by Avery Aames
It was my turn to play defensive lineman. I darted to the front door of The Cheese Shop and blocked Rebecca, making full body contact. She bounced off me and staggered backward in the direction of one of The Cheese Shop barrels. I pursued her.
“What’s wrong?” She attempted a defiant pose.
“You’re not going. Not this time.”
“Why not?”
“Because you like your job.”
She frowned. “You’re kidding. You’d fire me?”
I wouldn’t. Not in a million years. But I also wanted to rein her in. I promised to report back as soon as possible. A teenager assigned to kitchen duty couldn’t have looked more miserable.
On our way out of town, Delilah and I drove past the Winter Wonderland faire where ice sculptors were fine-tuning their ice blocks and vendors were making last-minute finishes to their tents. The lights on the tents and pine trees twinkled with magical delight.
“What a night!” With her head all the way out the passenger window, Delilah reminded me of a dog, her curls flapping like floppy ears. “This is what fairy tales are made of.”
The sliver of sun that dared to make an appearance in the afternoon hadn’t dried up the moisture in the air.
“Close the window,” I said. “It’s freezing in here.”
“You think this is cold?” She chuckled. “Try getting around New York in a sleet storm.”
As we headed north, I whizzed past a variety of roadside stores, including garden shops that wouldn’t open their doors until April and a shed maker who also made playhouses. The twins had been begging for a pink and white mini-mansion. Matthew promised that when Meredith and he got married and moved into their own home, he would buy the girls the house. While growing up, I’d had something similar at my grandparents’ house, but it was now painted ten layers of white and held a lawn mower and garden tools. A memory of kissing Chip in the shed swept through my mind. I stepped harder on the gas pedal as our view became mile after mile of farms and rough-hewn fences, each laced with barbed wire to keep livestock penned in. The wood glistened with crystallized particles of ice.
“Thinking about Chip?” Delilah said, a teasing bite to her question.
I glowered at her. How had she guessed?
“What was he doing at the store?” she asked.
“How did you know he was there?”
“He was carrying one of your tote bags.”
I drummed the steering wheel.
“At some point you have to talk about him,” Delilah said. “There’s an elephant in the car. Is he stalking you like Oscar’s stalking Georgia?”
“No. And Oscar’s not stalking Georgia.”
“Oh, yes, he is.”
“He likes her.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to moon about. It doesn’t give Chip the right, either.”
I drummed the steering wheel harder.
“Georgia was at the diner,” Delilah said. “She sat at the counter, drinking a root beer and mumbling to herself. She looked pretty torn up. When I asked her what was wrong, she said she didn’t believe for a second that Oscar witnessed the giggling incident between Rebecca and Ipo. She said it would be just like him to make that up.”
That piqued my attention. Oscar had said that he wanted to get to know Georgia better, meaning he didn’t know her well, but her statement implied a deeper intimacy. What was the truth?
Delilah said, “Tell me, why are we in such a hurry to see Arlo?”
“He’s been acting pretty suspicious.” I related what Lois had told me.
“But Arlo’s always shifty, so why the giddyup now?”
“Someone made a call to Kaitlyn Clydesdale when she was at The Cheese Shop. She was not happy and threatened the caller. She said, ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind. I’ll ruin you.’”
“And you think she was talking to Arlo.”
“It’s as good a guess as any.” I turned on my bright headlights. With no streetlamps, the curves of the road were harder to navigate as dusk turned to dark. “She was buying the property next to his. Maybe she had designs on his place, too. Maybe that made him mad.”
“Angry enough to kill?” Delilah tapped the car door with her fingernails. “You know, Arlo’s great-grandfather was among the original settlers in Providence. He’s lived here his whole life. Preserving one’s heritage might be a strong motive for murder. On the other hand, how would Kaitlyn know that Arlo’s homeland mattered to him?”
“She lived here years ago,” I said.
Delilah thumped her thigh. “Whoa, didn’t know that.”
“She and Arlo were about the same age,” I added. “Do you think he might have been having a relationship with her?”
“Not Arlo.” Delilah frittered her hand. “No way. Have you taken a look at him lately? He’s pasty and has that perpetual sneer. And he’s always wearing that dreadful oversized overcoat. For all we know, he’s a flasher.” She laughed heartily. “My, oh, my, did we have a lot of flashers in New York. I don’t miss running around the lake in Central Park, I’m telling you. You know, Arlo’s an enigma,” she went on, changing the subject easily. “I remember him, years ago, bringing candy into the Country Kitchen and passing it around. He was sweet and not so”—she searched for a word—“odd.”
I swerved around a cattle truck and nearly came nose-to-nose with an Econoline van. Braking, I fell in behind the truck. Delilah gripped the handle over the passenger window.
“Slow down,” she said. “Arlo’s not going anywhere.”
I veered up the road that entered the property between the Burrells’ place and Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm.
“Something went screwy with Arlo once his wife died.” Delilah twisted in her seat to face me. “Do you think that’s what happens when someone doesn’t have a mate to help them through life?” Her voice caught.
I glanced over. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes glistened in the dark. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? I didn’t need a sobbing sidekick.
“Luigi loves you,” I said.
“I know that.” She paused. “Why did you feel the need to tell me?”
“Because your eyes were getting teary, and I thought—”
“I’m crying for Arlo, you nitwit. He’s such a sad, lonely soul.”
Who might very well be a killer.
* * *
A pair of posts carved with the surname MacMillan flanked the entrance to the MacMillan Chicken Farm. My tires crunched on the gravel driveway as I drove toward the run-down, ranch-style house. The car’s headlights highlighted toys and rusty bikes lying on the dormant grass.
I couldn’t see Kaitlyn Clydesdale setting foot on the property, but I wouldn’t rule out Arlo being her paramour. Lois said Kaitlyn had moved to Violet’s Victoriana Inn. What if she had met her lover there? Would a taste of Violet’s favorite double-cream cheese—Fromager d’Affinois—help me persuade her to reveal the truth? Maybe I would throw in a wedge of Caciotta al Tartufo—a semi-soft cow and sheep’s cheese with the delicate flavor of truffles—and a bottle of a lusty Merlot. Violet had her vices.
I pulled to a stop in front of Arlo’s house and put my hand on the door handle.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Delilah said, her voice barely a whisper. “What a dump. Why doesn’t Arlo keep it up? It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. I’ve seen him at the art gallery. He bids on pieces of art.”
“Perhaps he bids but never buys.” I often browsed shops to admire the beautiful wares, but I couldn’t afford to purchase everything I set eyes on.
“Maybe that would explain why he only buys a seltzer water at the diner. He’s flat-out cheap.”
“Don’t be quick to judge. He could be thrifty. He did have four children with his wife.”
“Where do they live?”
“Got me.” I hadn’t seen Arlo accompanied by anyone since I graduated high school. “Maybe he prefers to live lean, like his chickens.”
Delilah
shot me a yeah, right look.
Taking a courageous breath, I exited the car, and despite the fact that the porch light was broken, headed to the front door. The muted cackle of chickens drifted from the weathered chicken house.
Delilah joined me, plumes of her warm breath clouding the chilly air. “What’s the plan? Bang on the door and beg him to confess?”
“Something like that.”
I pressed the doorbell, but like the porch light, it didn’t work. I knocked and waited.
“Not home,” Delilah said. “Let’s go check out Oscar’s story.”
I grabbed her elbow to detain her and knocked again.
No one answered.
“Hear that?” I said, craning an ear to listen. Eerie music emanated from somewhere deep in the house. I recognized the theme from the movie Psycho. Grandmère had used the piece as background music in one of her dramatic plays.
Delilah shivered. “I’m heading back to the car.”
“ ’Fraidy cat.”
“Sticks and stones.”
A frisson of fear snaked up my back. “Wait.” I held her in place. “What if Arlo knew something about the killer, and the killer found him first?” With a knife, in a shower, my vivid imagination added. “What if Arlo is lying injured inside?” So much for him being guilty in my mind. “I’m going in.”
“Charlotte Bessette, you are not the appointed savior of everyone in Providence, Ohio, no matter what people say,” Delilah said snarkily, then moaned. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”
I had heard people talk. Solve one murder, I was lucky. Solve two, I was a snoop. Only recently had the appointed savior nickname surfaced. I had overheard someone whispering the words in The Cheese Shop. I rarely bought into gossip. “Rebecca’s going to have my hide if I don’t come back with info.”
“Ooooh, she’s so scary.”
I glowered. “Truly, he might be hurt.”
“Fine. One peek, but then we’re out of here.” Delilah tried the front doorknob. It didn’t budge. She stole to the corner of the house and peered around it. “Got a flashlight?”
I scampered back to the car, fetched the flashlight from my glove compartment, and returned. I flared the light on the wood siding. “I see a window. I think it’s ajar, but it’s too high up.”
“There are knotholes. I’ll go first.”
As girls, Delilah, Meredith, and I had spent many hours climbing trees, most particularly the two-hundred-year-old oak on Meredith’s family property. Delilah had been the best climber.
While I trained the flashlight beam on the wall, Delilah ascended. She forced open the window; it squeaked its resistance. Delilah peeked inside. “Oh, lord, I think there’s a body on the floor. Toss me the flashlight.”
I did. Poorly. It hit the lip beneath the window and caromed to the ground; the top popped off and the batteries flew out.
“Never mind. I’m going in.” Delilah slithered through the opening.
Stuffing down any worry about what Urso would say if he found me breaking and entering yet again, I clambered up the side of the house, slithered over the windowsill, and dropped to the floor inside.
“Psst,” Delilah said.
I spun around. Shadows and the musty smell of chicken feathers and dust filled the room. “Where’s the body?”
“This way.”
I hurried behind Delilah to a puffy shape. I tapped it with my toe. It gave ever so slightly. I bent down, and the scent of wet hay met my nostrils. “You goon. It’s an old scarecrow.”
“My mistake. I’m going to find a light switch.”
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I made out a table in the center of the room. It was filled with a variety of shapes. And there was shelving everywhere. Racks and racks of shelving on every wall. The shelves looked packed, but with what?
Before I could find out, a guttural howl wracked the air.
The lights flipped on, and I saw Arlo leaping headlong at me. He was wearing chicken-decorated pajamas. In his hands he gripped a pair of karate-style nunchakus. The chain connecting them clacked with ferocity.
Delilah screamed and attacked him from behind.
“Whoa,” I yelled. “Arlo, stop.”
He kept coming. I tucked my head down to bear the brunt of his rush. He hit me full force. The top of my head made contact with his solar plexus. The air popped out of him. The nunchakus flew from his hands and clattered on the wooden floor. Groaning, Arlo bent forward and clutched his knees.
Delilah, who had been attacked once when she lived in New York and swore she would never let someone get the better of her again, slung an arm around Arlo’s neck. “Grab his hands,” she ordered.
“Let him go,” I said.
“Not until he calms down.”
Arlo took multiple short breaths. “I’m okay now. I won’t attack. I’m sorry. Uncle.”
“Delilah, let him go.”
She did.
“Arlo, why are you dressed in pajamas this early at night?” I said.
“I’ve been fighting a cold. I was in bed.”
“Watching Psycho?”
He bobbed his head. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Who’d you think it was?”
“Someone’s after me. People have been following me. Watching, watching, watching.”
“Whoa. No more Hitchcock for you,” Delilah said.
“I’ve got the whole set.”
I’ll bet he did. And the whole set of a lot more things, if the contents of his living room were a telltale sign. Curios, trinkets, DVDs, and canned items filled the shelves. The floors swam with bikes and balls. It was a junk hoarder’s paradise. I also spotted peculiar looking things that I was pretty sure were medieval weaponry, and another idea hit me. Arlo liked to collect weapons. Had he stolen Ipo’s kala’au rods?
“What is all this, Arlo?” I swept my hand at the array of goods.
“A mess.” Delilah left us to browse the room.
“Why are you inside my house?” Arlo folded his arms in front of his torso as if that might make him look brawnier. It didn’t.
“We thought you might be hurt.” I didn’t add that we thought he might have been dead or Kaitlyn’s lover or possibly a killer. There was no need to confuse him with the details.
Delilah held up three tubes of wrapping paper with wedding bells on it. “Arlo, why do you have these? And what about this?” She displayed a stuffed spotted giraffe, the freebie given only to tots from the children’s store in town.
“I can explain.”
“How about this?” Delilah nabbed a carton of seven-seed crackers. “Did you buy this?”
“No.”
Delilah turned to me. “Are you missing inventory from the shop, Charlotte? As far as I know, you’re the only one in town who sells these. There are hatbox-style cheese containers here, too. Not refrigerated. Ugh.” She glowered at Arlo. “Did you filch all this stuff? Are you a kleptomaniac?”
I looked at Arlo, searching for a nicer word. “Are you a collector?”
His arms fell to his sides. He lowered his chin. “When my wife died, I had this … need … to fill the void.”
“With things?” I said.
He kicked the nunchakus on the floor with disgust.
“Who are you afraid of, Arlo?”
“Huh?” He looked at me, rheumy eyed.
“You said you believed someone was following you. Who?” I thought of Oscar Carson. Delilah claimed he was stalking Georgia. What if Oscar was stalking Arlo on Kaitlyn’s orders? She was dead, but that didn’t mean Oscar didn’t have a job to do. “And why?”
“Blackmail,” he said.
“Kaitlyn Clydesdale was blackmailing you.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” he blurted, as if prompted to confess on his deathbed.
On the night of the murder, had he gone to confront Kaitlyn? Had the confrontation gotten out of hand?
“For how much money?” I asked.
“I don’t have any money. I’m brok
e. I’ve given everything I have to my four girls. But do they and their kids come to visit Grandpa? No, they hate me!” His face drew into a pitiful pucker.
Delilah nudged me. “We’re getting off track.”
“Arlo,” I said, wishing I could salve his obvious pain. “I’m sorry about your family, but I asked you a question about Kaitlyn. You said she was blackmailing you. For how much?” Peanuts might not be a good enough motive.
“She didn’t want money,” he snarled.
“What did she want?”
“My property.”
I couldn’t see Kaitlyn Clydesdale ever setting foot on the chicken farm. Had she wanted the property so she could expand the honeybee farm she was planning?
“Did you steal Ipo’s kala’au rods?” I asked.
Arlo looked perplexed. “Why would I do something like that? Ipo’s my friend.”
At least Arlo had a modicum of honor. Or did he? I eyed the nunchakus again. They looked about the same size as the luau instruments. Had Urso and the coroner gotten the weapon of destruction wrong? Arlo glanced where I was looking and back at me. His gaze narrowed.
“Arlo, you were in The Cheese Shop the other day,” I said. “You left hurriedly when Kaitlyn Clydesdale entered.”
“Did not.”
“Yes, you did. A few minutes later, someone called her. Was it you?”
“I don’t have her number.”
Delilah jabbed a finger at him. “She was blackmailing you.”
“We never spoke on the telephone.” He shifted feet.
“It’s easy enough to check,” Delilah went on. “Hand over your cell phone.”
“I don’t have to.”
Delilah took a menacing step toward him.
Arlo sputtered, “I lost it.”
“Oh, please.” Delilah threw him a cynical look.
“It’s true. I lost it yesterday while I was at the Village Green. It must have fallen out of my overcoat. It’s got a hole in the pocket.”
“Did you check lost and found?” I asked. Grandmère had set up a booth at the north end of the faire, closest to the Providence Precinct.
Sheepishly, he shook his head.
I said, “Arlo, your story is sounding fishy. I think you were worried that Kaitlyn was going to tell people that you are a kleptomaniac. Did you hurt her before she could?”
