To Brie or Not to Brie (32 page)

I patted the picnic blanket. “Not at all.”

“Love is in the air…everywhere.” Rebecca sighed the sigh of a woman missing her boyfriend
as she gestured to the right.

Next to the stage in a roped-off area for actors only, Iris and Stratton clung in
a passionate embrace. Where was Prudence? I wondered. Had she ditched Iris after their
little performance at Fromagerie Bessette? Or had she, on principle, refused to come
to the play because of the riffraff? Delilah strode to the lovers and said something
that made
them break apart and other nearby actors snap to attention. Within seconds, Delilah
rounded up all the actors, and they started deep-breathing exercises.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” Rebecca nestled onto a blanket she had brought. “Watching the
actors prepare.”

“The whole event is terrific,” I said. “There’s so much going on.”

As the actors started droning, Clair and a couple of her young friends pressed up
to the rope and chanted with them. Beyond them, Amy chased Tyanne’s towheaded son,
who had gotten hold of an actor’s wig and hat and was strutting like a drum major,
the feather on the hat flouncing with abandon. Matthew and Meredith stood nearby,
watching with amusement. Matthew had told me that Sylvie wasn’t coming within a mile
of the play, claiming she couldn’t stand to hear the Bard’s words garbled by Americans.
Lucky us.

“Want a glass of wine, Rebecca?” Jordan said. “Matthew suggested this one.” He pulled
a bottle and wine opener from the basket.

Rebecca surveyed the bottle. “Kali Hart pinot noir. It’s up front and jammy.”

“Perfect. I’m the jammy type,” Jordan joked and proceeded to open the wine.

“Good evening, everybody.” Urso drew alongside us. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

Deputy O’Shea, the hunky blond, accompanied him. He scrutinized Rebecca with outright
desire, which made me grin. Our sweet honeybee farmer had better hurry back to town
before some other guy scooped up his fiancée. Because she was busy tasting the wine
Jordan had poured for her, Rebecca missed the deputy’s adoring gaze.

“Want some wine?” I said to Urso. “You’re off duty, right?”

Urso cracked a smile. “Thanks, but no, we’re still on the clock.” He scratched the
nape of his neck. “I came to apologize. Charlotte, I shouldn’t have yelled earlier.”

“You should have returned my call, too.”

He pursed his lips.

“Don’t worry. I understand,” I said, letting him off the hook. “You want the case
solved.”

“Are you sure the guy that killed Vinnie didn’t kill Giacomo, too?” Jordan said.

“Positive,” Urso answered. “He has an alibi in New Jersey the night Capriotti was
murdered.”

“By the way, Hugo Hunter is back in town,” I said. “He was seen sneaking into his
house.”

Jordan elbowed me, ribbing me for doing Prudence and Iris’s bidding.
C’est la vie.
Someone needed to keep our police chief up to date.

“Says who?” Urso asked.

“Iris Isherwood.”

“Did I hear someone call my name?” Iris crossed the lawn in front of the stage. She
had to have supersonic hearing, or she was waiting for something—anything—to drag
her away from where the actors were chanting. One could only tolerate so much droning.

I said, “I told Urso you saw Hugo.”

“Oh, that,” Iris said. “He seemed pretty suspicious. All in black carrying a small
duffel. Chief, do you think it’s possible that Hugo is involved with the guy who came
after Vinnie Capriotti? I mean, he comes and goes. Maybe he’s a hit man.”

Urso’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting notion. I’m on it. Deputy O’Shea, let’s go.” Urso
headed off.

At the mention of the deputy, Rebecca raised her chin. Her gaze met his and she smiled.

“O’Shea,” Urso repeated.

“Yes, sir.” Before leaving, O’Shea bent at the waist and said to Rebecca, “By the
way, that black hair we found? It might have been fake.”

“How interesting.” Her eyelashes fluttered at rapid speed.

“O’Shea!” Urso barked.

When O’Shea hustled away, I tapped Rebecca’s leg. “What was that about?”

She shrugged. “Urso has been less than forthcoming, don’t you think? And Devon O’Shea
has information. So what if I give him an occasional slice of his favorite Cheddar
cheese to keep the pipes lubed, know what I mean?”

“You’re brazen,” I said.

Jordan roared. “And smart as a whip.”

Rebecca twirled her ponytail. “I got the idea from watching
Castle.
He was flirting with this snitch, and I thought he was so clever.”

I became aware of Iris, lingering. I said, “Care to join us?”

“That’s sweet, but no, thanks. I’m going to wander and drink in the local flavor.”
She gestured with her thumb and walked away.

Rebecca swiveled to face us, knees tucked beneath her. “So…did you hear Deputy O’Shea
mention the fake hair found at the crime scene? Do you think he meant from a faux
fur or hair extensions or something?”

“How about a wig?” Jordan said.

I cut a sharp look at Tyanne’s son, who, at present, was tossing the wig back and
forth to a buddy, playing keep-away from Amy. It would have been easy for someone
to steal one of the actor’s wigs. Grandmère wasn’t terribly cautious. She hadn’t set
a guard to watch over the costume closet.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and children.” Speaking through a handheld microphone, Grandmère
stood in the aisle by the rear row of seating. “We’re about to start. Please take
your seats.”

Just beyond her, I caught sight of Hugo Hunter leaning against one of the flagged
posts, arms folded across his chest. A shiver cut through me. Dressed entirely in
black, he reminded me of a bad guy in an old western. And yet he didn’t look mean-spirited
or anything close to that. He appeared
relaxed and ready to enjoy the performance. I searched for Urso, but he and Deputy
O’Shea were gone. I dialed his cell phone, but as was typical in our cellular phone–challenged
county, my call rolled into voicemail.

Lights dimmed. An actor darted onto stage and yelled, “Who’s there?”

As the scene advanced, I scanned the rear of the audience for Hugo, but he was nowhere
to be seen. Had I imagined him, or had he vanished like Houdini?
Poof!
I remembered Freckles saying she liked Hugo; everyone did. I know I did…had. Was
he capable of murder? I fashioned a scenario in which Hugo plotted to kill Giacomo
Capriotti. Though he had lush dark hair, he stole a shaggy wig to disguise himself,
then lured Giacomo to the Igloo and threatened him with a gun. Giacomo fought back;
the gun discharged, leaving a bullet in the wall. Hugo hefted the ice cream and beat
Giacomo with it. He scattered some of the fake hair at the crime scene to mislead
Urso. It all sounded logical, except one point kept sticking in my mind. Why would
he kill Giacomo at the Igloo? Why risk exposure? Why not take the fight elsewhere?
And if he was smart enough to construct the perfect crime, why hadn’t he gone back
to Jacky’s house to establish his alibi?

* * *

When the play concluded—it was wonderful; Grandmère needn’t have worried—Jordan and
I attended the after party. Within the roped-off area by the stage, Grandmère set
out a casual spread of canapés, chips, salsa, vegetables, sliced fruit, and dozens
of mini-cupcakes. Actors and their guests loaded up paper plates with goodies. Lively
conversation followed, with actors spouting lines from various Shakespearean plays
while others broke into song. A full moon might have had something to do with the
exuberance.

An hour into the frivolity, I settled onto the edge of the stage, my overworked mind
roving from thought to thought.
First, I wondered whether Urso had tracked down Hugo and obtained a confession. Next,
I contemplated tomorrow’s footraces and the rehearsal dinner and Sunday’s wedding.

Jordan sidled up to me and ran a finger along the edge of my hand. “Tired?”

I was. Dead on my feet. “Thinking.”

“About us?”

“About everything but us. Sorry.”

He nuzzled my neck with his lips. “Give it a rest.”

“I wish.”

He lifted my chin with his fingertips and stared intently into my eyes. “By the way,
there was something I wanted to say at our picnic, but we didn’t seem to have a moment
to ourselves.”

I fought off a yawn. “What?”

“I want you to know that you don’t have anything to worry about anymore.”

“Anything? Ever? Promise?” I teased.

“Us. You don’t have to worry about us. With Vinnie and Giacomo dead, neither Jacky
nor I have any fear of reprisal. We’ll be remaining in Providence. We’re safe.”

Joy bubbled up my throat. I threw my arms around him and let out a whoop.

And then, as I remained tucked in his embrace, a thought of Hugo invaded my mind again.
Had safety been his goal? Had he cared so much about Jacky and protecting her anonymity
that he killed Giacomo and sicced the other man on Vinnie? What did we know about
Hugo? Was Iris right? Was Hugo a hit man or did he know one? Why was he always leaving
town?

Morning arrived before I was ready. My alarm blared, and I awoke bleary-eyed, my head
aching from too much theorizing at two
A.M.
After a quick shower and dressing in jeans, a mock-peasant yellow blouse that was
shirred at the waist, and zipper-style tennis shoes, I trotted downstairs to the kitchen.

Matthew was already there, cordless phone wedged between his jaw and shoulder. He
was chatting to the driver whom he had hired to fetch family members at the airport.
He gestured to the pot of vanilla coffee on the counter. I blew him a kiss of thanks
for brewing it. The aroma smelled divine.

“What do you mean they’re late?” Matthew said. “Yes, I know what
late
means, sir, it’s simply”—he listened—“got it. They’re late. But it’s not a weather
issue, is it? They’ll make it to the rehearsal dinner, won’t they?”

Our weather was perfect. The sun was shining. The temperature was supposed to reach
the mid-seventies. Fabulous.

I whispered, “Want breakfast?”

Matthew nodded. “Something light. Uh, no, sir, I was talking to my cousin.”

I fed Rags and Rocket first, otherwise they would have followed me hither and yon.
Then I poured two cups of coffee and made quickie meals of pumpkin bread topped with
cream cheese. When Matthew ended his conversation, he downed his breakfast.

“Thanks, cuz,” he mumbled as he dialed Lavender and Lace B&B to double-check room
reservations. Though my aunt and uncle had been invited to stay with my grandparents,
they had opted to rent rooms as a family at the bed-and-breakfast.

I ate my breakfast standing by the sink, which according to my grandmother wasn’t
the best for digestion, but my stomach didn’t rebel, and soon, I was able to function
like a human being.

As I was setting the table for the twins’ breakfast, a gluten-free mascarpone and
apple French toast casserole that I had made before going to bed, I heard brakes squeal
on the street. Rocket barked and darted through the doggie door into the yard. Rags
followed.

“They’re here.” Amy, who had dressed in running shorts,
Stomping the Grapes
T-shirt, and tennis shoes, jogged into the kitchen. “The movers are here.”

Clair, dressed similarly, charged in after her. I was surprised by her enthusiasm,
seeing as she wasn’t an athlete. Plans to get her hair styled and the impending wedding
were infusing her with more verve than she normally had.

The doorbell rang.

As if trained by Pavlov, Rocket and Rags sped back into the kitchen through the doggie
door and sprinted toward the foyer. Rocket skidded as he rounded the corner, probably
anticipating the sea of boxes that would block his progress.

Amy followed. “I’ll get it.”

“Me, too,” Clair chimed.

“I’m coming.” Matthew hustled after them.

I took a deep breath and exhaled while urging myself, at all costs, not to cry. I
did pretty well until an hour later when I sat on the front porch steps and watched
the last of the boxes being stowed onto the truck. Tears trickled down my cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Aunt Charlotte. We aren’t going today.” Amy sat beside me and patted my
shoulder while blinking back her own tears.

“We’re living here for another week,” Clair said, her eyes moist, as she nestled on
the other side of me. “We don’t move our clothes and toothbrushes until Daddy and
Meredith get back from their honeymoon, remember? Please don’t cry.”

Rocket and Rags paced the steps below us, whimpering and staring at us in confusion.

That was when the floodgates burst, and I wrapped the twins in a bear hug.

“Let’s get going,” Matthew shouted from the foyer. “We don’t want to be late for the
race, do we?” He stopped in the opened doorway and gaped at us. “What the heck?”

I craned my neck and peered up at him, feeling like a fool.

“Uh-uh, no way,” he said. “You’re not having a sob fest without me.” He hurried to
the group, squatted down, and said, “Family hug.”