by Avery Aames
I considered going over and offering Chip a formal goodbye, but I halted when a silhouette in the shadows on the side of the inn caught my attention. Lois’s husband, Ainsley, moved from window to window, popping up then hunkering down, reminding me of a meerkat needing an all-clear signal from the pack. The hackles on the back of my neck rose. When Lois had booted Ainsley out, he had tried to pilfer his prized hockey stick from the wall in the great room, though he had claimed he was merely adjusting its alignment. Did he hope to steal it now?
Lois burst from the tornado shelter. Dressed in a lavender snowsuit and wielding a broom, she charged her husband. “You!” Her emergence from below made me recall a reference about the Furies in The Iliad by Homer. The Furies were: “Those who beneath the earth punish whosoever has sworn a false oath.”
Was I wrong to suspect Oscar of killing Kaitlyn Clydesdale? Was Ainsley, Kaitlyn’s former lover, the real culprit? Had he lied to me about his whereabouts on the night she died? He only had a dog as his witness.
Lois yelled, “I told you to leave, don’t you know.”
“Lois, darling.”
“Go! Get! I do not want to set eyes on you again, you lying, detestable womanizer.” She flailed the broom.
Ainsley, fleet for someone so wide, hightailed it down the street. Occasionally he slipped on icy patches but quickly righted himself. Had he been equally speedy and agile stealing into Ipo’s place and taking his pu’ili sticks? Had he been the broad-shouldered thief running from my tent after filching a carton of cheese?
I paused and thought again of Oscar waggling Chip’s iPhone. What if he hadn’t been signaling me about a list of Chip’s conquests? I returned to my previous notion. What if Chip had a photograph on his cell phone? Chip was always taking pictures. Without knowing the significance, he might have snapped a picture of Ainsley hiding the pu’ili sticks on the night of the murder.
No, he couldn’t have. Chip had been at the pub with Luigi. But something—some piece of evidence—was on his cell phone. As Rebecca would say, I felt it in my bones.
I glanced toward the kitchen. The frittata was cooking on low; it wouldn’t burn, and I needed to view Chip’s phone. Now.
I scooted down the steps of my home, the nippy wind cutting through my silk honey-colored sweater and cotton trousers, and raced along the slippery sidewalk. My loafers skidded as I darted up the path to the inn. “Lois, is Chip here?”
She huffed. “Did you see that no-good husband of mine lurking around here? The gall.” Her eyes grew watery. “I gave him my best years. The best, don’t you know. You’d do right to stay single. All men are worthless.” She turned on her heel and barged into the bed-and-breakfast, my question unanswered.
“Where’s Chip?” I repeated, shivering, wishing I had grabbed a jacket before racing out of the house.
“He’s gone out for one last sightseeing tour,” she said through the screened door. “He said he’d be back in a while.”
“Tell him I need to speak with him.”
Church bells gonged, jarring me to act. I had to track down Oscar and get the scoop. Before I could, I had to finish serving up breakfast. I retrieved the morning newspaper, sprinted back to my kitchen, and popped the frittata under the broiler. Three minutes later, as I was dishing the frittata onto plates, Matthew entered, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Mmm. Smells good. Let me guess.” He placed his hands on the counter and peeked beneath the cabinets. “You used San Simon, a cow’s cheese from Spain. Melts nicely and pairs well with sausage and spices.”
“Cheater. You read the cheese label.”
“Did not.”
“You’ve trapped it beneath your hands.”
He chortled and revealed his ruse.
I scooted around the counter with the plates.
“Why are you rushing?” he asked.
“Got someplace to be.”
“Where?”
“Someplace.” I set the plates on the table, yelled, “Girls, breakfast,” and then hurried to the foyer. Rocket and Rags jogged after me, their claws clicking as they scurried around corners.
Matthew trailed the pack. “Where’s the fire?”
“No fire. Just an errand.”
“An errand. Uh-huh, and I’m competing on Dancing with the Stars.” At the age of twelve, Matthew had taken ballroom dancing lessons, and on occasion, I caught him doing the cha-cha with one of the twins in the kitchen, but he wasn’t what I would call dance savvy. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “Who are you investigating now?”
I couldn’t lie to Matthew. I simply couldn’t. “I think Oscar Carson might know who killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale.”
Matthew bayed like a hound. “Snoop Doggy Dogg.”
Rocket echoed him. Rags yowled.
“Hush, you guys,” I said.
Matthew frowned. “Have you let Urso in on your theories?”
“I’ve left messages.” Myriad messages.
“And … ?”
“It’s Sunday.” I shrugged into my camel coat, looped a multicolored scarf around my neck, slung my purse over my shoulder, and donned a pair of brown gloves. “Not everyone is up at the crack of sunrise like us.”
“I’m tagging along.”
“No, you and the girls are going with Meredith to church.”
“It’s not safe for you—”
“Oscar is not the killer.”
“How can you be sure?” Matthew gripped my shoulders, his gaze filled with concern. “And don’t tell me gut instinct.”
A knock rattled the door. Expecting Chip, I opened quickly.
Rebecca faced me wearing no jacket, no hat, and no gloves. She was shivering. Her lips were nearly blue.
Fear spiked inside me. “What’s wrong?”
“He … we …” She rushed inside. “I stayed the night at Ipo’s.”
“Oka-a-a-ay.” I closed the door.
“He didn’t … We didn’t”—she stammered—“we wanted to, but we didn’t.” She tapped her legs nervously with her fingertips.
“Matthew, get Rebecca a cup of coffee, please.” I forced her to don a nubby sweater I kept hanging on a hook by the door, then smashed a matching knit hat on her head—anything for warmth.
“We smooched again.” Rebecca blushed. “We smooched a lot, and then he … I . . .”
I gestured the letter T. We were approaching the moment of too much information.
“What?” she said. “All I was going to say was I fell asleep. On the couch. By myself.”
“Here we go.” Matthew returned with a cat-shaped mug. Steam rose from the mouth of the cup. He handed it to Rebecca.
As she took a sip of warm liquid, she ogled me from head to toe. “Are you going someplace?”
“You bet she is,” Matthew said with a smirk. “She’s off to pry again.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Rebecca’s angst vanished in a poof. “Not without me.” She set the coffee mug on the antique foyer table, grabbed my winter white parka for extra warmth, and whisked open the door. “Where are we going?”
“Back to Ipo’s,” Matthew said.
“Why?” Rebecca cried.
I kissed my cousin’s cheek. “Thanks a bunch.”
“Anytime.” He grinned. “Anytime.”
* * *
On the way to Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm, I explained to Rebecca that we weren’t going to visit Ipo but rather to visit Oscar. Atypically, Rebecca kept mute, probably wondering whether going anywhere near Ipo’s was her best move, but far be it from her to beg out of an investigation.
The wind, which had doubled in intensity since I left the house, kicked around fallen branches on the road north out of town. Horses in fields huddled together.
As I turned onto the road leading to Ipo’s farm, Rebecca yelled, “Watch out!”
A hailstorm of eddying dirt and dust looked ready to attack. I swerved left. “Thanks.”
“That’s why I’m here.” She tittered, definitely tense.
; Rows of dormant fruit trees defined the perimeter of Quail Ridge Honeybee Farm. Small, weathered wooden pallet hives were stacked in rows in front of the trees. A state-of-the-art honeybee feeding facility stood to the left of Ipo’s ranch-style house.
“What if Ipo sees me?” Rebecca said as we drove along the gravel road. “He’ll think I’m throwing myself at him.”
I cut her a look of admonishment. “Ipo has way too much respect for you to think that.”
“Will he hate me? I ran out.”
“You were overwhelmed.”
She clapped her hands, the gloves muting the sound but not her enthusiasm. “Ooh, I like that. Overwhelmed. That’s so much better than chicken.”
“You are not a chicken if you’re not ready.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “I think I need to be married to be ready. Is that totally geeky?”
I shook my head. “It’s refreshing.”
Oscar’s bungalow was located behind the ranch-style house. Rime coated the windows and eaves. A Dodge pickup was stationed in front, nose facing the porch.
I parked my white Escort beside the pickup and twisted in my seat. “Now, let’s focus. I’m going inside to talk to Oscar. I want you to stay in the car and call Urso.”
“Roger.”
I offered my cell phone, but she fetched hers from her purse and shook it.
Adrenaline warming me like no sweater or coat could, I scrambled out of the car and dashed up the rickety stairs to the front door. Leaves kicked up around my ankles. As I was about to knock, I heard a squeak. I turned toward the noise. Rebecca was creeping out of the Escort. She mouthed an apology for the squeaky door and then stole around the side of the bungalow. What in the heck was she up to?
Dang. So much for expecting her to follow orders. When would I learn?
I rapped on the door and it inched open. No lights were on. I didn’t detect the aroma of breakfast either. Remaining on the porch, I yelled, “Oscar? Are you there?”
A horse whinnied, but Oscar didn’t answer.
Thinking a gust of wind might accidentally have jostled the door, I pushed it open farther, and whispered, “Oscar?”
In the path of daylight that swathed the hardwood floor, I caught sight of a pair of boots, toes to the ground. Legs in jeans jutted from the boots. A man lay facedown on the shabby area rug. It was Oscar. I recognized the pale blue shirt he had worn to the pub last night.
“Oscar!” I raced to him.
His back rose with breath, but he wasn’t stirring. Blood dripped from his head. A busted floor lamp rested on its side beside Oscar’s head. A leather wallet lay open beyond the lampshade. Had someone robbed Oscar—the thief who Urso and Jordan had failed to capture? Was he still in the house? I scanned the dim room but didn’t see movement. If the thief were there, he was as silent as a gravedigger.
“Rebecca!” I yelled. Had she reached Urso? She didn’t answer. I tore to the door and said, “Rebecca, where are you? Oscar’s hurt.” I didn’t see any sign of her.
I dashed back to Oscar, knelt beside him, and checked his pulse. Weak. I stabbed 911 into my cell phone.
A creature screeched. A ferret shot from beneath the worn green couch and flew across the backs of my calves. I yelped and clambered to my feet, heart pumping. Accidentally, I dropped the cell phone.
At the same time someone charged from the kitchenette wearing a ski mask and dark clothing. He … She … It grabbed me by the throat.
My self-defense refresher course with Jordan came back to me in a flash. Hands free, I rounded my right arm over my attacker’s and jabbed the ski mask where the hollow of the attacker’s neck should be. He—definitely a he—released his hands.
I tried to knee him in the groin, but my knee tangled in the folds of my camel coat and I missed my mark; I hit hard muscle. The intruder growled, cupped a hand around my head, and hurled me into the wall, face-first.
A loafer flew off my foot. My forehead slammed against wood. I moaned.
To my surprise, the attacker didn’t rush me. He fled through the front door.
A moment passed before I could catch my breath and sprint after him. Wearing only one shoe, I hobbled. The icy cold from the hardwood floor bit through my sock. By the time I reached the porch, the attacker was gone. I remembered hearing a horse whinny. Had the attacker taken off on horseback? I didn’t see tracks. There were no ruts, no footprints. The wind had wiped the area clean.
“Rebecca! Where the heck are you?” Dread clogged my throat. Please, please, let her be okay.
“I’m here!” She trotted around the corner, cell phone cupped in her hand, finger tapping in a message.
“Did you see him?” I rubbed my shoeless foot on my pant leg to warm my toes.
“Who?”
“The person who bolted out of the house.”
“No! I went to Ipo’s to see if he was awake. He wasn’t there.”
At the same time, I heard a vroom. I spun to my left. A Jeep hurtled down the gravel road and skidded to a stop.
Rebecca slapped her cell phone shut and pocketed it. “Oh, goodie, the chief got my first text message.”
Urso bounded from the Wrangler. “What’s going on? Charlotte, you’re hurt.”
“There was an intruder.” I pointed at the bungalow. “We fought. I’ll have a headache. Oscar’s lying on the floor. His pulse is weak.”
Urso rushed past me into the house. I followed, retrieving my wayward loafer on the way. Rebecca trotted behind me.
Urso knelt beside Oscar, who hadn’t budged a muscle. While he checked Oscar’s pulse, he wedged a cell phone to his ear. As Urso called his deputy, I remembered my cell phone and snatched it up. The readout read: Call ended. Urso shared what little he knew, then said, “No, he’s not rousing. Knocked-out cold. Yeah, call an ambulance. Hurry.” He sat back on his heels and put his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Help is on the way, pal. Hang in there.” He glanced at me. “What did the attacker look like, Charlotte?”
I described the mask and the clothing. I told him he reminded me of the thief that had attacked me at our tent at the faire.
Urso frowned. “Do you think it was the same person?”
“Could have been. He was taller than me and broader.”
“Are you sure it was a man?”
An image of Georgia Plachette leapt into my mind. Wearing platform shoes, she might have been taller than me but not wider. But I was pretty certain the attacker was male. And why would Georgia want to hurt me, I wondered, until I realized that the attacker hadn’t been there to hurt me. He … or she … had come for Oscar.
I said, “Whoever it was smelled of horses and hay.”
“Horses and hay?” Urso said. “That could be anyone from locals with farms to tourists who take Amish buggy rides.”
Rebecca said, “Could it have been Barton Burrell? He’s got lots of horses on his property.”
I flashed on Emma Burrell, who was a tall, big-boned woman. Had Oscar seen something on Chip’s cell phone that could incriminate her?
Urso rubbed a hand down the side of his neck. “Why did you come here?”
I explained about Oscar shaking that darned cell phone at me at the pub. “I was certain he saw something incriminating on the telephone—a photo or something. Does Oscar have a cell phone on him now?”
Urso rifled through Oscar’s pockets. He came up with a BlackBerry phone.
“That’s not Chip’s,” I said. “His is an iPhone. Is there another one?”
He searched again. A moment later, he said, “No. Why didn’t you ask Chip about it?”
“I tried. He wasn’t at the inn. Coming to Oscar’s was more expeditious.”
“And you couldn’t have waited for me to join you?”
“It’s Sunday. I didn’t want—”
“You didn’t think, that’s what you didn’t do,” Urso barked. “Darn it, Charlotte, you are not a professional.”
Rebecca cleared her throat.
Urso pinned her w
ith a look. “Not a peep out of you, Miss Zook, unless you want me to plunk you in jail for trespassing.”
“But, I—”
“Not a peep!”
She gulped.
Urso returned his stern gaze to me. “You are not trained to put yourself in situations like this, do you hear me?” He jabbed a finger, realized what he was doing, and holstered it in his fist. “At least we know the attacker wasn’t Ipo. I just saw him at church.”
“You did? Hallelujah!” Rebecca said. “Praise be to—”
The screech of tires hushed her. Doors slammed. Footsteps pounded the porch steps. Urso’s deputies stampeded into the room, guns drawn.
Urso scrambled to his feet and moved in front of Rebecca and me. “Okay, hotshots. Guns down. All clear. Where’s the ambulance?”
“On its way,” they said in unison.
CHAPTER
Before taking Oscar to the hospital, the emergency medical technician tended to the wound on my forehead and told me to take it easy. When I returned to The Cheese Shop, my grandfather was much more demanding. He ordered me to lie on the mini-sofa in the office and stay there. If not for the sweet potato–nutmeg quiche that he promised me if I was a good patient, I would have bolted. Within minutes, I fell asleep.
Around noon, I woke from my nap and struggled to a sitting position. The aroma of the quiche tantalized my senses; my mouth watered in anticipation.
“Lie back down,” Pépère said.
“But I’m raring to go. I’m not dizzy.” He was making way too big a deal of things. I had a cut on my head—a nick and, okay, a bump. “C’mon, let me up.”
“Un moment.”
“Ow!” I moaned. The antiseptic solution he was applying to my forehead for the fifth time stung like a you-know-what.
“You’ve got to be more careful,” Pépère said.
“I know. Lesson learned. Now, let me up.”
