To Brie or Not to Brie (15 page)

“Forget it, Sylvie,” Matthew said. “Girls, don’t worry about spilling. We can dry
clean them.”

“But—” Sylvie sputtered.

“We’ll be careful, Mum,” Clair rushed to say.

“Promise,” Amy added.

Sylvie looked stricken that Matthew had usurped her authority. I offered a supportive
smile, but she ignored me.

Amy ate her morsel in one bite. Clair nibbled the edges
of her cracker before eating the center. Both finished with a sweet moan of appreciation.
Neither made a mess.

After wiping off her fingers, Amy said, “Can we play outside?”

Sylvie opened her mouth to speak, but Matthew jumped in. “Yes, you may. Meredith and
I will come with you.” He called over his shoulder, “Great job, Charlotte.”

As the foursome exited through the screen door, Tyanne said, “Don’t they look deliriously
happy?”

Sylvie muttered, “Delirious, anyway,” and then her mouth curved up in a malicious
sneer and she zeroed in on Tyanne. “So, Miss Wedding Planner, what are you doing about
the ceremony? Will it go on for ever-so-long and drip with boredom?”

Tyanne thinned her lips. “Not long at all. Pastor Hildegard is preparing a seven-minute
ceremony that he believes is perfect for this occasion.”

“Seven minutes?” Sylvie said. “Ridiculous.”

“He believes a crowd gets restless after seven minutes.”

“Whatever.” Sylvie snorted. “The marriage won’t last longer than seven minutes.”

Tyanne flinched. “Ooh, you are impossible. Why, I…” She sputtered, then spun on her
heel and stormed out of the house.

“Sylvie, Sylvie, Sylvie.” Iris smacked the counter. “Why must you alienate everyone?”

I whispered, “Don’t, Iris.”

“She has no right.” Iris shot a finger at Sylvie.

“I’m so scared.” Sylvie fluttered both hands in the air. “Iris, please, you’re about
as terrifying as a moth. Holster that finger.”

Not surrendering, Iris said, “A wedding ceremony is a cherished thing. It is a matter
to be determined between husbands and wives, not ex-wives.”

Sylvie clucked her tongue. “Get off your high horse,
love. You’re just siding with the happy couple because they hired you. You don’t believe
all this drivel.”

Iris’s hands formed into claws.

“Sylvie,” Grandmère said. “Take it back.”

“No.”

Iris said, “Why you—”

I grabbed Iris’s shoulders. “Don’t let her provoke you.”

“I’m so provocative.” Sylvie chortled. “Say, Iris, how’s that salve working out that
I gave you? If you want more free samples of that sixty-dollar-an-ounce goop for those
burns, you’d better be nice to me.”

“Burns?” I glanced at Iris.

Iris flushed crimson. “I’m so stupid. I was making boiled eggs for my orchids.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Eggshells are good for fertilizer. It’s the cheapest way to get calcium to the roots,”
Iris explained. “I forgot to use a pot holder and lifted the pot”—she mimed the action,
wrists inward. “Stupid, right?”

“Pathetic,” Sylvie said.

“Sylvie, that is enough.” Grandmère marched around the counter to face Sylvie. “You
must change.”

“I like my outfit, love, thank you very much.” Sylvie fluffed her outlandish skirt.

“No, you must change your ways.” Grandmère thumped Sylvie’s chest. “You have a nasty
disposition that will rub off on my great-granddaughters, and I will not stand for
it.”

“Oh, tosh, Bernadette.” Sylvie swatted the air. “If I must change, so must you. You’re
a driven, controlling woman. How many projects do you have going? There’s talk that
you’ll drop dead of exhaustion. What kind of example is that for my girlie-girls?”

Grandmère fumed; her coconut brown eyes turned dark. She grabbed a bejeweled cheese-and-sauce
spreader.

“Charlotte,” Iris whispered, her voice catching. “Do something.”

Visions of a food fight, or worse, zinged before my eyes.

I turned to my cousin’s ex-wife, palms open in a pleading gesture. “Sylvie, please.”

Sylvie’s gaze twinkled with wicked victory. “Fine, I’ll be the bigger person. I won’t
speak about the wedding anymore. Happy, Grandmère Bernadette? Now put down that knife
or people in town will wonder about you, with your”—she cleared her throat—“reputation.”
She was alluding to the past, when my grandmother was wrongfully suspected of murder.

My grandmother muttered, “
Sorcière,
” and left the kitchen, letting the screen door slam on her exit.

Sylvie cackled, then turned her attention to the others standing around the counter.
“Who wants a little local gossip?”

Iris raised a hand. So did I. Anything to change the subject to something neutral.

Sylvie shimmied with delight. “Speaking of the fabulous restorative creams that I
offer at my boutique and day spa, do you know that man, Vinnie Capriotti, the brother
of the victim?” Her segue was clumsy, but I let it pass. “He’s coming in for a facial.
He’s my first male customer. If I succeed with his terrible skin, who knows what opportunities
will arise?”

Vinnie had said his brother called him a wuss for wanting to get a facial. Had the
slur enraged him enough to want to kill his brother? Or was there something deeper
at the root of their relationship? Cain slew Abel because God loved Abel more. Had
Vinnie been jealous of his brother’s success? Had he tagged along on the trip to Providence
so he could get his brother alone and slay him? If so, why kill him in the Igloo,
and why use a vat of ice cream?

Sylvie continued. “And get this, Anabelle is dating him. She’s over the moon.”

I gaped. She had to be wrong. Sylvie often said things that weren’t true. I remembered
a conversation where she
swore her history was colored with encounters with royalty. But that didn’t matter
now. Anabelle did. She was a nice girl who would not deign to date somebody as low
as Vinnie Capriotti. Besides, she had been interested in his brother. Could she switch
loyalties that quickly? I exchanged a glance with Iris, who looked as fretful as I
did.

Iris tapped the counter with her finger. “I heard the man got kicked out of the Victoriana
Inn.” She scooped lemon curd onto a cracker and topped it with a piece of Manchego
cheese, a piquant Spanish sheep’s cheese that was Don Quixote’s favorite. “The inn’s
manager sent him packing for disorderly conduct.”

“How disorderly?” I asked.

“He tossed his spa cuisine dinner at the fireplace.”

Sylvie chuckled. “I’d have tossed it, too. Have you seen how skimpy the portions are?”

“He hurled a Waterford crystal goblet right after,” Iris continued. “Smashed it to
smithereens. Now he’s living in a car.”

“Why is he staying in town?” Sylvie said. “Didn’t Chief Urso set him free?”

“I imagine he wants to see his brother’s murder solved,” Iris said.

Sylvie folded her arms across her ample chest. “You of all people understand that,
don’t you, Charlotte? Isn’t that how you felt when your grandmother was in a scrape
with the law?”

I gritted my teeth and white-knuckled the counter. Heaven forbid Sylvie get a verbal
rise out of me.

Iris said, “I saw Vinnie entering church this morning. Do you think he was looking
for solace?”

I would bet he was seeking more than that. Absolution came to mind.

Monday morning, while Rebecca mopped The Cheese Shop floors and I inventoried the
items on the display cases, Urso entered. He strode to the cheese counter and surveyed
the freshly made sandwiches.

“’Morning, ladies,” Urso said, trying to sound chipper, though his tone was as lackluster
as his eyes and his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. I had to keep reminding myself
that at one time he had dated Jacky. Investigating this particular crime and suspecting
her to be guilty of murder had to be eating at him.

“Good morning.” I set my pad and pencil beside the register and moved behind the counter.
“What’ll it be?”

“That focaccia sandwich looks good,” he said.

“Really? That’s not your usual.”

“It’s what I want.”

“Well, good for you for taking a risk. It’s one of my new creations.” I added a merry
lilt to my tone—ever the cheerleader. “Grilled mushrooms and onions with Mortadella
salami and Jarlsberg cheese. Best if broiled. You can heat it in the toaster oven
at the precinct. Remove the top half and put the bottom half with all the ingredients
under the broiler for about three minutes. The Jarlsberg will melt like a dream.”

“I’ll take two,” he said.

Two again. He wasn’t putting on weight. Did he have another lunch date?

Rebecca stopped mopping. I could almost see her curiosity feelers wiggling. I waved
her to back off. I was not going to press Urso for details about his love life. For
all I knew, that was why he seemed forlorn this morning, and it had nothing to do
with his failure to solve the recent murder. Maybe he hoped to woo his ladylove with
a scrumptious meal.

He shifted feet as I packed his lunch. After a moment, he said, “About Jacky—”

“Don’t arrest her,” I pleaded. “She’s innocent.”

Urso sighed. “What if her husband had threatened to take her back to New Jersey by
force?”

“Via the Igloo?” Rebecca quipped. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Urso scowled. “What about the inheritance she’ll get? I’m guessing it’s sizable.”

I sliced the air with my hand. “She doesn’t need the money, U-ey. Get it through your
head. Either Vinnie or the person who telephoned Giacomo Capriotti killed him.”

Urso cocked his head. “What are you talking about? Someone called him?”

“Vinnie revealed to Anabelle that a woman called his brother and told him where to
find Jacky.”

“That girl is dialed in,” Rebecca said.

I didn’t remind Urso that I had proposed that same theory to him outside the crime
scene. “Maybe the caller demanded payment for insider information, but Giacomo reneged.
Vinnie
said his brother was carrying a lot of money. Did you find a wad of cash on him?”

Urso hedged. “You know I can’t—”

I folded my arms. Rebecca coughed her impatience.

“No, I didn’t find any cash,” Urso admitted. “But Vinnie could have made that up.”

“How much did he say his brother was carrying?” Rebecca asked.

“I don’t know.” How much was a wad? A thousand? Twenty thousand? More?

“If you ask me,” Rebecca continued, “Vinnie could have fabricated the story about
a woman calling his brother, too.”

I agreed. “He’s a sly one.”

“If you don’t watch out, Chief, he’ll slip through the cracks. What if he stands to
inherit from his brother’s death, too?”

“Jacky thinks he might,” I said.

“Bingo.” Rebecca spanked the cutting-board-style counter. “In that case, he wouldn’t
mind seeing his sister-in-law hanged for the crime. He’d get the whole nut.”

“Yep. Jacky called it a survivorship clause.”

Urso, who had been following our theorizing like a tennis line judge, said, “Wouldn’t
Cecily inherit Jacky’s portion?”

“Yes,” I said, “unless Giacomo inserted a clause that prevented such a grant. Cecily
wasn’t his child.”

“He could do that?” Rebecca said.

“Jacky said he was savvy enough to do so.” I eyed Urso. “Have you spoken to Capriotti’s
estate attorney?”

“I’ve got a call in to him.”

“He hasn’t returned your call? You’re the authority.”

“He’s a one-man office and he’s on vacation.”

Rebecca snorted. “Giacomo Capriotti used a small firm for his estate planning? Doesn’t
that seem suspicious? With his wealth?”

Urso said, “Miss Zook, do you know how psychiatrists define paranoia? Y-O-U.”

“Oho. Very funny.”

Urso jammed his hands into his pockets. “Look, I don’t know what to think right now,
but don’t worry, I’m doing my job, and for your information, Vinnie’s not leaving
town anytime soon.”

“Why not?” Rebecca asked. “Let me guess. He’s sticking around until the case is solved.”
Her words echoed what I had said to Iris and Sylvie in the Harvest Moon Ranch kitchen.
“I can tell by the way you’re glaring at me that I’m right, Chief, aren’t I? Ha!”
She plunked her mop into the bucket of vinegar-laced water. Water sloshed out and
splattered her bare calves and sandals. “Solved, my foot. He’s sticking around so
he can keep an eye on you”—she jutted a finger at Urso—“to make sure you don’t nail
him for the deed. You watch. He’ll throw in some red herrings simply to confuse you.”

Urso’s nostrils flared with annoyance.

“If you don’t think Vincent Capriotti is your best suspect, what about Hugo Hunter?”
Rebecca said, switching gears. “Did you corroborate his alibi after he left Jacky’s
house?”

“He was home,” Urso said, “talking on the telephone to his mother.”

“In the wee hours of the night?”

“She lives in California.”

“Did you check his phone records?”

Urso sighed. So did I. Of course Urso had. He was nothing if not thorough.

Rebecca said, “If you ask me—”

“I didn’t ask, Miss Zook.” Urso jerked his hands from his pockets and stabbed a finger
at her. “I didn’t ask you a darned thing. I didn’t ask for your opinion. I don’t want
it.”