by Avery Aames
“Mr. Burrell,” Lois called. “Time for a break, young man.”
Barton descended the ladder and tramped up the steps to the porch. He looked leaner and shaggier than when I’d seen him last, and he had grown a mustache, but he also appeared less sure of himself, as if something was bothering him. A pang of concern shot through me because Barton, who moonlighted as one of Providence’s local theater stars, was usually a ham and full of bravado. He had been known to stand on a street corner and spout poetry or lines from Shakespeare’s plays. Was he suffering a financial crisis? Was that why he was working for Lois? Perhaps Kaitlyn Clydesdale was in negotiations to buy his property. His cattle farm abutted Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.
Lois poured Barton a cup of tea from a Haviland moss rose china teapot. She added a lump of sugar and offered it to him.
Barton blew on the tea, then drank two sips and whispered, “Thanks.”
“Aren’t you going to say hello to Charlotte?” Lois said.
“Nice to see you,” he muttered. Air no longer hissed through the gap in his front teeth; he’d had the gap fixed last year. But that wasn’t what disconcerted me. Something in his gaze made me think he was upset with me.
As he retreated to the ladder, I wondered if he was embarrassed to be seen taking on extra work.
Lois said, “Let’s go inside. It’s brisk. Do you think the puppy and cat can stay out here with Agatha?” She shuffled ahead of me and held the door open with her leg.
“It would be better if they could nestle in the foyer, just inside the doorway. Rocket is so young, he might bolt otherwise.”
“Sure, sure.”
I led Rocket and Rags into the entry and commanded them to sit. They did. Agatha marched in front of them like a sentry, daring them to make a move, which probably had something to do with their near-perfect behavior.
A warm wave of heat swirled around me as I followed Lois into the great room. The temperature was too hot for my taste, but the bed-and-breakfast was successful, so Lois probably knew what her guests enjoyed. The room reminded me of a hunting lodge, its walls packed with sports memorabilia as well as winter sports equipment. In the spring, the snowshoes, skis, hockey sticks, commemorative pucks, and slalom flags would come down and be replaced with garlands of flowers and glorious pictures of Holmes County. Lois prided herself on decorating according to the season. She said it made her guests’ stay that much more unique.
A fire crackled in the stone hearth. I settled in one of the many wingbacked chairs in the cozy room and inhaled deeply. Lois must have laced the wood with sticks of cinnamon, which burned like incense and imbued the room with a spicy scent.
Lois adjusted the eye patch over her weak eye—she had recently decided that handmade decorative patches were the rage—then she nestled into the chair opposite me and placed a lavender crocheted throw that matched her lavender warm-up suit over her knees. “Ainsley,” she said, referring to her husband as if we hadn’t had a break in conversation. “He adores his hockey, don’t you know. He was a player, back when. An ace shot. I’m thinking of having his game stick bronzed for his next birthday, but, hush, don’t tell him.” She pointed to a hockey stick with three red stripes on the handle that was hanging on the wall. “I love surprises.”
“So do I,” a man said from the hallway.
Not her husband. Chip.
He emerged in the archway, and I groaned. How did I not sense he was staying right next door to me? He swaggered into the room, his randy gaze drinking me in.
Why did it take all my mettle to look away? Dang.
“Ahhh,” he said, eyeing the display on the wall. “Remember the first hockey game you ever attended, Charlotte? Slap shot!” He mimed a powerful shot, raising his arms behind him and following through with flair.
How could I forget? The team had won because Chip had made three goals—a hat trick. The high school crowd went wild. Girls had thrown themselves at him, but he had sneaked off with me—his science lab partner—in his Mustang. Talk about chemistry! The next day we went for a hayride, with church bells clanging in the background. He said there was nothing more fun in life, and at the time, he had been right.
“Remember?” he repeated.
Oh, yeah, I remembered. He was my first kiss. We had necked for two hours. I wondered if Rebecca was enjoying her first kiss right about now.
“Time flies, doesn’t it?” Chip glanced at his watch. “Speaking of time, I’m off to the Village Green to watch the ice sculpting. Want to join me?”
“I’ll pass.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
But I do. I did. I had. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
He strutted out the front door and stopped in the foyer to give my pets a good nuzzle—the traitors yipped and purred their delight—then Chip exited and jogged down the steps laughing.
As his laughter faded, Lois said, “Have you heard about Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s plans to start a new honeybee farm?”
Was that why she’d asked me in for tea? To ply me for gossip? I said, “Only rumors.”
“Well, it’s a shame, you ask me. That sweet Ipo Ho and his Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm won’t be able to compete.”
“Why not?”
“First off, Kaitlyn will update everything. Then she’ll produce twice as much honey at half the price. I’ve heard that’s what she does.”
Not following, I said, “She owns other honeybee farms?”
“And cattle farms, goat farms, wineries, and more.” Lois bobbed her head in rhythm. “I overheard her talking when she was staying here. She loves to update everything. She hates to let things remain behind the times.”
“Kaitlyn was a guest here?”
“For one night. She moved to Violet’s across town. Good riddance.” Lois swatted the air.
Violet’s Victoriana Inn was Lois’s competition, and Lois was quite vocal about not liking Violet’s sense of style. The inn was less homey than Lavender and Lace and a heap more expensive, although it did have a number of perks. Violet had hired a full-time masseuse and hairdresser. From what I could tell, Violet’s place was more Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s style—brash and aloof.
Lois clucked her tongue. “She’s not to be trusted.”
“Violet?”
“Kaitlyn Clydesdale. Mark my words. I knew her years ago. She’ll eat up this town.” Lois looked at least five years older than Kaitlyn. Had their age difference colored her view? “She was a terror as a girl. Willful.”
I knew a lot of willful people, but that didn’t make any of them a terror.
“Willful,” Lois repeated, and left it at that.
* * *
The sugary aroma of freshly made toffee in the Igloo Ice Cream Parlor snaked its way up the stairways, beneath the doors, and into the brightly lit yoga studio where my girlfriends and I were attending class. My stomach grumbled like a volcano. Sitting in the butterfly pose invariably made me hungry—don’t ask me why. My pal Freckles, a button of a woman dressed in neon orange workout clothes, giggled at the noise. Meredith, Delilah, and Jacky joined in. I hushed them all with a glare. Freckles stuck out her tongue.
“Real mature,” I whispered.
“Lie flat on your mats,” the stick-thin yoga instructor said.
All of us un-pretzled our bodies and obeyed.
“Hands beneath your buttocks and lift your right leg. Inhale up, exhale down. Now, the left leg. Inhale up . . .”
I breathed out my earlier frustration with Chip, and focused on Jordan’s winning smile and gentle hands and delicious kisses. I wondered if he would be free later. Would it be too brazen if I called?
“Plow pose. Raise your hips over your head. Touch your toes to the ground.”
Jacky, Jordan’s darkly elegant sister who glowed with new mommy joy even though, for the first time in her life, she was battling tummy bulge, only made it halfway in the plow pose. She moaned with frustration and tried harder. Freckles, who had recently given birth to
a second daughter, moaned as well.
“Psst.” Despite the odd position, Meredith turned her head sideways. Her flexibility had something to do with regular exercise, I was pretty sure—something I needed to do more of. “Ipo will have to work things out for himself regarding the new competition with Clydesdale Enterprises, I’m afraid.”
“She’s right,” Freckles chimed in.
Before entering the classroom, I had told my friends about my chat with Lois.
“Does Ipo have any recourse?” Jacky asked.
“There’s nothing in the town’s bylaws that states someone can’t have a competing business,” Delilah said. She would know. A number of competitors had tried to lure customers away from the Country Kitchen.
“Ladies, quiet,” the yoga instructor said. “Silence is good for the soul.”
“But silence won’t solve the world’s problems,” I whispered.
Freckles tittered. “You’re bad.”
Delilah laughed, too. So did Meredith. The instructor gave us the evil eye.
While still attempting to achieve the perfect plow pose, Jacky said, “Meredith, when’s the wedding?”
“We’re thinking autumn. The college will be up and running by then.” Meredith’s enthusiasm was contagious.
“I love fall weddings,” Freckles gushed.
Meredith had hired Freckles and her staff at Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe to sew all the dresses for the wedding, mine included. But when was the wedding going to be? Autumn was such a nebulous time frame. Did Meredith mean September, October, or November? A girl needed to plan ahead. I didn’t want to lose five pounds in August for nothing.
“Delilah, how are things going with Luigi?” Meredith asked, switching subjects deftly. Luigi Bozzuto was the owner of Providence’s only four-star restaurant, La Bella Ristorante.
“Great. He’s helping me divine some new grilled cheese sandwich recipes.” She made a humming sound as she often did when talking about food. “How does Vella Dry Jack, bacon, red onions, and syrup sound?”
“Decadent,” Meredith said.
“Utterly.” Delilah grinned. “Luigi said I should call it the Godfather, after … Charlotte, you tell them.”
I said, “Ig Vella was considered the godfather of American artisan cheese—a term he hated, by the way. His father founded Rogue Creamery with the help of J. L. Kraft.”
“Wow,” Meredith said.
“Luigi is such a card.” Delilah laughed. She hoped to host a grilled cheese contest in Providence someday. In an effort to create the most unique sandwiches imaginable, Delilah had sought Luigi’s advice. Within a week, Luigi and she had started dating. Though Luigi was at least twenty years older than Delilah, he could keep up with her intense pace and he loved to dance. The level of dance ability didn’t matter to Delilah. Good, bad, or indifferent at the skill, a man’s job was to get her out on the dance floor.
“How are things with Urso?” Delilah asked Jacky, who had achieved the plow pose—just barely.
“Unfurl, ladies, and roll onto your stomachs,” the instructor advised. “Arch your back in the cobra pose.”
As we all obeyed the command, Delilah said, “Yoo-hoo, Jacky … Umberto Urso … hello. I asked you a question.”
Jacky drew in a deep breath but kept mute. The day after she found out she was pregnant by insemination, she started dating Providence’s chief of police, who was one of my best friends. Had they broken up? I couldn’t remember having seen them strolling together or holding hands in quite a while. I would hate it if they split up. Urso had seemed so happy. Jacky, too.
“Cat-cow,” the instructor said.
We all drew to our knees, inhaled, and rolled our backs toward the ceiling.
“Fine, don’t talk about Urso,” Delilah said. “Charlotte, where’s Rebecca? Why hasn’t she joined us in this no-talking zone?”
“She’s consoling Ipo,” I answered.
“That’s not what I hear,” Freckles said. “I hear they’re going to do it.”
“Wahoo.” Delilah whistled under her breath.
I groaned. How many people had Rebecca confided in? “Not it, it,” I said. “They’re going to kiss.”
That earned laughter and a round of “Uh-huh, right,” from Meredith, Delilah, and Jacky.
“Ladies, please, no talking, or I’ll have to ask you to leave,” the instructor said. “This is a relaxing environment.”
“I’m not talking,” Freckles said. “I’m laughing.”
“No laughing, as well.”
Delilah flat-out guffawed. I couldn’t hold in my chuckles any longer, either.
The five of us scrambled to our feet, gathered our things from the rear of the room, and hustled into the foyer of the yoga studio. Our laughter chorused above the burbling water fountain. Lyrical music, designed to make those who entered the hallowed studio calm, filtered through speakers, but we simply couldn’t be serene.
“I’m so sorry,” Freckles said, still chuckling.
“I’m not.” Meredith patted Freckles on the back. “None of us were reaping the benefit of the class for some reason.”
“My twelve-year-old told me there’s hyper-electricity in the air. Winter brings it on.” Freckles was always packed with trivial information. She and her husband homeschooled their daughter. “Frenchie and hubby are doing a physics experiment on the topic this very minute with our other munchkin watching from the stroller.”
“I wasn’t talking about physics,” Delilah said. “I was talking about chemistry.” She turned to Jacky. “C’mon, give. What’s up with you and Urso?”
At least they had backed off discussing Rebecca and Ipo’s situation.
“Nothing.” Jacky tucked her yoga mat under her arm. “I mean, things are fine. Everything’s fine.”
As Delilah pleaded for more, Meredith tweaked my elbow and whispered, “By the way, I Googled the guy that Jordan said taught him to make cheese—Jeremy Montgomery.”
Her presumption that I would want to know made me prickly—was I that easy to read? I glanced at Jacky to see if she was listening in. She wasn’t. She seemed intent on stalling Delilah’s interrogation. I said, “Go on.”
“I’m worried,” Meredith said.
“Why?”
Meredith chewed on her lower lip then proceeded. “He died before Jordan was born.”
My insides percolated with apprehension. Why would Jordan lie to me? “Are you sure?”
Before she could respond, the front door of the yoga studio burst open.
Bozz, my teenaged Internet guru, hurtled inside. Chest heaving for breath, he brushed longish bangs off his forehead and gasped. “Miss B! I just got a text.”
Big deal. I would bet he received nearly two hundred texts a day.
“It’s from Chief Urso!”
My heart snagged in my chest. “What did it say?”
“He … He”—Bozz bent over and sucked in air—“he couldn’t reach you.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of my purse. We were required to turn off all cell phones for the yoga class.
“It’s about Rebecca.” Bozz offered me his phone.
I snatched the phone from his palm, and as I read, my knees went weak.
Kaitlyn Clydesdale was lying dead in Rebecca’s cottage.
CHAPTER
While I hotfooted it to Rebecca’s, my boots spanking the wet pavement, selfish thoughts zipped through my mind. Whether I had liked Kaitlyn Clydesdale or not, I had been hoping to ply her for more information about my mother. I knew so little. My mother’s parents had died of natural causes soon after the crash. My mother had no sisters or brothers. The few friends she’d made had married and moved away. Kaitlyn claimed to have been one of those friends. I was hoping that, during the time she was in town, she would tell me more about my mother—her secrets, her passions, what had made her tick. During my childhood years, Grandmère had done her best to fill in the blanks, but a friend who had known my mother for years would have been so much better. With th
e link gone, I felt a loss deep in my soul.
By the time I reached Rebecca’s red-shingled cottage, a crowd had gathered. Many were popping up and down, trying to see over the heads of someone in front. Rebecca rented her darling abode from my Realtor friend, Octavia Tibble, who owned a half dozen such cottages around town and rented them only to single women who Octavia decided had promise. I looked for her among the crowd but didn’t spot her. She adored Rebecca. Maybe she was already inside demanding Rebecca’s rights.
Heart pounding, I veered toward the white fence that was cluttered with barren rose vines. I slipped through a break in the fence and stole to the front porch.
The top half of the Dutch door hung open. I would lay odds that our illustrious chief of police was already inside. He hated a stifling hot room. Everyone else within the cottage had to be freezing.
As I drew near, Grandmère sidled to my side. “Oh, chérie.” Tears streaked her cheeks. She pulled the ends of her knit burgundy scarf to tighten it. “I am so glad you are here. It is a shame, non?”
“Yes. Tell me what happened.”
“Chief Urso believes our sweet honeybee farmer killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”
“Killed? This is a murder scene?”
Neither Urso nor his deputy had hung the yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape yet. At any moment, they might order the crowd to retreat. Before that time, I needed to learn all I could.
“The jury is out,” Grandmère said. When my grandparents moved from war-torn France, they had adapted quickly to the American way of life. Grandmère loved to use Americanisms. “Regarde.” She pointed at the living room, visible from our spot near the Dutch door.
Kaitlyn, wearing the same getup she had worn in The Cheese Shop, lay on her back on a red braided rug. Her body was wedged between an Amish rocking chair and a ladder-back chair; her head was close to the leg of the coffee table. Rebecca’s furnishings were sparse. She and I had gone garage sale hunting one day and had picked up most of the items. She had saved an entire month’s earnings to buy the ruby red love seat upon which Ipo and she were sitting.
