To Brie or Not to Brie (35 page)

At five thirty, the twins raced in with Grandmère and Pépère. “We’re here,” they chimed.

Rebecca said, “Go change, Charlotte. I’ll put up the
Closed for private party
sign.”

Amy and Clair skirted the counter in sassy pastel dresses that Meredith had purchased
as a surprise for them. They stopped, and Amy said, “On three: one, two, three.”

Both posed like budding rock stars, Clair with a right hand on her hip, Amy with her
left. After another count of three, each began to bounce her hip while shaking her
hair.
Amy’s single beaded braid flipped merrily. Clair’s hair, secured off her face by a
bejeweled bungee headband, swayed to and fro. Shop lights flickered in the prism-like
jewels.

Clair snapped her fingers and said, “One, two, three, go.”

The duo sprang into a chorus of “Single Ladies,” made famous by Beyoncé. “If you liked
it, then you shoulda put a ring on it. If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring
on it. Oh, oh, oh.”

The girls stopped and burst into giggles.

“Well?” Amy said. “What do you think?”

“About the singing?” I said.

Rebecca elbowed me. “They mean about the whole thing. The getup, the hair.”

I winked, letting her know that I wasn’t dumber than dumb. “Super,” I said. “You look
fabulous, dah-lings.”

Rebecca shooed me away from the cheese counter. “Go.”

“Back in a bit, girls.”

As I headed for the office, I heard Clair say, “Grandmère, come this way. I’ll show
you where you’re sitting.”

“Charlotte, sugar, wait for us.” Tyanne followed me, yelling over her shoulder, “Iris,
let’s get a move on.”

Rocket bounded to his feet when I entered the office. I saw why. He had nabbed Iris’s
tote bag and was using it as a headrest.

Before she could see, I snatched it from his dog pillow, brushed off his hair, and
repositioned the tote bag on the office chair, logo facing out. “Bad dog,” I whispered.
“No treats.”

He whimpered. Rags jumped to his defense and mewled as he threaded through Rocket’s
legs.

“Fine,” I said. “You get one, but only because it’s a special night.” I reached into
the drawer of the desk where I kept their treats, palmed two bacon-flavored biscuits,
and kicked the drawer closed with my heel. “Sit.”

Rocket and Rags parked their rear ends on the floor. I released their treats and they
devoured them.

Tyanne entered. “Sugar, you take the bathroom first. You have to greet your guests.”

“They’re not my guests. They’re Matthew and Meredith’s.”

Iris waltzed in after her and shut the door. She grabbed a floral dress hanging on
a hook behind the door. “Isn’t this exciting? I’m so happy for them.”

“Hey, Iris,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear about the breakup with Stratton.”

“We’re not…we’re fine. Ooh.”

She shot Tyanne a peeved look. “Your sister Lizzie has a big mouth.”

“All of my sisters do, me included.” Tyanne freed her simple blue sheath from a hanger.
“I’m not proud of it, mind you, but we are who we are.”

I stepped into the bathroom, slipped into my dress, and checked for mascara beneath
my eyes. The fine powder the makeup artist had applied was doing the trick. Nothing
was smudged.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, Tyanne and Iris grinned.

“Sugar, I like you in silver,” Tyanne said. “Very tasteful.”

I had donned silver spangled earrings and a pair of silver tooled bracelets.

“I agree. And satin, to boot,” Iris added. “Classy.”

I had never owned a satin dress in my life. Freckles had insisted that she cook me
up a little number for the rehearsal dinner. Heaven forbid I have to choose between
buying a dress at Prudence’s or Sylvie’s shop.

Tyanne said, “If only Iris had brought an orchid to pin in your hair.”

“Wouldn’t that have been perfect?” Iris gushed. “A little splash of white for health,
spirit, and purity. Just like you, Charlotte.”

“Gag me,” I joked. “Who paid you guys to butter me up?”

Someone knocked on the office door.

“Ready?” Rebecca said. “Guests are arriving.” Without waiting for my reply, she opened
the door. “Wowie.” She winked. “You’d think you were the bride-to-be.”

“Is it too much?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

“No, it’s perfect. Don’t worry. Meredith looks fabulous, too, in a frothy dress the
color of blueberries.” She pirouetted. “What do you think of this? A Victoria’s Secret
special.”

The cream scoop-necked blouse and pencil skirt fit her like a glove. She had changed
in the restroom at the back of the store. Three in the office were all we could manage.

“Nice.”

Before leaving the room, I bent down to the animals and said, “I promise to take you
on a walk later.” I stroked their heads. “And yes, you can beg me for treats. I’m
sure I’ll oblige.”

* * *

After we ate a delicious dinner of roast turkey, sweet potato pie, and grilled fall
vegetables, I brought out Meredith’s pick of the tiered all-cheese cakes, which I
had fashioned out of four spicy, pungent cheeses: Rogue Creamery Oregon Blue, Roaring
Forties Blue, Gorgonzola Mountain, and Roquefort d’Argental. Rebecca had loved decorating
the cake with grapes and baby yellow roses. The result was enchanting. In an aside
to Clair, I told her to steer clear of the Roquefort d’Argental. It was one of the
few cheeses still cultured on rye bread, which meant gluten could transfer to the
cheese.

While we toasted the happy couple with my Uncle Henry telling a funny story about
Matthew as a rambunctious, naughty boy, we nibbled on cheese and grapes. After Aunt
Alice closed the toasts with praise for Meredith and her beautiful, wondrous, fabulously
good heart—Aunt Alice was known to prattle—Matthew rose from his chair in the wine
annex and announced that he would give us
the long-awaited cellar tour. He led my aunt and uncle, the twins, and our grandparents
down first, with a proviso to the rest of us to wait to come down. He wanted to make
sure no one felt crowded.

A few minutes later, I opened the door to the cellar, and the lusty aroma of aging
cheese wafted out. “After you,” I said to Meredith’s parents and her brothers.

As they descended single file down the cellar stairs, Meredith sidled up to me. “I’m
so excited, aren’t you guys? Matthew’s been dying to show us this.”

“It’s quite chilly down here,” Meredith’s mother said from below.

Tyanne sidled up to me. “I wish I’d thought to provide a few shawls.”

“Grandmère brought two,” Rebecca said, wiggling a pair of hand-knit oyster white shawls.
“She made them herself.”

“Give them to both of the moms,” I suggested.

Rebecca handed them to Meredith, and she descended the stairs.

Iris joined Tyanne, Rebecca, and me. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay above,” she said.
“I don’t like confined spaces. Meanwhile, I’ll gather the vases from the tables in
the annex.”

As she left the kitchen, and Tyanne and Rebecca headed for the cellar, Jordan, who
had been quite attentive during dinner, sauntered up. He slipped his arm around my
waist and whispered in my ear, “Let’s elope.”

“We can’t.”

“Sure, we can.”

“No, we can’t. What would my grandparents say?” I batted his chest. “Coming down?”

“Been there, done that, remember? I built it.”

“You mean, you supervised.”

“Same difference.” He grinned. “I’m heading out to see Jacky, if that’s okay.”

“Give her my love.”

“Charlotte?” Matthew cried. It wasn’t a distress call. He was growing impatient.

“Coming.” I pecked Jordan’s cheek and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I descended the stairs. Matthew and the others were clustered into the alcove in front
of the faux window painted with the view of Providence. Tyanne, Rebecca, and I crowded
beside them.

“Wait for me,” a woman shouted from the top of the stairs.

Recognizing the voice, I moaned. Sylvie was not invited. How had she slipped past
Jordan? He must have left through the rear door. Shoot. I glanced at Meredith. She
mouthed, “Oh, no.”

Sylvie emerged beneath the arch, a triumphant grin on her face. She struggled with
the spaghetti strap of her sleek red sheath as she clip-clopped across the tile. “I
didn’t mind not being invited to dinner, but—” She gazed at her former in-laws. “Hello,
Alice and Henry. Don’t you both look…”

Her hesitation turned my insides into a whirligig. What would she say? Grandmère’s
hands were rising ever so slowly, ready to snare Sylvie if she dared to make a scene.

“…lovely,” Sylvie finished. “Healthy, glowing.” She brazenly pecked each parent on
a cheek, then turned to Meredith’s folks. “And you must be Meredith’s family. Lovely
to meet you. I’m Sylvie, the ex. I’m sure you’ve heard about me, but don’t worry.
I promise to be on my best behavior.” She winked, and Meredith and I breathed a collective,
albeit silent, sigh. “Might I stand with my girlie-girls?” She snuggled between the
twins. “Don’t you both look as pretty as punch?”

Crisis averted, I said, “Matthew, give us the gold-star tour.”

He went through his spiel about how long it had taken us to design the cellar. “Jordan,
Charlotte’s fiancé, was instrumental in bringing this about. He came up with the design.”

“Why do you put wine in a cellar?” Aunt Alice asked.

Matthew grinned. “Well, Mom, though most wine today can be consumed young, there is
wine that benefits from extra aging. It needs to reach its peak. A sauvignon blanc,
for example, is great young and fresh. However, a Bordeaux is a bold wine that has
a complex tannin structure and needs more aging.”

Meredith tapped Matthew’s arm. “You’re losing them, champ. Too much information.”

“Why is it so dark, Daddy?” Clair asked.

“Because UV rays will cause the degradation of the organic compounds.”

Clair nodded, truly understanding his scientific explanation.

“Why is it so cold?” Sylvie asked. Gooseflesh covered her bare arms.

“It’s only fifty-five degrees,” Matthew answered.

“I repeat, it’s cold, love.”

“Higher temperatures affect aging.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Aunt Alice fanned herself, removed the shawl from her shoulders,
and handed it back to Grandmère with a peck to her cheek. “Can you spell hot flash?”

Grandmère laughed.

But I didn’t. As the cold cut through me, my mind fixated on Giacomo Capriotti’s murder.
Why had he and the killer been in the freezer? Who had lured him there? A lover?

“Yoo-hoo, Charlotte.” Rebecca leaned in. “Your eyes are blank. What are you thinking?”

“I’m still not certain about Hugo Hunter,” I whispered. “No matter what he claimed
was his alibi.” Earlier I had filled her in about the fracas at the race, Hugo’s fan
club,
and his dismay that his secret would be revealed. “So what if he is a movie director?
And so what if he was taking photographs of the moon? He was the only one with reason
to go into the freezer of his store.”

“He or the Scoops.”

“Right.”

Iris had been worried about Urso questioning her daughter. Was I missing an important
clue?

“Hugo makes weird films, if you ask me,” Rebecca said.

“You’ve seen them?”

“If it’s on the Mystery Now channel, I watch.
Avoidance
was so solitary and dark. I didn’t “friend” Hugo on any of my social networks because
I didn’t know it was him, but after you told me, I researched him. In his photo”—she
fluttered her fingers—“he’s wearing this big pompadour hairstyle, you know, like that
Illinois governor who went to jail. I think the picture’s super-old.”

I recalled Hugo raking his hair off his face when the fan club women nabbed him at
the race, and I flashed on Tyanne saying,
Fake is as fake does
. “Might he wear a toupee?” I asked.

“Ooh.” Rebecca’s mouth formed a round circle. “A hair from a toupee could have been
the wig hair the medical examiner identified.” She pointed at me. “Hey, what if Hugo
is Anabelle’s stalker boyfriend in disguise?”

I gaped. “No way. That sounds like a tagline for one of Hugo’s movies. Anabelle knows
Hugo. I’ve seen her buy ice cream in the Igloo.”

“Just saying,” Rebecca added. “You should at least mention it to Chief Urso.”

The guests applauded at something Matthew said.

He took a humble bow. “Okay, that’s it. We’ll bring the wines upstairs and have an
after-dinner tasting. I also have nonalcoholic champagne. Who’s game?”

Hands rose in the air.

When I returned upstairs, I didn’t join the festivities. I
slipped into the office. Rocket and Rags greeted me with a yip and meow. After I fed
each a treat, I sat at the desk and dialed Urso at home.

He answered on one ring. “Don’t tell me. You’re recounting the guest list for tomorrow.”

“No, that’s Tyanne’s job.”

“What’s up?” He sounded relaxed and settled in for the night. In the background, a
TV announcer was chatting about the OSU football game.

“What’s the score?” I said, being a huge Buckeyes fan.

“Ten all. Why are you calling?”

“Hugo Hunter.”

“Thanks to you, I caught up with him, or rather, he caught up with me. He showed me
the film. It was time-stamped and dated, which corroborated where he was at the time
of the murder.”

“So you don’t think he could have fabricated that?” I said.

“I’m not an expert, but I doubt it, and to set your mind at ease, I also followed
up on Anabelle’s ex-boyfriend. He’s locked away in Illinois for assault.”

I knew Rebecca’s theory that Hugo and Anabelle’s ex were one and the same was absurd.

The sound on the television decreased. “What’s going through that overactive mind
of yours?” Urso asked.

“The wig hair.”

He paused. “How do you know about that?”

“A birdie,” I said, loathe to get either Rebecca or Deputy O’Shea in trouble.

Did Urso growl? “What about the wig hair?”

“Could it have been from a toupee?”