To Brie or Not to Brie (8 page)

I loved my little Victorian house. I had put sweat and tears into it. I adored the
latticework, the veranda, the quaint rose garden, and the antique but updated kitchen.
I supposed I could keep it and rent it out, but did I want to be a landlord? “What
about the twins? It’s their home, too.”

Jordan chuckled. “Darling, you shouldn’t be worried about the girls. They’ve got a
new life ahead of them.”

“What will I do with Rocket and Rags?”

“Isn’t Rocket moving with the girls?”

“Matthew isn’t sure there’s enough room, and the poor mutt is attached to Rags.”

“Fine, they’ll move in with us. The more the merrier.” Jordan owned a couple of dogs
and cats. Only the cheese caves and processing facilities were off-limits to them.

“The twins will be heartbroken without them. I can’t imagine—”

Jordan released my hand and gripped my shoulders. “Are you trying to back out of marrying
me?”

“No.”

“Good, because I won’t have it.” He kissed me with so much passion that electricity
zipped to my toes.

When we broke apart, I found myself gasping for breath.

Jordan ran his palm along my hair. “Did that calm you down?”

“Sure did. Can we do it—?” Movement to my right caught my eye. “Will you look at that?
Is that your neighbor, the confirmed bachelor, walking with a woman?”

The thickset man twirled his equally thickset girlfriend under his arm, and then the
two embraced while doing a quickstep and hooting like lovesick teenagers.

“That old sneak,” Jordan said. “I’d noticed that he had cleaned up his truck.”

I grinned. “People will go to great lengths for love.”

“Hmm, sounds like a lead-in for a song.” Full voice, Jordan belted out, “‘What a day
this has been, what a rare mood I’m in. Yes, it’s almost like being in love.’”

I was surprised that he knew the lyric to a beautiful standard from the musical
Brigadoon.
What stunned me even more was the timbre of his voice. I had never heard him sing.
I cocked my head and lasered him with my gaze. “Okay, confession time. Back in high
school, were you a Broadway wannabe?”

“Broadway
almost,
” he said. “I thought I had the chops.”

My mouth snapped shut in shock. He had wanted to be a singer? What else didn’t I know
about him?
Stop it, Charlotte. You know enough.
I knew where he came from, what he had done in his previous life—he had been a topnotch
chef—what food he liked, and what books and movies he enjoyed. The rest was going
to be a learning experience, one I anticipated with pleasure.

I winked at him. “Wait until I tell Grandmère.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“She needs dashing leading men for her musicals.” I raced ahead, yelling, “Grandmère!”
She couldn’t hear me, miles away, but I continued to shout.

Jordan tore after me. He tried to nab me, but I eluded his grasp and dashed off.

“Think of the press you’ll get.” I swiped a hand in front of me. “Jordan Pace, local
star.” That was the last thing he wanted. No one from his past knew where he lived…and
shouldn’t.

“Charlotte.”

“Catch me if you can.”

Laughing myself silly—it didn’t take much—I sprinted all the way to the main house
at Pace Hill Farm. When Jordan caught me, he hauled me into the barn and tossed me
onto a pile of hay. Talk about acting like lovesick teenagers.

* * *

Later that night, after we showered Jordan’s Chocolate Labs with lots of love, we
settled into the cane chairs on Jordan’s porch for a nightcap and a small tasting
of one of his farm’s cheeses that he had named Pace Perfect. It reminded me of Fromage
d’Affinois, a double-cream cheese with an edible white rind. Paired with a slice of
a crisp heirloom apple, the velvety cheese tasted like ambrosia.

An owl’s hoot cut the peaceful hush, and I felt the urge to discuss Jacky and her
nightmare and the possibility that her husband really had come to Providence, but
I couldn’t find my tongue because of the way Jordan had responded earlier when I had
broached the subject.

“Want another sip of port?” I said, instead.

“Sure.” Jordan started to rise.

I waved for him to sit. “Don’t budge. I’ll get it.”

I picked up the cut-crystal aperitif glasses and went into the living room that abutted
the porch. Jordan had decorated the room with some of the most unusual and rustic
antique pieces I had ever seen, including a coffee table made out of a trunk with
brass fittings, camel leather armchairs, and my favorite, a claw-foot oak hutch, its
shelves filled with rare books and collectibles that Jordan had amassed as a kid—framed
stamps and butterflies and fishing lures.

Jordan kept liquor in the lower portion of the cabinet. We had finished off a bottle
of tawny port, but I discovered a reserve stock behind a stand of liquor bottles.
As I scrounged through the left hutch drawer looking for a wine bottle foil cutter,
I drummed up a spot of courage and said, “Do you think there’s any rationale for Jacky’s
dream?”

I heard Jordan shift in his chair; the cane creaked. I peeked around the corner and
spied him rubbing his finger along the arm of the chair. Was he lost in thought or
ticked off?

“She said she’s psychic,” I went on.

“Doesn’t every woman think she’s clairvoyant?” he said. I couldn’t tell by his tone
if he was teasing or serious. He didn’t glance in my direction.

Resuming my search for the foil cutter, I pushed aside a pair of marble-inlay boxes,
signed baseball cards sealed in Plexiglas, and a glass box filled with what looked
like uncut gems. Why all these valuable items weren’t stored in a locked safe was
beyond me. “What if it was her husband outside her place?”

“It wasn’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he would have barged through the door and dragged her out by the hair.”

That image tightened my throat. I swallowed hard then continued. “Tourists came into
the store. Two guys. One—”

“Charlotte, drop it,” Jordan barked. “I mean it.”

Miffed by his
see no evil, hear no evil
attitude, I rummaged loudly through the treasure trove drawer. I dug beneath a pile
of old photographs. “Don’t you have one?”

“One what?” Jordan said.

“I’m looking for a—” My hand landed on something that felt like a chain. I pulled
it from beneath the photos and saw two silver rectangular-shaped charms attached to
it. Dog tags. The name on the top tag read:
Pierce, Jake.
Was that Jordan’s real name?

Jordan materialized in the doorway. “What are you looking for?”

Like a kid caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, I dropped the tags and
smothered them with the photographs. I hadn’t intentionally snooped, and yet my heart
was thrumming. “A foil cutter,” I said.

“Wrong drawer.” Jordan nudged me aside, closed the left drawer, and opened the right
one. He retrieved the foil cutter and bounced it in his palm. “Let me do the honors,
but”—his mouth turned up on one side and carved a dimple in his handsome cheek—“we’re
only having another drink if we keep the conversation light.”

He would get no argument from me.

* * *

The next morning, wanting to get a jump on the day, I woke early. I kissed Jordan
on the cheek. He pulled me into a warm, luscious bear hug, whispered, “Have a good
day,” and quickly fell back to sleep. Quietly I slipped out of bed, dodged the Calicos
nestled on the floor at the foot of the bed, got dressed, and hurried to the kitchen.
While nibbling the remaining Pace Perfect cheese and sliced apples, I scribbled a
note:
I love you, call me later
.

As I climbed into my Escort, a cock crowed. A frizzle of fear spiraled down my back.
I flashed on an English class discussion about the opening scene in
Hamlet.
Had Shakespeare employed the cock’s crow to set time, or had he meant it to be an
omen of evil things to come?

Was I overreacting?

Eager to shake off bad vibes, I focused on work. For two
hours, I experimented at Fromagerie Bessette with more wedding dinner recipes. Meredith
and Matthew had agreed on two carving stations, one for beef and one for roast turkey,
but neither could decide on the side dishes. I had suggested a savory herb quiche,
mashed potatoes with Cheddar, and popovers loaded with Parmesan stuffing. The kitchen
smelled luscious. Almost nothing whetted my appetite more than the aroma of garlic
and onions. Quick study that I was, I didn’t leave anything burning on the stove this
time. I arranged all the food on platters and placed the platters on the carving board
behind the cheese counter.

In the early afternoon, Rebecca returned from her lunch break and slung an apron over
her checkered sheath. “Ooh, do I smell rosemary?” She leaned over the platter of mashed
potatoes and inhaled deeply.

“And basil,” I said. “Taste.”

I handed her a spoon. She dug in.

“I love the mashed potatoes, and the quiche is seasoned to perfection,” Rebecca said
like a veteran
Top Chef
judge, “but I think the stuffing could use a little more Parmesan.” She quirked her
mouth. “I always like more Parmesan. By the by, did you see Sylvie?” She set her spoon
in the sink and collected her long hair into a clip. “She’s outside her shop wearing
a sandwich-board sign and not much else. What is that woman thinking?”

She isn’t
, I wanted to say, but held my tongue. Sylvie had one mind-set. Whatever was good
for her was the right thing to do. She didn’t think about the consequences.

“She’s parading in front of Under Wraps announcing discounted facials,” Rebecca went
on. “Does she think that will draw bees to honey? And please”—she slapped her thigh—“explain
to me why on earth she has a day spa in her dress boutique?”

“Because she wants to outdo Prudence.”

“She might have a shot.”

“What do you mean?”

Rebecca fetched a wheel of Manchego from the display case, removed its plastic wrap,
and started to reface it with a sharp knife. I admired her style. She could prepare
all the cheeses we stowed in the case in less than an hour. “You heard what Edy said.
Prudence’s business is struggling.”

I waggled a finger. “Don’t go spreading rumors.”

“It’s not a rumor,” Rebecca said. “I was at the grocery store. I saw Prudence in the
bank next door.”

Although the area around the Village Green consisted of small boutique shops at the
center of town, Providence also had a more generic section near the elementary school.
Providence Grocers, Providence Savings and Loan, and more.

“She was arguing with a loan officer,” Rebecca said.

Grandmère pushed through the front door while tugging on the strap of the crocheted
bag she had slung crosswise over her chest.

“There you have it.” Rebecca spread her palms.

“Have what?” Grandmère asked, stopping beside me.

“Prudence is struggling financially,” Rebecca answered.

I growled. “We don’t know that for a fact.” I eyed my grandmother. “What are you doing
here?” I peered out the front window. “Where’s Pépère?” Saturday was his day to help
in the shop.

“
Je suis désolée.
He is under the weather.”

I felt a nervous tug on my stomach. My grandfather was never sick. He had the constitution
of an ox. And yet, last night, he had looked pale and tired. Now my grandmother appeared
the same.

“
T’inquiète pas,
” Grandmère said.

“I’m not worried.”

“Then why do you frown?” She petted my arm. “I am here to assist,
chérie.
”

Over the past year, I couldn’t remember more than a handful of days when Grandmère
had helped me in the shop. She had resisted Matthew and me taking over the
place, but in the end, I think she was relieved. She had enough to tend to, with her
mayoral duties and managing the theater.

“Should I take Pépère some soup?” I asked.

Grandmère shook her head. “He is not interested in eating today.”

Another ripple of concern coursed through me. A day my grandfather didn’t want to
eat was a red-letter day.

“Where shall I begin?” Bent on ending the discussion, my grandmother slung an apron
over her purse and clothing and swept past me. “Are there shelves to be dusted? Jars
to be cleaned? Do I see more wedding food to taste test?”

“Yes, I—”

“Charlotte.” Delilah rushed into the shop, her breathing staccato and face stark white.
“He”—she hiccuped—“he died.”

My grandmother whirled around. Her hand flew to her chest. Did she think my grandfather
had sneaked out of the house, gone to the diner, and dropped dead?
No way.

Heart catching in my throat, I said, “Who died?”

“That man.”

Not my grandfather. Delilah would never have called him
that man.

“Which man?” I hurried to her and gripped her hands to calm her.

“The man who was in the diner yesterday. The tourist.”

“Still not enough information.” For an observant playwright and a woman who could
recite every item on an extensive menu, including daily specials, Delilah was coming
up woefully short on details.

“He’s dead in the cooler at the Igloo.”

“What was he doing there?”

“I don’t know.” Delilah wheezed. “I. Don’t. Know.”

Worried that she might hyperventilate, I wrangled her onto a ladder-back chair by
the tasting counter and said, “How did he die?”

“He was murdered.”

Rebecca, my grandmother, and I gasped. Another murder had occurred in our fair town?
What was this world coming to?

When I found my breath again, I said, “Start at the top. Which tourist?”

“The tall one with the…” She patted the skin beneath her chin.

“The wattle?” Rebecca said.

Delilah nodded. “He’s…There’s a crowd. I have to get back to work. Charlotte, you
should find out what’s going on.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ll get the real scoop from Chief Urso. He’ll talk to you.”