Clobbered by Camembert (27 page)

I strolled to my spot behind the cheese counter and called, “Forty-five.”

Jacky waved a paper number in the air. “Me.”

Jordan joined his sister at the front of the line.

“What’ll it be?” I asked.

“Everything.” Jacky toyed with her baby’s feet, which dangled through the holes of the BabyBjörn pack. “That Minerva Amish butter cheese looks good.”

“Great choice. It’s creamy and melts well.”

“And that Capriole O’Banon, too.” Jacky peered into the case and read the label I had posted: “
A superb goat cheese. Named for the governor of Indiana
. How fascinating.” She stood up. “What’s it wrapped in?”

“Chestnut leaves soaked in Woodford Reserve Bourbon.”

“We’ll take some of each,” Jordan said. He also ordered the last two prosciutto, pesto, and Provolone sandwiches in the case.

As I reached for the sandwiches, a previous debate started up again in my mind. About Arlo. Provolone was Arlo’s favorite cheese, so why would he have stolen a box of Emerald Isles goat cheese from my tent or from Rebecca’s cottage? Because he was a kleptomaniac; he couldn’t help himself. Kaitlyn had known his secret and used it to get her way. But what if someone, like Oscar, had learned about Arlo’s proclivity? What if Chip had taken a picture of Arlo in the act of stealing, and Oscar, upon seeing the picture, had decided to dun Arlo for money to keep Arlo’s secret quiet? Would that have incensed Arlo? His chicken farm abutted Ipo’s honeybee farm. In a matter of minutes, Arlo could have stolen to Oscar’s bungalow, attacked Oscar—and subsequently me—and then sprinted back to his place. Except I wasn’t sure Arlo was large enough to have been my attacker. Only minutes ago, I instinctively said the attacker was taller than Rebecca. She was at least three inches taller than Arlo. Besides, Arlo had confessed to Urso about his kleptomania. His secret was no longer a mystery.

No, someone else had attacked Oscar and me, but who?

Focus, Charlotte. You have customers waiting.

I slipped Jacky and Jordan’s purchases into a gold bag, tied it with a grosgrain bow, and met them at the register.

While paying, Jordan said, “You look a little dazed, sweetheart. What’s up?”

“Just thinking.”

“On Mars?”

“Venus,” I said.

“Try to stay grounded.” He winked and another wave of sexy sensations streamed from my head to my toes. If I didn’t have some intimate one-on-one time with him soon, I would burst. “I’m off to the farm,” he said. “I’ll catch up to you later.”

As I started to rewrap the cheeses, Pépère ambled from the kitchen to the rear door. “Charlotte, I am going to Le Petit Fromagerie. Is there anything specifically you’d like me to do?”

I turned to blow him a kiss goodbye and froze in my spot, my gaze riveted on what he was doing. He was looping his apron on the hooked rack at the rear of the shop while nudging the rack to level. The move prompted a memory of Ainsley Smith nudging his hockey stick in the great room at Lavender and Lace. Not nudging.
Adjusting.
Had I missed a totally obvious clue? Ainsley had told Lois that he was setting the hockey stick right. Had there been some other motive for his action? Had he returned to the bed-and-breakfast, not to filch the hockey stick but to
set something right
, as in remove evidence?

I took the theory a step further. What if Urso and the coroner had been wrong about the pu’ili sticks being the murder weapons? Could a hockey stick leave ridged marks on a woman’s neck? The stick wasn’t made of bamboo, but perhaps shards of fiberglass resembled bamboo under a microscope.

“Aunt Charlotte,” Amy called. “Frenchie wants to know if we can have some Camembert. I know it’s expensive, but . . .”

The world turned strangely silent. I glanced at the kids and a quiver of excitement coursed through me as multiple ideas melted into one—Camembert, hockey sticks, my playful pets, and hyper-electricity.

Was the supercharged air causing people to act not only forgetfully but irrationally? Had Ainsley Smith snatched the hockey stick from the wall of the bed-and-breakfast, tracked down Kaitlyn Clydesdale at Rebecca’s, and argued with her? Had he flailed the stick at her? When the stick didn’t hit its mark, had he, like Rags and Rocket, turned a hatbox-style cheese container—not of Camembert, but of goat cheese—into a hockey puck? Rebecca had brought a round of Emerald Isles goat cheese home to serve to Ipo. If Ainsley dropped the disk of cheese on the floor and swung hard, could he have propelled the cheese into Kaitlyn’s throat with such force that she fell backward to her death?

The Emerald Isles goat cheese box was made of bamboo. While building the twins’ aquarium, Pépère had suggested that the box could have left ribbed marks similar to what the coroner had found, but at the time I couldn’t figure out how a hatbox-style container of goat cheese would have made contact with Kaitlyn’s neck.

Now I had an idea.

CHAPTER

I was pretty sure that Urso wouldn’t accept my theory. I needed evidence. When the crowd at Fromagerie Bessette thinned, I removed my apron, put on my camel coat, scarf, and gloves, and hurried to the office for my purse. Rags, who was nestled into the crook of Rocket’s forearm on the tiger-striped pillow, looked up. His ears perked. Why in heavens hadn’t Sylvie taken them home as Matthew had asked? Oooh, that woman.

“No treats,” I said.

He mewled.

“All right. You win.” I rummaged in the side drawer of the desk and pulled out the small brown bag of Tallulah Barker’s homemade kibble. I set a handful of kibble on the floor. Rocket stirred and yipped. I said, “Sorry, pup. You’ll eat what Rags eats.” I replaced the bag then nabbed a Hershey’s Kiss from my private stash. I pulled out the strip of paper and unwrapped the foil. I plopped the candy into my mouth and hummed. Exactly the kind of fortification I needed.

I hooked my purse over my shoulder and turned toward the door.

“Boo!” Rebecca said.

“Yipes!” My heart beat triple time. “You surprised me.”

Dressed in the nubby bisque-colored sweater I had given her earlier, she blended into the walls. She said, “Where are you going?”

“On an errand.”

“My foot.”

“To see Jordan.”

“Uh-uh. You would have put on lipstick.” She whistled and pointed. “Rocket, block the door.”

To my stunned surprise, the traitor hurtled to his feet and obeyed. Maybe he was mad that I hadn’t given him his own treats. Peering at me through his shaggy bangs, he didn’t look very dangerous. I could take him.

Rebecca folded her arms and drummed her fingertips on the sleeve of the sweater. “Tell me the truth. I don’t like it when you lie.”

Neither did I. Lying left a bitter taste in my mouth. “I’m going to Lavender and Lace.”

“To beg Chip not to leave?”

“Are you nuts? Whatever would make you think that? I don’t want him to stay in Providence.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m in love with Jordan, or did you miss the signs?”

She screwed up her mouth. “Then why are you going to the bed-and-breakfast?”

“To fetch a hockey stick.” I told her my theory.

She slapped her forehead with a palm. “You’re right. It’s as plain as day. I’m going with you.”

“Not this time.”

She stomped her foot. “Look, I told you a dozen times, I’m sorry about leaving you at Oscar’s to look for Ipo. I’m sorry that guy attacked you. Do you think it was Ainsley Smith?”

Ainsley would have been the right height.

“You have to take me along,” Rebecca insisted. “He might be a killer.”

“He’s not there. Lois kicked him out.”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t skulking around.”

I flashed on Lois chasing her husband with the broom and felt almost certain that he wouldn’t return anytime soon, but Rebecca was not going to be dissuaded. She raced out of the office to the coat rack.

I followed.

She grabbed the winter white parka she had borrowed for our raid on Oscar’s house and shrugged into it. “Your grandfather is here. He can watch the store. We’ll tell him we’re going to the precinct. He’ll buy that.”

Yet another lie. Was I becoming pathological?

Rebecca raced to the front door, snatched a burgundy-striped umbrella from the umbrella stand by the office door, and brandished it. “We’ll take this for protection.” She whipped open the front door.

“Rebecca, wait.”

She didn’t. She marched outside. Over her shoulder, she said, “I saw this episode of
The Avengers
where Emma Peel used an umbrella like a sword. It was so cool.”

* * *

With Rebecca as my quasi-bodyguard, I hurried to the bed-and-breakfast. I trotted inside and nearly bumped into Lois, who was dusting her precious tea sets—Limoges, Dalton, Ucagco, Haviland. Each set was displayed on its own circular, marble-topped antique table. Agatha scampered at Lois’s feet, barking at dust bunnies.

Lois nudged the Shih Tzu away and said in a lackluster voice, “Hello, girls.” She plucked a piece of lint off of her lilac-colored jogging suit.

Rebecca said, “You sure look nice today, Mrs. Smith.”

I cut my sweet assistant an odd look. We weren’t there to bolster Lois’s ego. On the other hand, we were going to drop a bomb on her. A compliment or two might not be a bad idea. She looked sullen and drawn.

Lois regarded Rebecca’s umbrella. “I thought the storm was gone.”

“Another is on its way. Better safe than sorry.” Rebecca did a lunge, as if the umbrella were an épée. Agatha yipped her disapproval and hid behind Lois’s legs.

“Hush, Aggie,” Lois said. “She’s only playing.” The purple Plexiglas timer that hung on a chain around Lois’s neck tweeted. “Excuse me.” She bustled to the kitchen. Agatha trotted after her, glancing over her shoulder at us as to warn us not to follow.

But we did. The pipsqueak didn’t scare me.

“It smells great in here,” Rebecca said.

The sweet aroma of blueberry cinnamon scones hung in the air. The makings for cream-cheese icing sat on the granite counter.

“Where are all your guests?” I asked.

“At the faire, don’t you know. The ice sculpting winner will be announced in about a half hour. It’s all folderol, if you ask me.” Lois pried open the oven door. Without pulling out the rack, she touched the top of a scone with a fingertip, then shook her head. The dough gave way; the treats weren’t ready. She closed the oven door, reset the timer, and sauntered to the foyer. Without a word to us, she resumed dusting.

Her silence gnawed at my resolve. If it turned out her husband was a killer, would it break her heart? Was it already broken?

“Where’s Mr. Smith?” Rebecca asked.

“Gone, gone, gone.” Lois whisked the feather duster in rhythm. “I drove him away. Forever.” A scowl formed the number eleven between her eyebrows. “Charlotte, you saw him run off.”

I remembered how fleet he was. Fast enough to have beaten me to Oscar’s. Fast enough to have disappeared from Oscar’s after attacking me before I could find my footing.

Lois plodded into the great room and dusted picture frames that looked freshly dusted. We followed. I glanced at the wall and my pulse went tick-a-tick. Ainsley’s prized hockey stick, the one with three red stripes, still hung alongside the snowshoes and other decorative winter items. My fingers itched to take it to Urso.

“Oh, my, my, my.” Lois crumpled into one of the Queen Anne chairs and wedged the duster beside her thighs.

I rushed to her side and took her hand. “Are you okay?”

Agatha bolted into Lois’s lap.

“I love him, Charlotte. God help me, but I do.” She massaged the pup’s ears. “I would forgive him if he came back.” Tears pooled in her eyes but they didn’t fall. Not one. “That Kaitlyn Clydesdale. She was no good. She seduced him, don’t you know. Whatever did she see in an old man like him? A moment of sport, that was all. He isn’t to blame.” Her shoulders heaved for a moment. Just a moment. Then she set Agatha on the floor and stood up ramrod straight. No self-pity for her.

Rebecca sidled to me and jerked her chin toward the wall. “There’s the hockey stick,” she whispered. “Ask for it.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ve got to.”

“Lois.” I jammed my lips together. How could I convince her to let me take the hockey stick after what she had said? She wouldn’t believe her husband was capable of an act of violence. He was a pawn. An innocent.
Oh, my
, was right.

“Chip is back from that sightseeing tour, if that’s why you’re here,” Lois said.

“Ooh, did he go on one of the Amish ones?” Rebecca asked.

“No, he went on a tour of the town.”

“I remember putting together dinners for the English,” Rebecca continued.
English
was the term Amish ascribed to anyone who didn’t share the Amish faith. “That was probably the most fun I had as a girl, seeing outsiders enter our home.”

“I would imagine,” Lois said. “Well, I must get back to work.” She smacked the duster against her hip. Particles of dust drifted to the floor. Agatha scampered to the vacuum sitting near the entrance to the great room and barked as if willing it to do its magic. “By the by, Charlotte, I told Chip you stopped in this morning, wanting to speak with him.”

Rebecca’s mouth quirked up on the right. “I knew it. You’re holding out on me.”

I waved her off. I had no desire to talk to Chip. Not now. I needed to get hold of that hockey stick.

Lois gestured with her duster. “I moved Chip’s luggage into the sunroom over there.” She shook her head and laughed wistfully. “Why do I persist in calling it the sunroom when the sun doesn’t truly hit it? Ainsley named it that, the fool.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Rebecca whispered and winked at me. “Lois, would you mind fetching Chip for us?”

I gaped. Did she plan to steal the hockey stick when Lois left the room?

“No need,” Lois said. “He’ll be right down. A car is coming to take him to the airport.”

“Rats,” Rebecca mumbled.

I glanced at the sunroom and an idea came to me. Maybe, with Chip’s help, I could convince Lois to hand over the hockey stick. I strolled into the sunroom, which was cheery despite the gray skies outside. Chip’s luggage stood beside the lavender wicker sofa. An umbrella and his zippered suede jacket lay across the tote bag.

The sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor made me turn.

Chip, handsome in an ecru fisherman’s knit sweater and jeans, sauntered in. He stopped inches from me, and a sly grin spread across his face. “Well, well, we meet again, babe. Having doubts about me leaving? Want me to stay?” He ran a finger down my arm. “You know I would. I’d like to give us another try.”

“No.” I backed up. I wasn’t having doubts. Not one, though for some stupid reason, a sense of loss coursed through me. He was truly leaving. Again. For good. It was for the best. I knew it; he knew it.

“How about one last kiss for old times’ sake?” He leaned in.

I blocked him with my palm. “Chip, I need to take Ainsley’s hockey stick to Urso.”

“Why?” He grabbed his jacket and put it on.

“I think he used it to kill Kaitlyn Clydesdale.” I told him about the affair.

Chip rakishly raised an eyebrow. “Good old dullard Ainsley and Kaitlyn? I can’t see it.”

I shared the news about Ainsley’s weak alibi of walking the dog, his last plea to Kaitlyn, and Kaitlyn’s blackmail scheme. “You were right. Ainsley didn’t go to the hockey game. I think he followed Kaitlyn to Rebecca’s cottage. He argued with her, lashed out, and resorted to using a hatbox-style cheese container like a hockey puck.” I gave him the play-by-play I had envisioned in my mind.

“Wow.” Chip zipped up his jacket. “It’s hard to imagine. That would take some skill.”

“Lois said Ainsley was an ace shot way back when.”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me. I’ll help you, but you have to promise me a kiss after I do.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. He strode ahead of me into the great room. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, all charm and swagger. When Lois didn’t respond, he crossed to her and repeated, “Hey, beautiful.”

Lois looked up, her cheeks rosy, but she didn’t stop sweeping her duster across the mirror above the fireplace.

“Cool it for a moment, Lois,” Chip said.

“Can’t.”

“Sure you can. For me.” He spun her around and tugged on her timer necklace to draw her to him. He held his hand out for the duster.

Like a woman under a spell, Lois relinquished it.

“Charlotte would like to take your husband’s hockey stick and get it bronzed,” Chip went on. “It’ll be a real surprise to him when he returns.”

“Do you think he’ll return?” Lois sounded as fragile as one of her china tea sets.

“I’m sure of it. How could he leave someone as special as you?” Chip opened his arms, and Lois moved into them. She laid her head on his chest. “Special people deserve to be loved, right?” He winked at me, making sure that I had gotten his message. Though he had uttered the words to Lois, they were meant for me. He wanted me to reconsider taking him back into my life.

The scent of burning sugar penetrated the air and interrupted the tender moment.

Lois startled and checked her timer. “Oh, no, the scones.” She scurried toward the kitchen.

Chip said, “What about the hockey stick?”

“Take it. What do I care?” Lois said over her shoulder.

“Rebecca, go with her,” I said. “She’s not herself.”

“Will do. I’ll meet you at the precinct.” She darted after Lois.

Thankful I hadn’t removed my gloves, I plucked the hockey stick from the wall and sprinted toward the foyer, pulling my cell phone from my purse as I ran.

“Wait up.” Chip veered into the sunroom, grabbed his umbrella, and trotted after me. “Who are you calling?”

“Urso.”

“You don’t need to do that. I saw him at the diner. He was sitting down to a meal.” He snatched the phone from my hand and dropped it into my coat pocket. “I’ll go with you.”

“But a car is coming to take you to the airport.”

“It’ll wait. I’ve got to see Urso’s face when you tell him that
you
—not he—solved the case.”

I sighed. Men and their egos.