Clobbered by Camembert (26 page)

A horse whinnied, but Oscar didn’t answer.

Thinking a gust of wind might accidentally have jostled the door, I pushed it open farther, and whispered, “Oscar?”

In the path of daylight that swathed the hardwood floor, I caught sight of a pair of boots, toes to the ground. Legs in jeans jutted from the boots. A man lay facedown on the shabby area rug. It was Oscar. I recognized the pale blue shirt he had worn to the pub last night.

“Oscar!” I raced to him.

His back rose with breath, but he wasn’t stirring. Blood dripped from his head. A busted floor lamp rested on its side beside Oscar’s head. A leather wallet lay open beyond the lampshade. Had someone robbed Oscar—the thief who Urso and Jordan had failed to capture? Was he still in the house? I scanned the dim room but didn’t see movement. If the thief were there, he was as silent as a gravedigger.

“Rebecca!” I yelled. Had she reached Urso? She didn’t answer. I tore to the door and said, “Rebecca, where are you? Oscar’s hurt.” I didn’t see any sign of her.

I dashed back to Oscar, knelt beside him, and checked his pulse. Weak. I stabbed 911 into my cell phone.

A creature screeched. A ferret shot from beneath the worn green couch and flew across the backs of my calves. I yelped and clambered to my feet, heart pumping. Accidentally, I dropped the cell phone.

At the same time someone charged from the kitchenette wearing a ski mask and dark clothing. He … She … It grabbed me by the throat.

My self-defense refresher course with Jordan came back to me in a flash. Hands free, I rounded my right arm over my attacker’s and jabbed the ski mask where the hollow of the attacker’s neck should be. He—definitely a he—released his hands.

I tried to knee him in the groin, but my knee tangled in the folds of my camel coat and I missed my mark; I hit hard muscle. The intruder growled, cupped a hand around my head, and hurled me into the wall, face-first.

A loafer flew off my foot. My forehead slammed against wood. I moaned.

To my surprise, the attacker didn’t rush me. He fled through the front door.

A moment passed before I could catch my breath and sprint after him. Wearing only one shoe, I hobbled. The icy cold from the hardwood floor bit through my sock. By the time I reached the porch, the attacker was gone. I remembered hearing a horse whinny. Had the attacker taken off on horseback? I didn’t see tracks. There were no ruts, no footprints. The wind had wiped the area clean.

“Rebecca! Where the heck are you?” Dread clogged my throat.
Please, please, let her be okay.

“I’m here!” She trotted around the corner, cell phone cupped in her hand, finger tapping in a message.

“Did you see him?” I rubbed my shoeless foot on my pant leg to warm my toes.

“Who?”

“The person who bolted out of the house.”

“No! I went to Ipo’s to see if he was awake. He wasn’t there.”

At the same time, I heard a vroom. I spun to my left. A Jeep hurtled down the gravel road and skidded to a stop.

Rebecca slapped her cell phone shut and pocketed it. “Oh, goodie, the chief got my first text message.”

Urso bounded from the Wrangler. “What’s going on? Charlotte, you’re hurt.”

“There was an intruder.” I pointed at the bungalow. “We fought. I’ll have a headache. Oscar’s lying on the floor. His pulse is weak.”

Urso rushed past me into the house. I followed, retrieving my wayward loafer on the way. Rebecca trotted behind me.

Urso knelt beside Oscar, who hadn’t budged a muscle. While he checked Oscar’s pulse, he wedged a cell phone to his ear. As Urso called his deputy, I remembered my cell phone and snatched it up. The readout read:
Call ended.
Urso shared what little he knew, then said, “No, he’s not rousing. Knocked-out cold. Yeah, call an ambulance. Hurry.” He sat back on his heels and put his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Help is on the way, pal. Hang in there.” He glanced at me. “What did the attacker look like, Charlotte?”

I described the mask and the clothing. I told him he reminded me of the thief that had attacked me at our tent at the faire.

Urso frowned. “Do you think it was the same person?”

“Could have been. He was taller than me and broader.”

“Are you sure it was a man?”

An image of Georgia Plachette leapt into my mind. Wearing platform shoes, she might have been taller than me but not wider. But I was pretty certain the attacker was male. And why would Georgia want to hurt me, I wondered, until I realized that the attacker hadn’t been there to hurt
me
. He … or she … had come for Oscar.

I said, “Whoever it was smelled of horses and hay.”

“Horses and hay?” Urso said. “That could be anyone from locals with farms to tourists who take Amish buggy rides.”

Rebecca said, “Could it have been Barton Burrell? He’s got lots of horses on his property.”

I flashed on Emma Burrell, who was a tall, big-boned woman. Had Oscar seen something on Chip’s cell phone that could incriminate her?

Urso rubbed a hand down the side of his neck. “Why did you come here?”

I explained about Oscar shaking that darned cell phone at me at the pub. “I was certain he saw something incriminating on the telephone—a photo or something. Does Oscar have a cell phone on him now?”

Urso rifled through Oscar’s pockets. He came up with a BlackBerry phone.

“That’s not Chip’s,” I said. “His is an iPhone. Is there another one?”

He searched again. A moment later, he said, “No. Why didn’t you ask Chip about it?”

“I tried. He wasn’t at the inn. Coming to Oscar’s was more expeditious.”

“And you couldn’t have waited for me to join you?”

“It’s Sunday. I didn’t want—”

“You didn’t think, that’s what you didn’t do,” Urso barked. “Darn it, Charlotte, you are not a professional.”

Rebecca cleared her throat.

Urso pinned her with a look. “Not a peep out of you, Miss Zook, unless you want me to plunk you in jail for trespassing.”

“But, I—”

“Not a peep!”

She gulped.

Urso returned his stern gaze to me. “You are not trained to put yourself in situations like this, do you hear me?” He jabbed a finger, realized what he was doing, and holstered it in his fist. “At least we know the attacker wasn’t Ipo. I just saw him at church.”

“You did? Hallelujah!” Rebecca said. “Praise be to—”

The screech of tires hushed her. Doors slammed. Footsteps pounded the porch steps. Urso’s deputies stampeded into the room, guns drawn.

Urso scrambled to his feet and moved in front of Rebecca and me. “Okay, hotshots. Guns down. All clear. Where’s the ambulance?”

“On its way,” they said in unison.

CHAPTER

Before taking Oscar to the hospital, the emergency medical technician tended to the wound on my forehead and told me to take it easy. When I returned to The Cheese Shop, my grandfather was much more demanding. He ordered me to lie on the mini-sofa in the office and stay there. If not for the sweet potato–nutmeg quiche that he promised me if I was a good patient, I would have bolted. Within minutes, I fell asleep.

Around noon, I woke from my nap and struggled to a sitting position. The aroma of the quiche tantalized my senses; my mouth watered in anticipation.

“Lie back down,” Pépère said.

“But I’m raring to go. I’m not dizzy.” He was making way too big a deal of things. I had a cut on my head—a nick and, okay, a bump. “C’mon, let me up.”

“Un moment.”

“Ow!” I moaned. The antiseptic solution he was applying to my forehead for the fifth time stung like a you-know-what.

“You’ve got to be more careful,” Pépère said.

“I know. Lesson learned. Now, let me up.”

“You need a bandage.”

“Is it bleeding? No, it’s not. Let me up.”

“You cannot go walking into suspects’ houses alone,
chèrie
.” Grandmère waited in the doorway, her voice crackling with authority. How long had she been standing there?

“I wasn’t alone. I was with Rebecca.”

My grandmother gave me the evil eye.

Agreeing with her, Rags yowled and paced at my feet like a sentry. Rocket yipped from his position on a tiger-striped pillow in the corner. He looked at me with hangdog eyes, as if admitting it was a weak response, but I should forgive him because he was only a puppy. Upon hearing of the incident at Oscar’s, the twins had insisted the pets be brought to Fromagerie Bessette to comfort me. As much as I loved our menagerie, what I wanted was love without the communal judgment. And air to breathe. The tiny office was super cramped. At least my grandmother had convinced the twins to remain in the wine annex.

“Oscar wasn’t a suspect,” I added, trying to defend my actions.

“Everyone is a suspect.” Rebecca reentered the office carrying the nineteenth or twentieth bag of ice. I had lost count at fourteen. She skirted the desk and handed the bag to me. “Apply for twenty minutes.”

“Yes, doctor.” I winced when I placed the ice on the wound.
A bump, my foot.
The bruise felt about the size of a doorknob. On a giant’s house.

“
Chérie
, I’ll get you that slice of quiche now.” Pépère kissed my cheek and traipsed out of the office.

“I’m hot on your trail,” I said, struggling to sit.

“Not without our help,” my grandmother admonished. “Rebecca, some assistance please.”

They each clutched one of my elbows and helped me rise.

Resembling a teetering three-legged-race team, we squished through the door. Over my shoulder, I gave a word of warning to Rags and Rocket. “Behave.” Both looked at me with mournful eyes as if wondering how I could ever think they would do otherwise.

“Are you sure you don’t know who it was that attacked you?” Rebecca asked.

“For the last time, I’m positive.” I tried to break free of my captors.

They clinched me more tightly.

“You said he smelled like horses,” Grandmère said.

“Hay,” Rebecca countered.

“Both,” Grandmère said. “And he was wearing dark clothing.”

“And taller than you,” Rebecca added.

“Taller than any of us,” I said. “And he was wearing a mask.”

“What was his eye color?” my grandmother asked.

I moaned. “Just because I slept doesn’t mean I don’t remember you asking me all of these questions before.”

“Close your eyes and try to remember.”

“Oh, please, Grandmère.”

“Try. Adjust your thinking.”

There was that phrase again. What wasn’t I adjusting? I was looking outside the box. Everyone was a suspect. Heck, if I didn’t know better, I would even suspect myself. I closed my eyes for a nanosecond and reopened them. “I can’t see a thing. Not a darned thing. Now, release me.” I wrested free, exasperated and exhausted. Keeping the ice pack on my forehead and using one hand to plead my case, I said, “It’s a blur.”

My grandmother itched to grab hold of me again, but I backed away.

“Could it have been Arlo MacMillan?” she asked.

“Or Barton Burrell?” Rebecca said.

“For all I know, the intruder was a thief who had nothing whatsoever to do with Kaitlyn’s death. Look, I’m not psychic. Stop badgering me.”

I trudged into the shop, self-doubt squeezing the air out of me. Were Oscar’s attacker and the thief at the tent one and the same? Was he a tourist or a local? Could I travel, inn to inn or house to house, looking for someone who owned a ski mask? Maybe in my panic I had overestimated the height and size of him. Maybe the scent of horses and hay I had picked up had come from the properties around Oscar’s house and not from the intruder. Everyone north of town owned horses.

“If only Oscar were lucid,” Rebecca said.

Poor Oscar was lying in a coma on a hospital bed. The attacker had knocked him out cold. If I hadn’t shown up, would Oscar be dead? If I hadn’t used Jordan’s self-defense technique, would I? The thought made my head throb.

As I reached the cheese counter, Amy raced from the wine annex and threw her arms around my waist. “Aunt Charlotte, you’re awake.”

Clair followed suit. She said, “Thomas, Tisha, and Frenchie came with us.”

Tyanne’s towheaded children were perched on the stools by the marble tasting counter, helping themselves to slices of Monterey Jack. Frenchie, Freckles’s eldest daughter who was older than the twins by three years and usually the model of good behavior, stood beside them, flailing Thomas with her red braids.

“Stop it,” Thomas cried.

Frenchie persisted.

Tisha said, “Mommy kicked us out of the tent. Frenchie and Thomas were sword fighting with icicles.”

Thomas said, “Other kids were doing it, too.”

“They were doing it outside, you goon.” Tisha gave her brother a stern look, then turned her attention back to me. “Mommy told us to skedaddle.”

Amy latched onto my sweater and drew me to her level. “Thomas is still being a pill to me,” she whispered.

“I’m sure he’ll change, in time.”

“Ha! Never. Men.”

My niece—a cynic at the tender age of nine. I smiled, which sent another shooting pain to the knot on my forehead. So much for an ice pack dulling the ache.
Note to self: no more smiling for a decade.

“Chérie.”
Pépère flourished a rust-colored stoneware plate, set with a slice of sweet potato–nutmeg quiche, beneath my nose. “Come sit and have your treat.”

“Matthew,” my grandmother called to my cousin, who was polishing glasses behind the antique bar in the wine annex. “A glass of Pellegrino water for Charlotte.”

I tossed the ice pack into the sink behind the counter and followed my grandfather and the heavenly scent to a mosaic café table. I nestled into a wrought iron chair and eyed the pale orange quiche appreciatively, then dove in. Pépère must have added extra nutmeg and maple syrup to his recipe. The luscious concoction melted in my mouth. I mumbled my thanks.

Neither Pépère nor Grandmère acknowledged me. They hovered on either side, hands folded in front of them, making me feel like a fish in a fishbowl. With a very bad lump on its head. Lucky me.

Matthew set a stemmed glass of sparkling water on the table and settled into the chair opposite me. “Do you have a headache?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Next time—”

“There won’t be a next time,” I promised.

“Thanks be to God,” Grandmère said.

Pépère steepled his hands and said a French blessing of his own.

“Liar.” Matthew chuckled. “Sure, there will. You’re my sassy, headstrong cousin.”

“I’m not headstrong.”

Sylvie flounced into the annex and said, “Yes, you are.” The sheer sleeveless dress she wore was better suited for the middle of July, but I didn’t have the energy to tell her she had no common sense. “You’re as headstrong as Matthew, Charlotte, hence that nasty bump. Bullheadedness runs in the Bessette veins, doesn’t it, love?” She peered at Matthew, who flinched.

My grandmother clucked her tongue and elbowed Pépère. Without a word, he ushered her into The Cheese Shop. He preferred that Matthew handle his marriage issues alone. Unfortunately, I was slow on my feet.

“You need to think before you leap, Charlotte,” Sylvie persisted.

“Who asked you?” I said, the words not nearly combative enough. If only I could master a tough New Jersey accent. I couldn’t. When I had tried to do one in a high school play, I had sounded like a mixed-up urchin from Ireland.

“And you’re bossy,” Sylvie continued, undaunted. She flung her faux ocelot coat over the back of a chair and fluffed her hair. “You push people around.”

Matthew bounded to his feet. “Sylvie, this is a private conversation.”

“It’s not private unless you’re whispering.”

“Leave.”

“Matthew, I’ve got this.” I clambered to my feet, ready to have it out with his ex once and for all. “Sylvie, I do not boss.”

“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 canapés 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. Pépère 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 Château Puygueraud, Côtes 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?”

“Grandmère’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. Grandmère’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.