Free To Brie or Not to Brie by Avery Aames Page A

do.
    “And
chérie
,” Grandmère whispered, bidding me to her side. “Do not tell your grandfather about
     the murder. I do not want him to get sicker.”

CHAPTER

    A crime scene worked like a magnet. Saturday was always a busy day in Providence,
     but more people than I had seen in weeks crowded the sidewalks and spilled into the
     street. A couple of waiters stood outside La Bella Ristorante. A few women hovered
     by the bay window at All Booked Up, looking in the direction of the Igloo Ice Cream
     Parlor.
    Rebecca and I elbowed our way to a cluster of locals who had gathered in front of
     the store, among them Edy, who looked as pale as a corpse bride. Where had she found
     a black maxi-length vintage dress? Upon awakening, had she sensed something dire in
     the air and dressed for the occasion? And what was with the silver studs piercing
     her upper lip and side of her nose? All I could think was ouch, ouch, ouch.
    Stop it, Charlotte. You’re being mean.
    I peered around her into the Igloo, one of Providence’s favorite hangouts, a shop
     that embraced Old World charm. Its name was etched into the window in sepia ink. The
     antiquedécor and fixtures inside were dark bronze. The floor was patterned with black-and-white
     one-inch octagonal tiles set in a checkerboard pattern. Locals and tourists often
     took photographs of the scrolled, twenty-by-six-foot mirror hanging behind the aged
     oak ice cream counter. The yoga studio, which was located above the ice cream shop,
     looked dark. The owner always traveled during October.
    “Is Chief Urso in the shop?” I asked. I didn’t see anyone milling about inside.
    Edy said, “He’s in the back with the Igloo staff and the coroner. The scuttlebutt
     is the guy was killed after closing.”
    “My baby.” Iris zigzagged through the crowd, arms jutting forward.
    I dodged in front of her. “Iris, stop.”
    “But she’s in there.” She stabbed a finger at the Igloo. “My baby. He’s probably grilling
     her right now.” Iris’s
baby
was one of the two high school seniors that the Igloo had hired as servers. Everyone
     referred to them as the Scoops. They had wrists of steel.
    I said, “Calm down, Iris, I’m sure she’s fine. Chief Urso is probably asking the standard
     questions. ‘Where were you last night?’”
    “In my orchid garden,” Iris said.
    “Not you. Your daughter. The chief will want to know what your daughter did after
     work. What she did this morning. When she arrived to prep the store.” The Igloo Ice
     Cream Parlor didn’t open until four P.M. and remained open until midnight.
    “Oh, there’s…” Iris pointed to her right. “He’ll know how to fix this.”
    She hurried through the swarm of bystanders toward a man who was hard to miss—Stratton
     Walpole, the local dog groomer and star of
Hamlet,
who was as sturdy as an oak tree, though he was thinning on top and a little too
     old for the role, in my humble opinion. My grandmother said he had given the best
     reading and added that a wig andmakeup would mask his drawbacks. As if prepared to go to rehearsal, Stratton and a
     few buddies carried Renaissance costumes. When Iris joined him, he slipped his muscular
     arm around her shoulders.
    Beyond them, I saw Hugo Hunter hotfooting it toward us, pumping his arms like a professional
     athlete.
    I pressed through the crowd and edged toward the front door. Rebecca followed.
    Hugo staggered toward me. Drenched in perspiration, he rested his hands on his thighs.
     “My car broke down. I ran…Is Chief Urso inside?” His gaze darted to the front door
     and back to me. “The chief called me. Said my employees found a body when they came
     on their shift. Said a tourist was murdered in the freezer after closing.” His voice
     rasped with anxiety. “Why would someone do that? In my store?” He ran his fingers
     through his hair, drew in a deep breath, and pushed open the front door.
    Through the picture window, I caught sight of the