To Brie or Not to Brie (24 page)

“What do you see?” Octavia whispered.

“Anabelle is going into Under Wraps.”

“Thank heavens,” she sighed. “She said she was going shopping. She didn’t lie.”

I retreated to the shadows and leaned against the wall. “Now what?”

“We question her. Follow me.” She wrested free of my grasp and marched ahead.

I had often passed by Sylvie’s Under Wraps Boutique and Day Spa, but I had only entered
once, and not to buy. I had fetched the girls to take them to a singing rehearsal.
As always, Sylvie had taken a potshot at what I was wearing and
had pressed me to purchase something that might spruce up my wardrobe. Right. Like
I would accept the opinion of the woman who preferred ice white hair, faux animal
print coats, and skimpy, tasteless clothing. Spare me.

The pungent aroma of patchouli was the first thing to hit me as Octavia and I entered
the shop. I don’t know why I was surprised. Sylvie often over-doused herself with
perfume. I wondered if she had installed a scent recycler in her ventilation system.
The next thing that caught my attention was the décor. Sylvie was never content to
live with a style for long. Based on what I had seen in the display windows in recent
months, summer’s color palette had been silver and black. Autumn’s had been gold,
and though autumn was still in full bloom, today’s theme was shades of red. Sylvie
had swathed mirrors with strawberry-colored ribbons. Cardinal bows adorned hanging
racks. Scarlet beads cascaded from the necks of mannequins, which were dressed in
red flapper dresses. Sylvie had worn the same red outfit into Sew Inspired the other
day. Maybe she was trying to put everyone in town in the mood to buy early and buy
often for Christmas. The stock in her shop was entirely red and glitzy. Even Sylvie’s
mousy assistant—Sylvie would never hire somebody who might compete with her in the
beauty department—wore a red sheath.

The shop didn’t lack for customers. Many carried bags from other stores around town.

Octavia pointed. “There’s Anabelle.”

Beyond a center table filled with sweaters, Anabelle pulled a cocktail dress from
a rack. She moved to a mirror, held it in front of herself, and swiveled. The skirt
of the dress danced above her knees.

“Aw,” Octavia said. “Isn’t that sweet? She’s buying a party dress.”

I whacked her on the arm. “Don’t go soft on me now. She could be buying a dress to
wear to a funeral she caused.”

Octavia winced. “She wouldn’t dare wear red.”

“Different strokes,” I said.

Wearing a knee-length candy apple red kimono with an ultra-long slit up the thigh,
Sylvie sauntered through the archway between the shop and the spa at the rear of the
store and posed. “Hello, everyone.” As she waved like a model on a float, the glossy
red sticks holding the twist of her hair bobbled and clicked.

I bit back a giggle. She looked ridiculous.

Sylvie spotted me, and her mouth turned down ever so slightly, but she quickly replaced
the frown with a phony smile. “Darlings, come in, come in.” She sidled to Anabelle.
“Excellent choice, love. Superb. It’s just your color.”

What else could she say?
Gee, you’d look better in blue, but I don’t have any in stock.

Anabelle caught sight of us, too, and beamed. “Hey, Octavia, Charlotte. Don’t you
love this dress? Isn’t it me? I’m sure it’s going to fit.”

“Of course it will,” Sylvie said. “We do alterations. Charlotte, you could use a new
number, too.” She twiddled a finger, gesturing from my toes to my head. “By the way,
I saw what Meredith has you wearing for the wedding.” She tsked. “Not good.”

My hands balled into fists. When exactly had she seen my maid of honor dress? At Tyanne’s
direction, Freckles had locked all the dresses in an antique wardrobe at her shop.
Had Sylvie stolen into the stockroom and found the key?

“You’re not a pastel girl,” Sylvie continued.

I didn’t consider gold pastel. Was it?

“Now this…” Sylvie snatched a folded red sweater from a display table and snapped
it open. Rhinestone beads adorned the front. “This is so you.”

“Thanks, Sylvie, but no thanks.” Maybe I would wear the glitzy sweater once, I mused,
but no more than that. Jordan and I didn’t party hearty. We liked our evenings in,
with an occasional dinner at La Bella Ristorante or a day trip to Columbus.

“Try it on.” She shoved the sweater into my arms.

I had to admit the fabric was incredible, silky yet nubby all at the same time, but
I was not there to shop. “Give us a moment with Anabelle, would you?”

“Yoo-hoo, Sylvie,” a stout woman across the shop yelled.

As if thankful for the reprieve, Sylvie said, “I must tend to another customer. Think
about this, Charlotte. Ta-ta.”

I placed the sweater back on the pile and refocused on Anabelle. “That is a pretty
dress.”

“Do you think so?” She beamed. “Vinnie wants to take me Irish dancing at the pub.”

“Vinnie?” I said, acting ignorant.

“We’re going on a date. He’s the sweetest man.”

I coughed my objection. Vinnie was nothing near sweet.

“I was hoping for something in green, but…” Anabelle waved a hand at the sea of red.
“Octavia, why are you frowning?”

Octavia opened her mouth but nothing came out.

I found the words she couldn’t. “Anabelle, we need to talk.”

“What about?”

“We’ve done a little background check.”

“Super. Does that mean you found a new clerk for the bookshop?” Anabelle glanced from
Octavia and back to me. “Anybody I know? I had lots of applications over the last
two years. I can probably fill you in.”

“No, Anabelle,” I said. “We checked on you.”

Anabelle’s saucer-shaped eyes widened. “Why me?”

“Octavia found one more box of yours and it contained a voodoo doll.”

Anabelle’s face flushed the color of the shop’s theme. “You don’t understand.”

“Enlighten us,” I said.

She clutched the dress like a coat of armor. “It’s…You see…” She eyeballed the front
door.

I moved to block her escape. “Talk to us, Anabelle. Tell us the truth.”

Anabelle’s shoulders curved inward. She keened and rocked forward on her toes and
back on her heels. Forward, back.

I said, “You once lived in Abilene.”

Anabelle shot a look at Octavia, who still looked shell-shocked, and then to me. “And
Dallas and Louisville,” she muttered. “You name it. Daddy was always moving us.”

“But your last place of residence was Abilene, Kansas. Your real surname is Fiorossi.”

She didn’t deny it. With a sigh, she replaced the red dress on the rack.

“You were mentioned in an article about a schoolteacher who died in Abilene,” I went
on.

“George,” she whispered.

“Your voodoo doll had a G on it. And there were lots of pins jabbed into that G,”
I said. “Did you wish George dead? Did you kill him?”

Anabelle gaped. “Oh, my, no. I would never. I loved him. I…I created the doll to…It’s
a long story.” She breathed high in her chest.

“We’re listening.”

“I had a thing for guys whose names started with the letter G. Don’t ask me why. It
was like a pattern. Maybe because my father’s name started with G. Not that I had
a Daddy-complex, I didn’t.” She licked her lips. “But I liked his name, Greg. I dated
all these guys with the letter G. George, Galen, Gareth, Gordon, Grady.” She ticked
the names off on her fingertips. “I even dated somebody named Gaylord—a family name.
I was, like, obsessed.” She toed the floor. “I started seeing a therapist. She told
me to get the
voodoo doll and draw a G on it and stick pins into it to break myself of the habit.
I wanted to date other guys with names like Adam or Bill or Carl.”

“Who are they?” Octavia said, her voice raw with emotion, but at least she had found
it.

“Nobody,” I answered. “She wanted to. She couldn’t.”

“That’s right.” Anabelle pointed at me. “I…I told the police that my previous boyfriend,
Grady, might have something to do with George’s death, but they never caught him.
I was a person of interest, but I convinced them I didn’t do it, and they let me go.”

“Did you have anything to do with Giacomo Capriotti?” I said.

“What? No!” Anabelle swooped her hair over her shoulders. “I mean, yes, I wanted to
date him. He was handsome and debonair, and I was immediately under his spell, but
when I realized it was another G thing, I backed off. I didn’t kill him, if that’s
what you’re implying.”

“There are blue stains on the doll,” I said. “Are they from blueberries or jam?”

“No.” Anabelle turned pale. “It’s ink. I kept the doll under the register at the shop.
Seeing it every day kept me on track, you know? I stored a package of pens on top
so no one would see the doll. Only I would know it was there. A pen burst and leaked
blue ink on the doll. It’s not blueberry jam or anything. You’ve got to believe me.”

Octavia thinned her lips. “But I didn’t find the box under the register, Anabelle.
I found it tucked onto the top shelf in the stockroom, hidden behind wrapping paper.”

“No, no,” Anabelle opened her hands wide. “I didn’t hide it. I must have put it there
by mistake. I moved so many boxes, trying to make space for your things.”

“On the top shelf?” I said.

“Yes. I know you don’t believe me, but”—she shuddered—“it’s the truth.”

“This former boyfriend of yours,” I pressed. “What’s he about?”

“Grady?” Anabelle folded her arms over her chest. “He’s mean and vindictive, and I
think he killed George, but he couldn’t have murdered Giacomo. He’s in prison for
fraud.”

“What about Vinnie?” I moved a little closer.

Anabelle’s eyebrows knitted together. “What about him?”

“Do you think he killed his brother?”

She glanced again at Octavia before returning her gaze to me. “No. He couldn’t. He
simply couldn’t.”

I paced in front of her and did a hard pivot. Anabelle yelped at the abrupt about-face.
Rebecca had shown me the move. She said the surprise shift always threw off a person
who was being interrogated. Personally, I thought Colombo’s signature line: “
One more thing”
was the sneakiest way to catch a culprit in a lie, but what did I know?

“Anabe-e-e-elle.” I dragged out her name.

“Wh-wh-what?”

“Do you know if Vinnie will inherit half of his brother’s estate?”

“He mentioned he’s coming into a lot of money.”

Gotcha, Vinnie
.

“Gamblers often talk like that,” she added.

She was right. Thwarted but not frustrated, I said, “Where were you at the time of
the murder?”

“Watching old movies at the back of the shop. I was packing up all the books that
Octavia didn’t want. I had to strip off the covers before I could send them back to
the publishers. It was tedious and painful. I hate removing the covers. Books are
living things. They shouldn’t be harmed.” She swatted the air to fan herself. “I turned
on the television to the American Movie Channel, you know, AMC. You can check. The
TV is still set on that channel, unless you changed it, Octavia.”

Octavia shook her head. “I don’t watch TV.”

“It was a Glenn Close retrospective week,” Anabelle went on. “Have you ever seen the
movie
Garp
?”

“Another G?” Octavia moaned.

“It’s with Robin Williams,” Anabelle said, her words spilling together, eager to dispel
our suspicions. “Glenn Close is Garp’s mother, which was odd, to say the least. I
think they were almost the same age.”

I had seen the movie. It wasn’t one of the American Film Institute’s top one hundred,
but I enjoyed watching anything with Glenn Close.

“Wait a second,” I said. “You told Urso you’d witnessed someone running from the scene
of the crime. How could you have noticed anyone if you were watching television?”

“I went outside to take a breather. My arms felt like spaghetti from all the packing,
and my lungs were clogged with dust. I needed some fresh air.” Tears pressed at the
corners of Anabelle’s eyes. “Around two
A.M.
I had my hand on the front door, ready to open it, when I saw a shadowy figure racing
from the Igloo.”

“Man or woman?” I said, knowing Urso had asked the question, but hoping my brusque
tone might jog some new insight.

“I don’t know.”

“Was it Vinnie?”

Anabelle burst into tears. “I. Don’t. Know.”

Leaving Octavia in charge of the shaky Anabelle, I hurried back to The Cheese Shop.
I tore through the store, ignored Rebecca’s pleas for assistance, and went to the
office. Rags and Rocket didn’t budge, which meant Rebecca had recently relieved them
and fed them treats. I picked up the telephone and dialed the precinct.

Surprisingly, Urso took my call. “What now?” he snapped. Not a good start.

Rattling off details as fast as I could before he interrupted me, I told him about
Anabelle and her history with the dead teacher and other G-named men. “She thinks
this Grady guy is in prison. Can you check it out and see if he’s at large? If he
has it in for guys she dates, maybe he killed Giacomo Capriotti.”