Free To Brie or Not to Brie by Avery Aames

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 theplace, 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.”
    “Not always.”
    “Just find out what’s going on. Keep rumors from starting. Rumors aren’t good for
     the town.”
    “She is right,
chérie,
” my grandmother said. “Go. I will tend to the customers.”
    Judging by how many people on the street and sidewalks were running east toward the
     ice cream store, she wouldn’t have much to