by Avery Aames
The lane felt cooler than the one we had just left. Though strands of lights outlining the tents were switched on, shops on both sides of the aisle were closed. Owners had packed up. Foot traffic was nonexistent. Other than the ice sculpture judging, the faire was officially over.
Chip said, “Let’s exit by the pub and jog down the sidewalk.”
With him holding on to my arm, I was forced to keep pace. “Speaking of the pub,” I said, dodging icy spots of sleet. “Last night Oscar borrowed your phone. I think he saw something on it. Maybe a photo. He tried to get my attention. Did you take a picture of Ainsley without Ainsley knowing it?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Did you get the iPhone back from Oscar?”
Chip patted his jacket pocket.
“Let me have a peek.” I wriggled free of his grasp and waved my hand.
“Not now.”
“Yes, now. Maybe you got a picture of Ainsley hiding the round of Emerald Isles goat cheese or”—another idea struck me—“listening to Tim telling Kaitlyn where she might find Ipo.”
“A photo of him listening to a conversation wouldn’t be incriminating. It would be impossible to know what he was hearing.”
“Okay, fine. Let me have your phone anyway.” I groped in his jacket pocket. My fingers hit something that felt like mittens.
Chip plucked my hand out and wheeled on me. “Stop it!”
I threw my hands up in surrender, hockey stick and all. “Sorry if I’m infringing on your space, but Urso’s going to want to know how Ainsley knew where Kaitlyn would be. A picture of him in the pub would say more than a thousand words.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Oscar saw something on your phone. What if he called Ainsley and dunned him for money to keep quiet, and Ainsley tracked Oscar down at his bungalow?”
“Time out.” Chip flattened his palm. “You told me Ainsley met with Kaitlyn earlier. He knew she was going to a Do-Gooder meeting. She probably gave him the rest of her agenda then.”
“But Kaitlyn didn’t know Ipo was at Rebecca’s until she talked to Tim. Ainsley must have overheard them talking.”
“Unless he waited outside the pub and followed her.”
“But how would he know she was in the pub?”
“Maybe he trailed her from Under Wraps.”
A snap-crackle cut through the air. A string of tiny white lights on the Le Petit Fromagerie tent blew. At the same time, a sizzle of electricity zapped the edges of my mind. I tried to tap the source, but I felt like I was trying to peel the waxy rind off a stubborn cheese. I said, “How did you know Kaitlyn went to Under Wraps?”
“Town gossip.” Chip pivoted and jogged ahead.
Without the umbrella for cover, icy rain pelted me. I shielded my eyes with my hand and stared after my less-than-gallant knight.
As he ran, an image came to me—of the thief running from Le Petit Fromagerie. He had looked about the same size as Chip, and Chip was about the same size as my assailant at Oscar’s.
I must have gasped because Chip galloped back. He held the umbrella over my head. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
Fear peppered my insides. Were his eyes the eyes I had seen through the ski mask? Why would he have killed Kaitlyn Clydesdale? He had agreed to a contract with her. She was going to make his dreams come true. And yet—
A low, guttural rumble scudded through the heavy gray clouds overhead. I flashed on Oscar looking anxious when he had held up Chip’s iPhone. Oscar hadn’t been afraid of Georgia. He had been scared of Chip.
“Charlotte?”
A whiff of Chip’s lemony cologne confirmed my suspicions. It was the same citrus aroma Chip always wore, so I should have known earlier that he was my attacker. But the night the thief had assaulted me in the tent, there had been so many conflicting scents—cotton candy and pine and cocoa. At Oscar’s, my assailant had smelled like horses and hay and, I realized too late, lemon.
“You took the cheese,” I blurted. “Someone robbed our tent. The thief stole a round of Emerald Isles goat cheese. It was you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re nuts.”
“This morning, I stopped by the B&B. Lois said you were taking one last sightseeing tour of town, but you went on a hayride, didn’t you?” Minutes ago, Chip had petted the roan at the entrance to the faire and called him by name. “To you, there’s nothing more fun in life than a hayride.”
“A hayride with you.”
“You smell like horses and hay, Chip.”
“So?”
“The guy who attacked me at Oscar’s house smelled like horses and hay and lemon-scented cologne. You went on the hayride and then you went to Oscar’s to get your cell phone back, and you—”
In a split second, Chip tossed the umbrella to the ground, grabbed me, whipped me around—hockey stick and all—and slapped his hand over my mouth.
I stomped down with my heel but missed his foot. I kicked back and only scraped his calf.
“Dang it, Charlotte. If you weren’t so persistent.” He lifted me off my feet and carried me, kicking, to Le Petit Fromagerie. A Closed sign hung on the door, but the latch was loose. He toed open the door and lugged me inside.
CHAPTER
As the tent door clicked closed, thunder rumbled overhead and dread flooded my veins. I tried to assure myself that Chip hadn’t hurt me before, therefore he wouldn’t hurt me now, but I wasn’t very convincing. If only the ice-sculpting contest wasn’t pulling the crowds away from this section of the faire.
Chip set me on my feet, snatched the hockey stick from me, and wielded it overhead. “Don’t scream.”
Throughout our relationship, I had known Chip had a temper, but I had never thought he was irrational. We fought; we made up. He oozed charm; I felt guilty. He had never laid a finger on me. If I disobeyed his order now and screamed, would he whack me with the stick? Talk about being conflicted, not to mention that I wasn’t sure I could even whisper, let alone yell. My throat felt clogged with cotton.
“Whatever it is you think I did …” Chip let the sentence hang.
I didn’t think; I knew. And he knew I knew. What I didn’t know was why he had done it.
As my heart jackhammered in my chest, I scanned the tent for an escape. I couldn’t crawl beneath the lower edges. They were weighted with metal pipes and lashed to stakes outside the tent. The windows were zippered shut. Sealed boxes of stemware and crates of wines stood stacked against one wall. Decorations that had adorned the walls were stowed in see-through containers. Cheeses were stored in ice chests. Cartons of souvenir plates sat piled on top of each other and strapped to a trolley for easy transport. Someone from The Cheese Shop was certain to return for the rest of the items, but how soon? Tyanne had been toting a box of stemware, which meant she was headed to Fromagerie Bessette, not to the tent.
“I’m innocent, babe. Tell me you believe me.”
I gaped. He wanted absolution? Was that the way to keep him calm?
“Prove it.” My voice sounded raspy, tight, but I couldn’t make it any louder. Where was a megaphone when I needed one? “You have something fuzzy in your pocket besides your cell phone. Show me what it is.” Ten bucks said it was a ski mask.
He didn’t budge.
“The night Kaitlyn died, you claimed you were at the pub,” I went on. “You watched Georgia playing darts.”
“That’s right. She scored nine bull’s-eyes.”
“Did you see each one?”
Chip tapped the hockey stick on the fake grass. As if keeping rhythm, rain pelted the tent’s roof with an intense rat-a-tat.
“Here’s what I think happened,” I said, as the evening that Kaitlyn died played out in my mind. “Georgia announced she was going for ten bull’s-eyes. When Kaitlyn came in and asked where Ipo was, you saw your opportunity. Georgia was in for the long haul; she wasn’t going to quit. If you could find someone to corroborate your alibi, you were gold. So you fortified Luigi’s drinks.” Back in college,
to knock out the competition, Chip had done the same thing to a guy who had hit on me. He had sneaked an extra shot of vodka into each of the guy’s rounds. “The morning after Kaitlyn died, I saw Luigi at the library. He thought someone had slipped him a Mickey Finn.”
Chip jammed the hockey stick hard on the grass but didn’t say a word. His gaze turned glacier hard.
A chill crept into the tent. I fought hard not to shiver. I needed to appear strong, in command. If only I could scream. “When Luigi was sufficiently plowed”—my voice was stronger, but not strong enough—“you sneaked into the men’s room, slid out the window, and raced to Lavender and Lace. You grabbed the hockey stick and hurried to the cottage.” Chip had always been fast. It was one of his greatest assets when playing hockey. “Later, with Luigi three sheets to the wind, you told him you were at the pub the whole time. He confirmed your alibi. What I can’t figure out is why you killed Kaitlyn.”
“I didn’t kill her.” Chip popped up the hockey stick and caught it at the neck. Like a hockey enforcer, he spun the stick around and glowered at me. I was the one person standing between him and freedom.
I eyed the door. If I bolted for it, Chip might strike out. If I continued talking, maybe he would see the error of his ways. I tried to conjure up the spirit of one of Rebecca’s TV legal eagles, preferably one with the gift of persuasion. “Kaitlyn was your ticket to Nirvana. She wasn’t going to renege on your contract.”
“Exactly. Which gives me no reason to have killed her.”
“She valued her contracts,” I went on as I tried to figure out Chip’s motive. “She was standing pat on Barton’s sale. She wouldn’t let Oscar quit. She wouldn’t even let her daughter walk away from her duties. So, if she wasn’t going to back out of your contract, why did you kill her?”
“I didn’t. That’s what I’m telling you.”
I had never considered Chip a sociopath, but perhaps he was. He didn’t look one bit fazed by lying.
“You stole the cheese from the tent because”—I licked my parched lips—“you thought you needed to replace it at the scene of the crime. You had used a container as a hockey puck on Kaitlyn’s neck and absconded with the evidence.”
“No.”
“But you never replaced the cheese at the cottage, did you? You changed your mind, because you realized if you replaced the cheese, Urso or one of his deputies might notice, and that would draw attention away from Ipo as a suspect.”
“Ridiculous.” Chip twisted the hockey stick, lost hold of it for a second, but quickly regained control. His eyes flickered.
“Tell me what Oscar saw on your phone. That’s why you attacked him.”
“He didn’t see anything. Not one picture. Nada. He wanted to chat to his girlfriend, that was all.”
Talking about Chip’s cell phone made me remember mine. Chip had stuffed it in my pocket, not my purse. I started to remove my wet gloves.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“These are soaked. I need to warm my hands. I’m going to put them in my pockets. Do you mind?”
He shrugged.
I tucked the wet gloves under my armpit and slipped my hands into the pockets. With little movement, I was able to switch on my cell phone’s mute button. Chip might hear the phone vibrate if someone called me, but he wouldn’t hear me summon the first person on my speed dial—Jordan. I prayed for him to pick up. Maybe Jordan could tell what was happening by listening in.
To drown out Jordan’s voice if he answered, I scuffed my loafers on the fake grass, like I was trying to warm myself up, except the scuffing wasn’t loud enough. I needed to do something more.
In the angriest tone I could muster, I said, “I know what Oscar saw!” The American Theater Wing would never award me a Tony for my overly dramatic performance, and Grandmère would have a hissy fit that I was telegraphing to the audience, but I could live with her disapproval. At least, I hoped I would live long enough to find out.
“Be quiet,” Chip warned.
“Or what?”
He wheeled back with the hockey stick.
As he did, a notion hit me like a telephone book. Cell phones kept lists of the most recent telephone calls. I backed off with my tone but not my words. “Oscar saw a phone call from you to Kaitlyn the day she died.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You called her the day she was in The Cheese Shop. She threatened to ruin you.”
“Didn’t happen.”
“Then why are you holding me hostage?”
Chip stalked me. He tossed the stick from hand to hand. “So what if I called her? We were partners. I called her a bunch of times every day.”
“She threatened to ruin you that day. Why?”
A heavy silence fell between us. Finally he said through gritted teeth, “Do you really want to know? Huh? Do you?”
“Yes.”
He set the blade of the stick on the grass and flicked it with vengeance. “Kaitlyn lured me into her bizarre scheme with the promise that I would be a honeybee farmer, and in a year, I’d own my own restaurant. You saw the contract. That’s what it said.”
I hadn’t read it, but I nodded to appease him.
“When I discovered that she didn’t want a honeybee farm at all … when I discovered what she was truly up to, I lost it. You know how I am when I get shoved against the wall.”
Yes, I did. He was one of the feistiest in a hockey brawl, hence the divot in his chin.
“I caught her in her office with plat maps spread out on her desk, as well as blackmail agreements signed by Arlo and others. Do you know why she was blackmailing them?”
“To get their property.”
“Bingo.” Chip tapped the hockey stick on the fake grass. “She wanted to own the whole upper north side.”
“To build strip malls and megastores.”
“Double bingo.” Double tap. He growled like a caged animal. “She was going to raze the countryside. Tear down the trees. Widen the roads.”
My biggest fears realized.
“I told her, ‘No way.’ I wasn’t going to be part of destroying Providence. I wanted out, but she wouldn’t budge. She said she needed someone with my pedigree to be the face of her project. My pedigree. I was to make statewide tours endorsing Clydesdale Enterprises. I was to be the face of honesty and integrity. Babe, I had no idea she’d use my heritage against me.”
Lots of people in town were natives and had what people would call a Providencian pedigree, but Kaitlyn had selected Chip because he was as gullible as he was egotistical. Realizing the truth must have knocked him for a loop.
“That night I went to Rebecca’s cottage and I pleaded with Kaitlyn. I told her my family name carried no weight in town, not since I walked out on you, but she wouldn’t release me from my contract.” He jammed the blade of the hockey stick into the grass again. “I knew I’d never win you back if I went along with her plan.”
“Win me back?”
“I love you, Charlotte. I made a mistake. I never should have left.”
“Hold it.” Something wasn’t ringing true. “After Kaitlyn died, you begged Georgia to honor your contract.”
“In its original form. I would run the honeybee farm, and in a year I’d get my restaurant. No promoting. No endorsing. But good old Georgia”—he blew a long stream of air out of his mouth—“she said she would do exactly what her mother intended. She’d snatch the land and develop it. She’s a—” He stopped himself. “She’s a big-city witch eager to turn the rest of America into a parking lot. They were a real pair.”
“So why didn’t you kill Georgia, too?”
“I didn’t kill Kaitlyn. It was an accident.”
Semantics, I could hear a lawyer say. I said, “Back to Oscar.”
Chip snarled. “I was an idiot. He said he wanted to call all the girls in my little black book, but he was onto me, same as you. He didn’t think my alibi was solid.”
Silly me, thinking I was the only one taking the i
nvestigation a step further. Did Urso know everything I did? He had said he had an idea who the thief was. Did he have an inkling that it was Chip? Was he trying, at this very moment, to drum up evidence? Where was he, or one of his deputies? Wasn’t somebody missing me by now? Hadn’t anybody seen the umbrella Chip dumped outside and wondered who had abandoned it? What I wouldn’t give to have brought Rebecca along on this wayward side trip. Safety in numbers and all that.
I said, “Oscar took your phone, but you needed it back. He didn’t give it to you that night, did he? The next morning, you went to his house wearing a ski mask, like the one in your pocket.”
Chip looked ready to deny-deny, but he didn’t.
“You attacked him because he’d seen more than your little black book. He’d seen your call list, hadn’t he?” I went on. “And not simply one call to Kaitlyn. Like you said, there were dozens. But all the calls ended the minute you killed her.”
“It was an accident.” Chip whizzed the hockey stick in a figure eight. “Will you get that through your head?”
“You took Ainsley’s hockey stick with you.”
“To scare her.”
“It’s malice aforethought.”
“She laughed at me. It was her fault I lost it. I was so angry. I swatted the pillows off of Rebecca’s couch.” Chip swiped the hockey stick; it swooshed through the fake grass. “That only made Kaitlyn laugh harder. To scare her, I knocked more things to the ground.” Another swipe. Another swoosh. “When a box of cheese hit the floor and started to roll, my days as a hockey player came back to me in a flash. I righted the cheese box, reeled back, and slapped that sucker.” He acted out his story. “It soared into the air and hit Kaitlyn smack in the throat. Bam!” He paused. “I was never that good a shot.”
People who had seen him play in his heyday would beg to differ.
“It wasn’t on purpose. I was just so—”
“—mad. Got it.” The bamboo fibers from the cheese box had lodged in Kaitlyn’s skin. “Then what happened?” In case I lived to tell the story, I might as well get a full confession out of him. If I didn’t, I hoped Jordan was listening in.
