To Brie or Not to Brie (16 page)

Nonplussed, she continued. “But if you did, I’d say you have some digging to do on
good old Hugo.”

“That’s it! Miss Zook, you are going to be the death of me. No more. Not another word.”
Urso paid for his purchase, snatched the bag of sandwiches from me, and marched out
of the shop. The grape-leaf-shaped chimes clanged. The door slammed shut.

I glowered at my pain-in-the-police’s-butt assistant.

“I know, I know,” she said. “I will catch more bees with honey. But he makes me so…”
She threw up her hands.

I shook my head. There was no reasoning with either of them, but one thing was clear.
Urso seriously considered Jacky a suspect, and if I didn’t figure out who really killed
her despicable husband, Urso might arrest her.

* * *

A short while later, I left Rebecca in charge of the shop, and after setting a carton
of Pépère’s favorite soup into a wicker basket, I went to visit him. Grandmère, her
face riddled with exhaustion, met me at the door. I thought of what Sylvie had said
at the ranch the day before. Was my grandmother running herself ragged? Was there
any way I could convince her to slow down? Who was I to talk?

I stepped into the entryway. A spray of lavender and white roses stood on the antique
foyer table giving off a divine scent.

Grandmère peered at the basket I carried. “What have you brought?”

“Homemade chicken bean soup.” I lifted the checkerboard cloth that I had nestled on
top of the soup.

“
T’es douce
,
chérie
, so sweet, but I told you that you did not have to cook.”

“But I did, so there.” I pecked her cheek. “Now, I need a bowl, a spoon, and a napkin,
and I want to chat with him.”

“
Oui, oui,
but no talk that is strenuous.” She shook an admonishing finger. “Nothing of the
events of this week, and please, nothing of Sylvie showing up at the ranch. That woman
sends him into a snit.”

She sends you into a snit, too, I mused as I slipped my fingers around hers and squeezed
playfully. “I won’t speak of anything except how lovely the weather is. I also brought
him a book.” I patted the leather bag that I had slung over my shoulder. “A culinary
mystery.
Pies and Prejudice
by Ellery Adams. You know how he loves pies.”

“And…?” She tilted her head.

“And what?”

“Did you sneak in some cheese?” Grandmère held out her hand like a schoolmarm, ready
to search my purse or the hamper for contraband.

“No.”

“A sliver of Brie?” She tapped her foot. “A wedge of Camembert?”

“No,” I repeated. I wasn’t lying and yet my cheeks flushed with warmth because old
habits died hard; I was one of my grandfather’s best suppliers. “Not a slice.” To
prove my innocence, I handed her the hamper and pried open my purse. “Check.”

She did and chuckled. “Forgive me,
mon amie
, I worry so. I will return to my rehearsal.”

“What rehearsal?”

She shuffled toward the kitchen and pushed open the swinging door. “We have been cast
out of the park for the afternoon to make space for the farmers’ market.”

I followed. “Yes, but why have a rehearsal here? Why not the theater?”

“Because we are a few days away from opening. We must rehearse in the open air to
use our vocal instruments properly.” She set the hamper with the soup on the tile
counter and fetched a bowl from a cupboard. “Everyone is out back. All have taken
off work. It is
très bon, non
?” She swept a hand. “Listen.”

The crank windows above the sink hung open. A mournful drone filled the air.

I peeked over the arty glass roosters that perched on the
sill in front of the center window and caught sight of five actors on the lawn. Four
were robed in Renaissance costumes; a fifth was covered in a white sheet. Delilah,
clad in her red-checked waitress garb, paced in front of them while flailing her arms.

“That’s it,” she said, her voice loud enough to carry over the actors’ drone. “Arms
up. Come on, up, up, up!” She was guiding the group through a movement exercise while
they moaned in unison. “All right, let’s start where we left off. Ghost, speak.”

“‘Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder,’” said the actor quoting Shakespeare
while hidden by the sheet.

“‘Murder?’” replied Stratton Walpole, the bald, oak-tree-sized dog groomer who was
playing Hamlet.

“Come on, Stratton, louder,” Delilah shouted. “Let the lines resonate from your belly.”
She believed that loosening one’s abdomen and deep breathing before a rehearsal or
a performance were vital.

Stratton bellowed the line again. “‘Murder?’”

“Much better,” Delilah said. “Now do the lines from act two, scene two, and breathe.”
She raised her arms up over her head. The actors followed suit.

“‘O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!’” Stratton said. “‘Is it not monstrous that
this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so
to his whole conceit…’”

The words resounded like a tuning fork in my mind. Had Vinnie Capriotti become a monster
in a play of his own making? Had he accompanied his brother to Providence so that
he, as I’d divined before, could slay him like Cain slew Abel?

“Move on to act three, scene three.” Delilah liked to jump around in the script when
rehearsing her actors so they would be fully prepared if others went up on their lines
during a performance. “Flap your arms.”

A chorus of mourning doves flew to the telephone wire
beyond the fence and lined up, as if preparing to observe the rehearsal.

Stratton powered his arms like an oversized whooping crane. “‘A villain kills my father,
and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send to heaven.’”

Hearing those words made me readjust my theory about Vinnie. What if he weren’t guilty?
He could be sticking around Providence to take matters into his own hands. Did he
intend to send the villain who had slain his brother to his death? Other than Jacky,
whom might he suspect? Anabelle was
dialed in
, Rebecca said. Did Vinnie suspect her? Was that why he was paying her so much attention?

Someone applauded. The sound startled the birds. As they flew away, my gaze was drawn
to the far end of the yard where Iris sat on a bench watching the rehearsal.

“What’s she doing here?” I asked.

“Ahh.” Grandmère tapped her heart. “Love is in the air. She wants to watch her beau.”

I had to admit that Iris looked almost chic in a snug coral dress, and she had styled
her hair with gel. Was her trendy makeover an effort to entice Stratton, or was she
just feeling good about herself because of her newly found success?

Delilah said, “Excellent. We’re done with movement. Grab your props. Be ready in five.”

The cast clapped heartily then broke to rummage through their respective duffel bags.
A few retrieved scripts; others fetched wigs and hats.

“Are you enjoying working with Delilah?” I asked.

Grandmère beamed. “She is a kindred spirit. I love her work ethic. But enough talk
of the theater.” She swatted my behind. “Fill a bowl with soup and visit your Pépère,
and remember…”

“…only speak of the weather. Got it.”

A minute later, I hustled down the hallway carrying a
wooden bed tray that I had arranged with a bowl of steaming soup, saltines, a napkin,
a spoon, and a glass of ice water. As a last thought, I had added a tiny vase holding
an orange gerbera daisy. I knocked on Pépère’s bedroom door.

“
Entrez
,” he said in a whisper.

He sat in bed with three pillows behind his back and a burgundy quilt that I had given
my grandparents draped over his legs. “
Chérie
.” He set the magazine he was reading on the maple bedside table and anchored the
pair of reading glasses on top of his head. “What a surprise.”

“You look pretty good.” I carried in the tray. “Hungry?”

“
Absolument
. I have a cold, that is all. ‘Feed a cold; starve a fever.’”

I set the tray over his legs and wiggled it closer to him. “Grandmère seems to think
you are fragile.”

“Bah.” He scoffed. “She cares too much. It is her way.” He beckoned me close and kissed
my cheek.

“Do you want to watch TV?”

“It is on the blink.”

I glanced at the television, saw the plug hanging idly on the floor, and smiled. My
grandmother had unplugged it to keep Pépère from hearing the current news. I wouldn’t
reveal her ploy. “I brought a book,” I said. “A mystery.” I pulled the paperback from
my purse and set it on the tray.

He scanned the title. “I love pie. I wish you had brought some of that, too.”

“Soup is better for you.”

He took a bite of soup and licked his lips. “Mm.
Délicieux
. My favorite. You spoil me.”

“I try.”

He sipped another spoonful, then said, “How is Jordan?”

“Fine.”

“And the rest of your friends?”

I thought of Jacky, fretful and on edge. “Great,” I lied. I wouldn’t worry him. I
had promised.

He eyed the purse slung over my shoulder and tickled my rib cage. “Did you bring me
something else in that magic purse of yours? Perhaps a sliver of something?”

I wriggled away. “I didn’t.”

He pouted. “
Ma petite,
you let me down.”

“Better you than Grandmère. I knew she’d search me on the way in.”

“Did she?
Coquine.
”

“Yes, she is a rascal.”

He laughed heartily. We spent the next hour discussing the weather and books. True
to my promise, I didn’t offer a whiff of news of the murder or Jacky’s plight.

On my way out, Delilah raced up to me. “Hey, I was hoping to see you before you ran
off. Explain something to me.”

“Not about
Hamlet
. I’m not an expert.” At a young age, Grandmère had me reading Shakespeare, but Hamlet’s
debate with himself continued to baffle me. He should have been a man of action. Why
had he gotten mired in doubt and denial?

“No, silly. It’s that Vinnie guy.”

My ears perked up. “What about him?”

“I’ve seen him hanging outside Jacky’s shop.”

Mindful of my grandmother’s warning not to alert my grandfather, I steered Delilah
to the foyer. “Hanging how?”

She mimed the action, stoop-shouldered, hands in pockets, chin lowered but gaze alert.
“I’m worried, Charlotte. He creeps me out. What can he possibly hope to get from stalking
Jacky?”

An admission? A slipup? An opportunity to attack and get rid of his fellow heir—even
though he continued to protest that he wasn’t an heir?

When I returned to Fromagerie Bessette, I was pleased to see Tyanne standing behind
the counter tending to customers. “Slow day for wedding planning?” I said as I passed.

“I’m not as flush with business as I’d hoped, sugar, but I will be. You watch.” She
greeted the next customer, which to my surprise was Prudence. “What’ll it be, Miss
Hart?”

Prudence, dressed in a prune-colored sheath that made her skin appear sallower than
normal, fidgeted as if she were in the store under protest. I couldn’t understand
why the woman was putting herself through the personal torture of buying cheese until
Iris emerged from the wine annex carrying two bottles of McKinlay pinot noir.

“How are we doing, Pru?” she said.

Prudence snarled, which made me smile. Had Iris threatened to disown her friend if
she hadn’t accompanied her to the shop?

I shrugged into an apron and moved to Iris. “Good choice of wine.”

“A tag on the display case said it received a ninety-one rating.”

“It’s one of Matthew’s favorites, with strong undertones of plum and minerals.”

“I’m not much of a wine drinker, but Stratton is.”

“You two are getting quite close. I saw you watching him at rehearsal earlier.”

Iris beamed. “Isn’t he excellent?”

“He’s certainly enthusiastic.” The word
ham
came to mind, but a few days before opening wasn’t always the best time to judge
a person’s performance, especially when Delilah’s energetic exercises might have colored
my opinion.

“And he’s dedicated, a rare find,” Iris added.

I wondered if she was talking about his acting or his ability to be devoted to her.

Iris set the wine by the register. “Pick a cheese, any cheese, Pru.”

Prudence hissed something murderous between her teeth. The word
die
was loud enough for all to hear.

“Don’t mind her, Charlotte.” Iris leaned closer to the register, girl to girl, but
she didn’t lower her voice. “I suggested that she have a soirée at La Chic Boutique.
Needless to say, she’s a tad resistant. But with all the tourists who are coming into
town to see
Hamlet
, I thought that a party might spark her social life.”

Except one of those tourists was dead and his brother was hardly dating material,
which steered my mind back to Anabelle. What did she see in Vinnie? Money? Maybe he
had bragged to her about his possible inheritance.