To Brie or Not to Brie (23 page)

Off to one side of the stage stood a huge wooden vat, which Grandmère intended to
fill with grapes. For a true Renaissance experience, children would be allowed to
go barefoot into the vat to stomp the grapes. Parents had been forewarned that clothes
would get stained.

“It is beautiful,
non
?” She cupped her hands together. “Oh, to be a child again.”

* * *

Minutes later, I entered All Booked Up. What a transformation had come over the place
since I last visited. The scent of fresh paint hung in the air. Book boxes were gone.
The shelves were stuffed with books. Easy chairs and beanbag chairs abounded. Colorful
posters welcomed browsers. But the shop wasn’t officially opened. It was as quiet
as a tomb. Out of respect for Anabelle, Octavia had wanted to wait to have a launch
party until Anabelle moved to Chicago.

“Octavia?” I yelled from the front door. No one answered. I moved to the register
and called again.

“Charlotte, is that you?” Octavia pushed through the curtain that screened her stockroom
from the public. Her face was pinched, and her light coffee skin was ashen. “Oh, thank
the lord it is.” She drummed her chest with her fingertips.

“What’s wrong?” I hurried to her.

“Anabelle,” she sputtered.

“Did something happen to her?” I gazed at the checkout counter. A half-eaten round
of La Tur cheese, an Italian double-cream with a bloomy rind, sat on a platter with
a dozen or so rice crackers. “Did she consume something that disagreed with her?”

“No, that’s my lunch. It was scrumptious, but Anabelle is…” Octavia waggled her head.
Her beaded hair spanked her cheeks. “It’s horrible.” She gestured for me to follow
her.

Pulse pounding, I trotted after her. Had Anabelle
fainted? Had she fallen prey beneath a tipped-over stockroom shelf? Had Vinnie Capriotti
hurt her?

I reached the office at the rear of the shop and peeked inside. Nothing seemed abnormal.
Anabelle was not lying in a pool of blood. In fact, she was nowhere to be seen. “Octavia,
calm down and talk to me.”

Octavia gestured to her desk, which was a riot of storage boxes, piles of papers,
an ancient desktop computer, and empty soda cans. If Octavia needed to clean up one
thing in her life, it was how much soda she imbibed. A glass of burgundy would have
been a better pairing choice for the La Tur, although, admittedly, not in the middle
of the day.
When in doubt, drink water
, my grandfather would say.

“I did another computer search,” Octavia said. “Look what I discovered.”

“Sorry, but I don’t see anything. Your screensaver is on.” The computer screen fizzed
with sparkling champagne-like bubbles.

“Oh, my.” She scurried to the computer and hit Enter on the keyboard.

The screen came to life with a bright white Google search page. It wasn’t registering
the first page in a search; it was registering the twenty-ninth. Even though I considered
myself a semi-expert investigator when it came to Internet searches, I didn’t know
what I was looking at. I shook my head.

Octavia clicked on one of the links. A page emerged with
Abilene Reflector-Chronicle
news listed at the top. “I did what you said. I came back to the shop, and while
unpacking, I found…I found…”

“What?”

She jammed a finger at the topmost box in the pile on her desk, which was marked
Anabelle
.

“I can’t see inside it,” I said.

I started toward the box, but Octavia snagged my elbow and swiveled me to face the
computer. “Because of that, I
craved to know more about Anabelle,” she said, “so I searched, and I found this…”

“This what?” I had never seen Octavia so upset. She was an oak; she never wavered.
“Let me read.” I nudged her out of the way. Bending over, I braced my palms on the
desk and scanned the news article. “I don’t see anything about Anabelle.”

“Lower-left column,” Octavia said.

A headline read:
Teacher Found Murdered
. Five introductory lines followed, as well as a link to page six where the rest of
the article could be viewed. I clicked on the link. A teacher named George Garrison
was found murdered in an Abilene school library. At one time, he had dated Anabelle
Fiorossi. The crime was not yet solved.

I said, “Anabelle’s last name is Rossi. This isn’t about—” Until I had said her name
out loud, I hadn’t made the connection. “Ooh. Fiorossi: Rossi.”

Octavia nodded. “A while back, Anabelle mentioned she had lived in Abilene.”

“The article says she was cleared of all suspicion.”

“But she moved here and changed her name,” Octavia repeated. “Why?”

Maybe for the same reason Jordan and Jacky had—anonymity. Who knew how many reporters
had hounded Anabelle after being associated with a murder?

“And explain this to me. I found this box on the top shelf, tucked behind rolls of
wrapping paper.” Octavia lugged the
Anabelle
box off the stack and set it on the desk beside the others. She rustled through it
and pulled out a doll.

I gasped. It wasn’t like Anabelle’s other dolls, all sweet and babylike, the kind
to which she had cooed, “There, there.” It was a dark-haired boy doll dressed in brown
pants and a brown shirt. In the middle of the shirt was the initial
G
written in marker pen. Someone—Anabelle, no doubt—had stuck dozens of pins into the
G.

My stomach twisted into a frenzy. “Voodoo.” I didn’t believe in the practice. Seeing
the doll freaked me out.

Clutching the doll in her hands, Octavia shuffled to a stool and sat down. “The teacher
killed in Abilene was named George Garrison. G for George. Coincidence? I don’t think
so. And Jacky’s husband’s name started with a G.”

Giacomo.
My upper lip started to perspire. Two coincidences. Yipes.

“Do you think Anabelle killed him?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. What do you think?” Octavia said, worry peppering her voice.

I blotted my upper lip with my finger. Was it possible? Maybe. Probable? I couldn’t
see Anabelle as a psychopath, and yet she practiced voodoo. I eyed the doll again.
Something blue squiggled down from the G. “What’s that?” I pointed. “A food stain?
Giacomo was killed with Brie blueberry ice cream. Do you think it could be blueberries?”

Octavia smelled the squiggle. “It’s old, whatever it is. No scent.”

I couldn’t see a killer taking a voodoo doll to the crime scene. On the other hand,
kookier things had occurred.

Octavia added, “Here’s another thing. Anabelle wasn’t scheduled to leave town until
a week from now, but a few days ago, she moved up the date.”

A jingle rang out at the front of the bookshop. Octavia leaped to her feet. She scrambled
to the curtain.

“Is it Anabelle?” I said, following her.

“No. A customer.” Octavia walked into the front of the store while clearing her throat.
“Sorry, sir, we’re not open for business yet.” I couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation,
but she handed him a flyer from the sales counter and guided him out of the shop.
As she locked the door, she said, “Eek.”

“What’s wrong?” I hurried to see what had disturbed her.

“There.” She pointed out the window.

I peered over her shoulder. Across the street, Anabelle and Vinnie were exiting La
Bella Ristorante. In one hand Anabelle carried a to-go bag. With her other hand, she
clutched the crook of Vinnie’s arm and leaned into him like she was in love.

“Maybe she and Vinnie worked together to kill his brother,” Octavia said.

“I hadn’t thought of that. You’ve got to tell Urso what you’ve found out about Anabelle.”

“Are you nuts? He’ll think I’m imagining things. You know how he is.”

After our recent clash, I didn’t want to contemplate what Urso would think of me if
I brought the information to him.

“He’ll need proof,” Octavia continued. “What have we got? Nada, zilch, supposition.
I’m going to ask her.”

“You’re going to what?” I shrieked.

“She won’t hurt us. She’s our friend. She’ll tell us the truth.”

I bit back a laugh. Had Octavia been taking Pollyanna lessons from Rebecca? Thinking
about my coltish assistant made me realize how long I had been gone from Fromagerie
Bessette, and I wondered if I should give the shop a call. On the other hand, something
was, as the pundits would say, afoot between Anabelle and Vinnie, and I had an itch
to learn the truth.

“We can’t ask Anabelle anything with Vinnie around,” I said. “He could be dangerous.”

“He won’t hurt us in broad daylight.”

Before I could hold Octavia back, she grabbed a couple of All Booked Up flyers and
hustled out of the shop. Like a shadow, I followed.

Rolling one of the flyers into a tube, Octavia handed it to me and said, “Here.”

“What’s this for?” I kept pace as she stole down the sidewalk after Anabelle and Vinnie.

“To pry, using a trick I learned when I was working at the library,” she said. “Kids
listen in on other kids’ conversations. Very sneaky. Put it up to your ear.”

“No.”

“Can you hear Vinnie and Anabelle talking from this distance? No, you cannot. And
we dare not go closer.” She hoisted her tube to her ear and angled the simplistic
device forward.

I didn’t mirror her because she looked silly…and conspicuous. “Stop that. If they
look behind, they’ll know something is up.”

She lowered the tube. “But we can’t hear a thing.”

“Let’s move closer.”

“I thought you wanted to hold back.”

“I did…I do. But you’re right. We need more proof, and I don’t want to lose this golden
opportunity to eavesdrop.”

We picked up our pace, craning to hear, but still couldn’t catch a word the couple
said. Anabelle was running her hand through her long dark hair, pulling out the tangles
in a girlie way. By the way Vinnie was gazing at her, I imagined if a fire hydrant
jumped out and tripped him, he wouldn’t have noticed. To my amazement, he had lost
his permanent sneer and was looking at Anabelle with—there was no other word for it—affection.
He whispered in Anabelle’s ear. She batted him flirtatiously with her fingertips.

Their antics made me wonder if Anabelle had cast some kind of voodoo lover’s spell
on Vinnie. Was it possible that she had conned him into icing his brother? Was it
my duty to warn him?

Whoa
. When had I started seeing Vinnie as a victim?

“They’re turning onto Hope Street,” Octavia said. “I doubt they’re going to the diner.
Given the restaurant food bag they’re carrying, I’m assuming they just ate.”

“Keep pace,” I said.

We rounded the corner. The couple passed the Silver
Trader and La Chic Boutique. Near the Country Kitchen diner, they paused. Neither
noticed us. Vinnie cupped Anabelle’s face with one hand and rubbed his nose against
hers. Now it was her turn to appear entranced. I had to remind myself that Vinnie
had been married four times. He was clever and possibly addicted to falling in love.

“He’s talking again.” Octavia elbowed me. “Put the tube by your ear.”

“No.”

“We can say we’re listening for the sound of the Whip-poor-will.” Octavia held up
a finger. “Not to be confused with the Chuck-will’s-widow, which has a similar but
slower and lower-pitched call.”

“Where did you learn that?” I held up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me. Books.”

“Lots of learning in them.” Octavia moved the flyer to her ear.

I whipped the tube out of her hand.

At that same moment, the environment went still. With no cars passing and no people,
not even cell phone users, talking at loud decibels, I heard Anabelle say as clearly
as day, “Will I see you later?”

Vinnie replied, “You bet, babe. Have fun shopping.” After giving a sideways glance
at A Wheel Good Time, he rounded the corner, heading north on Cherry Orchard Street.

Anabelle swooned against the side of the diner and fanned herself, as if overcome
with love.

I turned to Octavia. “That’s it? They’re splitting up? We missed their entire conversation?”

“Wait. Anabelle is taking her cell phone out of her purse.”

I watched with rapt attention as Anabelle stabbed in a series of numbers and then
placed the receiver next to her ear. I couldn’t make out what she said to whomever
she had called.

“Did you catch that?” I asked Octavia.

“No.”

Anabelle snapped the phone shut, rounded the corner, and turned north on Cherry Orchard
Street, too.

“Did she lie about going shopping?” I said. “Is she following Vinnie?”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Let’s go,” I said. “Let’s confront her.”

“Aren’t you the bold one.”

Crazy would be more like it, but I would be the last to say the word out loud.

As Octavia and I approached the corner of the Country Kitchen, a warning light went
off in my head. Opting to be cautious rather than rash, I hooked my hand around Octavia’s
elbow and detained her. “Hold up,” I whispered. I released her and inched forward
to peek around the edge of the building.