To Brie or Not to Brie (13 page)

Meredith giggled. “Isn’t it beautiful? Iris Isherwood suggested using hyacinth, white
narcissi, and pine-needle
rosemary for the sprays that will be on the ends of the rows of chairs as well as
for the vases that will stand on the buffet. I’ll carry white Ecuadorian roses. It
sounds elegant, don’t you think?”

I agreed. “So you’ve decided to use Iris as your florist?”

“We have two bids,” Tyanne said. “Iris’s suggestions are the best. And get this, sugar?
She cut her rate by half, which makes her the most affordable. She said it’s because
she likes Matthew and Meredith so much.”

Or she needs the business, I thought cynically. Would there come a day in our country’s
iffy economy when I would have to cut my prices at The Cheese Shop? Our daily specials,
usually at discount, did sell out first.

“Show me the rest of the album,” I said.

“Take a look at the bridal bouquets,” Meredith suggested. “They’re on page…” She turned
to Tyanne for the answer.

“…seven.” Tyanne flipped the cellophane-enclosed pages slowly, giving me time to drink
in the displays on each.

I was astounded by the plethora of white flowers: dahlias, asters, anemones, gladiolas,
and more. I had only reached page nine of twenty when our meals arrived. I said, “I’ll
check out the bouquets after we eat, okay? What color ribbons?”

“Cobalt blue,” Meredith said.

“Her favorite color,” Matthew added.

“And yours.” She nudged him.

Tyanne closed the album and wedged it behind her on the banquette.

“Gluten-free for you,” Delilah said, placing a red-rimmed plate in front of Clair.
“And one for your aunt.”

Clair shot me a look of thanks. Because she had to eat a special diet, she often felt
alienated. She appreciated when I joined her. The Country Kitchen, thanks to my suggestion,
used the same brand of bread mix that I used at home.

“I’ll be back in a sec with the fries,” Delilah said. “Do you want grated Parmesan
cheese?”

“You bet,” I said. Grated Parmesan added all sorts of flavor to the most modest of
dishes; french fries was one of them.

I took a bite of my sandwich and hummed with pleasure. The cheese oozed from the sides
of the sandwich. The grapes popped in my mouth. Eager to serve Jordan this sensual
meal soon, I logged the recipe into my brain.

The Elvis-shaped chimes over the diner’s front door jingled. As if picking up on my
mental vibrations, Jordan entered. He spotted me and made a beeline for our booth.

When he arrived, I noted the pinch of worry around his eyes. A jolt of concern coursed
through me. I excused myself from the table, and we moved to the counter.

“What happened?” I said.

“Urso released Vinnie Capriotti.”

“Oh, no.” Dreadful thoughts collided in my brain. What if Jacky’s theory was true,
and both she and Vinnie were Giacomo’s heirs? What if there was a clause of survivorship?
Vinnie might attack Jacky and Cecily. And what was Jacky’s fate vis-à-vis jail? Urso
had let Vinnie go. Maybe Rebecca was right. Urso was
gunning for
Jacky. “Do you think Urso believes Jacky killed Giacomo?”

“He said he doesn’t have enough evidence to hold anybody.”

I brushed Jordan’s forearm with my fingertips. His muscles rippled with tension. “That’s
good news for her, isn’t it?”

“Not good enough. A killer is on the loose.”

Again, I flashed on Vinnie, not because he might kill Jacky to inherit all of his
brother’s money, but because of another notion. What if Vinnie, in retaliation for
his brother’s murder, lashed out at someone Jacky adored…her brother, for instance?
My fear reached my mouth. “Vinnie knows where you live,” I whispered, looking around
to see
if anyone was listening to us. No one was. “What if he tells the people who are searching
for you where to find you? He’s got to be silenced.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow.

I fluttered a hand. “Not
silenced
silenced, but maybe we could pay him to keep quiet.”

He grabbed my shoulders. Matching my low tone, he said, “Charlotte, don’t you realize
that Vinnie is like a horse who will keep coming back to the trough for more water?”

“You mean if we give him money, he’ll want more. Yes, of course, it’s just—”

“Don’t do anything. Vinnie doesn’t know about my…situation.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Jordan’s secret identity had nothing to do with Jacky’s. He had moved to Providence
as part of the Witness Security Program. The reason was simple. He had been a chef
and owner of a fancy restaurant in upstate New York. One night, when he went outside
for a breath of fresh air, he saw two men attack a third man. Without thinking, he
sprang to the third man’s defense. The attackers had knives. Being a chef, Jordan
knew how to use one. He wrestled one of the knives away. The struggle turned bloody.
The third man died. Jordan stabbed and killed one of the two attackers, but the other
got away. When he met with the police, he found out the attackers were the linchpins
of a gambling ring. He entered the WITSEC program to testify against the surviving
attacker. Knowing how to make cheese gave Jordan a real chance to start over in Providence.

I said, “Can we ask Urso to hold Vinnie indefinitely? What if we convince him that
you and Jacky aren’t safe if Vinnie is free?”

“Charlotte—”

“We could say he’s obstructing justice or threatening you.”

“But he’s not threatening us.”

“Yes, he is. His presence, alone, is menacing.” I gazed into Jordan’s eyes. “I see
what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if you and Jacky will have to leave Providence
and start over again.”

“I am not.”

“You’re wondering if WITSEC can protect you now.” My breathing became staccato. I
felt like something was squeezing the air out of my lungs. And then I sensed someone
staring at me. I caught Delilah, cones of french fries in hand, watching us. She tilted
her head as if to ask what was going on. I jerked my chin—a gesture that meant
move away.
She frowned, then proceeded to take the french fries to the table.

“Please, sweetheart, calm down.” Jordan pulled my hand to his mouth and kissed my
palm. His breath was warm, reassuring. Why didn’t I feel at peace? “I didn’t come
here to rile you,” he said. “I simply wanted to keep you informed. Don’t worry about
Vinnie. He’s not a threat.”

“Unless he’s a killer.”

“If he is, Urso will figure it out.” A year ago, Jordan wouldn’t have given Urso an
iota of credit. I was glad that they had become allies over time, but was his trust
misplaced now?

“Did you ask Urso about Hugo Hunter?” I said, recalling Rebecca’s insistence that
I drum up other suspects. I didn’t know Hugo well enough to care to protect him, and
he had lied about his alibi.

“Urso is following up.”

“That sounds vague.”

“Urso isn’t always forthcoming. We’re civilians, remember?” Jordan squeezed my hand.
His touch sent a sizzle of desire through me, and I wondered if people on the brink
of war experienced the same desperate hunger.

“Try not to worry,” Jordan went on. “Urso’s a good man. I’m sure he has it handled.
In the meantime, I’m going over
to Jacky’s to watch Cecily and give my sister a much-needed rest. I’ll call you when
I leave. Is ten too late?”

“No.” Pent-up energy would keep me reading until at least midnight.

As I watched him stride from the diner, Delilah sidled up to me and whispered, “You
can’t sit back.”

“What are you talking about?”

She tugged on her earlobe. She
knew something.
“Why didn’t you tell me Jordan was in a WITSEC program?”

Panic zipped through me. She couldn’t have overheard us. We had spoken so softly.
“He isn’t,” I said.

“I can read lips, you know. I played Helen Keller during high school, or did you forget?
Remember how much research I did for that role? I learned the entire ASL alphabet
and over fifty words to sign.”

I clasped my friend’s wrist. “No one knows. Not Meredith, not Rebecca, not my grandmother,
and not Urso. You can’t tell a soul.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise.”

She touched the tip of her index finger to her chin then flattened her palm against
her other hand. “By the way, that’s the ASL sign for promise.”

I released her.

“But you have to do something about this thing with Jacky,” Delilah went on.

“Jordan said Urso has it under control.”

“Sweetie.” Her tone dripped sarcasm. “Urso and Jacky broke up. Jacky is your lover
boy’s sister. Urso used to have a crush on you. He still might. You do the math.”
She tapped her foot.

“Is that the ASL sign for impatient?” I said.

Delilah glowered at me. “You have to find out more about this Vinnie guy. You have
to break him, get him to confess to the murder, eliminate the competition.”

Who was she kidding? As petite as I was, I couldn’t
frighten Vinnie. I didn’t own a gun. And I sure as shooting wasn’t going to hire someone
to eliminate him. “No. Double no. Triple no. If Jordan says Urso has it handled, he
has it handled.”

As she hummed her disapproval, I prayed Jordan was right.

I loved Sundays. Occasionally I asked Rebecca to open Fromagerie Bessette so I could
attend church. Often I asked her to open the shop so I could make pancakes for the
girls or while away a stolen moment with the Sunday crossword puzzle. Today I had
put her in charge for the whole day because I wanted to spend it paying attention
to last-minute preparations for a wedding that was one week away.

Standing on the knoll of the Harvest Moon Ranch, looking out at Providence to the
south and nothing but farmland to the east, north, and west, I set aside the worry
about Jordan and Jacky’s situation, which had kept me up half the night, and I focused
on my purpose for being in such an idyllic location—Matthew and Meredith’s blessed
event. A hint of afternoon breeze swept across the grassy hills and tickled my legs.
Birds trilled merrily at the dozens of bird feeders set out on the lawn between the
red ranch house and the barn.

Amy skipped to my side and yelled, “Clair, look, that’s Kindred Creek.”

Clair arrived at a leisurely pace, looking like a true intellectual with her hair
wound into a nub of a ponytail, a pair of binoculars slung around her neck, and a
book about Ohio’s birds tucked under her arm.

Amy pointed at the winding river at the base of the hill. The Nature Preserve lay
just beyond.

“Wow,” Clair said. “It’s so vast.”

“Where’s Providence Liberal Arts College from here?” Amy asked me.

I gestured to the right. What a change had come over that property in less than a
year, thanks to Meredith’s deft guidance. The mansion had been revitalized, and the
once-dead vineyard was flourishing.

Clair lifted the binoculars to her eyes and peered through them. “Ooh, I think I see
a family of Prairie Warblers in the vines.”

“Big whoop,” Amy said. “I’d be more excited if you saw a pack of boys.”

I elbowed her.

Amy grinned an elfin smile. “Hey, is that Mum?”

Sylvie crested the hill and pranced toward us with her arms spread wide. Who had invited
her? I had to stifle a laugh. She looked like Maria in
The Sound of Music
, floppy sun hat bouncing with abandon, frilly blue-green dirndl skirt fluting out.
The leather suitcase she carried looked ages old. As she drew near and opened her
mouth, I expected her to break out singing, “The hills are alive with the sound of
music…”

“Hello, my girlie-girls,” she cried.

The twins sprinted to her and hugged her. For all her faults, Sylvie did love her
daughters.

“Look what Mumsie has brought you.” Sylvie heaved the suitcase on the ground. It landed
with a thud.

Amy knelt down, popped it open, and yanked out matching pale green dirndl outfits,
complete with leather lace-up bodices. “What are these?” She fingered the outfits
as if they were road kill.

“Aren’t they perfect?” Sylvie said.

“For what?” Amy scrunched up her nose.

“For the wedding.”

“But we have dresses,” Clair said.

“Not the right dresses.”

“We’ll look stupid in these,” Amy said. Like her mother, tact was not her strong suit.

“You will not.” Sylvie smoothed the leather bodice of her getup. “You will look like
little girls and not…” She twirled a hand.

“Beautiful princesses?” I said, offering my two cents.

“Tosh.” Sylvie shot me a snooty look. “They do not dwell in England. They live in
Ohio.”

I squared my shoulders. “That doesn’t mean you have to dress them in old-fashioned
costumes.”

Amy, the lesser girlie-girl of the two, said, “Mum, we like our wedding dresses.”

My mouth fell open. I propped it back up with my knuckles.

“But—” Sylvie huffed. “They’re not appropriate.”

“Because they didn’t come from your store?” I said.

“Speaking of which, whatever are you wearing, Charlotte?” Sylvie assessed me, head
to toe, curling her lip when she reached the hem of my Bermuda shorts. “Denim is out,
or didn’t you know? And the white shirt with rolled up sleeves?
Très passé.
”