by Avery Aames
Crew people, who always ate first at the Playhouse, sat on the floor in front of a giant neon ROXIE HART sign. Most had polished off their meals. A few of the cast had climbed onto the raised platform located at the rear of the stage, which would hold the five-piece combo during the show.
“Do you need anything?” Pépère asked a pair of actresses who were dressed like sexy prison inmates. “Are there enough beverages? Is everyone happy?”
How could they not be content? The peppery aroma of Pépère’s pizzas filled the air.
He spotted me and waved for me to join him. “Chérie. Welcome. How do you like our flashy sign? It has been donated from a touring Broadway company.” He plucked a wedge of pizza from a platter and bit off the tip. Melted cheese and bits of pork sausage dripped between his fingers. He slurped it into his mouth. “Have some.” He encouraged me with his elbow.
I fetched a paper plate and viewed the selections of cheese and salads that Pépère had also provided, but chose the pizza. The aroma was the lure. One bite and I moaned my pleasure. Hints of hickory, cherrywood, and garlic popped in my mouth. “Oh, wow,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Extra garlic; that is the key.”
We ate the rest of our pizza in silence.
When we finished, he said, “How did your errand go?” His eyes twinkled with mock-judgment. “You were snooping, I assume.”
“I don’t snoop.”
He chortled. “It is your nature, as it is your grandmère’s. Did I ever tell you about the time she investigated a crime at the Harvest Moon Ranch? She—”
“Etienne.” The stage manager, a spark plug of a woman, hustled down the aisle of the theater toward the stage. “We have a minor lighting problem. Can I borrow you for a second?”
“But of course.”
“Wait.” I tugged on my grandfather’s sleeve. “What did Grandmère do?”
“It matters not. But I remember she said one must possess all the pieces of the puzzle and then adjust one’s thinking when it came to clues.” He tapped his forehead.
“Adjust one’s thinking? What does that mean?”
“I do not know. She quoted Hercule Poirot. ‘It is the brain, the little gray cells on which one must rely. One must seek the truth within—not without.’ She solved the crime that afternoon.”
As Pépère toddled down the stairs and hurried with the stage manager to the lighting booth at the rear of the theater, I wandered back to the buffet while contemplating Hercule Poirot’s advice. Did I possess all the information—all the clues—I needed to solve the puzzle of Kaitlyn’s death? What was I missing?
“It can’t be true!” a svelte actress yelled. She was standing in the wings, conversing with a shorter, perkier actress wearing a red silk teddy.
“It is. Now, keep your voice down.” Miss Perky looked around to see if people were listening in. They weren’t.
Except me, of course. What rumor could have made the svelte actress so upset?
Miss Perky adjusted the length of a garter on her garter belt. “Chicago, the musical, is based on the play of the same name. The reporter, Maurine Dallas Watkins, wrote about real-life murderesses. The character of Billy Flynn is based on two actual lawyers.”
“I’ll bet those lawyers didn’t tap-dance,” the svelte actress said.
“Probably not.”
“So why does our Billy have to tap-dance?”
I grinned. So that was what had disturbed the svelte one. Big deal.
“Because his whole court case relies on his tapping out the points to the jury,” Miss Perky explained.
I started to move away, but stopped when I heard Miss Perky add, “Barton would have been so much better in the role. You know what the gossip is about Barton, don’t you? He was having an affair with that woman.”
“Where’d you hear that?” the svelte one asked.
“At that clothing store.”
At Under Wraps? If Sylvie had picked up some big scoop, why hadn’t she pranced into The Cheese Shop and lauded it over me?
The svelte actress cut a look over her shoulder at me. Had I talked out loud?
Miss Perky flitted her fingers, as if to say, Forget about her. She’s no one.
I sidled away from the gossiping girls, but I couldn’t shake what my grandfather had said about adjusting my thinking. I had always connected Barton to Kaitlyn because of the sticky terms of their real estate contract. What if Barton had been Kaitlyn’s lover? What if she had lured him the same way she had lured Ainsley Smith? But to what end? She already had a real estate contract with Barton. She didn’t need to blackmail him for a piece of property. Was it possible, despite their age difference, that they had been truly in love?
* * *
Around four o’clock, I entered our Winter Wonderland tent, which was bustling with customers. Rebecca and Matthew stood at the counter, handing out slices of our three cheese selections. To my surprise, Tyanne had returned, as well. She held a tray of plastic stemware, each glass filled with about two ounces of wine. Her cheeks were flushed as crimson as her sweater.
I shrugged out of my coat and tweed jacket, folded them, set them with other coats on the lowest shelf of the baker’s rack, and sidled behind the counter.
Matthew eyed his wristwatch and then me. “About time you showed up.”
“I’m not late.” I tweaked the collar of his tan pin-striped shirt, which looked stylish beneath the shop’s chocolate brown apron. “Were you able to help Urso track down Jordan?”
“Yes. They’re on the hunt for the thief.”
“And Grandmère?”
“Is sticking to them like glue.”
I slipped an apron from beneath the counter and put it on over my jewel-necked sweater. “Why is Tyanne here?”
“She said she needed to keep busy. Theo has the kids. I’m teaching her all about wine. Watch this.” Matthew cleared his throat. “Tyanne, tell the folks about the Sin Zin.”
Like a TV display model, Tyanne flourished her hand in front of a plastic glass, and in an announcer-sized voice, said, “Sin Zin. It’s zesty with a hint of vanilla and berries.” Customers flocked to her for a glass.
Matthew beamed like a proud professor. “Isn’t she a natural?”
I nodded. Was there anything Tyanne couldn’t do? Except possibly keep her marriage together—a marriage she had emotionally left years ago, I reminded myself.
Rebecca edged closer to me and whispered, “What happened with Ainsley Smith?”
I explained in two sentences.
Matthew gave me a reproving look. Sotto voce, he said, “Don’t you think you’re taking this investigation thing too far? We have a police force.”
“Of three,” I said.
“Three’s better than two.”
“Are you kidding? We have three people working for us at The Cheese Shop, not to mention Pépère and Bozz on occasion, and we can barely make do. Urso and his crew can’t oversee an entire town. We should have a formidable force by now.”
“That requires”—Matthew rubbed his fingers together—“cash.”
Rebecca said, “Charlotte, I almost forgot, there’s a guy—”
“Ix-nay on the investigation alk-tay,” I said.
Meredith, pretty in an emerald jacket, biscuit-colored silk blouse, and brown slacks, sauntered into the tent and waved.
I sliced my finger across my neck, indicating that we should end the conversation. Meredith would give me what-for if she knew that I was nosing around. After last year’s run-in with a criminal, suffice it to say, she was overly protective of me—hence the self-defense lessons.
Apologizing to the crowd, Meredith scooted around them and headed for us. She cozied up to Matthew and planted a kiss on his cheek, then frowned at me. “Oh, no. Not again. What are you investigating now?”
“I’m not.”
“You are, too.” She jutted a finger. “Your eyes are shiny and hyper-alert. Fess up.”
I sighed. So much for thi
nking I could keep anything from my pal. “I was telling Matthew that I won’t sit idle while Urso incarcerates Ipo.” I ogled my cousin. “You, yourself, said he wasn’t guilty.”
“I’ve been known to be wrong about people,” Matthew said.
“Hell-o-o-o!” Sylvie, wearing a quasi-antebellum outfit with big flowing skirts and a strapless black bustier top, sashayed into the tent. She looked tartish, at best. The black lace fan she fluttered didn’t help. A few customers pointed and whispered.
Meredith said, “Does she have a clue how ridiculous she looks?”
“I doubt it.” How dare Sylvie have the gall to give me advice about my wardrobe. I reveled in the fact that her shoulders looked covered in goose bumps.
Sylvie waltzed to the counter and posed. “How do you like the new trend? I’m calling it Punk-Southern.”
Meredith bit back a laugh and elbowed me. I nudged her to hush.
Sylvie whacked Matthew playfully with her fan and held out a lace-gloved hand to him. “Let’s go, love. Time to hear our girlie-girls sing.”
“The recital isn’t for two hours, Sylvie, and I’m attending with Meredith.” Matthew grabbed Meredith’s hand. He must have squeezed it too hard because she winced.
“Tosh.” Sylvie pouted. “Whatever happened to parental unity?”
Matthew kept his voice low. “It vanished the day you walked out of our lives.”
Sylvie visibly jolted, and Matthew smirked, which warmed me to my toes. He couldn’t have made that comment a year ago. He had rebounded in the confidence department, thanks to Meredith’s love.
“You’re holding that against me?” Sylvie huffed.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I didn’t rove, I didn’t stray. I quite simply took a breather.”
Matthew said, “Sylvie, the way you rewrite history amazes me.” He turned to me and waggled his thumb between us. “You and I … we married Peter Pan and Tinkerbell.”
“Except Chip and I never married,” I reminded him.
“Minor detail.” Matthew pecked Meredith on the cheek and returned to his duties at the counter. “Next.” Customers in line moved forward.
Sylvie huffed at Matthew’s dismissal and started for the door. A few feet short, she turned back. “Oh, Charlotte.” She hurried back to me, the skirt of her ensemble swinging like a bell, and pulled me toward the side of the tent. She cupped a hand around her mouth. “I found out with whom Kaitlyn Clydesdale was having an affair.”
I tilted an ear, ready for her to corroborate the gossip I had heard at the theater.
“Ainsley Smith,” she confided.
“I know.”
“You know?” Sylvie sputtered. “Why did you ask me to do your bidding then? My time is precious.”
“I recently found out,” I said.
Sylvie rolled a bare shoulder back in triumph. “Oho! I”—supreme emphasis on the I—“discovered it yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” I said, employing the same tone she had used on me.
“Because gossip is tastier if it takes longer to learn.”
Wish I’d thought up that line. Rats. “What about Barton Burrell?” I said.
Sylvie tapped her fan against her palm. “What about him?”
“He was having an affair with her, too.”
Sylvie sniffed. “Where did you learn that?”
“You mean you haven’t heard it?”
“No, and if I haven’t, it’s probably not true.”
The actresses at the theater said they had picked up the tidbit at the clothing store. Had they meant Prudence’s Le Chic Boutique? I said, “Sylvie, you do not own the market on gossip.”
“Oh, yes, I do, Charlotte, and when you figure that out, you’ll be oh so much smarter. Ta-ta.” Sylvie gathered the train of her skirt in a bundle and trotted out. Scarlett O’Hara couldn’t have made a more dramatically smug exit.
“Charlotte, we’re running out of Zamorano,” Rebecca said.
“I’ll handle it.” I fetched a new hunk of cheese from the ice chest and set it on the prep table behind the cheese counter. “Why don’t you take a break.”
As she wiped her hands on a towel, she said, “Well, well, lookie who’s still roaming about.”
“Who?”
“That creep.” She jerked her chin toward the northernmost tent window where Oscar Carson was pacing back and forth outside. “He came in earlier, asking when you would arrive, and I said I wasn’t sure, so he said he’d wait out there.” She grinned. “He must not have seen you slip in.”
Wondering what Oscar could possibly want to tell me, and spurred on by my grandfather’s insistence that I adjust my thinking, I said, “I’ll be right back.”
“What about my break?”
“In a minute.” Quickly I wove a path through the crowd; however, by the time I reached the spot outside the tent where Oscar had been pacing, he was gone. I spun in a circle and caught sight of him walking down an aisle with Georgia. She had her arm looped over his shoulders; her face was turned toward him; she was speaking into his ear. I was tempted to follow and listen in, but before I moved a step, Georgia swiveled her head, locked eyes with me, and smirked. A shiver of suspicion spiraled down my back. What was her story? Why the smug look?
I had no time to mull over the answer because at that same moment Barton Burrell, with his three sons in tow, was striding purposefully between the tents. They looked like a posse in search of a criminal. I tracked the direction Barton was headed and spied his wife, Emma, who fidgeted near the knight on a horse ice sculpture. Though she stood tall, her shoulders nearly even with the horse’s, Emma looked withdrawn and sullen. The heavy drape of her coal black coat didn’t help the image. She clung to a bottle of soda and her mouth was moving, as if she was talking to herself.
Barton arrived beside her, his face a solemn grimace, and seized the soda from her hand. He tossed it into a nearby trash can, then returned to Emma and pulled her into a fierce hug. Emma burst into tears. The boys clutched their parents in a ring of love.
My heart broke at the sight. Had Emma heard about Barton’s affair with Kaitlyn and gone off to contemplate her options, or had she gone off to grieve the child she had miscarried? Either way, the family appeared devastated.
CHAPTER
At five thirty, Rebecca left the tent to visit Ipo. Matthew and Meredith departed a few minutes after her. At six o’clock, Tyanne and I left the shop in the capable hands of Bozz and Philby.
Outside, the scents of hot pretzels and roasted nuts rose up to meet us. My stomach panged big time. Since my quickie slice of pizza at the theater, I hadn’t eaten more than a nibble of Zamorano cheese.
“We’ve got an hour to get a bite of dinner before the recital starts,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
“Sure am, sugar. Good ol’ comfort food would do.”
“Charlotte and Tyanne,” Delilah called. She and Freckles looked like happy-go-lucky children, skipping toward us, each carrying a wand of fluffy cotton candy. The glow of the tent’s lights danced on their faces. “We’ve decided we need a spur-of-the-moment night out.”
“There’s so much electricity in the air,” Freckles said.
Delilah bobbed her head in agreement.
“My sweet hubby is escorting our daughters around the faire, so I’m a free woman.” Freckles did a gleeful hop-skip. “Are you game?”
“What we are is starved,” I said. Even the sight of their cotton candy made my mouth water. “But we don’t have much time. We’ve got to attend the recital in an hour.”
Delilah grabbed our hands. “Let’s get a move on, then.”
“Have you spoken to Jacky?” I asked. “How’s baby Cecily?”
“They came into the diner,” Delilah said. “Cecily’s fine. Colicky but fine.”
“Is Jacky going to join us?”
“Her babysitter stood her up. She’s trying to find another.”
The noise at Timothy O’Shea’s Irish Pub wa
s deafening. Beyond the long antique bar, a pair of electric violinists played a Clancy Brothers’ tune. Many in the large crowd—which, thanks to the Winter Wonderland event, was double the normal size for February—clapped in time. Others watched the variety of sporting events playing silently on televisions that hung over the bar.
Waitresses wearing jeans, plaid shirts, and red scarves at their necks, meandered through the throng. One patted Freckles’s shoulder and said, “I’ve held a table for you over there.”
Freckles herded us toward a wooden booth, which had been set with a reserved sign.
After removing our hats, gloves, and coats, we clambered into the oak banquette. Freckles and Tyanne settled opposite Delilah and me.
Freckles said, “By the way, I saw Matthew heading over to secure some seats for the recital. Meredith was on one side of him and Sylvie was on the other. He didn’t look pleased.”
Oh, no, I thought. Sylvie must have lain in wait for Matthew to leave the tent. What a plotter.
“That woman,” Tyanne said. “She opens her mouth and out comes nastiness.”
“No kidding,” Freckles said. “My, oh, my. A customer was in Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe yesterday. You know who I mean, that curly-haired woman who is now running Clydesdale Enterprises.”
“Georgia Plachette,” I said.
“She needed some lace to repair her black gloves,” Freckles went on. “Anyway, Sylvie was there, too, and she had the gall to walk right up to Georgia and tell her lace was passé. Can you believe it?”
I couldn’t, not after seeing Sylvie’s Punk-Southern look today.
Freckles giggled. “Hollywood should do a TV show with Sylvie as a personal taste expert. That would be a hoot. British trailer park chic.”
“There she is,” Delilah said.
“Who, Sylvie?” I turned.
“No.” Delilah tweaked my arm. “That Georgia woman, talking to Prudence.”
Tyanne snuffled. “Prudence looks like she’s had a nip too many, don’t you think?”
Prudence Hart, hard to miss in her mustard yellow suit and teetering on stiletto heels, was hugging Georgia. The whole scenario looked awkward. In my lifetime, I had never seen Prudence hug a soul. What was she doing? If I had to guess, I would bet Georgia had bestowed some Do-Gooder funds on Prudence’s pet project. Locked in Prudence’s uncomfortable embrace, Georgia looked ill at ease. Her nose and eyes were puffy, and her black sheath bunched around her thighs. Like an antsy riveter, she rat-a-tatted her clunky five-inch platforms on the hardwood floor. Prudence finally released her and Georgia regrouped.
