a loss deep in my soul.
By the time I reached Rebecca’s red-shingled cottage, a crowd had gathered. Many were popping up and down, trying to see over the heads of someone in front. Rebecca rented her darling abode from my Realtor friend, Octavia Tibble, who owned a half dozen such cottages around town and rented them only to single women who Octavia decided had promise. I looked for her among the crowd but didn’t spot her. She adored Rebecca. Maybe she was already inside demanding Rebecca’s rights.
Heart pounding, I veered toward the white fence that was cluttered with barren rose vines. I slipped through a break in the fence and stole to the front porch.
The top half of the Dutch door hung open. I would lay odds that our illustrious chief of police was already inside. He hated a stifling hot room. Everyone else within the cottage had to be freezing.
As I drew near, Grandmère sidled to my side. “Oh, chérie .” Tears streaked her cheeks. She pulled the ends of her knit burgundy scarf to tighten it. “I am so glad you are here. It is a shame, non ?”
“Yes. Tell me what happened.”
“Chief Urso believes our sweet honeybee farmer killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”
“Killed? This is a murder scene?”
Neither Urso nor his deputy had hung the yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape yet. At any moment, they might order the crowd to retreat. Before that time, I needed to learn all I could.
“The jury is out,” Grandmère said. When my grandparents moved from war-torn France, they had adapted quickly to the American way of life. Grandmère loved to use Americanisms. “Regarde.” She pointed at the living room, visible from our spot near the Dutch door.
Kaitlyn, wearing the same getup she had worn in The Cheese Shop, lay on her back on a red braided rug. Her body was wedged between an Amish rocking chair and a ladder-back chair; her head was close to the leg of the coffee table. Rebecca’s furnishings were sparse. She and I had gone garage sale hunting one day and had picked up most of the items. She had saved an entire month’s earnings to buy the ruby red love seat upon which Ipo and she were sitting.
The coroner from Holmes County, a contemporary of Urso’s with slicked-back hair and a deeply furrowed forehead, knelt beside Kaitlyn. Latex gloves covered his hands. Gingerly, he turned her chin and inspected her head.
I said, “He sure got here fast.”
Grandmère nodded. “He was having dinner with Chief Urso.”
Umberto Urso, whose sheer size dwarfed the already teensy cottage, stood in profile beside the cobblestone fireplace. A glow from the waning fire made his uniform seem more gold than brown. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his dark hair was mussed, as if he had been scratching it trying to figure out what happened.
Rebecca sat tucked into Ipo. Goldilocks in the presence of Papa Bear couldn’t have appeared more vulnerable. Ipo had slung his meaty arm around Rebecca’s shoulders, but by the look of his trembling chin, he needed consoling, too. Did Urso truly think kindhearted Ipo could kill someone? Why wasn’t anyone speaking?
“Yep,” the coroner broke the silence. “Some kind of wooden baton, I think.”
“Baton?” I whispered to my grandmother.
“He thinks Ipo struck Kaitlyn’s neck with a weapon,” Grandmère answered. “Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “Apparently Kaitlyn fell backward from the blow and hit her head on the table. But they cannot find a weapon, and Ipo is not offering any clues.”
I scanned the room. Six-inch cylinder candles, standing on the pass-through counter to the kitchenette, burned with intensity. The light from a pair of tapers created shadows on the fixings for a cheese tray, which included a wedge of Manchego, Brie, the Chevrot I had suggested, three wood-handled knives, crackers, and a jar of honey. A crystal bowl holding mixed nuts and another containing winter grapes sat on the nearby dining table. Two champagne flutes stood
By the time I reached Rebecca’s red-shingled cottage, a crowd had gathered. Many were popping up and down, trying to see over the heads of someone in front. Rebecca rented her darling abode from my Realtor friend, Octavia Tibble, who owned a half dozen such cottages around town and rented them only to single women who Octavia decided had promise. I looked for her among the crowd but didn’t spot her. She adored Rebecca. Maybe she was already inside demanding Rebecca’s rights.
Heart pounding, I veered toward the white fence that was cluttered with barren rose vines. I slipped through a break in the fence and stole to the front porch.
The top half of the Dutch door hung open. I would lay odds that our illustrious chief of police was already inside. He hated a stifling hot room. Everyone else within the cottage had to be freezing.
As I drew near, Grandmère sidled to my side. “Oh, chérie .” Tears streaked her cheeks. She pulled the ends of her knit burgundy scarf to tighten it. “I am so glad you are here. It is a shame, non ?”
“Yes. Tell me what happened.”
“Chief Urso believes our sweet honeybee farmer killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”
“Killed? This is a murder scene?”
Neither Urso nor his deputy had hung the yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape yet. At any moment, they might order the crowd to retreat. Before that time, I needed to learn all I could.
“The jury is out,” Grandmère said. When my grandparents moved from war-torn France, they had adapted quickly to the American way of life. Grandmère loved to use Americanisms. “Regarde.” She pointed at the living room, visible from our spot near the Dutch door.
Kaitlyn, wearing the same getup she had worn in The Cheese Shop, lay on her back on a red braided rug. Her body was wedged between an Amish rocking chair and a ladder-back chair; her head was close to the leg of the coffee table. Rebecca’s furnishings were sparse. She and I had gone garage sale hunting one day and had picked up most of the items. She had saved an entire month’s earnings to buy the ruby red love seat upon which Ipo and she were sitting.
The coroner from Holmes County, a contemporary of Urso’s with slicked-back hair and a deeply furrowed forehead, knelt beside Kaitlyn. Latex gloves covered his hands. Gingerly, he turned her chin and inspected her head.
I said, “He sure got here fast.”
Grandmère nodded. “He was having dinner with Chief Urso.”
Umberto Urso, whose sheer size dwarfed the already teensy cottage, stood in profile beside the cobblestone fireplace. A glow from the waning fire made his uniform seem more gold than brown. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his dark hair was mussed, as if he had been scratching it trying to figure out what happened.
Rebecca sat tucked into Ipo. Goldilocks in the presence of Papa Bear couldn’t have appeared more vulnerable. Ipo had slung his meaty arm around Rebecca’s shoulders, but by the look of his trembling chin, he needed consoling, too. Did Urso truly think kindhearted Ipo could kill someone? Why wasn’t anyone speaking?
“Yep,” the coroner broke the silence. “Some kind of wooden baton, I think.”
“Baton?” I whispered to my grandmother.
“He thinks Ipo struck Kaitlyn’s neck with a weapon,” Grandmère answered. “Can you believe it?” She shook her head. “Apparently Kaitlyn fell backward from the blow and hit her head on the table. But they cannot find a weapon, and Ipo is not offering any clues.”
I scanned the room. Six-inch cylinder candles, standing on the pass-through counter to the kitchenette, burned with intensity. The light from a pair of tapers created shadows on the fixings for a cheese tray, which included a wedge of Manchego, Brie, the Chevrot I had suggested, three wood-handled knives, crackers, and a jar of honey. A crystal bowl holding mixed nuts and another containing winter grapes sat on the nearby dining table. Two champagne flutes stood
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