nodded.

“Let’s say the jerk tries to strangle you. Let me show you what you do.” He asked my permission, then gripped my neck.

Even though his touch was tender, my stomach constricted. It sickened me to think how I might react in a real situation. Thick-voiced, I said, “I poke your eyes.”

“Try.”

I reached over his arm and thrust upward with two fingers, but he jerked his head back and grabbed my wrist.

“Not good enough.” He didn’t let go. “What else can you jab?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think.”

“I can’t.” My heart pounded double-time. “Let me go.”

He did. “C’mon, what’s open? What’s within reach?”

“The hollow of your neck.”

“Exactly. Right below the Adam’s apple. Do it now. Be precise.”

Slowly, I set my fingers in the hollow of his neck.

“That’s it. Except, in real life, you go for it with all your might. Shock your attacker. He’ll release his hands. And then what do you do?”

“Run.”

“Good. Now for lesson two.”

A rush of my own adrenaline zinged through me. Enough of the kissing and self-defense lessons. I pushed him away and blurted, “Are these spy moves?”

He stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re a spy.” There. It was out. No more pussyfooting around.

His mouth quirked up, creating a huge dimple down his cheek. “What kind of spy?”

“Espionage.”

“Oh, right. Hyah-hyah.” He chopped the air. “Shaken not stirred and all that rot.” He laughed. “Where’d you get that crazy idea?”

“You’re so private.”

“Cheese farmers are allowed to be private.”

I swallowed hard.
Ask him.
“You said Jeremy Kenneth Montgomery is the name of the man who taught you to make cheese.”

“That’s right.”

“J. Kenneth Montgomery is the name of a spy in a novel.”

Jordan frowned. “I’m not following.”

“Jeremy Kenneth Montgomery doesn’t exist. He’s not on the Internet. I think you had me look up this Montgomery guy because you knew I’d come upon this character. You wanted me to catch on.”

“Catch on to what?”

“That you’re a spy. That’s why you’re so cryptic. That’s why you moved to Providence. To hide out between missions.”

Jordan burst into laughter.

I whacked his arm with my palm. “Stop it and answer my question.”

He sobered and folded my hands into his. “Contrary to popular belief, not everyone lives on the Internet, Charlotte. I’m private; you said so yourself. Trust me. I am not a spy.”

“Were you ever a spy?”

“I was in the army for a stint.”

“Then why are you living under an alias? Are you in the Witness Security Program?” I’d had the same notion when I first met Jordan. He had come out of nowhere.

He released my hands and let his arms fall to his sides. Casual, and yet he looked primed. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to reveal.”