To Brie or Not to Brie (26 page)

“That’s just it. He’s not. He’s lashing out. He said he wants…no, he needs…all of
the inheritance.”

Aha! That sounded like an admission. He knew that
he
, and not some foundation, was an heir.

“He’s afraid someone back home will find out about me being alive,” Jacky went on.
“I assured him I would never reveal myself, and I agreed to sign over all my rights,
but he said he didn’t believe me. He’s insane.”

As upset as she was, I decided that now wasn’t the time to question her about Hugo’s
whereabouts.

Deputy Devon O’Shea, a buff, blond man in his late twenties, hiked into the store,
his hand hovering over his holster. Deputy Rodham, redheaded and built like Ichabod
Crane, followed. His eyes opened wide as he took in the scene.

I rose. “No need for guns, officers. The man responsible for the mess is gone.”

O’Shea let his hand fall loosely by his side, but he looked primed and eager.

“Where’s Chief Urso?” I asked.

“On his way, ma’am.” Rodham sauntered toward us. “Miss Peterson, are you okay?” Jacky
nodded. Rodham whipped a palm-sized camera from his pocket and started taking pictures
of the destruction. “Want to tell us what happened?” He nodded to O’Shea. “Take notes.”

Jacky shakily summarized the situation.

When she finished and the police continued to survey the scene, I said, “Do you want
me to call Jordan?”

Jacky shook her head. “He returned to help your grandmother with sets. I don’t want
to bother him.”

“He’ll want to know.”

“I’ll call him. You go back to work. I’m safe with the officers here.” She squeezed
my forearm. “Thank you.”

As I emerged from the pottery shop, I spotted Vinnie climbing into the driver’s seat
of his Firebird, which was parked across the street. He must have felt my gaze on
him. He turned and grinned, and pointed two fingers, from his eyes to mine.

What in the heck did that mean?

Before I could return inside the pottery store and tell Deputies Rodham and O’Shea,
he sped away.

* * *

Rebecca and I spent the remainder of the afternoon tending to customers who had flocked
into town for the
Stomping the Grapes
race. Neither of us had a free moment to theorize about the murder.

By the time I got home, my body felt like it had been put through the ringer. My feet
ached and my shoulders were as tight as rubber bands, but I couldn’t rest. I had promised
Matthew and Meredith a date night. They needed alone time before the out-of-town wedding
guests arrived. I had agreed to teach the twins how to make goat cheese grits, as
long as their homework was done. It was.

“Wash your hands,” I said to the girls.

Clair and Amy climbed atop a pair of stools by the kitchen counter, each squinting
to block the late-afternoon sun that filtered through the Roman shade over the sink.

“Rocket looks gloomy,” Clair said. “Think we should give him a treat?”

Amy shouted, “I’ll get him one.” She scrambled off her stool, scurried to the pantry,
and returned with a gigantic homemade biscuit—made during our last cooking adventure.
Of course, the girls had insisted I add shredded Cheddar to the mix. “Here, boy.”

Our sweet Briard lay nestled in his dog bed in the dining nook, his chin resting on
the rim of his bed. He gazed at Amy with soulful eyes. She shook the treat in front
of his nose. When he didn’t snatch it out of her hand, I knew something
was up. I sat on the floor beside him. Rags traipsed through the kitchen and climbed
into my lap. He let out a yowl, as if speaking for his canine pal and himself:
What’s going on? What’s with the mess? Explain. Now.

The foyer was a sea of boxes filled with books and clothes and so much more. Each
day the stacks grew taller.

“They’ll be moved out in a week,” I said.

Neither Matthew nor I thought it was a good idea to move the girls into Meredith’s
house—their new house—before the wedding. They would wait until the week following
Matthew and Meredith’s honeymoon. A lot of adjustments were ahead.

“What’s Rags saying?” Amy parked herself beside me.

Clair hopped off her stool and sat Indian style beside her sister.

Give us a campfire and we could have told ghost stories.

“Is he mad?” Clair asked.

“Not mad. Confused.” I stroked the animals’ heads. “Girls, remember when you first
moved in here? We had boxes, boxes, everywhere.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “I didn’t think we would ever get unpacked. Clair was as slow
as a snail.”

“I was not. You couldn’t choose which side of the room you wanted to sleep on.”

“Ooh.” Amy patted the floor. “Remember when Mum gave us Rocket, and we bought all
his toys and his bed, and we couldn’t figure out where it would all go?”

“And Rocket ran around in circles?” Clair laughed. “And poor Rags was so angry, he
hissed. Remember when he made that face?” She bared her teeth and narrowed her eyes.

We all laughed.

“He sure didn’t like Rocket,” Clair said.

“That’s not true.” I clutched Rags’s chin and gave a playful shake. “He just wasn’t
sure what was going on. Remember, he was top dog for such a long time.”

“But he’s a cat,” Amy said.

“It’s a saying,” Clair said, sticking out her tongue. “Don’t you know anything?”

Amy blew her bangs up in frustration.

I said, “Girls, don’t get on each other’s cases. Not now.”

Clair reached out to Amy. “I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous not knowing what the future
will bring.”

Such an adult phrase from a young girl plucked my heartstrings. “None of us are ever
sure, sweetheart. We take it one day at a time. And that’s how the move will go. One
day at a time. I’ll make sure you see Rags, and I’ll make sure you spend time with
me. We’re in the same city. It’ll be easy.” At least I hoped it would. If Jordan and
Jacky left town to rebuild their lives, I wasn’t sure what might happen to me…to my
family. I loved Jordan, but would I give up everything and everyone else I adored
to be with him? I clapped my hands and rose to my feet. Like Scarlet O’Hara, I wouldn’t
think about that now. I would think about it tomorrow. “Amy, give Rags a treat, too.
If he doesn’t take it right away, leave it on the floor, and let’s get back to cooking.
What are we making?” I snapped my fingers.

“Goat cheese grits,” the girls answered.

“Right. Clair, fetch the Tupperware of cornmeal from the pantry. Amy, wash your hands
again, and get the Capriole Julianna goat cheese from the refrigerator.” Because we
were using the cheese in a cooked dish, it didn’t need to come to room temperature.
As I assembled the rest of the ingredients, I said, “We’re going to add shallots,
some fresh thyme and rosemary from the garden, and some finely chopped onions.”

“Not onions,” Amy said. “They make me cry.”

“There are all sorts of ways to avoid tears when you cut onions,” I said. “You can
remove the skin and soak the onion for a while, but my personal favorite is sticking
a small piece of bread between my teeth. It makes me breathe through my mouth, and
the bread absorbs the fumes.”

“Does gluten-free bread work the same?” Clair set the cornmeal container on the counter.

“I would imagine so.”

“I’ll cut them.” She hurried to the refrigerator, took a piece of homemade gluten-free
bread from a plastic bag, clipped it with her teeth, and reclaimed her spot on the
stool. “How much?” she mumbled.

“Half an onion,” I said.

Clair pulled a cutting board from the stack on top of the toaster and slid a knife
from the knife block. Acting like a surgeon ready for a major operation, she held
out her hand for an onion. I grabbed one from the basket of fresh vegetables on the
counter and presented it to her.

Amy retrieved a cheese shredder from beneath the cabinet. After climbing onto her
stool, she unwrapped the goat cheese and handed it to me. “Can you slice this in half
for me?”

The Capriole Julianna was a firm round pound of deliciousness with a glorious mushroomy
herb-infused rind. Unlike feta, the cheese couldn’t be simply mashed. Using a sharp
blade, I trimmed off the rind, cut the round in half, and gave Amy a portion.

She shredded quickly, her forearm muscles flexing with the exertion. “Mmm. I love
the aroma.” She inhaled. “Rosemary and thyme, just like we’re adding to the grits.”

“Good nose.”

She giggled. “Hey, look. The cheese is in jail.” She tapped the side of the silver
shredder. “Let me out. Let me out.”

Clair hooted.

I did, too, and then I paused as I flashed on Vinnie Capriotti. I hadn’t heard from
Urso. Had he or his deputies arrested Vinnie for vandalism? Would Vinnie get off,
like Jacky said, and hurry back to threaten her? I wondered if Urso and the vacationing
lawyer were still at an impasse. Wasn’t there some court order Urso could issue to
seize a copy of the will? Vinnie had implied to Jacky that he stood
to gain half of his brother’s estate. Rebecca’s words replayed in my head:
Money, money, money
.

“What’s wrong, Aunt Charlotte?” Clair said.

“Nothing.” Except I couldn’t erase the memory of Vinnie giving me the evil eye while
getting into his car. Why? Because of our run-in the day before? Was there something
that I had seen in his car, something that I should remember? Maybe I should have
approached him, right then and there, and offered to pay him to go away. I had twenty
thousand dollars in my savings. Was it an opportunity missed? I had promised Jordan
that I would let him handle the situation, and I had promised Jacky that I would try
to come up with a way to keep Vinnie away from her, but so far, I hadn’t come up with
anything legal.

“I’m in charge of boiling the milk,” Clair said.

I raised a finger in warning. “Remember, cornmeal spits, so get the deep stockpot
and put on a kitchen mitt.”

She pulled out the All-Clad pot and, using a measuring cup, added six cups of milk
to the pan. Tiny biceps bulging, she carried the All-Clad to the stove and turned
on the heat.

Marveling at how strong both girls were, my thoughts went to Anabelle. She wasn’t
totally cleared of suspicion. What if she had been lying about dating men whose names
started with G? Had Urso learned the truth? What if Anabelle had created the voodoo
doll specifically to represent Giacomo Capriotti? She admitted being drawn to him.
Had he rejected her?

And what about Hugo Hunter? Why had he split town? Had Urso been able to track him
down yet?

Last but not least, I couldn’t forget about Edy, who was the most likely suspect to
have called Giacomo and told him about Jacky. Sylvie claimed Edy had the funds to
buy out Prudence. Had Edy killed Giacomo and robbed him of the cash he was carrying?

Amy clacked the All-Clad with a spoon. “Where did you go, Aunt Charlotte?”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. They’re, like, all glazy.”

“I’m here,” I said, working hard to focus on the task at hand.

“Remember the first time we cooked?” Amy said. “We were such klutzes.”

“That’s because Mum hadn’t taught us anything,” Clair said, a hint of bitterness in
her tone.

“That’s not true. She taught us how to make sandwiches.”

“Ha! With nothing other than bread and mayonnaise.”

We hadn’t figured out Clair’s gluten allergy until a month after Matthew, Amy, and
she moved in with me. Prior to that, Sylvie had dismissed the signs—irritable bowel,
repeated diarrhea, and weight loss. While dealing with Sylvie’s abandonment, Matthew
hadn’t taken note of Clair’s symptoms, either.

“Mum’s trying to learn how to cook now,” Amy said. “She’s taking classes at La Bella
Ristorante.”

Jordan and I had met taking classes at the Italian restaurant. Accidentally I had
bumped elbows with him and had felt an instant connection. I glanced at the telephone.
Had Jacky reached Jordan and told him about Vinnie’s raid on the pottery shop? Should
I have called him, too? Were they already planning their move out of Providence?

“Mum likes the chef,” Amy went on.

“Really?” I said. To my knowledge, Sylvie hadn’t shown interest in any men since she
had returned to Providence—any except Matthew. Perhaps she was moving on. Maybe she
would bring a plus-one to the wedding.

After preparing our goat cheese grits and making a chopped salad, we moved to the
patio to barbecue. Rocket and Rags joined us in the backyard. It thrilled me to see
them perk up. If they could get past the boxes and the angst of moving, so could I.

Late sun shone down on the bunches of bright blue asters that filled the flower beds.
The pumpkins and zucchini
tucked into the vegetable garden looked ready for picking. So did the tomatoes. If
I let them go too long, they would all spoil.
Tomorrow,
I thought. I would find time tomorrow.

With birds twittering their cheery
good evening
song, we grilled a couple of lime-and olive-oil-marinated chicken breasts. A short
while later, we ate in the kitchen. Clair set the table with mats she had crocheted.
Amy took care of the silverware and water glasses. I poured myself a glass of Santa
Margherita pinot grigio, a delicious straw-colored Italian wine that Matthew said
paired perfectly with goat cheese. He was right.

After dinner, we retreated to the attic. Before ascending the stairs, Rocket and Rags
eyed the boxes in the foyer as if they were intruders. The girls and I read for an
hour and dined on little gem gluten-free cookies—a sugar cookie decorated with homemade
apricot jam. By nine, we were all yawning, and I sent the girls to bed.

As I was washing dishes, setting the knives and other tools on a towel to dry, Rocket
growled and bounded to his feet. He raced to the archway leading to the front of the
house and barked. “Rocket, hush, it’s just Matthew.”

But I didn’t hear keys in the lock. I didn’t hear the door open.

Rocket yapped again. His tail stopped wagging. Hissing low, Rags weaved beneath Rocket’s
legs and positioned himself in front of the dog.