Clobbered by Camembert

by Avery Aames

  “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 was 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.

  At the table with Georgia was an elderly couple. Was this the twosome Sylvie had mentioned to the twins? Without needing to draw nearer, I could tell Georgia and the woman were related—her grandmother, perhaps. They had the same curly hair, the same prominent chin.

  From the right, Oscar Carson approached Georgia’s table. In his hands he carried a tray filled with glasses and a pitcher of beer. While he set the beverages down, Prudence bid the group goodbye and sauntered to a table with her zipper-thin friend who ran the garden club. Georgia offered Oscar a sly smile, which again set off alarm bells in my head. What was their story? Oscar seemed to have won her approval. Had he won her heart, as well? Was that why she had smirked at me earlier? Had she viewed me as competition? Puh-leese.

  With his mouth moving, Oscar slid onto a chair beside the gray-haired man who I assumed was Georgia’s grandfather. The man laughed heartily at whatever Oscar said. His eyes crinkled like Georgia’s. All thoughts of the elderly couple being after something, as Sylvie had intimated, flew from my mind. They were there to support Georgia in her time of need. But was she in need, or was she looking to inherit a vast sum?

  “Charlotte.” Delilah tugged on my sweater sleeve and handed me a menu. “Time to order.”

  Our waitress tapped a pencil on her pad. Not to keep rhythm with the music. Time meant money to her.

  “Oh, right, just a sec.” I scanned the menu.

  The pub was known for its selection of more than one hundred and fifty beers. We all ordered flights of beers—three choices poured in miniature beer steins. I asked for the potato skins, but was informed that they had sold out. The goat cheese mushrooms had gone quickly, as well. So I opted for my third favorite item on the appetizer menu, bite-sized morsels of ciabatta with ricotta cheese and sardines. Tyanne echoed the choice. Delilah and Freckles decided to split the mac-and-cheese mini-tureen appetizer, and our waitress sashayed away.

  “Hey.” Tyanne pointed. “Look who’s out of jail.”

  Ipo and Rebecca strolled through the front door and paused near the hostess’s podium. Both wore heavy coats and matching blue scarves. Rebecca held her head high, as if daring anyone to indict her beloved. Ipo looked nervous. His gaze darted from patron to patron.

  “I think Urso’s got a soft spot for our local honey maker,” Delilah said.

  “Why do you say that?” Freckles asked.

  “He let him go on bail.”

  Either that or Urso had come up with evidence that exonerated Ipo. I felt the urgent need to talk to Urso. Where in the heck was he? Had he and Jordan tracked down the thief? Did he now suspect the thief of killing Kaitlyn?

  Our waitress returned with our flights of beer and placed them in rows in front of us. Each set included a Pilsner, a Porter, and a micro-brewed beer. I tasted the Pilsner first. It was light, creamy, and refreshing.

  “Say, what’s the scoop with Lois and Ainsley?” Delilah knuckled the table. “When he came into the diner a bit ago, I spotted a pile of luggage stacked in the rear of his truck. Is he moving?”

  I confided that Ainsley had had an affair with Kaitlyn Clydesdale and Lois found out.

  Delilah snorted. “Talk about the least likely person in Providence to have an affair. I mean, the Cube’s not exactly Rhett Butler in the looks department.”

  “Looks aren’t the only reason someone strays,” Tyanne said with authority, not an ounce of self-pity on her face.

  “Do you think Ainsley killed Kaitlyn to keep the affair quiet?” Freckles asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” I said.

  “Aha!” Delilah shot a finger at me. “I knew you were involved. Spill the details. How did you find out about the affair? And don’t tell me Sylvie told you.”

  I related my chat with Ainsley.

  “He claims he was walking his dog?” Delilah scoffed. “That’s not a very reliable alibi.”

  “Who else do you suspect?” Freckles leaned forward on her elbows, all ears.

  I said, “Barton Burrell.”

  “No way.” Freckles shook her head.

  “No stinking way,” Tyanne said. “He’s the sweetest man.”

  “He might have had an affair with Kaitlyn, too.” I added that he didn’t want to sell his property. “She might have lured him into an affair to blackmail him.”

  Delilah said, “First Arlo, then Ainsley, and now Barton.”

  Freckles’s jaw dropped open. “Kaitlyn was blackmailing Arlo?”

  “He’s a klepto,” Delilah said.

  “Hoo-boy, not good.” Tyanne whistled.

  “That explains why he hangs around the shop all the time,” Freckles said. “Just last week I had to shoo him out. He never buys a thing, but now that you mention it, sleeves of buttons have gone missing.”

  “And this, my friends, is how rumo
rs get started,” I said.

  “Except sometimes,” Delilah said, “rumors contain a nugget of truth.”

  We went mum as our waitress returned with our appetizers. The six slices of ciabatta, topped with ricotta and sardines, were set in a pinwheel pattern on the silver-gray stoneware plate and set off by a fresh sprig of basil. I popped a morsel into my mouth. The ciabatta was crispy. The ricotta-and-sardines combination had a nice salty tang; the underlying flavor of olive oil was just right.

  Freckles took a bite from her half of the mini-tureen of mac-and-cheese and hummed. “Mmm. Havarti, Parmesan, and Fontina cheeses. Delish!” She pushed the stoneware tureen to Delilah.

  “One bite, that’s it?” Delilah said. “That’s all you’re going to eat?”

  “I’m watching my figure.”

  “And I’m not?” Delilah laughed. “Who am I kidding? I’m not when I’ve got this to eat.” She pulled the tureen closer and started to devour the contents. Between bites, she said, “Back to the Kaitlyn Clydesdale mystery. What’s with that Oscar guy?” She gestured with her thumb. “One day he’s stalking Georgia Plachette; the next he’s chummy with her.”

  Oscar was still sitting with Georgia and her grandparents, but he wasn’t paying an iota of attention to them. He was scanning the room. Why had he gone off with Georgia at the tent when, according to Rebecca, he had wanted to talk to me?

  “He seems pretty suspicious,” Freckles said. “He’s big and he’s got beady eyes. But then so does Arlo. He’s downright creepy.”

  “And Barton Burrell is not,” Tyanne said, matter-of-factly.

  “Speaking of which”—Delilah pushed the mini-tureen away from her—“I saw Georgia spying on Barton earlier.”

  “I saw her, too.” I revealed Georgia’s semi-secret identity.

  Freckles said, “She doesn’t look a thing like Kaitlyn Clydesdale. Does she stand to inherit everything?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But she has an ironclad alibi. She was here at the pub until the wee hours of the morning, playing darts. Chip verified it.”

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t hire somebody to kill her mother,” Tyanne said.

  I gawked at her, wondering if she was channeling Rebecca. “This is Providence.”

  “Providence is in flux,” Delilah said.

  “She’s right. We’re in flux,” Tyanne echoed.

  “Flux?” Freckles huffed. “Is that what you call it? You know me, my business is all about attracting tourists, and I was in support of the addition of a college. But lately we’ve been getting more than studious types and tourists in search of a good deal. All sorts of riffraff are coming to town.” She clapped her hand over her mouth, then removed it and whispered, “Will you listen to me? I’m starting to sound like Prudence Hart. Did I actually say riffraff? Heavens.”

  Delilah chortled.

  I didn’t. I flashed on the thief that had assaulted me in the tent and the other thief who had stolen ice sculpting tools, which spurred me to consider what Jordan and I had discussed. Was there anything we could do to thwart what was happening to our gentle town? Were we being overrun by riffraff? Perhaps I should suggest that Grandmère put on the show Brigadoon next year. Maybe the musical would remind townsfolk that we lived in a magical place, and everyone who lived here had to do his or her part to preserve the town’s innocence.

  Dream on, Charlotte. One theater show would not turn the tide. Change has to be organic.

  “Lose the frown,” Freckles said. “Providence is fine. We’re still the safest town in America. Promise.”

  Delilah elbowed me. “Take a gander at who just entered the pub. You have to admit he’s a handsome devil.”

  Chip, dressed in his zippered suede jacket, striped buttoned-down shirt, and jeans, lingered by the front door, chatting with the hostess. A hint of a five-o’clock shadow outlined his jaw. His wavy hair looked windblown. The Marlboro Man couldn’t have looked any better.

  “Feeling any of the old passion for him?” Delilah asked.

  “No.”

  “Don’t snap at me.”

  Had I snapped? Yes, I probably had.

  “He is awfully good looking,” Freckles said.

  “He’s average,” I said, knowing I was lying.

  Tyanne clucked. “Sugar, there is nothing average about him. If he were an actor, he’d win People Magazine’s: Most Beautiful Person award.”

  Chip split from the hostess and sauntered to Georgia’s table. He put his hand on the back of her chair and she looked up, her eyes glistening with interest. She introduced him to the older couple and offered him the extra chair. He didn’t sit. Oscar, who looked miffed at Chip’s arrival, deftly wiped the scowl off his face, then stood up and clapped Chip on the shoulder as if they were old friends. He said something. Chip buffed Oscar’s arm with his knuckles. Oscar bandied with a one-two jab, pulling his punches and reminding me of Bozz when he was shadowboxing. Chip countered playfully. Oscar attempted another jab at Chip’s face, but Chip raised both hands to protect his jaw. At the same time, as sly as the corporate spy he claimed to be, Oscar ducked and rifled through Chip’s pockets. He came up with Chip’s iPhone and danced backward in a celebratory way. Chip tried to snatch the cell phone back. In the process, he spotted me. Quickly he backed away from Oscar, made some excuse to Georgia, and strode toward me.

  “Here he comes,” Delilah said.

  “I’m not blind.”

  “You’re snapping again.”

  For good reason. Chip wasn’t carrying flowers, but he looked like a man on a mission. I steeled myself. I would tell him, once and for all, that he didn’t have a chance with me. With his dream of being a restaurateur squelched by Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s untimely demise, it was time for him to leave Providence. I nudged Delilah to scoot out of the booth. She did, and I followed. I was almost at a full stand when Chip arrived.

  “Ladies,” Chip said.

  Freckles tittered. I glowered at her.

  “Can we talk, Charlotte?” He ran his thumb along my shoulder. “Alone?”

  “Chip, I—” Why was my mouth stone-dry?

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “No,” I managed to say. Superb, Charlotte. Clever. Forthright. Not!

  “Fine, I’ll tell you here.” He hooked a finger into the loop of his jeans. “I’m moving back to France.”

  Relief, mixed with something else I couldn’t identify, swept over me.

  “Georgia has power of attorney for Kaitlyn,” Chip went on. “She won’t honor the contract. She’s being a b—” He mashed his lips together. “A businesswoman. She’s not interested in having me around.”

  Why didn’t I believe him? She had looked way more than interested.

  “I—” Chip’s gaze darted to the left.

  I followed his stare and saw Jordan marching past the hostess who was pointing in our direction. Jordan ground his teeth as he walked. Chip stepped toward him. The two faced off as if they were players on the ice, waiting for a referee to blow a whistle and drop the puck.

  “What’s your problem?” Chip raised his chin.

  “Are you bothering the lady?” Jordan demanded.

  “I was telling her my plans for the future. What’s it to you?”

  “You know what it is.”

  I didn’t. My pulse started to race. Would Jordan spell it out? And not in Morse code. I was no good at deciphering code. Especially when hyperventilating. He had said that he adored me. Did he love me? Would he say it in front of everyone? Now that I knew the truth about him, I could shout I love you back. The anticipation made me tingly all over. But he didn’t utter a word.

  While he glowered menacingly at Chip, I caught sight of Oscar waggling Chip’s cell phone. I thumped my chest and mimed: Me? He nodded. Did he have someone waiting at the other end of the line that he wanted me to talk to? Not now, for heaven’s sake.

  I mouthed: No.

  Oscar shook the phone harder.

  Chip glanced over h
is shoulder. Oscar, like a copycat, peeked over his own. At Georgia? She glimpsed up from the table. Her mouth drew into a thin line of disapproval.

  Oscar glanced at me, his gaze full of fear, and a new thought occurred to me. The other night when I had tackled him, he had told me that he had been working for Kaitlyn. Was that a lie? Had he been working for Georgia all along? Was his declaration of love for her a ruse? Tyanne had suggested a murder-for-hire scenario. Had Georgia paid Oscar to kill her mother? But then why would he want to talk to me? And why now? He waggled Chip’s cell phone with more vigor. I was missing something, but what?

  I peeked at Georgia, whose eyes burned with unbridled fury. Had Oscar borrowed Chip’s cell phone another time? Had he used the telephone’s camera to snap an incriminating picture of Georgia, perhaps, on the night of the murder? Or had Chip taken the photograph and Oscar had stumbled upon it?

  Be real, Charlotte. Oscar’s trying to get a rise out of you or out of Georgia.

  “Charlotte, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Jordan cut around Chip and brushed my cheek with the back of his hand.

  At the same time, the music in the pub ceased. The quiet was unsettling.

  I shivered. “Nothing.”

  “Something has you spooked.”

  I couldn’t tell him about Oscar. Not in front of Chip, who might run and blab to Georgia to get in her good graces.

  “Nothing,” I repeated.

  “You’re lying,” Chip said.

  I whipped my gaze to my ex-fiancé. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. When I say nothing has me spooked, nothing has me spooked.”

  He threw his hands up, palms forward. “Alert, alert! I’m not the enemy.”

  “Had me fooled,” Jordan said.

  I shot him a sharp look. Chip chortled, as if he had won round one.

  I lasered my gaze back at him. “I’m sorry things haven’t worked out for you here, Chip. Good luck in all your future endeavors.” A game-show host couldn’t have sounded more disingenuous. I thrust out my hand. Chip took hold and ran his thumb along the curve. I snatched my hand back. “Goodbye.”

  Chip flinched but he didn’t make a peep. What could he say? Jordan, smart man, also kept mute.